Grid girl glory or grid girl grief? Why the grid girls are getting all revved up

RADelaidians. Crack open a can of VB and prepare to inhale the smell of burnt rubber. The V8 Clipsal 500 Supercar race is fast approaching and that can only mean one thing, other than a sea of bad sleeve tattoos and mullets. The inevitable roasting of the grid girls. Whenever this topic arises, I find myself incessantly rolling my eyes. Sadly, it is seldom men who spurr this debate, but predictably, more often women.

So exactly why is it that we should consider banning grid girls at our major motorsporting event? Is it because women are being oversexualised? Perhaps being a grid girl is now an outdated concept? Is it that times have changed and there is a movement to protect women and have them viewed in a more meaningful light? Are grid girls sending the wrong message to the younger girls of our generation? Or is it simply that wives and girlfriends are jealous that their husbands are looking at attractive, alluring, women on the grid?

Potentially all of the above.

I don’t have the definitive answer. I can only speak from first hand experience. I was formerly an official Clipsal 500 grid girl for five years and was also a promotional grid girl at the Clipsal for three years. I am well aware of the stigma and stereotyping that has been attached to the title of ‘grid girl.’ The terms ‘slutty,’ ‘skanky’ and ‘dumb’ are all commonplace remarks just as much as they are also ignorant.

Where grid girls officially earn their title. A photo of myself standing on the grid just moments before the start of the race (2009)

The duration of my time at Clipsal saw me transition from a student studying a double degree in Law and Arts (majoring in Politics and Languages) to becoming a Lawyer at one of Adelaide’s most prestigious law firms. Does that render me ‘dumb?’ Meanwhile, many of the other girls in the grid team were also either studying, had university degrees or were working professionals.

For all the haters out there, in case you weren’t aware, it is possible for a girl to be attractive and also be smart. One doesn’t have to choose between the two.

In Adelaide, being an ‘official Clipsal grid girl’ is the highest ranking in terms of being a grid girl. Who cares, right? The point is, whenever you see a Clipsal girl, know that she has attended viewings, panels and interviews (external to her modelling/promotional agency) and has competed against hundreds of girls in her state to vie for a top twenty place in SA to be an ambassador for the Clipsal event. Irrespective of how frivolous or inconsequential that might sound to you, each girl fought hard to earn her spot in that grid team, and accordingly, she is damn proud to be there.

 

Glitzing it up on stage at the Adelaide Entertainment Centre for the official V8 Clipsal 500 launch (2008)

What most people also fail to acknowledge is that the official Clipsal girls work bloody hard. It’s not as simple as smiles all day long and flag bearing. The girls need to be at the track glitzed and glammed by 7am every morning often performing 12 hour shifts (in very high heeled shoes). That is external to the media, photographic shoots, interviews, parades, functions and launches they might also be involved in. Aching, bandaged, blistered and sometimes even bleeding feet are a very real reality of a days work on the circuit. It can, at times, be a very physically exhausting and taxing job. I feel your overwhelming sense of compassion and empathy. Unless you’ve walked a sum total of 3kms in stiletto’s in a day, you are no one to pass judgement.

Being a grid girl is a paid job. It requires professionalism and good judgement and just like any other job, it also has its challenges. The girls should be applauded for the constant level of professionalism they maintain in an environment that is heavily male dominated. It should be commended that these girls can hold their own and still be confident when their surroundings can often be extremely intimidating.

Official Clipsal 500 launch Adelaide Entertainment Centre (2009)

Over the recent years the grid girl outifits have even been modified to fit in with demanding egalitarian standards: to be less revealing and more tasteful. That of course still hasn’t appeased many, if at all.

The motorsport industry has always had women sexualising its brand. Afterall, it’s a match made in sponsorship heaven; fast cars and attractive women. It’s an undeniable truth. Sex sells. From the global Formula 1’s to the V8’s, grid girls have always been a staple feature and attraction of the sport, just as the NFL and basketball have always had their equivalent in cheerleaders. I wonder if the NFL views having cheerleaders a part of their sport as sexist? I certainly don’t see an urgent movement to ban them anytime soon.

Taking a break in between photos and having some fun with the cameras (2009)

I’m sure the V8 drivers aren’t exactly complaining either just quietly, nor the sponsors. I’m tipping the drivers aren’t likely to stand outside Parliament House in the near future with picket signs reading ‘ban the grid girls.’

