Farts & Photographs: A Snapshot.

I just had my daughter scoot after me, bare-bottomed on her potty, across the wooden floors.

‘I CAN SEE YOU MAMA! I AM COMING TO GET YOU!’

I try not to laugh so hard that she can still understand me when I say ‘look out for the rug!’

Then, as she sat on my lap, readying herself for the bath, she did an enormous, resonant fart – omitting the type of smell that shouldn’t come from a person so diminutive – and literally laughed so hard she cried. ‘SMELL MY STINKY FART!’ she roars, desperate for breath. ‘SMELL MY FINGER!’…I don’t know where she gets this stuff. Honestly, I think it just comes to her.

Life is made up of moments like these.

I’ve just gotten a new passport – the old one suffering too many beer-soaked nights as my only I.D; all my stamps ripped out and given away with my phone number, over the last 10 ridiculous years attempting to be casually glamorous. Though I am fated to forever look like a German boy in my passport photo. Many a bouncer has sucked in through his teeth, ‘Geeze, girl!’. I know! I know! I was 19 and life was hard, you know? Yellow isn’t a flattering colour for me; I know that now. No one looks good under-lit.

Theo is looking over my new one; it encompasses so much that he enjoys: technology, the idea of travel; rules and regulations.

‘Mama? You look adorable in this photograph in your new passbook.’

Life is made up of moments like these, too, remember.

A Royal Visit: Mae-Mae Style

Mabel asks:

‘Who is the Queen?’

I explain.

‘What is her name?’

I tell her.

‘Elizabeth! Like your middle name, Mama! What’s her last name?’

I see where this is going.

‘Vagina?’

No.

‘Regina!’

But then

‘…Does the Queen have a fanny or a vagina?’

Which is a good question, really. But I explain, as best as I can, to someone who refuses acknowledge the proper terminology. (‘I JUST HAVE HEAPS OF FANNIES!’ she roars when the subject is anatomically discussed)

‘Yes. I KNOW. But what does the Queen call her one? …I’ll ask her. Where does she live?’

Well…

‘Why doesn’t she live in New Zealand?’

Uh…

‘Can we go to her house?’

Not really…

‘Well I’m going to!’

Dear Mabel Poppy,

When you were 3 years old, you were hell-bent on going to Buckingham Palace to ask Queen Elizabeth how she refers to her bits.
Please, never stop asking the hard questions. Your sense of fearless equality is something this world needs a little more of.

With adoration and allegiance,
Your Mother x

Pre-Party Ritual.

Mabel: Mama, have you seen my skirt?

Alice: Which skirt, baby?

Mabel: My skirt! The one I like!

Alice: Hmm…what colour is it?

Mabel: Colourful!

Alice: …Colourful?

Mabel: Yes! It’s colourful and it has a top and a bottom!

Alice: Colourful. Has a top and a bottom. Can you tell me anything else about it?

Mabel: It looks like a lily!

Alice: Colourful. Has a top and a bottom. And it looks like a lily? Oh! colourful has a top and a bottom and it looks like a lily!

Mabel: Yes, mama. Why was that so hard for you?

(She doesn’t like photos at the moment – so you’ll have to use your imagination…it’s an old one from Rock Your Baby. They still show up on Ebay sometimes x)