Seven for all mankind

Happy 7th Birthday Beautiful Boy. I know you have had a bit of a shithouse week, but you never know what is just around the corner.

Someone who clearly hates me gave you this. But it does remind me of using it to play drinking games in my early 20’s with Penny.


But I cannot believe it has been 7 years. So I am re posting this in your honour.


Spent this morning sniffing the head of my best friend’s new baby boy. He is an absolute angel and my friend was not bothered by my incessant baby talk and accompanying ridiculousness. There is something about a newborn dontcha think! That is why the insane Dugger Family have 19 kids. Never-ending sniffing. And hair-brushing my the looks of them.

Holding that baby this morning bought back memories of coming home with my first son, and that bought back memories of the most enormous fight (easily in the top 5) between myself and Mr Woog. Beautiful.

It was February 2004 and we were suffering from the biggest heatwave since anyone could ever remember. I was in the hospital having had 2 days in labour before H eventually entered the world via the sunroof.

Later, I was in the airconditioning, on a self administered morphine drip and being waited on. Complete with Catheter. TV Remote. Life was good. I did not really want to leave.

Like all first time parents, we had an enormous amount of gifts and flowers delivered on an hourly basis. Mr Woog’s OCD took a dramatic spike as he ferried these items home at the end of each day so a clear path could be made from my bed to the bathroom.

The final day came and it was time for me to leave. There was nothing really to pack up as Mr Woog had taken care of that. Really taken care of it. A whole heap of care in fact. The only thing to take home was the baby.

The baby whose carefully purchased “going home” outfit had been taken back to the house.

Along with my entire wardrobe, undies, bras and shoes.

So we were standing in the car-park in 40 degree heat. I was wearing a hospital robe with another hospital robe on the back as to not show my ass to the other fresh faced mums benefiting from the luxury of shoes. Yes I was barefoot and bare-assed on the hot asphalt, with a throbbing c-section scar.

H was dressed in a natty white singlet top with PROPERTY OF HAWKESBURY DISTRICT HOSPITAL across the back, and a nappy.

Times were tense.

Mr Woog opened the car door, looked at the baby, looked at the capsule, looked at me, looked at the capsule, looked at the baby and asked “Can you put him in?”

I fucking exploded. The baby started crying. Mr Woog looked like he wanted to run far far away. A passing doctor stopped and showed Mr Woog how to put a baby in the capsule and gave me a number to call the Post Natal Depression helpline.

Let’s just say the trip home was a very quiet one.