In the past, the topic of having ‘grid guys’ has also arisen. In an attempt to show grand efforts of political correctness the concept was trialed at the Formula 1 Monaco Grand Prix May 2015. Is it any surprise that the drivers weren’t overly impressed with the new concept. After the race, Ferrari’s four time world champion, Sebastian Vettel, questioned ‘why didn’t we have any grid girls today? F–k, you get there and park behind George or Dave. What’s the point?’ Vettel was then later quoted saying, ‘I’ll speak with Bernie (Ecclestone) about it’. If you weren’t aware, ‘Bernie’ is the Chief Executive of The Formula One Group.

Case in point.

Myself, Katheryn Blewett, (right) and my best friend (left) Courtney Semmler backstage before the Clipsal launch (2009)

When did the world become so serious about EVERYTHING. Our modern day life is so heavily entrenched in political correctness that we are in danger of losing our sense of humour and our perspective on life. The freedom to express our thoughts and ideas have been heavily curtailed for fear that we will offend. We are over complicating, over analyzing and over debating everything. It seems that the ‘grid girl’ debate is in danger of meeting the same fate. Shouldn’t we focus our energies on more pressing social and political issues rather than worry as to whether a pretty girl adorning a racing car is going to corrupt a whole generation of girls.

My personal experience saw me have an absolute blast being a grid girl. I had fun, made life long friendships, met interesting people, and most importantly, I got to spend my days with seriously amazing girls.

Crucify me.

On stage with Mark ‘Chopper’ Reid impersonator, Heath Franklin, during one of his shows at the Clipsal (2009)

Unfortunately, haters are gonna hate and trollers are gonna troll, but that’s ok. We are all entitled to our own opinion. My grid girl days are six years gone. I am married with a beautiful baby boy and another baby on the way. Nonetheless, whilst my circumstamces have significantly changed, my view on grid girls has not ever faltered or wavered.

It really is simple. Being a grid girl is a bit of light hearted fun for an incredibly short period of time.

GET OVER IT

Perhaps ‘Chopper’ Reid impersonator, Heath Franklin’s hand gesture (pictured above) says it best.

I support the grid girls whole heartedly and applaud them on a job always well done #gridgirlglory #isupportgridgirls #longlivegridgirls

Former GG 🏁

Katheryn X❤️

Why breastfeeding is NOT a contraceptive

 
I remember staring at the pregnancy test in total disbelief. It took all of about two seconds for the window to reveal two lines indicating I was pregnant.

Surely the test had to be faulty. Afterall, how could one be pregnant if they were still breastfeeding and had not had a period? Dr Google had even told me that when you breastfeed, the act of breastfeeding in itself acts as a natural contraception. Wasn’t it common knowlege? The same hormones which make breast milk supress the release of reproductive hormones. It was that simple. Or at least I thought it was. 

W.R.O.N.G.

Whilst this is somewhat true, the fact is, ovulation occurs before you get your period. If you happen to engage in the horizontal bone dance on the day(s) of ovulation, then watch out world. Anything is possible, breastfeeding or not. Of course the chances are incredibly low. Particularly in the first six months where exclusive breastfeeding has proven 99.5% efficient in pregnancy prevention. Afterall, who really thinks they’re going to be the .05%? Generally speaking, even at ten months postpartum (as in my case), the odds of conceiving are still relatively low, but, as I have come to learn, certainly not impossible. 

I was breastfeeding my ten month old, now one year old, baby boy Sam, and had no sign of getting my period at the time of my positive pregnancy result. In fact, to be precise, the dreaded monthly cycle made its last appearance just before we conceived with our first child back in April 2014.

I had been feeling incredibly flat, exhausted and deliriously tired for nearly six weeks. My head felt like it was in a vortex. I felt bloated, very temperamental and moody (not so unusual for me, just ask my husband) and my appetite had turned slightly peculiar. I had even seen two doctors to discuss my concerns. The first of whom advised my hormones were most likely out of whack because of breastfeeding. The second, who did a physical stomach examination and had advised I needed to start taking digestive enzymes and eat more raw foods. 

Bless. 

