Category Archives: Devilboy

Tasty wee treat

Devilboy has embraced big brotherhood with great enthusiasm. And, while we’re thrilled that there’s been no jealously or resentment and that he loves his baby sister  “bigger than a really tall jump” (which is, in Devilboy world, a lot!) we aren’t entirely without concerns, though they’re not ones addressed in any parenting books I’ve stumbled across.

You see, given my little man’s huge appetite – a thing of perplexing enormity that is inversely proportional to his lanky little body – I’m a tad worried that he might find our delicious little bundle of joy just a touch too tasty.

He frets when she cries, as babies are want to do with great frequency, and to end the tears proffers such sage parenting advice as “sprinkling her with cheese” as mentioned in the previous post. An interesting idea, I admit, but one I think is doomed to near certain failure.

Another hint of his carnivorous leanings came with his suggestion that we “put some bread in her bassinet” to mop up the tears, perhaps something commonly done by parents in a parallel universe I’ve not yet visited, but something that I must confess hadn’t occurred to me two kids in to this whole parenting malarkey.

But it is with Devilboy’s latest line of questioning,  during a pleasant family breakfast, that the fear our beloved firstborn is actually a flesh-eating zombie seems truly founded and I am fraught with worry that my beautiful Devilette is going to get eaten by the end of the day.

“Mummy, what does a baby sister taste like?”

If he asks for some fava beans and a bottle of Chianti, we’re outta here.

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Say cheese!

Devilette cried a fair bit today… as four week old bubs tend to do. A concerned  Devilboy insists it’s because she has a tummy ache. And he has the solution!

“I’m going to sprinkle her with cheese”

Of course you are. :-/

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Starkers raving mad

Devilboy’s latest nocturnal fetish is Sleepnuding.

Nothing as traditional as sleepwalking for my boy, no. Instead he has started stripping in his sleep.

This is the second night in a row I’ve gone to check on him late at night  to find him lolling au naturel across his bed.

I wonder where I can get a toddler size stripper pole to install in his bedroom?

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Shaarkk!

Wow, has it really been two months since my last blog?

It’s not my fault. Seriously, the dog ate it…

Ok, so I don’t have a dog. Would you believe it was a shark? While we were at the beach. I fought to save it, I really did. I managed to tear my laptop out of its toothy jaws only for a cyclone to come and carry what was left of it away. Honest.

All right, would you believe that I’m just a very slack, very pregnant woman who has been far too lazy to put words to blog, which is a shame because there’s been so much to blog about… from holiday adventures in FNQ, to hospital adventures in RNS. And the delicious Devilboy has been on fire of late, his eccentricities escalating exponentially. But alas, my blog/brain co-ordination has short circuited.

And there really was a distraction in the form of shark, a beach and lots and lots of wind. I shit you not.

You see Devilboy’s sibling-to-be has most cheekily decided that it would be a hilarious jape to be due on Devilboy’s birthday. And given that DB has been determinedly planning (and by planning I mean nagging his mother daily) a shark infested birthday celebration for months – and that at the ripe old age of almost three, he is clueless to when his actual birthday is – we decided we would shark it up and celebrate early as opposed to attempting to host a kids party in the labour ward, which is something I think  most obstetricans frown upon. Party poopers.

So four weeks pre-three a party was planned and we chose the perfect weekend. Not only did we manage to select a weekend visited by one of the hottest days on record but one that backed it up with thunderstorms and a fairly fierce southerly change that lasted for the sum total of the duration of the party festivities.

And what better way could a 37 week pregnant woman with ankles swollen up bigger than Kanye West’s ego imagine spending her own 41st birthday than trying to prepare food for 30 adults and 15 children and to create and ice a fucking shark cake for an almost three year old demon in 41.5 degree heat – only for the weather to change and a southerly to create a sandstorm as soon as she pulls said cake out at the beach the following day?

Really does it get any better than that? Yes, I think it probably does. Shit loads.

But Devilboy really wanted his shark cake and his deranged hormonally-hyped mummy really wanted him to have it. There were tears, there was drama (all from me) but a cake was created… eventually.

And from my experience I can now share a happy homemakers tip with you all: Attempting to ice a cake with butter icing in 41.5 degree heat is like trying to ice a frigging sponge with olive oil. Try it, it’s a hoot.

This was the end result.*

And thus, there was much rejoicing. And shark wrestlng. Yay, verily

*Yes, it looks like I iced the fucker with concrete but I swear no children were harmed in the consumption of said fanged cakey confection.

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Festy season

Question of the day:

What sort of arse allows their 2 1/2 year old to lock local themselves in a festy public toilet at a train station?

Answer:

The kind of arse that is admitting to her maternal failings in this post.

Thank the festive fairies for the very kind (and slim) lady who, upon seeing my bulging belly and clearly understanding a thing or two about physics, shimmied under the privvy door and rescued my dippy Devilboy from an eterntity locked in toilet hell.

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The maladroit mama and the movie star.

Today was all about introducing Devilboy to the world of the theatre at a cleverly irreligious Christmas Baby Proms performance of The Three Kings at the Sydney Opera House.  

