“Whoa, are you sure there’s only one in there?”
“Did you say you’re six months along? You look at least seven.”
“I’d love to say you’re looking lovely and skinny but…”
“You’ve put on so much weight I wouldn’t recognise you if I passed you in the street!”
Continue reading “Stop Commenting on My Waistline – I’m Growing a Human, FFS”
I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with Christmas. On one hand I enjoy hanging out with my family (admittedly sometimes in small doses), and when it’s behaving New Zealand’s summer is totally bodacious. But all the supermarket shopping, present purchasing and ham basting that goes into just one day eventually grind my gears. That’s why this weirdo is actually looking forward to going back to work tomorrow.
Continue reading “Why Going Back to Work after Christmas Really Isn’t All That Bad”
I’m pregnant and huge and out of breath after reading two Thomas the Tank Engine stories followed up by a chaser of The Gruffalo, and frankly I’d quite like to have a cuppa tea and a lie-down in front of Ali Wong. But it is Spawn #1’s third birthday tomorrow and I’ve got to get my Mum on. There are presents to wrap, balloons to inflate and (most importantly to Spawn #1), cake to bake. Besides, cups of tea at this time of night aren’t exactly wise, given that I already have to get up three times in the night for a wee despite forced dehydration post-3pm.
Continue reading “Musings on the Eve of My Firstborn’s 3rd Birthday”
1. Belly laugh every day.
2. Have a shower every day. Or at least every second day. Or at least least, twice a week. (Washing hair optional.)
3. Stop finding food on my clothes six hours after my child wiped it there.*
Continue reading “15 Resolutions That I Might Actually Tick Off This Year”
Three mornings a week I’m roused from deep, beautiful slumber at 5:30am by my alarm. I groggily roll over and hit ‘snooze’ because 5:30am is not a friendly time. At about 5:39am I drag myself out of bed to get ready for the gym. I don’t really know what happens between then and 5:44am except somehow I go to the loo, squeeze some activewear on over my white pasty flesh, poke some contact lenses onto my corneas and stumble to the car.
A new French patisserie has recently opened just down the road from Husband’s office. I know this because he came home from work one day and like the good wife I am I asked, “So how was your day?” and he replied “OMG A NEW FRENCH PATISSERIE HAS OPENED JUST DOWN THE ROAD AND THEY HAVE A DEAL AT THE MOMENT – SIX DOLLARS FOR A COFFEE AND A PASTRY!” and then I looked at our bank statement and thought, “How many times have you visited them today, bro – that’s half our grocery shopping budget gone already.”
“Nips,” Jack says.
“Huh?” I mumble as I groggily rouse myself out of another Wiggles-induced almost-nap.
“Nips!” Jack shouts.
“Um, nips …?” I sit up straighter, wondering if Lachie and Emma have confused their wiggly after-hours bedroom antics with their Wiggly TV personalities.
“NIPS!” Jack exclaims, beaming, turning to me like he’s the cleverest little boy on the planet and pointing to his baby man-boobs.
“Riiiiiight,” I nod slowly, wondering where the hell he learnt that word. “Yes, those are your nips.”
When I found out I was pregnant, I cried. Lots. Not the kind of sparkly-eyed tears that endlessly-thankful women who’ve been trying for years cry when finally the tadpole hits its target; we’re talking ugly WHAT-THE-HELL-WAS-I-THINKING-WHEN-I-STOPPED-USING-CONTRACEPTION tears that mingled with my watery snot and left damp patches on my sweater.
My dad is the smartest man I know, and I know a lot of men. Wait. That makes me sound like a sluzza. Um. That’s not what I meant. I mean I just know a lot of male humans. In life. Generally. Anyway. My dad.
I follow a bunch of people on Instagram whom I’ve never met, and I’m unlikely to ever meet unless I accidentally bump into them while getting lost on Ponsonby Road because I’m looking for McDonald’s on Great North Road and somehow I turn right and end up on the most fashionable street in Auckland wearing faded cargo pants that I wore when I was pregnant and white Chucks that are no longer white, and I walk straight into them trying to use Google Maps on my iPhone 5s that has a cracked screen so I can barely see anything on it and accidentally spill their trim flat soy lattechino all over their Kate Sylvester cardy. Or something.
Erin Reilly 