No one had thought to do a pregnancy test. No one, not even me. The idea admittedly entered my head for a split second, as is always the case when we women are unwell and feel under the weather, however, the thought was followed by instant dismissal. If the doctors weren’t entertaining the idea then why would I?

The early pregnancy signs were there, but the alarm bells just weren’t ringing. The lights were on but nobody was home. Well, not so true. Unbeknownst to me, someone had found a nice new home for the next nine months.

The truth was my husband and I were super dooper keen to have another baby. It would be an actual godsend if the pregnancy stick wasn’t faulty. In fact, we had decided around the five to six month mark that we would start to try to conceive again. However, as it turned out, I continued to breastfeed, menstruation had not returned and there was no sign at all that my son was interested in weaning any time soon. Accordingly, we had decided that I would breastfeed our son for a full year so we wouldn’t have to transition onto formula, but rather, just normal milk. It would be easier this way especially with all the travel. 

Whilst I had already dismissed the possibility of being pregnant, I had also had flashbacks to my first trimester of pregnancy with my son. I was bedridden with morning, afternoon and night sickness for sixteen weeks and spent the majority of my time making quick trips from the bed to the bathroom sink to be sick. Further validation. How could I possibly be pregnant if I wasn’t crippled with sickness? I wouldn’t be able to function or drive a car if my first pregnancy was anything to go by. 

Wrong again. 

Another lesson learnt. No two pregnancies are ever the same, and as I have come to learn, no two pregnancies should ever be compared. It will only serve to confuse you, as it did in my case. 

As it turns out the test wasn’t faulty (surprise, surprise). I had confirmation after having a scan that I was eight weeks pregnant.

The reason why I ended up eventually doing a pregnancy test? Purely by accident. I had taken it upon myself to become my own doctor since increasing my intake of raw foods wasn’t working and I wasn’t feeling any better. I had concluded that my body was preparing for menstruation. Thus, I decided to take an ovulation test. Of course the ovulation pack I purchased also came with a pregnancy test which was not too dissimilar in appearance to that of the ovulation test. In an impatient frenzy, and without reading any instructions (a common folly of mine), I mistakenly opened the pregnancy test thinking I was testing for ovulation. 

HELLO- Positive pregnancy result. It’s not often, but baby brain certainly worked in my favour this time. 

I am now fourteen weeks pregnant. My husband and I are ecstatic about our news. It certainly has taken the stress out of trying to conceive. Of course, it is still early days and based on my first pregnancy, it’s a long and cautious six months ahead. Especially when my four major food weaknesses, soft cheese, paté, sashimi and San Daniele prosciutto, have all been involuntarily culled from my daily food repetoire. Admittedly, I scored a few weeks up my sleeve since I was indulging in these delicacies when I was unknowingly pregnant- winning!

So ladies, be aware and don’t be naive. Breastfeeding and absent periods do not render you infertile or incapable of conceiving by any means. Conceiving whilst breastfeeding is actually far more common than you think. So be cautious if you are not ready for that new little edition to the family just yet.  The chances are low, but there is still a chance. You just never know. 

Wine Wankers

The festive season is upon us and that can only mean one thing. It is officially wine wanker season. A time where copious amounts of wine are drunk, wine snobbery and pretences are at an all time high, and meaningless cringeworthy drivel (wankology) ebbs from the mouths of those who claim to be wine connoisseurs ie wine wankers.

  

Definition:

Wine Wanker 
[why-n wann-kerr] 

noun

1. a person (most likely male) who verbalises total and utter diarrhoea about the content or nature of a wine(s).
2. bores all humans within close proximity when making any reference to wine(s). 
3. has a genuine belief, when intoxicated, he is Dionysus (god of wine, winemaking and the grape harvest). 

Synonyms:

• Often, but not always, associated with male body parts: knob, knobhead, tosser, dick, try-hard, jerk, douche, douchebag, tool, nuffy, dipstick

‘Colin becomes such a douche when he talks about his wine collection.’

‘Cedric is a tosser. He asked the sommelier if the wine had been aged in French oak.’ 

Examples:

You’re the knob at dinner that runs his index finger down the wine list and picks the most expensive wine thinking price can buy taste and class. The reality is, if you were blind folded, you couldn’t distinguish a 2010 Penfold’s Grange from a $9.95 goon bag of Coolabah dry red. 

