Free to good home: ovaries, 1 pair, will throw in coffee table

My cousin has this two and a half year old that looks and acts unsettlingly like a high-pitched midget version of myself. Lil, like most toddlers is precious as hell with her big eyes, chubby cheeks and “I lisp just enough to be adorable without appearing to be Perez Hilton.” But by god, the independence and attitude of this girl gives the lie to the apparent cuteness. She’s recently decided she’s had enough of nappies and graduated herself into underpants of her own accord. A few weeks ago I wandered over to pilfer some wine and dinner, and Lil proudly displayed to me her ‘big girl knickers’ that she demanded her mother buy. I showed her my big girl knickers too and my cousin yelled at me for encouraging her daughter to be a big ol’ hussy like her Aunt Inga. Lil and I get on well.

Over the Easter weekend, my cousin asked if I’d mind taking Lil for a few hours while she and hubby went out to dinner. Sure, says I. We had a merry old time watching Winnie the Pooh movies and building cubby houses out of blankets, then:

“I need to go…the toilet.”

Now children and toilet habits have always confused me. At what point do you trust them to wipe themselves? At what age is it inappropriate to bring your son into the ladies’ room with you? How the hell do you teach a boy how to aim that thing? I just don’t get it, and hopefully I never will.

None of this helped in my present situation. Lil had already taken off her trousers, and was standing in front of the loo in a nappy. Nappy?

“Lil, where are your big girl knickers?”

“I’ll go get them!”

“Noooo you won’t. Stand still.”

I squinted at the nappy for a moment. I was hoping it was one of those ‘pull up’ thingies I’d seen on the TV with the creepy rapping kid, but alas, they appeared to be a regular pair fixed in place with voodoo and double sided tape.

“Lil, how the f*** do I get these off?”

Blank look. Ok. I fiddled around, yanked hard, down they came and…


I plonked Lil down on the dunny and told her to finish doing whatever she had to do while I went hunting for gloves, disinfectant and a high-pressure gurney. I was rifling through her bedroom looking for equipment when I heard her singing happily from the other end of the house.

“Lil! Get back in the toilet! Stay out of the kitchen!! Oh my god, is that poo on your hands?!”

I scrubbed her hands (and mine) vigorously with antibacterial soap, then let her run off while I pondered what to do with her backside. Eventually I unearthed wet wipes and a new nappy. Random, awkward wiping ensued.

“Ok Lil, I have a nice clean nappy for you!”

She stood obediently in front of me while I unfolded the apparatus and stared at it in mute bewilderment. For a full five minutes I tried to wrap it around her while she was standing up, before realizing I’d never seen a single sane person try to re-diaper an upright child.

“Maybe you should lie down, kiddo.”

Down she flopped, and in no time at all I had her taped and swaddled. Granted, one fastener was up near her armpit and the other somewhere around her left knee, but she seemed content with my effort. We resumed our cubby-house architecture.

Forty minutes later I noticed a grim odour wafting from her general direction.

“Lil, have you pooed again?”


“Are you sure? Maybe we should go to the toilet again just in case you-” ….


I tore off the demon faeces nappy with a sound that was half-sob, half-retch, threw it in a corner, dumped her back on the toilet and bolted to get the wipes.

“Are you all finished now?”


“Ok, let’s clean your tushie and-“ …


Five hundred and eighty wet wipes and ninety dry reaches later, Lil and I were watching cartoons and cuddling on the couch when her slightly tipsy parents came home.

“Lil-leee! Were you a good girl for Aunty Inga?”

Lil and I exchanged a look, and I know we were both silently vowing to visit a cocktail bar together in sixteen years and forget the whole sorry episode.

Seriously, I’m not having kids.



It’s ANZAC Day already?

Where the hell did March and April go?

I know one week disappeared having my youth and vigour shamelessly exploited by certain disabled members of my family unit, but that’s a subject for a different post.

Another few weeks have been spent getting to know the new love of my life, Laila the Ford Fiesta. We adore each other, but there are some kinks to work out. First, being of European manufacture, her indicator lever is on the wrong damn side. A decade-old habit of simultaneously changing down gears and flicking on my blinkers has been abruptly stymied. This is how I turn corners now: Change gear – wiper – cuss word – wiper off – indicator on.

Secondly, we have vastly differing views on the appropriate RPM at which to change up gears. When I first took one for a test drive, I asked the salesman what the little green arrow was that kept popping up on the dash. Apparently it serves to indicate the most economical moment to change gears. Which, incidentally, is a consistent 2000 revs earlier than my usual driving preference. I’m going to cover it up with duct tape.

Finally, some German heller Funken decided a high-pitched ching-ching-ching-ching sound would be an effective deterrent to driving without a seat belt. Granted, I always drive with my seat belt on and so should you all. The problem is, I’ve adopted an odd habit from my Old Man. My parents live a very long way from anything relevant and after a long drive, when we turned into the start of our 6 kilometre long dirt road, he’d always unbuckle his seat belt. I’m not sure why, considering a seat belt isn’t exactly uncomfortable and fellow motorists are more likely to drive like unconscionable dickheads on a dirt road. I’ve always put it down to his special brand of crazy, but now it appears I do the same bloody thing. Except I live in the middle of the Melbourne suburbs, not some Far North Queensland backwater. I didn’t even realise I did it until I bought this car, but sometimes I’ll find myself unclicking the belt a good 3 kilometres down the road, and Laila absolutely flips her shit at me.


Calm down, we’re nearly there.


The speed limit is FORTY you stupid piece of machinery, the only danger is someone strolling up to the window and stabbing me –



Even worse, the damn thing has weight sensors that can tell whether there is someone in the passenger seat who should be wearing a seat belt. Last week, my adopted 20-year-old Nikki bought me a pink concrete Buddha statue. I’m not sure why, I guess it’s just something the young ‘uns do these days. So I tucked it safely into the passenger seat, headed off down the road and…


And so I found myself buckling up an inanimate concrete deity as if it was a toddler.

Aside from that, I LOVE her. We’re gonna get along fine.

Then there’s the Drummer Boy. He’d always been very clear about not wanting anything serious as he was suffering from some fairly severe Lady Induced Trauma. Which was cool with me to begin with, but after a couple of months it can become draining and unproductive. So last week I said mate, I’m happy to be friends, but you clearly have some issues to sort out so I’m going to put myself back on the market now. And oh, the drama. All of a sudden I’m the greatest thing since Megan Fox, and he’s wailing to Nikki in the corner of the pub while I’m trying to hide behind the bouncer and simultaneously avoid my ex, who’s there with his newest girlfriend that inexplicably hates me even though we broke up over four years ago.

So that’s been my Easter. How are you all?