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Hair Baby, Hair!

8 Dec

In my wildest dreams, I never imagined I would have a ‘hair’ baby. And by that, I mean, the kind of child who has amazing, comment-worthy hair. The little girl with long, thick, glossy tresses, the boy with the rockingest ‘fro. ‘Hair’ baby. It was just never going to be on the cards for us.

My hair, as previously discussed here is depressing in the extreme. Limp, fine, shit-house hair. ‘Ratty’ my mum used to call it. And promptly started taking me to get it permed from about the age of 10. What can I say, Betty loves big hair.

And Bren has been saddled with very thick, coarse hair. No-one ever looked at Bren’s mane and experienced hair envy. Of that, I am certain.

But herewith, our child;

Can you imagine? I mean, can you even begin to grasp how much we are enamoured of this luscious head of golden curls? This is hair to die for. Or at the very least, cut off and sell for the deposit on a house.

There’s only one problem.

We have two sons.

And that head of exceptional hair belongs to one of them.

LD looks like me (except with vastly superior hair) so yes, he gets mistaken for a girl. Even pre this beautiful mane growing in, what with his long eyelashes and, let’s face it, cute as button face (as inherited from his mother dearest), the child was pretty. But the hair doesn’t help matters. The hair is confusing particularly to the older generation and also, to bogans. Which is weird given the 1980’s bogan was all about the long hair.

I have yet to discuss it here but people who know me also know that I covet pink bits. I would like, pretty please with sugar on top if you’re listening God, a daughter. Yes, I would. If for no other reason than the glory box full of baby girls clothing I have been collecting over the years for the daughter that I was CERTAIN I was having. There are some seriously cute frocks  in there. Hey, I just thought a daughter might be nice. But I want it to be clear that I am in no way trying to morph my firstborn son into a girl.

Despite this.

And also, these.

So my dude looks like a (little) lady. I am surprised that so very few people actually advised me to cut his long, long hair. Pleasantly surprised given the horror stories I have heard other mothers tell of the well-meaning but deeply annoying advice they’ve been given by strangers and kin alike. But I do know that some people are biting their tongues because they clearly think hair of this length is inappropriate on a boy.

That grinding sound you hear is me digging my heels in. Nothing makes me more resolute than to have gender stereotypes thrown in my face. Of all the reasons to cut LD’s hair, that is the very stupidest. If he was a girl, no-one would dream of telling me to cut it. Because it’s supremely beautiful hair. The kind of hair mother’s fantasize about – for their daughters. Hell, I would like that hair myself. It’s so Hollywood, I could die. Straight from the crown and then falling into the most perfect curls at the bottom. Hollywood hair. The shit people pay big dollars for.

But if cutting LD’s hair because he has a penis is the stupidest idea, the most compelling reasons in favour of going the chop include the fact that to washing it is traumatic. And to brush it requires me to actually sit on top of my child and hold him down as I attempt to remove the dreads at the back of his head. The screaming and howling is straight out of an insane asylum. It’s very disturbing.

There’s also the issue of everything LD eats ending up in his hair. As it turns out, yoghurt is NOT a good substitute for hair product.

Then there’s this.


From the sublime to the ridiculous



So, the evidence has kind of been stacking up. The universe was sending us a message that we felt disinclined to hear.

This is the most recent photo of the hair.

And by recent, I mean prior to THE CHOP. With a heavy heart, I took my pretty boy along to the hairdressers. LD sat angelically while Stacey combed out god-knows-what from the front of his hair. I was so proud and also, so freaking annoyed that he drives me to physically restrain him in order to do the very same thing.

And then the cutting began.

I hovered and took photos. Hovered some more. I watched the heavenly blonde wisps raining down all over the salon floor. And when she was done I realised what Stacey had done.

She had given my son a long bob.

Which ultimately means my son and I have the same hair cut.

Bless him, he’s never been prettier….

Did I want to go shorter? Look, yes, I did. But by then, I could see that angelic LD was about to leave the building. And even though Stacey had given my kid a bob, I couldn’t inflict devil LD on her.

So the dreaded haircut turned out to be more of a big trim.

Do I think about going super boy short? I don’t, no. LD, pretty though my darling boy may be, kind of has a gigantic head. I say we play to his strengths…….