You’re the douche that asks for a sommelier at a restaurant so you can show off your knowledge of wine to your friends. The reality is, you spend your night times in bed desperately googling wine terms and descriptions to appear to be well read because you otherwise would have no idea. 

You’re the try-hard that makes reference to mulberies, tobacco, liquorice, earthy undertones and gasoline and waves his hand around the rim of the glass to inhale the ‘aromas’ and ‘bouquets.’ 

You’re the tool that lifts the wine glass up to the light and then swills his glass around to look for the formation of ‘legs.’

You’re the jerk that swishes the wine around in your mouth then proceeds to discuss ‘silky’ and ‘velvet’ tannins which ‘effortlessly float across your palate.’

You’re the tosser that has purchased and sourced every little contraption to aerate your wine and spent a fortune on a handmade decanter from Italy which looks no different to a shoe horn.

You’re the nuffy that chases labels, places an importance on the awards and accolades and signs up to every well- known cellar door mailing list. You talk about the ‘region’ yet you have never visited that particular ‘region’.

You’re the dipstick who has the red wine stained teeth out at dinner that is gloating about his precious ‘cellar collection’ and newly purchased thermometer.

W.A.N.K.E.R

I wouldn’t know how to distinguish a Shiraz from a Cab Sav. What I do know, is that I enjoy the odd drop of red with dinner. I may be on the entirely opposite end of the wine wanking spectrum but I prefer to keep it that way. 

Wine wankers be aware. You are boring the people around you causing incessant eyerolling, yawning and index finger motioning in the mouth to take place. 

Enjoy the festivities without causing those around you to feel as though they need to bash their foreheads repeatedly on the dining table and stab their eyeballs out with the turkey carver. Afterall, no one deserves to be subjected to a wine wanker in this lifetime let alone be seated next to one at Christmas lunch. 

 

The ‘K’ word. Kardashian. Kannot Kope.

If I hear the ‘K’ word one more time I will literally stab my eyeballs out with with the pointy bone end of my dog’s lamb chop.

SERIOUSLY. 

How many times do we need to hear about the Kardashians? The mere mention of the name alone, for me, is enough to induce the instantaneous onset of nausea and the immediate need to reach for a bucket. 

The fact that this family single-handedly dominates the news and world affairs on a continual basis, when globally, our world is in turmoil, is a frightening prospect indeed. 

Ask a fourteen year old girl who our newly appointed Prime Minister is and she’ll look at you with a blank stare followed by a very long double blink. Ask her what Kim Kardashian wore to the MTV VMAs and watch her come alive with excitement and animation. She’ll tell you who Kim’s designer was, where the accessories were sourced from, and the exact name and shade of nailpolish she wore. 

The market is K saturated. It’s undeniable and inescapeable. They are the most famous, followed and watched family on the planet. We turn on the news, Kimye’s preggy belly is being papped. Shock horror (open mouth ghost face emoticon). We look to the magazine rack when waiting in the supermarket line, Kimye is gracing every single magazine cover with her ‘trout pout’ (because ‘duck face’ is now a thing of the past apparently). We go onto our social media, surprise surpise. Kimye has posted another selfie (which only took eight hours because she had to run the picture through fifteen facie apps to choose the most flattering filter). 

We are being K plagued. Not only by Kim, but by the entire K entourage: Kanye, Kendall, Kourtney, Kylie, Khloé, Kris, Robert (father), Rob (son), Bruce/Caitlyn (yes the same person). 

In case you haven’t been informed. Here’s some very important ground breaking news. Kendall Jenner recently celebrated reaching forty million followers on Instagram by posting a picture in which she revealed her nipple. Don’t get excited. Kendall is one smart cookie. She edited her pic with a red cross over her nipple so the picture adhered to Instagram’s no nips policy. Phew. 

Let’s not also forget the recent picture that Kim’s two year old daughter North West ‘accidentally’ posted in her gold sequinned bikini. It was such an ‘accident’ that Kim decided to repost the pic. ‘LOL I deleted it so now reposting it myself!’ Really Kim? Do you really think we’re that gullible? Well maybe, since the photo received a measely 568.2k likes. 

