I just can’t….

This image visually assaulted me when I pried my eyes open at the arse crack of dawn, thanks to three man-flu riddled kids and THREE kittens (more on that sudden increase in feline figures later)…and flopped down in front of my laptop to check Facebook….

That is #1Hubby and his boyfriends at MY Champagne Bar in Bali.


While I am home looking after his sick children.

Double bastard.

And missing a blog-related trip.

Triple bastard.

I won’t even get into the unspeakables that THREE kittens are subjecting me to, on my own.

Quadruple bastard.

EXHAUSTIPATED : Too tired to give a shit.

But I will later.

And I will refer to this post when I need to remind myself why I am going all woe is me martyr.  In case my flu fatigue causes me to forget all the crosses that I am bearing while he is boozing in Bali at MY bar.

**Nobody mention all the trips I take to exciting places like the US for BlogHer, Cambodia and Vietnam (annually), or the girls trip to Bali with my sister wives just a couple of months ago.  I bet this is how he feels every time I go away.  Totally does not count right now.

Don’t make me get the clippers out….

Meet my deputy of discipline.

It used to be the Zhu Zhu Pets, but my kids have out-grown that irrational fear, and the pets are no longer capable of rounding up the kids like a herd of petrified cattle.

My latest deputy only works on Mstr6, but that’s okay, because the girls understand threats and bargaining better than he does.

For Mstr6, the mere mention of getting the clippers out to do his hair has him in full blown girly-man tantrum mode.

Every time I do his hair we experience said girly-man tantrum.

But only pre-clippering.

During and after having his hair done, he quite matter of factly advises that it doesn’t hurt a bit, and he’s not scared of it at all.

He even promises not to lose his shit 6 – 8 weeks later when he’ll need his next haircut.

But he’s a liar or has a short memory or both, because we end up going through the same drama every time.

Right now, we are in a stalemate.

It’s like a Mexican standoff – 

I am disgusted by his completely dishevelled look, all long bits of hair sticking up everywhere (I dumped a good handful of hair gel on one patch and it still stuck straight up in the air)

but I do have the greatest behavioural threat ever at my disposal, every time he refuses to do as he’s told – 

      Me:    Eat your veg
      Him:  Nooooooooooooooooo
      Me:   If you don’t eat your veg you’ll go to bed early
      Him:  No I won’t
      Me:  Yes you will
      Him:  Fine, I’ll talk to Goggerson (stuffed toy of choice)
      Me:   Fine, I’ll get the clippers out and do your hair in the time you should have been eating your veg

      Me:   Homework time
      Him:  I don’t want to
      Me:   Neither do I, but, let’s do it
      Him:  No, I don’t want to
      Me:   Too bad, we’re doing it
      Him:  No
      Me:   It’s go time….
      Him:  I’m not doing my homework
      Me:   No, not that.  I’m getting the clippers to do your hair instead, since we’re not doing homework
      Him:  Girly shriek, and runs to get homework

      Me:   Bath time
      Him:  No I had one yesterday
      Me:   Yes, you have one every day
      Him:  No I don’t
      Me:   Yes you do
      Him:  No I don’t
      Me:   Yes. You. Do.
      Him:  No. I. Don’t.
      Me:   Shed words, some muttered, some slightly more audible
      Him:  I did not have one Saturday
      Me:   Yes you did
      Him:  No I didn’t
      Me:   More shed words, none muttered, all audible
      Him:  Ahahahahaha
      Me:   That’s it…

See, he’s catching on….I don’t even need to verbalise the threat now!

Works like a charm, every time.

I just have to live with all that hair until I find a substitute threat that he responds to just as passionately.

Am going to hit YouTube for tutorials on how to braid the rats tail that’s appeared at the back into a side pony.

Off the grid

My latest absence (and associated flimsy excuse) is because I am going OFF THE GRID.


Except for booze, because who has the time to wait for all that brewing and distilling and watching a few bubbles rise and getting ridiculously excited – like the equivalent to popping a bottle of France’s finest.

Myeh.  So we’re calling it SEMI SELF SUFFICIENT.

Jumping on the coconut oil bandwagon has really helped.

So many uses.

Some probably not intentional.

Lucky it is organic.

I’d also like to point out that my new off the grid / semi self sufficient status disclaimer also excludes electronic devices.


I am only human.

It’s probably more of a I am LAZY and couldn’t be bothered going out for takeaway food, so I COOKED INSTEAD thing.

