Footy. So romantic.

So Chef’s current job sees him up and on his way to work at about 5.45am at least four mornings a week. Apart from the fact I find this hilarious, as many years back now we were in a heated argument about how I needed his help in the mornings with the boys, particularly if I’d been up with Felix half the night as was normally the case and he dug the deepest hole for himself by uttering the phrase, ‘but I created a whole career in an industry where I got to sleep in’. I think I sucked all the oxygen out of the room following that one and spat back, ‘yes, and then we had a family’ or some such. Ahh, such sweet memories.
Anyway, this morning he was still in bed at 6 so I was all, shove, what time are you going and he was starting late because he was working dinner.
K: What? Why?
Chef: Because it’s Valentine’s Day.
K: Oh. Shit. So it is.
C: Happy Valentine’s Day my love.
K: Happy Valentine’s Day poppet.
Then he reached over to his bedside table as if he was going to open a drawer and I was all, oh you did not.
C: Nah, just kidding.

Just keeping the romance alive.
This afternoon featured flashing the glowing breast at my GP again who was very pleased it was now more like dying embers than shiny ball of molten angry redness. As am I. Still hurts but getting better.
Thanks for asking.
This is where I could go off on quite a tangent about how having Grover well and truly broke my arse – and I’m talking performance not appearance – but will save that one for another special occasion. Maybe Mother’s Day.
Pop that in your diaries.
From there it was swimming.
Swimming is such a pain in the arse, which is already painful, thanks again for asking.
The getting changed, the attached cafe and eleventy gagillion lollies and junk and drinks at child height and access, the lack of parking, the wettness.
Back in the bus and off to registration for footy.
With a special appearance by some of the Sydney Swans.
I think everyone is across my hatred of everything soccer even though our team was made up of fantastic kids and families. It was always too big, to busy, to disorganised and just absolutely shitted me to tears.
AFL is a completely different story. Last year we did both, this year we’re just doing AFL. = happy mummy.
Organised, amazing staff, great training program for young kids and so on and so forth.
I mean, I had a good afternoon.
At footy rego.
1. This indicates just how appalling my social life is and
2. I really do need to get out more
But in all honesty, it is how they are with the boys that just impresses me week on week.
We arrived and Felix was slotted in immediately and that was the last I really saw of him for the better part of the next hour and a half.
One of the AFL reps took Oscar and just had a kick with him, sending me off to the rego area.
Then, one of the legends of the current game who was there, Spider Everitt took a mark from one of Oscar’s kicks and just had a kick with him.
Later on as I was nattering with the mum of Felix’s best friend Felix and C had formed their own posse and were having a kick – which some of the AFL reps and our team coaches would dip in and out of and Oscar had just joined in a group of bigger kids having a game of touch footy. Jasper was happily pushing the stroller (and Grover) all over the open fields with some little girl in hot pursuit because ohmygodababy.
We got home at 8pm.
And fun.
And that is something we’d been running pretty low on around here. What with all the pestilence and pus.
Jasper’s self-driven toilet training is still going full steam ahead.
I am still in a state of shock.
There have been very few accidents and he is so excited by the whole concept.
This is one of the bonuses in having many children – where you get so relaxed about stuff (I was not even going to consider toilet training until he was three) that they are relaxed about it, so it just happens with minimal fuss or fanfare. When I think about toilet training the first two and what a mountain it was… so stupid.
I mowed the lawns today and did the edges with the whipper snipper.
The house is filthy.