Then there’s dear Kris Jenner. Motherhen, and ‘momager’, to whom all good looks were bestowed and to whom her genetic procreations can be eternally thankful. Vying for the role against daughter’s, Kim, and the soon to be of legal age, Kylie, to grace the final ever issue of Playboy. Yes, I’m thinking the same as you. Taco’s for dinner? 

When we look to why the Kardashians are so famous, the mind baffles. What are we, in particular, the younger generation, really aspiring to? Answer: Kim’s evergrowing one hundred million dollar empire can be attributed to a ‘leaked’ porno in 2007 featuring herself and Brandy’s brother (who no one still knows). Klassy Kim. The rest makes for the most fanciful story you have ever heard: An overly zealous mother, Kris Jenner, whose main aim in life is to make the Kardashian-Jenner girls sex symbols, a late father Robert Kardashian, who defended OJ Simpson during his murder trial in 1995, a step father (former Olympian) Bruce Jenner, whose gender dysmorphia has now been cured by virtue of ‘Caitlyn’, two totes glam step sisters Kendall and Kylie Jenner who virtually own the entire followship of Instagram, two not as hot sisters (soz Kourtney and Khloé Kardashian), a brother Rob Kardashian who rides on the krest of the female Kardashian koattails, and a husband, Kanye West, who is…well…a compass. 

Confused much? Me too. 

Perhaps James Samir Shamsi, ‘growth hacker’ extraordinaire, is onto something with the new invention of the #KardBlock app. An app that literally kuts the Kardashian krap from your newsfeeds. You heard right. An app that banishes the K’s from your life entirely. Don’t crack the Moët just yet. The app is still in beta form meaning it’s still being being tested. Yes, I’m bashing my head against a brick wall too. 

The Kardashians are in an exclusive bubble. A world where the word mediocre is blasphemous and ceases to exist. Where money quadruples by the second, diamonds fall from the sky, and the desire to achieve and project absolute perfection at all times, is the one and only goal. 

Amid my sarcasm and gross cynicism, the Kardashian’s are certainly an attractive mob who have a plethora of interesting stories to tell. I’m yet to be convinced, however, that many of their stories are ground breakingly newsworthy. Regardless, hats off (or in Kim’s case, clothes off) to this family who have achieved epic proportions of fame and money through, what in most cases, often brings one’s career to an end (or in Paris Hilton’s case, reaffirms you’re a starfish). 

No matter how beautiful the K’s are, and no matter how much awesomeness and sensationalism they exude, I stand firmly by my conviction- That I will continue to never EVER watch an episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians or any of their other five hundred vacuous tv show spin offs. I have enough trouble keeping up with my own self and ten month old baby these days let alone the world’s most narcissistic family. 

So, have the Kardashians done their dash? Definitely not. Far from it. I’m no psychic, but I would quietly put my Bichon Frisé on the line (sorry Napoleon) that the limelight isn’t about to dim on the Kardashian entourage anytime soon. In fact, quite the opposite. I’m tipping two crossed out nips (maybe even a blanked out cha cha) at Kendall’s fifty million followers, South West for the new baby name and Kris Jenner to appear nakey nakes on the cover of Playboy. We know you want to Kris.

From the koolest and kraziest K’s on the planet to a far less kooler K. I’m signing off. An article on Kris Jenner’s Great Gatsby themed 60th birthday bash is breaking news. Ultra sharp lamb chop bones- COME AT ME. IMMEDIATELY. 

Napoleon’s lamb chop bone to be used for eyeball stabbing. Crucial for pointy end to enter eyeball first.

K x

Skinny sucks…apparently

I remember the day well. My fiancé, an ex test cricketer, had announced our engagement on social media while we were holidaying in the US. He posted a photo of the two of us in a New York restaurant. We were flooded with well wishes and positive comments. It wasn’t long, however, before the trolls emerged. Amongst the light hearted comments of ‘bowling a maiden over’ and that my fiancé was ‘batting above his average,’ were far less complementary remarks. I needed to ‘eat a hamburger’ and was apparently suffering from some kind of eating disorder. 

Much to our delighted surprise, the malnutrioned and food deprived bride to be, would fall pregnant just a few days later. 