True story – took me less time to cook than to get my “going out in public” clothes on and restore peace and order when the whiney three fight to come along on a takeaway run as if we’re going to Disneyland….

But I’m going with the far more impressive statement – I AM GOING OFF THE GRID AND BEING SEMI SELF SUFFICIENT.

Details, details.

It all started when I wanted dip with my wine and cheese, and was too LAZY and not prepared to drive after a couple glasses of Dan Murphy’s finest non-French cheap bubbles.

#1Hubby was completely and outrageously useless.

Refused to drive.

Refused to walk.

Totally unhelpful and not doing his bit with the hunting and gathering.  

So I MADE my own dips – plural!

Beetroot – half arsed pic because the kids love beetroot dip and I turned my back for 5 seconds (it was more like 10 minutes – but it was Facebook distraction time so it’s like equating dog years to human years or something similar), and the little darlings had polished almost all of it off.

They denied it, of course, but the purple rings around their three smirking mouths gave them away.

For my revenge I informed them that beetroot was a vegetable, and revelled in their outrage and disgust. Hah!

For my next trick, I made  FIRE!  HOMMUS!

Am now a food photographer, what with my subtle and genius product placement

All of the yums and back patting for making it myself, preservative free, and indulging in a vegetable (chick peas are veg, right?) to totally balance out the soft cheese and cheap bubbly.


Then last night, because I was on a roll, I decided to create the Indian takeaway we were jonesing for.


Calling time on my short but illustrious career as a Food Photographer.
Forgot to use the flash
Stood over the pic and literally over-shadowed my creation

Am now considering opening up a dodgy, unlicensed, unofficial takeaway joint at my place.

No menu.

Just cooking what I feel like on any given day, courtesy of my Tefal Cuisine Companion.

Because it literally took me less time to prepare my Butter Chicken, home made garlic Naan Bread, and equally home made Raita – than it would have taken #1Hubby and I to have a Parliament Question Time style childish debate over who should be going to get the takeaway.  And then arguing further over what to have.  Debating whether or not the person picking up the takeaway has the right to choose cheese naan over garlic, to dictate poppadoms or no.

Seriously, biggest controversy of our marriage after the kids.

Anyway today I’m going all out – making a cake…wait for it….THAT DOESN’T COME FROM A BOX!

The snowball effect : becoming travel bloggers

#1Hubby      I want to go on a holiday.

Me                Me too.

#1Hubby      How good would it be to go to Vegas.

Me                Hell yes.  But have you forgotten about The Feral Threesome?

#1Hubby      Oh yeah…

Thinks for a few seconds

#1Hubby      You went when you were a kid.  Where did you go?

Me                 Circus Circus.  Awesome place.
                      I spent most of my time there while the #1Grandparents gambled.

#1Hubby       See, family-friendly holiday.

Me                It pains me to say this, but you are right.
                     What about the rest of the time?
                     Or are we just going to leave them there the entire trip?

#1Hubby      Well….it’s a pretty big place….

Me                That’s true….

#1Hubby      We could also take them to Disneyland or Disney World.

Me                That totally amps up the ‘family’ factor.  Nice one.

#1Hubby      Do you reckon we’ve got enough frequent flyer points to upgrade?

Me                Actually we do.  But only for us.  

#1Hubby      Bummer.  For the kids, I mean.

Me                Exactly.

Because, we are allowed to dream. 

Me                I like the kids and all.  I’m not saying we don’t get along.
                     But I don’t really want to spend all of my holiday time with them.
                     Definitely not ‘Happy Hour’.

#1Hubby      Yeah.  Definitely.
                     We’d probably need a Nanny or something.
                     Good call.

Me                Do you think they’d fly in economy with the kids?
                     Then we can upgrade to business class?

Both of us   Ahahahahahahaha.

More dreaming.

#1Hubby      What about a cruise?
                     We’ve been looking at cruises.
                     We could do one of those Disney cruises while we’re there.

Me                Nailed it.
                     It is now a 100% family-friendly trip, all about the kids.
                     We are merely selfless supervisors.
                     Going along to facilitate their childhood enjoyment.

We actually high five at this point.

#1Hubby      We are awesome parents.

Me                I know, right?!

#1Hubby      ……so, can we?

Me                Why not.
                     Firstly, which bank are we going to rob to pay for all of this?

