Chatting to a mum-friend yesterday, (a mum friend is like a real friend but I only see her at sporting events where we converse between tuck-shop binges, episodes of eye rolls and FML mouthing).
Speaking about my writing, and book, I explained how it's pretty much finished but that I'm not sure it's any good, doubting myself and all that.
She said that even if it's crap people will buy it because everyone loves me right now and I should act whilst I have everyone's attention.
And they'll all love the book too, regardless.
Ahhhhhhh I could've kissed her majestic sweet-talking lips.
Or shoved her head in my cleavage for a free motorboat.
I refrained though because
A) posh mums everywhere
B) yep, boob sweat.
Not because it was hot, but because I was flustered from getting thing 3 to join thing 2 at soccer practice, thereafter making sure I got them both and myself to thing 1's hockey match all the while dealing with demands of water, food, poo-stops and Magic powder for sore legs.
Epic boob sweat.
I even had to do the BLW (boob-lift-wipe), so it didn't make my top moist. (Moist. Snort😂)
I normally would've sniffed my fingers after the BLW (don't tell me you've never done that fellow boob ladies, or a deep inhale of your bra at the end of a long day as you set the twins free), but I didn't because, well, posh mums.
I was a discreet wiper.
There really is something magical about whiffing your own boob sweat. It's weirdly pleasurable, not like underarm sweat, or bum sweat for that matter (runners know that one for sure). #sweatyskidmarkeyrunningshorts
It's kind of on the same pleasure level you reach when a stray long hair from your head wedges itself in between your but cracks and you gently pull it out.
'Bye mum-friend, see you at cricket on Saturday at 7.15am' (we both mouth FML).
Rush home after hockey to spend time with psycho, chewer puppy and salvage my Marie-biscuit encrusted cushions.
Then rush out again to thing 1's swimming training.
Stressy. But I remembered the boob sweat hand and the deep inhalation thereof got me through it.
Scrolling through FB at swimming like the brilliant 'sport-watching' mum I am I see all these glamorous pics of gender reveal parties my friends and family are having.
So much of cute with cupcakes, bunting, pink/blue question marks everywhere.
I realize my gender reveal parties weren't nearly as festive.
Because my gender reveals were all at birth, that moment after crowning, the ring of fire.
First one came out with like a baby-boner, Warren screamed IT'S A BOY sooooo loud it would've been rude not to high5 his sperm's 'success'.
Precious gigantor-head welcomed himself to the family with a gift of roughly 37 stitches for mummy.
Blood everywhere, student nurse accidentally effing up my catheter so I lay there in my own piss admiring my new son, only slightly concerned about #bucketvag
2nd one's gender was revealed once we wiped the poo off him.
I shat him out. Imagine putting that on bunting (the words not the poo).
Zero cares, I owned that shit. Literally.
Third one, 5 days labour, oh look another willy. No poo. Result.
Where's my damn blue, smarty-filled cake???
Nahhhhh instead youuuuuu get a contraction-induced fractured rib. Oh and your balloon is the placenta, but you'll have to give birth to it first.
Glamour. Rightttt here.
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