Myself and our 9 and half month old son, Sam, in Noosa (29 Oct 2015)

Fast forward to today. My son is nine and a half months old. When I was pregnant, I was told repeatedly by many ‘experts’ that I would struggle to deliver a child naturally because my hips were too narrow. A subtle note. YOU WERE WRONG. Apparently skinny women struggle with breast feeding too because they can’t produce enough milk. Sorry to deflate your ‘expert bubble’ but wrong again. I’m still breastfeeding and my son is nearly ten months old. No issues with milk production here. Thank you for your concern though.

I even recall my first weigh in at my OBGYN. The nurse double glanced at the scales and looked at me. ‘You weigh forty two kilos’ she repeated twice in total bewilderment. ‘FORTY TWO’. I stood there completely unpeturbed. ‘And your point is?’ I thought to myself. She was convinced I was the lightest person she had ever come across to bear a child. I had been slight my whole life and was always front row of every class photo from reception to year twelve. I wasn’t about to justify how much I ate on a regular basis. That the night before, I had succumbed to pregnancy cravings and had eaten a large wood fire pizza followed by a chocolate molten pudding with triple cream til I felt sick. I knew what she was alluding to. I was familiar with references to anorexia and bulimia. I had heard them more times than I care to remember. It was no surprise to me how much I weighed. I knew the truth and that’s all that mattered. 

Sadly, It’s become common place in today’s society to condemn women for being too skinny. Throw a baby into the mix and a post pregnancy selfie of your flat stomach and you have a troller’s paradise ready to aim fire. ‘Skinny slamming’ (aka skinny shaming) is the new trolling trend infiltrating our social media. Where it is now socially unacceptable to be skinny and have a flat wash board stomach after you’ve given birth. 

Yes, you heard correctly. Apparently fat is the new black and skinny is just plain offensive. Eh? Yes I’m scratching my head too and thinking exactly what you are. 

W.E.I.R.D 

Instead of embracing great post pregnancy bodies, we are shaming women who post complimentary pictures of themselves post pregnancy. These body types are seen to be unattainable and unrealistic to the average person. Apparently photos are only to be posted if you are riddled with stretchmarks, sport a post pregnancy spare tyre around your waist and are photographed in your maternity ward with a tray of donuts and custard infront of you. That way you have the majority of the population empathising with you and ‘liking’ your photos. Meanwhile, hot bikini pics will see you crucified and in serious need of wearing a bullet proof vest. Makes perfect sense…right? 

The likes of Sophie Guidolin (fitness model who recently gave birth to twins), Rebecca Judd (lifestyle and fashion blogger) and Ashy Bines (fitness model) to name a few, are all prime examples of women who have been the recent subjects of being body slammed by internet trolls for being too skinny post pregnancy. Sophie Guidolin was apparently too fat when she was pregnant and then when she lost the majority of her weight shortly after the birth of her twins, she was condemned for being too skinny. Rebecca Judd has also been under the spotlight for being too skinny pre and post pregnancy. 

The latest to come under attack is Ashy Bines who has posted a pic a few days after giving birth to her adorable baby boy. Haters have accused her of not eating properly and have even made reference to her rapid weight loss as being attributed to weight loss pills. 

FFS. Get a grip #pathetic 

I am certainly no fitness model. I wish I was. In fact, I don’t train and never have, despite the fact that my now, late father, opened the largest health and fitness centre in South Australia. I clearly didn’t get his fitness hungry genes. Unfortunately, nor has any of my husband’s athleticism or desire to train rubbed off onto me. 

 

Sam and I at Larvotto beach , Monte Carlo, Monaco (26 Sept 2015)

 
I may be skinny, but I do have cellulite and have no sign of sporting a bubble butt any time soon. I don’t maintain a fitness regime and I certainly don’t diet. The point is that this is me naturally after giving birth. I have the right to embrace my post pregnancy body (however slight), just as a larger woman has the right to embrace hers. 

Trollers are passing their vicious judgements based on their standards. They fail to realise that just because someone’s body has bounced back post pregnancy, doesn’t mean that they aren’t enduring the daily struggles that come with motherhood. Shitty nappies, sleepless nights, breastfeeding, teething, colic, the list goes on (forever).

What really enrages me, however, is that it is becoming totally acceptable to shame skinny women. Turn the tables and shame a ‘large’ woman and you might as well be on a one way ticket to Mars. We can publicly comment on a skinny woman claiming she has ‘anorexia’ but heaven forbid we make any references to someone being fat or obese. In a society that allegedly demands equality and fairness, there is clearly no sign of that thread here. 