Dripping with sarcasm.

Which was totally lost / wasted on him.

#1Hubby      Funny.  Can’t you just blog about it?

Me                What?

#1Hubby      You know, just offer to blog about it all and – 

Snorting and laughing while interrupting him….

Me                That is a great idea!
                     Because shit like that happens ALL. THE. TIME.

#1Hubby      Really?
                     Don’t be a smart ass.

I’m now riding my beloved sarcasm train and can’t get off

Me                No for real.
                     I’m going to write about this conversation.
                     Then we’ll wait for the offers to immediately roll in.
                     Because who wouldn’t want in on this? 

#1Hubby      Shut up.

Me                Can you check your diary for me?

#1Hubby      Why?

Me                Just so we can arrange a time to sift through the many, many emails.
                     We need to work out which ones we are prepared to accept.
                     Probably need to block out a few hours to get through it all.

#1Hubby      Funny.

Some more snort-laughing

Me                I’d hate to have the rest of the world feel left out.
                     Maybe we should open it up to Europe too?

#1Hubby leaves the room, muttering various shed words in my direction

Me                Think of all the wineries!
                     And the cheese!
                     And pasta!

Pretty sure he went to look for a second job for each of us, to fund this magical, amazing holiday that all started over coffee yesterday morning, while browsing the Travel lift-out of the Sunday paper.

And also to start up his own blog in an attempt to elicit extravagant travel review offers.

So….how was your Sunday?

Why beer makes me a better wife

I’m not an avid consumer, because I dare not cheat on my beloved wine and vodka too often.

There are a number of ways in which beer makes me more awesome.

I’m certain it makes me more attractive to #1Hubby after a few.

It certainly makes him more agreeable to my various purchases and travel plans!

It also saves my bacon when I am a less than stellar wife….


This arrived on my doorstep early last week.

#1Hubby does enjoy seeing the benefits of blogging, and so he eagerly stood over my shoulder while I opened a package involving a beer company.

Then let out a few yelps of excitement when he discovered ACTUAL BEER inside.

It was like the clouds had parted and the sun was shining from within the box while angels sang.

Then he read over my shoulder as the words FATHERS DAY were prominently and clearly mentioned more than once on the included Media Release.

Say what now?

Our mouths dropped open in sync.  

I could see the cogs ticking as he came to realise what had just dawned on me…

I had completely forgotten Fathers Day.

I know, I know – how could I?  What with all the advertising telling me what a sexy, early 30’s dude, with a 3 day growth and smouldering but clear and wrinkle/bag free eyes (who has clearly never had children because he does not show the obvious signs of parental wear and tear)….would want for FATHERS DAY.

My brain was going oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap DENY.

And so I’ve spent the past few days rushing around trying to think of SOMETHING to gift #1Hubby for Fathers Day on behalf of The Feral Threesome.


Short of gifting him a kidney in the event that he may need it one day.

And I’m not totally sold on the idea of gifting a vital organ to him.  He is older.  He’s had more time with his bits and pieces.  Why should the young (that’s me) have to sacrifice?

Anyway, I gave in.

I went to #1Hubby on Saturday to admit defeat and ask what he would like, because clearly I’d run out of time to find the supposedly well planned, carefully thought out, and definitely not forgotten and panic purchased gift.  You know, for Fathers Day that was “yesterday”.


Action Shot.  From someone who is so organised and prepared, we celebrated Fathers Day a week early….

He thought the Tooheys Cooking Handbook that came with the beer was his gift.

And he was happy with that.

And he plans to use it.


So now it’s my turn for the clouds to part.  There is a definite glow above his head (I’m not going to say a halo, because he hasn’t yet made good on his plans to cook).  And I’m pretty sure there were angels singing sweetly in the background.

Oh, and Fathers Day is not until THIS WEEK.

(You’re welcome for the heads up, anybody else who has failed at Fathers Day as spectacularly as I, and also thought it was a week earlier than it is).

I am like the hat  trick of awesome wife and mother and all of that stuff.

If you are short of a gift idea – why not get them a gift that keeps on giving….to you.  Like the Tooheys Cooking Handbook.

It is clearly associated with beer, so they’ll love it.

Meanwhile, you can consider it payback for the washing machine / broom / towel set / slow cooker that the man in your life has gifted you in the past.

A two-fer!
Win win!

