Tag Archives: boobs

Blossom Bubbles


My Blossom started on real food this week, though what is ‘real’ about rice cereal (aka cardboard flakes enriched with iron to ensure little systems get well constipated) I don’t know. But that’s what she started with ’cause that what you’re s’posed to do ’cause the book said and if the book said it must be true ’cause it’s smarter than me, right?

So we started with a teaspoon or two and I thought, to make a celebration of the occasion, I’d serve it in a shot glass. I must say, leaning over the kitchen bench, breast bared and nipple being squeezed for all it’s worth, I did reconsider my choice. Have you tried aiming freshly squeezed boob juice into a shot glass lately? Little Lion thought Mummy had gone quite silly indeed!

Now, when LL started on solid food, his take on rice cereal was this:


Step One

Step Two

Step Three



So I was not expecting much joy with Blossom’s first attempt, but she was very accommodating. It helped that she had

a gleeful audience. LL was beside himself!

“Oh no! Vom!” he’d squeal.

“No, that ‘s not vom. She’s just trying to swallow her breakfast but it’s coming out!”

And’s she’d take another spoon full and blow those bubbles at her brother like it was the best game ever invented. And it is, for now. But it’s only a matter of time before The Lion starts to blow his Weet-Bix back at her!




Kids are talented, some more than most, and Blossom really showed what she was made of the other day.

I had to do some fruit and veg shopping and then quickly duck down to the Motor Registry Office to sort out the registration for my new urban assault vehicle. It was to be a short-ish trip, and The Little Lion wasn’t well anyway, so I decided to go sans snack box. Bad move to begin with.

No sooner did we arrive at the green grocers, did LL kick up a fuss that he wanted ‘fout’. It was quite a fuss that extended to not wanting to sit in the trolley and wanting to ‘queez’ every item on the green grocer’s shelf. But I’m getting pretty adept at handling LL’s moments. I don’t even feel the eyes of every stranger in the store boring through me any more. I just carry on as though there is nothing unusual going on. But this time, LL set Blossom off and it became dire in no time.

They feed off each other, don’t they? One cries and the other trumps them with a howl, then a wail, then a scream. When the volume reaches fever pitch, the coughing and spluttering starts, or the flailing limbs or the flying spittle. It was spectacular and I thanked the heavens I hadn’t attempted the side-by-side trolley thing. At least LL wouldn’t be able to scratch, bite or eye-gouge Blossom, so long as I kept the baby carrier far enough away.

I figured my only chance at finishing my shop was if I managed to calm one or both of them. And quickly. I could see the manager’s hand on the telephone, phone book open to Social Services as I handed LL a banana, making a big deal of adding a single, loose banana to my bag to prove I was not trying to rip them off. I could feel the manager’s fingers caressing the 000 button on his phone.

LL stuffed the banana in as though he hadn’t eaten in a week and proceeded to shred the skin onto the floor, but Blossom kept up the fight. She was screaming and fighting the carrier like it was a straight-jacket, so I decided to turn her around. Maybe she just wanted to see what was going on instead of being tortured by the smell of mum’s milky bosom.

I unclipped her, hoisted her out and in so doing, squeezed just the right amount on just the wrong spot. I have never heard volume like that from a 5 month old before. It reverberated through the shop. It sent shock waves that rattled the cash registers and sent apples tumbling to the floor (OK, maybe that was LL helping himself to an ‘apool’ while my hands were quite clearly full).

An innocent bystander, clearly horrified by my daughter’s lack of decorum, gasped, “Oh dear!”

“Excuse me, well, her, I mean…” and then I realised what she was actually gasping about. It wasn’t so much the ear-shattering noise as the ungodly stench that followed.

Yep. It was enough to wilt the lettuce. It was the kind of stench that you run from, but it lingers and follows and trails you wherever you go, so there’s no denying it’s yours; the kind that burns into your clothing and drifts past, long after the memory has faded.

Blossom was triumphant and as her face broke into an enormous smile, she puked all over the kiwi fruits.

You can guess what we’ll be eating for the next few weeks. The manager was so glad to see us go that he didn’t bother charging me for The Little Lion’s extra banana and he offered to carry my bags to the car.

Later, as we waited in the Motor Registry Office, LL scrawling all over the forms they leave lying around on tables that are just the right height for toddlers to reach, I reminisced about all the cringe-worthy moments my children have given me and had a quiet chuckle to myself. Like the time LL commented on top note when he saw a very obviously very sick man being wheeled out of the hospital, life support buzzing, helicopter waiting, with a wave and a congenial “Night-Night!”. Or the time he tried to kiss every child at the playground because it was time for us go. Or the time he pulled my top up at the bank because “Bubby boobie.” Or the time he did a Poo-Splosion of gargantuan proportions while we were shopping in Spotlight, covering me , himself and the baby carrier in a yellow-green paste…

Yep. If you can’t laugh about it, you’ll die. It’s as simple as that. And given Blossom’s form, there’s plenty yet to come.