Having a baby is a momentous and life changing event in a woman’s life. We should allow women to revel in that special moment and enjoy their newborn child(ren) without scorn and without the unneccessary trivial media frenzies that so sadly marre these special moments.  

Further a small reminder. Bines, Guidolin and the 7mth pregnant Michelle Bridges are all fitness gurus. Of course they are going to look cracking after pregnancy…duh. Was there ever any doubt? They’ve worked so incredibly hard for their bodies and should be rewarded accordingly. Why do we all act so surprised and outraged that their bodies bounce back so quickly after pregnancy and then feel the need to shame them? 

IT MAKES NO SENSE. 

Trollers need to read a book or invest their energies into something more productive. There are major political, social and economical problems in our present day society. Unfortunately, having a cracking post pregnancy rig isn’t one of them (we could only wish).

How’s this for an ingenious idea- Be yourself. Don’t feel you need to succumb to the likes of current day namers and shamers. Whoever you are, whatever you look like, however much you weigh, there’s enough room on this planet to embrace and accomodate us all. 

It’s time to move on and get over said ‘skinny bitches.’ If you are not comfortable with plastering a selfie on social media of your post pregnancy bod, it’s simple. Don’t. However, do not condemn those who do post photos.

Sadly for the trollers, their grand efforts aren’t working since there’s an epidemic of skinny slamming, meaning more and more women are jumping on the post preg hot bod bandwagon pic and I’m all for it.

Mothers-1 Troller’s-0.  

TV Rock said it well- ‘go on and flaunt it, shake whatcha mamma gave you’. Bombard social media with your hot bod pics and stand proud. 

Rant over. Now please excuse me. I hear a hamburger calling my name.

Sam and I recently in Noosa (29 Oct 2015)

Motherhood: What you were never told

Sam and the family dog/crocodile known as Napoleon (‘Nappy’)

If you’ve showered by 1pm you’re superwoman. If you’ve showered, eaten and applied makeup by 1pm you’re a triple threat to all mothers. You deserve a knighthood from the Queen.

Bye bye serentity. See you never
Carefree, uncomplicated and easy. Life as you once knew it is crumpled into a teeny tiny ball and thrown directly into the bin swoosh style.

Spoiler alert.

Welcome sleepless nights, a Fisher Price filled living room and the joy of leaking breasts. Your major downfall in time management will be the changing of ‘the onesie.’

You will quickly come to realise press studs suck.

MAJORLY.

Curse of the complicated commodities
Low level cussing is a part of your ‘carseating’ repetoire. Tangled straps and awkward buckles will categorically drive you crazy.

Segway the pram.

Rule number 1. Never buy a pram that weighs more than you.

Rule number 2. (See rule number 1).

Your husband will thank you for all the dents and scratches left on the back of his European 4WD later.

The struggle to lift that pram into the boot is real.

So is the issuing of divorce papers by your husband when you announce you’re selling your pram on Gumtree a month after its purchase.

The supermarket trolley suck. This literally sucks
Projectile vomitting coupled with dinosaur screams.You turn your head for one split second and he’s already sucking the supermarket trolley handle.

He didn’t need his dummy anyway.

His sucker fish mouth is impossible to pry away from that handle no matter how hard you try.

Deal with it. It won’t be the first time it happens.

You just can’t win
The flu season is your worst nightmare. Contending with a green snotty nose and baby fever is needed like a hole in the head. You’ve heard that the cases of influenza have quadrupled for the season. It’s reassuring to know your baby has had his vaccinations.

At least you thought it was until you saw the front page of Woman’s Day.

‘Vaccinations gave my child autism.’

#FML

The reformed hypocrite. Apology accepted
You’ll become a walking contradiction. The mother’s group you were too cool for and the over zealous stories you swore you would never tell?

You’re now running the mother’s club and liberally gloat:

‘He sleeps through the night.’

‘He’s in the 75th percentile.’

Note. The ultimate maternal rookie error. Never admit to anyone your child sleeps through the night.

Repeat NEVER.

It will not be received well. You are likely to be banished to hell. Indefinitely.

And remember when you used to hate on all those gimmicky toys? You wouldn’t be one of those mothers?

Hang your head in shame.

