Dumb crazy-arse things to do with a newborn and four other males

Yeah, that’s right. You go to the footy!

Seriously, when I said (weeks ago) that I’d go, I was half kidding and half thinking I wouldn’t really but we’d farm the tickets off to some friends of ours who’d gag for a live footy opportunity.

As it was, I was fast tracking to a bad day – my boobs are really sore and I’m watching them like a hawk for any sign of mastitis, something my knockers are partial for at any lactating opportunity, the boys just seemed louder than usual, Oscar was grating on my nerves which made me feel even worse more guilty, the house is just filthy, there were three bags of rubbish piling up in the laundry, washing was in the machine but the pile on the floor waiting to be done was huge and I had my second cooking disaster in as many days – and had that growing sensation of feeling trapped and unable to breath as my world becomes defined by the state of the floor, the amount of washing completed and how clean the kitchen is.

So the effort and possible hideousness of undertaking an outing of this magnitude didn’t seem that bad.

As it turns out, it was actually enjoyable. In a weird kind of way. I mean, it wasn’t dinner at Aria or a night at the Park Hyatt but witnessing Oscar’s sustained excitement – for the ENTIRE match – and his sustained support for the Swans while the rest of us were barracking for the ever-useless losing Blues was just divine. Jasper was fine except for the championship (third) quarter when he cracked it big time, Felix just loved being there and never gave up hope of a Blues comeback, bless him and Grover just hung out in the Baby Bjorn and even fed discreetly. The only drag were the idiots behind us who thought they were in the commentators box and just never.shut.up. I even got a sleep in the car on the way home.

And hey! Guess what! We even did take away for dinner.

*Note in that last pic, poor Grover didn’t even see out his first week before the dreaded milk/hormone rash appeared.