Idiot Box

17 Nov

I used to dream about the way my parenting would look. I was totally fun but strict when I needed to be and my kids respected the boundaries I set for them. Afterall, I was looking out for their best interests. Oh, and I was really thin and the kids never had snot on their faces.

Pre-kids and still fostering the dream, I was heard to declare,

“I don’t believe in children watching too much television. My children won’t watch TV until they’re at least 5 years old.”

Now, post-kids, you may be wondering how that’s workin’ out for me.

So let me tell you, in pictures….


i heart tv

i heart music - and tv

i heart getting dressed - and tv

i SUPER-heart giant tv

That was LD. And with his arrival, the dream died a very complete death.

But then along came Zee. It occurred to me recently that I couldn’t tell you what his favourite show is on TV. Because he never watched any.

Ah, you might think, look at The Little Mumma! She’s gotten her act together. Using this second chance to put some of her original parenting ideals into practise.

Proud mumma moment, right?


Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

I’m here to tell you that the kid who doesn’t like watching TV is the ultimate ball and chain. Exaggerating, am I? Well, you go ask Saucy. Her little fella was a serial TV avoider, displaying absolutely zero affinity for the moving picture. This meant he was looking for entertainment elsewhere. Namely, from his mother, Saucy. ALL. DAY. LONG.  Ball and chain, dear readers, ball and chain. I don’t have to tell you how Saucy feels about her second child’s preference for watching The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse for twelve hours straight. And if that child is now her favourite, you can hardly blame Saucy.

So my advice to my dreaming pre-kids-self regarding television addiction in infants is it’s never too soon to start. You have to nurture this addiction in order for it to reach its maximum potential. Consistency is key and for this, I suggest leaving the television on all day long and repeatedly placing the disinterested child back in front of it. And of course, when your child fails to move from their position in front of the box for half hour stints or more, reward, reward, reward! You’ll know you have succeeded when your child watches an entire movie and then requests for you to play it again. And start early otherwise you just might find your kid won’t watch any TV at all. And then, my lovely self, you’ll be fucked.

So it seemed I had dropped the ball with Zee. If there was no favourite show then there was nothing to stick him in front of so that I might do anything not involving him for more than 30 seconds. Lord knows I didn’t have kids so that I could interact with them all day. Jeee-ZUS!

But then, a breakthrough.


The Zig has started to develop a love affair with the teev. I still don’t know if I can pinpoint a favourite program yet but that’s okay. Maybe it’s better if he watches everything – you know, for variety.

And lastly, in photo, my idea of heaven. I don’t know where exactly my cockles are located but consider them sufficiently warmed by this happy snap.

My work here is done

RMTT #10

11 Nov

Happy Thursday eve, friends of The Little Mumma. I have just finished making Cookie Pops and if you think I’m not going to get a couple of those babies into my sockets before the night is through, you’re insane.

So my random thoughts tonight are concentrated around philosophies. As in, if I had one related to mothering, what would it be? It’s not something I’ve given actual specific thought space to before (there’s only so much room left after you factor in the latest Kardashian gossip and what I’m going to eat next).

There’s lots of stuff I believe, heaps of clichés that would probably fit. What I do know is that there are very few hard and fast rules – it’s best to remain fluid about most things otherwise the continual disappointment when baby (or you) fail to live up to the rigidity would be crushing.

I was cleaning god-only-knows-what off the couch today and it was then that I formulated my philosophy (hello multi-tasking!). It includes just two things – although after scrubbing one stubborn spot on the couch for what felt like an eternity only to realise it was never coming off, I was tempted to add ‘Ban children from eating – ever.’ That might have proved controversial but the stuff I came up with isn’t. I don’t claim either of the two things as original but I do count them as important.

Anyway, for your consideration, I offer up The Little Mumma’s Mummahood Philosophy.

1. The only absolutely, 100 percent, don’t leave home without it, essential thing that all mothers must have is a sense of humour. Without it, you’re FUCKED.

2. The expression “I love my kid/s, that goes without saying” is false. You need to say it (and show it) eleventy thousand hundred times a day. You can never tell/show a child you love them too much. And if you’re not squeezing their little bodies into the cuddle of a lifetime each and every day, again, you’re FUCKED. And worse still, they’re fucked. A cuddle is like a steroid-hit to a kid’s self-esteem. And they just feel nice, too.

The Little Mumma loves her kidlets. And The Little Mumma loves YOU! 🙂