 A stage of twinkling stars, an orchestra and singing had Devilboy and his BFF Devilboy 2 but a set of opera glasses away from becoming die-hard theatre buffs.

But the real action wasn’t on the stage. In fact it was seated about two feet away from me in the guise of a twinkling star of a different kind. Well at least she would have twinkled had she been able to move a solitary muscle in her famously frozen face. 

This “completely natural” Oscar winning movie star and her Grammy grabbing (and surprisingly hot) hubby had also decided to bring their genetically blessed tot along for some infant theatrics of the tantyless kind. And that was where it all turned to hell.

You see Devilboy, in classic form, decided to do a runner. And his mummy, in bulging gutted and lumbering form, decided to give chase… navigating a toddler strewn carpet in her attempt to capture her errant offspring.

Devilboy was quickly detained but in my elephantine and inelegant trek back to our celebrity strewn seats I nearly took the head off the superstar progeny with an ill-placed size 9 that came within centimetres of her unsuspecting little face. 

Suitably embarrassed, I apologised to the waxy one and in return was rewarded with an Oscar worthy death stare that, coming from such a freakishly frozen face, was nothing short of terrifying. How the hell you can communicate that much contempt in a face that is literally completely immobile is anyone’s guess. I mean this is a face so devoid of lines, or even pores for that matter, that it’s bordering on the otherworldly, something she puts down to the regular use of sunscreen. That is some pretty fucking impressive sunscreen -perhaps if we slathered some of that shit across the hole in the ozone layer we’d be able to stop global warming!

I’m not blaming the super sunscreened one for  her for her maternal protectiveness. In fact, I’d have reacted exactly the same – except with wrinkles and actual facial movement and a bunch of extremely foul language (muttered carefully under breath so as to not upset the kiddies)  if some clumsy twat nearly beheaded my child.

So Devilboy’s introduction to the performing arts was mostly about his moronic and mortified mummy being a mere centimetre or two away from being dragged off and beaten to death by security… and her newly aquired a-list adversery being a mere botox injection or two away from being put on display as her own doppleganger at Madame Taussaud’s.

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A toast to mummy

Resplendent in an old faded tracksuit, ugg boots, unwashed and uncombed hair and looking like I’d been dragged backward (and forward) through a hedge several times, my darling Devilboy took my grubby face in his hands and offered an unsolicited “Mama, you’re so beautiful”.  Bless him.

Though in fairness, he also said his jam toast was “so beautiful” about ten minutes later and I am fairly sure that too was unsolicited, given that toast is an inanimate object. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers and I’ll take a compliment wherever I can get one – even I do have to compete with breakfast for them.

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Let it snow

 I know it is called the silly season but Devilboy seems to be taking that a bit too literally.

Today, upon receiving a lovely Christmas card from his grandparents and featuring a cartoon snowman, my favourite little lunatic insisted it immediately be placed in the fridge because “He needs to stay cold!” and has been checking on it at regular intervals to ensure it hasn’t melted.

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Santa and the psychic soldiers.

Tonight’s bedtime reading started fairly traditionally for a mid December.

We began with a recitation of ‘Puppy’s Christmas Star’, followed in quick succession by ‘Santa Koala’ and a powerful daddy style re-telling of the classic ‘Night before Christmas’.

All fairly normal bedtime fare… 

But Devilboy and normal really don’t sit all that well together.

When told he could pick one more book before lights out, he insisted on “Daddy’s Book… the goat one” and by insisted I mean, when it was explained he would need to pick another, he cried until he turned purple and ran out of the room in hysterics, tearing apart the house  searching for said book. 

And that is how we found ourselves reading “The Men Who Stare at Goats” to a two and half year old boy as he nodded happily off to sleep.

For those of you not familiar with this particular tome, it is a true but insanely disturbing tale of the Iraq War and a secret Government and Military approved unit that employed paranormal powers, powers alleged to be so strong they could kill a goat just by staring at it, in Bush’s equally insanely disturbing war.

You know… that kind of typical kiddie bedtime stuff!

Top marks to Dad of Devilboy for reinventing the story as a slightly more festive tale of a funny looking goat enjoying a happy holiday. And for carefully leaving out passages like “This torture did not take place in Abu Grahib prison, where naked Iraqi detainees were forced to masturbate and simulate oral sex with each other.”

So what’s on the agenda tomorrow night?  Spot’s First Christmas? Or Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? Knowing Devilboy, probably not, it’s more likely that he’ll want us to start reading him Keith Richard’s Autobiography.

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wee wee wee all the way home…

We’ve just returned from the park where Devilboy instigated the following conversation with a random stranger.

Devilboy:                             Do you have Spiderman undies?

Random stranger:            Mine are Buzz Lightyear.

Devilboy:                             Do you wee in them?

Random stranger:             Umm, no ??

This was strange enough behaviour for the afternoon.  Or so we thought… until Devilboy decided that he would run his own Vox Pop and ask the same of every bipedal life form he happened upon – man, woman and child.

I’m not clear on what he plans on doing with the collected data but what I do know with some certainty is that my son is a lunatic.

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