Happy Birth-ing-day


My favourite café is attached to the organic grocery store near my home. I just love the feeling of relaxed warmth it exudes and I always leave feeling completely energised and inspired to live a ‘connected’ life. Of course, life has a way of eroding that feeling, but I always know I can go back for a top up with a flat white (decaf, of course).

The other day I dropped The Lion off at his one-day-a-week-adventure-at-family-day-care (which he LOVES!) and I stopped in at The Cornerstone. Blossom was complaining loudly that “Two hours between drinks is plenty, thank you!” so I had to get my boobs out somewhere, right?

As I ambled in, I noticed a girl I have met on a few occasions. You know how it is – you’re friendly but not quite a friend; she’s the friend-of-a-friend and you’d love to befriend her but you don’t quite know how to bridge the middle-man?

Anyway, she was there talking with a group of women seated at one of the tables. They were having a raucous laugh and, at a quick glance, I could tell they were all ‘school mums’. I’m still a couple of years off graduating to that rank, so I made the immediate decision not to intrude into what appeared to be the inner sanctum.

But Blossom breaks down all barriers. As I was ordering my decaf, one of the women said “Speak of the Devil! She’s gorgeous! I want another one just like that!” to which friend-of-friend turned, recognised and greeted me with a warm ‘hello’. Inner sanctum reached without graduation. Blossom rules!

These friends were marking one of the women’s “birthing-day”. Her daughter was turning 12 and they were celebrating that incredible rite of passage that all mothers have to go through. And I thought that was pretty great, so I tried it last week end when my Little Lion celebrated his second year.

It was beautiful to just ponder how clever I am, to have a glass of wine and congratulate myself (and Mr D, of course) on our parenting. Whether good or bad, we always try to come from a place of what is best for our kids and, having done two years of that, it was really nice to pat ourselves on the back. I’ve been to the Olympics and trust me, raising kids is bloody hard!

It also reminded me how, on her birthday, my mother always sent her mother a bunch of flowers to say “thanks for having me”. My sister, being naturally sentimental and always the thoughtful one, carried on the tradition. It often made me feel like I was being selfish for not saying “thanks” in the same way on my birthday.

But now, in becoming a mother, I have realised that it’s not about getting a “thanks for the effort” on your child’s birthday. It’s about remembering the incredible gift we have been given as women; the privilege, the effort and strength inherent in becoming parents.

We get so engrossed in making the birthday a magical time for our little ones, a time to show them how glad we are that they came into our lives, that we forget the role we, as parents played in that event.

So, when your little charges next mark another year of growth and development, take some time to celebrate the miracle of motherhood, the journey of fatherhood and that stupendous moment when that little being entered the world and took their first breath.

Just think – YOU DID THAT!

My Mother’s High-cut Briefs


I know – gasp, horror, applause – two posts in two days! Don’t get used to it, it’s just that I don’t trust the kids to sleep long enough to give me a good chance at shut-eye, so I’ve chosen to write instead. About a momentous occasion.

I have a clear memory from my youth… I have a few actually, and most of them are in my memoir, Wobbles – An Olympic Story (cracking read, check it out, etc.). This clear memory of my mother getting dressed after her morning swim does not appear in Wobbles (really, a cracking read, check it out, buy one, etc… ok, it’s getting lame), and I don’t exactly dwell on it, but it came to me the other night after my bed-time shower – bed-time is the only time when I can shower without the threat of kiddie invasion, in case you were wondering.

Mum used to pull her high-cut briefs right up over her belly button and I always wondered about that particular manoeuver. I could only imagine how uncomfortable it must be to have your underwear riding around your pits. Surely she was just asking for an atomic wedgie, or worse, a wedgie of the front bum kind. I never did ask about it – I figured choices relating to underwear were pretty personal and I knew how annoying it was to hear her thoughts on my Anal Floss. So, the discussion of the High-Cut Brief was never had.

The other night, after my invasion-free shower, I allowed myself the displeasure of a Naked Once Over in the mirror. This is a ritual I only ever indulge in when I am feeling particularly secure on all other fronts. I by-passed the back fat and the breasts that are beginning to invade what once was a waist-line (the absence of a waist-line was duly noted). As I scanned down, turning this way and that to inspect the hail damage and wondering whether insurance would pay for it to be repaired, it occurred to me that the sagging, overhanging, post-baby-belly skin – ok, ok, so there may be a bit of fat in it, but that’s beside the point – IT IS NEVER GOING AWAY!

Never. Ever.