The Jumperoo is now your saviour. Even if that song does repeat in your head incessantly at 2am.

Becoming a fruitloop. It happens
Questioning your sanity on a daily basis will become common place. Especially when your husband announces he’s ‘off to golf with the boys’.

WTF. Introducing the pyscho lady.

Forgetfulness and confusion bombard your constant mental state.

All hail baby brain.

The best excuse of all time. Whether it scientifically exists or not. Ride that baby brain gravy train. All day. Everyday.

The breast it gets
Fussiness and favouritism dominate your booby world. You feel your boobs frequently and forget proper boob etiquette in public.

Expressing milk and using a breast pump will make you feel as though you belong in a pasture with the cows.

Introducing breastfeeding.

Squealling is a friendly reminder of exactly where your boobs stand, especially in the event of mastitis. Mastitis will single-handedly make you loathe the fact you’re female and will see you questioning the universe many times over.

‘Why do I have boobs again?’

After recovery, a breast that has had mastitis (the devil’s infection) can make your milk taste salty for a period of time.

Queue ‘tit commentary’. When your baby lets you know your milk tastes like crap.

Killing your husband’s vibe #fooddrainer
Food is secondary to anything you do. You’ll be lucky to eat lunch. During pregnancy food was an obssession. Going out to dinner was a nightmare.

‘Is this cheese pasteurised?’

‘Does this dessert have any alcoholic content in it?’

‘Does this sauce contain msg?’

Breaking news.

Your tune will be heard as #boring.

Thank you husband for your always consistent eye rolling and intentionally loud sighs. Your point was clearly noted. Every.single.time.

For sale. 1 x Bichon Frise called Napoleon
The barking spree when your baby is sleeping will question your dog’s powder puff existence. All that hard work of settling- gone (faster than the Aussies in the 4th test match of the 2015 Ashes).

You contemplate placing your $1500 pure bred, which you now refer to as a mutt, in a brown cardboard box outside your front doorstep.

‘Give away to a good home’.

The epic parental fail
Rolling off the bed commando style and plummeting to the floor face first.

The ultimate parental nightmare.

Blood curddling crying coupled with a blue face. You unanimously crown yourself worst parent in the world. That single moment will haunt you like an Alfred Hitchcock movie on repeat.

Get over it. It’ll be the first of many to come.

Eff right off. You and your finger
The art of flykicking. To be used when someone (other than yourself) sticks their finger in your babies mouth. Or better still. I’ll stick my finger in your mouth.

Deal?

That feeling when he’s out like a light
Overwhelming gratification comes from telling your husband ‘He’s asleep’. It’s the major highlight of your day. You never tire of uttering those words. The equivalent elation could be rivalled by telling your daughter she’s just won a date with Harry from One Direction.

Yes. That level of excitement. Seriously.

Ignorance is bliss
So, these are the things no one tells you before having a baby. Blisfull unawareness of your impending maternal duties is probably a good thing…right?

The reality check
The truth is, aside from becoming an expert snot picker and the master of poo purveyancing, there really is no greater joy in life (maybe chocolate) than having a baby.

The realities of your new world will now be consumed by ‘googoo gaagaah’, plotting growth charts, and sourcing chemical free nappies.

Awesome.

The pleasure is all mine
My 8mth old son, Sam, is my oxygen. I literally wish I could inhale him. Admittedly, I cry if I stare at him longer than five seconds.

He is also the definition of the ultimate time waster, energy sucker and facial grafitti artist. It is not uncommon to look like you’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson after your face has been attacked by his tiny razor blade finger nails.

Make no mistake.

Those nails are sharp.

Blood will be drawn.

Days will easily pass by where I have achieved nothing other than being my son’s biggest stalker and number one fan. He is the sole reason I am relegated to wearing sexy milk stained maternity bras and why my home can’t be distinguished from Toys “R” Us.

On the upside. I’ve had the privelege of visiting the real life home of Peppa Pig and met Suzie the Sheep. I also frequently get to watch reruns of my favourite childhood tv shows.

Hail Sooty and Sweep, Mr Squiggle and Fraggle Rock.

Most importantly, however, is that he constantly utters the words ‘mamma’ and ‘babba’.

That, my friend, makes the endurance of the daily struggles worth it.

Thank you Sam.