My daughters, back when they loved having their photos taken. Photo: Kellie O’Brien.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This has been written with some tongue-in-cheek humour, but we wanted to also acknowledge those who find Mother’s Day difficult – those who have lost mums, those who have difficult relationships with their mothers or children, those who are trying to become mums and those who cannot become mums.
In a past life, I was a mummy blogger who wrote about poo explosions, weapons of mass lactation and the emotional toll of The Wiggles on repeat.
Now, my babies borrow my denim jacket, tower over me in photos and ask if they can bleach their hair for “aesthetic reasons”.
As Mother’s Day looms like a Year 2 craft project due tomorrow, I find myself asking: How on earth did we get here?
Becoming a mummy blogger all happened by accident.
While pregnant with my first daughter (not an accident), I began writing a lighthearted newspaper column about all the ways pregnancy messes with your body.
Like waking one morning to discover your boobs have leaked cartoon-like drawings of two fried eggs on your best nightie, resulting in you having to wear more padding than Glenn McGrath going out to bat.
For years afterwards, strangers would approach me in the supermarket while I was buying sanitary pads to tell me how much they loved my work. Fame is weird.
When daughter number two arrived, I thought, “Why not keep going?”. I didn’t know what a mummy blog was back then, but I figured if people were reading it, I might as well keep documenting the chaos.
It told stories of previously digested mung beans creeping out the sides of swim nappies at the public pool, and the intricate dance of scooping child and mung beans out like it’s stinky, squishy confetti.
Or the time Miss One became intrigued by how Miss Three could pee on the toilet, only for her dummy to drop into the bowl.
Miss Three panics and jumps off the toilet. Mid wee. The wee, however, doesn’t stop.
Meanwhile, Miss One takes on a fishing expedition for her dummy, resulting in me plunging into the deep dark depths of the toilet bowl to retrieve the little sucker. The dummy, not the daughter.
Fun times they were.
That blog still lives in a dark corner of the internet, collecting hits from bots in need of instructions to make a Dolly Varden cake.
To me, that blog was my saviour.
It gave me a creative outlet, a connection to other sleep-deprived mums at 3 am, and a way to capture the weird and wonderful memories from that sleepless, sticky-fingered chapter of life.
Sleep deprivation, after all, is the worst form of torture. Forget waterboarding – try reasoning with a toddler who wants you to take her sister back and swap her for a boy after two hours of sleep.
Now that the girls are teens, they’ve discovered the blog and taken great delight in seeing who had the most embarrassing story.
Insisting on wiping your own bottom and then forgetting to put underpants back on before ballet class was a top scorer. Classy.
They confessed they liked having those moments recorded to look back on.
Although, in the same hour of reading my blog, they had me watching true crime documentaries about mummy vloggers. I’m not sure what the message is here.
I mean, calm down. The most I ever managed out of blogging was a free Octonauts DVD and a box of Kelloggs’ latest cereal.
I was never in it for the sponsored content or to exploit my kids. I was in it for survival. For humour. For sanity. And occasionally, for the chance to pee with the door shut.
I know it’s a privilege and blessing to hold the title of “Mum” – whatever form that might look like for you.
It’s a wild ride – part joy, part crying into your own sleeve while someone wipes their nose in your hair.
Since ending the blog around the time they started school, we probably haven’t captured as many memories as we should have.
During COVID lockdowns, we did record a family podcast about life in lockdown that was never published and they now cover their faces like paparazzi victims every time I ask for a photo.
But here I am still writing about them. Because even if I’m now more “hoarder of memes” than “mummy blogger”, I still want to remember.
Because blink and your babies are suddenly on the cusp of turning 18 and asking you to help fill out uni applications.
So Happy Mother’s Day to me – and to anyone else who’s ever parented through chaos, humour and a suspicious patch of something brown and sticky on the floor.
Enjoy your burnt toast and cold coffee.
Original Article published by Kellie O’Brien on Region Illawarra.