Shaping young minds and busting a move (and possibly a hip)

Image source

A lot of people have commented on how exhausted I’ve looked the past couple of weeks.

It’s been a crazy couple of weeks, both at work and at home.

I’m pretty sure it’s involved some of my best and worst parenting – simultaneously.

First there was work – the annual school Book Fair.

I was a Book Fair virgin, which seems an appropriate analogy, as I felt decidedly violated once it was over.

I was out the door before 7am and home after 5pm each day, whiney Feral Threesome in tow.

It was a costly experience, in more ways than one.

I spent a small fortune on books for my own kids, just to shut them up while I worked.

I spent a stupid amount of time fretting over why the Minions posters weren’t selling, why we were selling so many blue macaron erasers as opposed to pink, and wondering who was taking the “Final Copy” notes from the books.

School Library Officers – I salute you.  It was my first one, and I will spend the next 365 days recovering.

It was all for the children and so I sucked it up, self medicated with wine of an evening, and I did it.

Because I am nothing if not selfless when it comes to educating and shaping young minds.

And it was in my job description. Heh.

I didn’t have more than a day to bask in the after-glow, as it was very quickly followed by a bit of a parenting guilt trip.

Upon a quick moment of self-reflection during an ad break, intending to once again congratulate myself on going above and beyond for the children, I realised that I’d been so consumed by making the Book Fair a success, that I hadn’t actually spent much quality time with my children.

And of course they all looked so bloody angelic and quiet and well behaved when I had this realisation – because they were asleep.

And so, in the morning when they were far less angelic and quiet, I promised the world to them come Friday night – there would be bonding, fun, board games, the works!

Then Friday night rolled around and I was half way to the bottom of a bottle of Mumm (my post Book Fair treat) when I was reminded of my promises.

I vowed to do better on Saturday.

Saturday came and I steeled myself for the most fun that could be had minus wine.

I had an impromptu skipping contest with Miss6.

Totally wiped the floor with her.

Was all smug about my good, healthy parenting, and also my ability to beat a child at something moderately athletic.

Buoyed by my smugness, I then commenced a 3 hour dance off with Miss9, who then tagged in Mstr6 and Miss6.

It was on like Donkey Kong as we found the “Greatest Hits of the 90’s” marathon on one channel, and “The Hottest Hits Right Now” on the other – my two greatest musical loves.

Miss9 was raising the roof.

Miss6 was dropping it like it was hot.

We were all Gangnaming with wild abandon.

Mstr6, I think, did a little break dancing.  I think.  That or he was cleaning the floor his head.  Truthfully, knowing him, both are viable.

It was a raging success.

The kids had a blast.  I busted a move and taught them all about modern rap versus 90’s rap (it’s just a little bit faster and the clothes aren’t quite as baggy).  I ensured they would have a degree of street cred come school disco time.




Nailed it.

I was clearly the most awesome, hippest parent in the land.


Until yesterday morning when I attempted to raise my body from the bed.

And suddenly it was more about a potentially busted hip than being hip.

Clearly, at some point, a steam roller has driven over my person, reversed up and gone back over me, before parking on my legs.

Dear Vodka Gods.  Everything hurts.  It all aches.

It’s like a killer hangover without the booze and drunken shenanigans the night before.

Worst of all, the kids are totally up for making it a weekly “family night” kind of gig.

Through the pain, I could only communication in a feeble, kind of Yoda-esque way.  I was all “Hmmm…great….that would…be….”

Next time I will stick to board games (which I like to refer to as bored games…because there’s only so many times you can pass Go and collect $200 without wanting to poke your eyes out with the plastic thimble…).

I can’t wait until they’re old enough for drinking games….

I can’t even…..

Image credit

The kids put the Christmas tree up last night.

Without my supervision.

I am yet to look at it.

I’m weeping on the inside for what I know will definitely not be strategic and symmetrical placement of ornaments and tinsel.

I can’t.

I just can’t.

Thank the vodka gods we’re going away for the big day, so I won’t have to be visually assaulted on the most festive day of the whole festive season.

I’m going to whack this bad boy up in the hotel room….

Not even kidding.

Still here. Still liberating booze and tablecloths

It’s been a while.

I’m sorry for that / you’re welcome.

You see, I’ve been super busy tooling around on Facebook and Pinterest.

Saving / noting all the Festive stuffs I have no intention of actually doing.

Trawling Twitter and struggling to reduce my rambling to the maximum character limit.