The finality shocked me. Until now I have been living in the fantasy that when I am finished having children, I will shape up and be bikini gorgeous in no time, just like everyone else! But there it sagged, mocking my delusions. I tensed my stomach muscles and the sag was only accentuated. I sucked my stomach in and the sag grew an inch. The baby pouch, the spare tyre, the wobbly-bulbous-stretchy-sack-of-motherhood remained like a bouncing badge of honour.

It was an epiphanous moment (if that is even a word). I took hold of my undies and hoisted them skyward until they rested atop the baby paunch and squished it just a little. It turned the obvious ridge into a tapered surface. Not exactly washboard, but no longer pendulous. Granted, I looked hideous with my dacks jacked up to my midriff, but at least the high-cut brief was not an admission of defeat like the full brief is. Yes, I was slightly disgusted to have to look at my hips in all the lumpy-padded glory which has hitherto been disguised by my hipster boy-legs, but jeans can put those bumps into their place, so I got over it.

Hideous or not, I have decided to give my mother’s high-cuts a go. I mean, it’s not as though I’m trying to impress anybody with my clothes off anymore. These days it’s more about culinary prowess than va-va-voom anyway, and the very thought of wearing the Anal Floss of my youth is enough to send me into convulsions. So, if the high-cut holds me in without slipping into my atomic chasm, I will gladly admit that mother was right. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Bra vs Boob


The only item of clothing designed specifically to accentuate back fat is the brassiere and for a woman at the peak of her post-baby body blues, buying one is never going to be easy.

Alas, only two weeks after the birth of my child, I was in dire need of the kind of support my wardrobe simply could not provide. I had managed to scrounge a number of what I thought were well-fitting maternity bras from those bags of maternity clothes that make the rounds from friend to friend and I thought I was set. But nobody warned me that it was perfectly feasible that a 14C could become a 16E overnight, so a trip to the bra-section was unavoidable.

It was my first day out since baby’s arrival. I knew the purpose of the outing had the potential to be emotionally scarring, so I gave myself every chance of feeling good – I shaved my legs and my under-arms, I brushed my hair, put on some nice earrings and even applied some eye-makeup! But the tremmors in my stomach started as soon as I stepped into the maternity aisle. This was not going to be fun. I scratched the back fat that bulged below my bra strap, a nervous habit I seemed to have picked up somewhere along the pregnancy line.

Bone and grandmotherly, white and grandmotherly, black and grandmotherly.  Not exactly spoiled for choice! I carefully selected one of each in varing monster-sizes and sucked in a deep breath. My husband, baby strapped to his proud chest, gave me a thumbs up with a “I don’t know what you’re so worried about” look. The department store changeroom is the only place on earth where it is impossible to hide, but I went in, prepared to see every roll, every wrinkle, every damned blemish in microscopic, neon-lit detail.

I hung my selection on the hook labelled “maybe” and threw my top on the floor, trying to avoid my reflection and choosing, rather, to focus on the shiny new bindings before me. I decided to go from largest to smallest, thereby maximising my chances of having to go down a size. We all know how upsetting it is to have to go out and get the next size up – not only are you not as skinny as the waif-manneqins and the pre-pubescent teen that works there, but you also realise that you have deluded yourself into thinking you are smaller than you really are. No, my fragile confidence could not take such a battering. I would try on the grossly oversized “slimming black” bra first.

I prepped it, loosening the bungie-cord shoulder straps. I unclipped the six hooks at the back and wondered how many more would make it a corset. I reached back and unclipped the two that had a tenuous hold on my daggy old number and let it drop to the floor.

“Shit!” My breast pads dropped to the floor with it. “My last ones,” I thought and wondered how dirty the floor really was, whether I could get away with reusing them… But before I could stoop to pick them up I was possessed by a burning.

“Oh, God, no. Not now. Fucking boobs!”

Let down. Super-soaker style. 5 jets from each nipple on maximum thrust sprayed the change cubicle mirror as my horrified expression disappeared behind a veil of milky droplets.

I scrambled for my bra all the while spraying the bench, the floor, my jeans… I clasped one arm over my chest and the milk continued to pour in small rivulets down my stomach as I frantically tried to contain the offending parts in my old hand-me-down. I pressed those pads without a thought to hygene. I needed to stem the flow! I needed to put those self-starters back in their packaging! I needed to get out of the spotlights staring down on my humiliation!

When I emerged, flustered, with bra selection in hand, my husband looked surprised.

“That was quick! Success?” he asked with a bright glow.

“Um, no,” I said, glaring at the pretty teens who were oooo-ing and aaahhh-ing at the baby strapped to my husband’s chest. He was loving the attention. I could just hear him thinking, “this is better than a puppy!”

I scratched the roll of back fat that, squeezed by my bra-strap, now rested on my muffin-top.

“No, no success today.”