No chance.  Not even after a bottle of bubbly when I, personally, find myself to be at my wittiest.

I’ve been really busy at work.  Working super hard trying to be respectable and mature and not use swears while dealing with grade school children.

It’s been tough.

Trying not to use too many swears with my own children.


Created a decent back story to impress my high school peeps at our recent reunion.

Forgot my story before I even arrived.

Liberated a whole bottle of champagne for the single-glass toast on the school grounds.

Went through my old boarding house, and explained to the current boarders how and where we used to escape to smoke.

Liberated a tablecloth from the after party because it was in the school colours.  Obviously.

Spent a HUGE amount of time chastising myself for not blogging recently.

Broke the drought with this stellar effort, which I commenced so #1Hubby would go pick the kids up from school – because, BUSY BLOGGING.

Wheeled and dealed like a pro.

Stay tuned for next year’s travel blogging hilarity, trying out a Bali hotel chain.

#1Hubby is psyched to actually be invited.  

We’re both slightly less psyched because the kids are also invited.

Started a pre-reunion diet.


Multiple times.

Each day for about 6 weeks.

Started a pre-Bali Xmas diet.

Things are going amazingly well so far.

As in I started it today, and as of 2:48pm I have not failed.

But I have Googled “Calorie content of St Remy Brandy”.

All the woo-ing and hoo-ing because it’s like 100 calories per serve (so….200 for my big girl glass).

So anyway, I’m still here.

Not that anyone asked.

Attempting to continue exploiting my shit parenting on a more regular basis, once again.

You’re welcome / my apologies.

I leave you with a pic of my recent hard core, fancy pants, birthday partying antics….

All of the class

Treading lightly…

I bought a treadmill.

No, really.

I’ll give you a moment to digest that and cease snort laughing.

It was a bargain, as a friend no longer wanted it.

We’re going on a cruise in 4 weeks, which means this is the prime time to launch into a panic diet and exercise regime, convinced that this time I will absolutely stick to it for more than 1.5 days, and I will totally be mistaken for a supermodel while swanning around on board…

The bargain treadmill that dreams are made of was delivered on the weekend.

Soon thereafter, I realised that I don’t even own a pair of sneakers, joggers, running shoes – any form of shoe that requires laces.


Remember when I told you how Miss7 accused me of being “gymnastic” over breakfast one morning?  And it turned out she actually meant “sarcastic”.  And I told her that Mummy is many things, but gymnastic will never ever be one of them.

Yeah.  Here’s the proof of my severe allergy to all things athletic.  I don’t even own a pair of shoes worn while exercising….and I’m not even sure what you call them – sneakers?  Joggers?


So while waiting on my request to publish a fitness blog on account of my supreme knowledge of all things sporty, I dashed out to the shops to find a place that sold those shoes with the laces that people wear when choosing to make themselves sweaty and short of breath.

Miss10 steered me towards Rebel Sport.  A store I’d walked past a bazillion times in one of my local shopping centre haunts, but never even noticed.


Lucky for me and my foolproof fitness regime, they’re currently having a pretty decent sale.

I scored $150 shoes made for people with collapsed arches to use for running (still no clue what their technical name is…), for $60.


Being that I have birthed three kids, I made the sage decision to check out the sports bras.

A lovely, perky, 18 year old assisted me in selecting a pair from the bargain rack that would keep everything where it used to stay all of its own accord.

Then she asked what I preferred to run in.

I was all like, um, a winery, glass in hand?

Which she only found mildly amusing / largely confusing.

She explained that some people run in Skins.

I was all like, check, got miles of it.  Even quite a bit of extra, heh.

This time confused / disgusted, slightly disguised by an awkward smile.

I nearly died when she showed me the lycra Skins.

Hell to the no.  For the sake of all humankind, no (you’re welcome).

Instead, I selected some breathable running shorts.

Complete with their own sewn in undies – a twofer!

Since they were on the bargain rack, I selected another complete set of sports bra and matching running shorts.

Because I’m totally committed to exceeding my previous exercise record of 2 weeks, and therefore I will need a second outfit, lest I wear out the first one.

I have now spent double what the bargain treadmill cost.

But, if nothing else, I will have a couple of impressive outfits to wear to the shops, to let everyone there think I’m someone who is fit and healthy and exercises.

Stay tuned.  If I make it past this first week, I will be sure to blog and brag about it as if I’d just completed a marathon.

Running backwards.

Without proper running shorts that have the undies sewn into the inside.

My expectation
Image source


Likely outcome
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Easter : Nailed it….

Image source

This totally ties in when you get to the part where I refer to #1Hubby’s Easter egg….

It is with great pleasure that I break my internet silence / blog laziness, to detail how I nailed Easter.

It started the week before Easter, with the kids spotting the Easter Bunny costume I had out ready for the school Easter celebrations.

Followed 5 minutes later by them spotting the sports teacher in said suit, minus the head.

As for Easter itself, I was far more prepared and on the ball.

I purchased the egg hunt goodies about a month in advance, when they were on special.

Then I forgot to take them to the #1Grandparents’ house in the country, and so I paid double the going rate, along with the other panic stricken last minute purchasers, at a small country supermarket.

I’m not proud of myself, but I may have growled a little bit at a guy eyeing off the last tray of Cadbury eggs.  It was that or a block of cooking chocolate.

Easter Saturday saw me hiding in the #1Grandparents’ garage attaching name tags to all the Easter hunt eggs.

I had learnt from previous years – Mstr7 stands in one spot looking up at the sky, as if expecting his share of the egg hunt bounty to fall from above, straight into his basket.  Meanwhile, the girls have done a couple of laps of the garden and found everything, and refuse to share anything with him except the cheap shit chocolate.

In order to ensure that, this year, nobody would have to lose their shit (Mstr7) or yell and threaten and have a tanty (me), I had printed name tags for the egg hunt.

Except I forgot those too, as I’d left them with the carefully planned out, original egg hunt eggs.  At home.  An hour and a half away.

So I hid in the #1Grandparents’ shed and gave myself RSI attempting to write half arsed new name tags with my left hand, so the kids wouldn’t pick my handwriting.

The kids repeatedly rode their bikes up the driveway and straight into me.  Literally.

Which they thought was hilarious, more so as I lost my shit and yelped at them to get out (or other such less child-friendly words….).

At this point, I figured they were just taking the piss, and so I persevered with the name tags, sustaining my efforts / consoling myself with their Easter eggs.

Saturday night, and the kids put out not one but two massive glasses of wine –  they couldn’t agree on whether the Easter Bunny would prefer red or white, so they went with one of each – and a tiny carrot (it’s at times like those that I love them fiercely and regret eating a third of their Easter eggs out of spite).

The Easter Bunny had already knocked back a fair bit of wine with her mother that evening, but lest she disappoint the eager to please children, she necked both the wines, took a teeny tiny bite out of the mini carrot, and went to bed.

6 hours later, nursing a pretty impressive hangover, it’s 5am Easter Sunday and Miss7 wakes up.  She nudges me awake to ask if she can go check what the Easter Bunny left her.

OH FFS.  The whole point of it all – the hiding of the Easter Eggs for the egg hunt….

So I’m begging her to STFU and go back to sleep, telling her she is not allowed out of the bedroom under any circumstances, until her siblings wake up.

I manage to catch her just before she jumps on her sister’s head to wake her up.

I tell her I’m going to the toilet.  So I can panic toss the egg hunt goods around the garden.

She says she will come with me.  Because she’s smarter than me.

So I tell her I’m going to do #2.

She considers this for a second, then throws me a look of disgust and lays back down.

It’s almost pitch black, cold, and quite damp outside.

I am commando crawling across the wet lawn, attempting to lay out the Easter egg hunt without being detected by Miss7, whose face is pressed against the bedroom window, trying to spot something, anything Easter-related.

Meanwhile, Mr Easter Bunny and the rest of the crew are fast asleep.


I finish up just in time to spot both girls standing at the back door, watching me silently swear and have a mini-meltdown while wringing the sopping wet ends of my PJ’s out on the lawn.

Long story slightly less long – everyone eventually woke up and the kids had their egg hunt.  The whole thing was over in less than 5 minutes.  Not one of them yelped with joy and elation in a manner that I had expected would warm my heart and possibly frost bitten fingers and toes.


All that advanced effort.  Mixed with stuff ups.  Panic measures and plan B.  All of it.  Done and dusted in the time it took me to make a cup of tea while telling #1Hubby where I was going to insert his Easter Egg for sleeping through the whole 5am panicked commando crawling.

Next year, I’m not hiding anything.  I’m just going to send them outside as per usual, and tell them to keep looking until they find something….