Category Archives: Boobs

Furry Dragon Beast #2


Sorry for the hiatus (more of that later.)! Last time we left Cricket she had managed to climb onto Hoot’s back and was flying on the back of her furry dragon beast!

…I rolled over and threw an arm up over his back and grabbed the biggest handful of flesh and fur I could and heaved. We teetered for a moment and then I felt Hoot crouch closer to the floor and then lift up slowly and I went with him!

And then I was falling and I grabbed Hoot’s tail for support and dug my fingers in as hard as I could and suddenly he was hissing and I could see giant fangs and smell dead people and fish. My dragon beast had turned. The world was now a dark place. The floor boards rose up and, as always, my face smacked into them. A wail built up and exploded out in a wonderfully cathartic expulsion of sound and then Mum was like a Greek Goddess at the first all-gender, ancient Olympiad, running naked through the house, wet hair flying out behind her, faster than any naked woman you’ve ever seen. My Greek Goddess scooped me up and snuggled me in-between two wet boobs. FUN! I slapped the left one as hard as I could. Mum seemed a bit frazzled. I don’t know why.

Wet, naked, boob feeding is a bit slippy so it turns out and as I navigated the slippery-dip a realisation slowly dawned on me. (I don’t think I’ve ever had a realisation before, let alone a dawning one.) Hoot and I understood each other! We had a conversation with real words, not just PORK RIB emergency words. We were simpatico. I can speak furry dragon beast!! Who knew?! I gave right boob a victory slap. (Like punching the air, but funner.) Mum laughed, which made me laugh. I’m so glad she thinks boob slapping is fun too. I do it again, but harder this time. Mum sighs and puts me down. She’s such an enigma.
‘Can I go get dressed, or are you going to lose it again?’
You may go get dressed, mother. I have important discoveries to discover with my confederate.
She put me on my play mat and turned to leave, looking somewhat suspicious I thought, which was completely unnecessary.
I look around for Hoot. He’s asleep with his chin resting on my bouncer. I roll to get closer. I’m not close enough. I roll the other way. Now I’m even further away. I roll back again. I’m back where I started. I roll the other way. I’m further away. This is annoying.
He doesn’t move.
I think a whisker twitches.
He didn’t even lift his head, but I can hear him!
Come and get me.
Why not?


Come and get me!


Not so bright, are you, kid? I’m not getting up.
Why not?
I’m busy. Besides I can get anywhere I want, what can you possibly do for me?
I think about that. I roll and I think. One way then the other until I have it.
            I have opposable thumbs.


Go on…
            With your legs and my thumbs we could, you know, conquer the world. We could open things. Things with food inside.
Hoot lifts his head. He turns it to look at me. He looks me up and down.
You’re going to need to lose some weight, kid.
            Ok! … How?
Throw more food over the side of the highchair.
Ok!… Hoot?
            Will you help me up?
Don’t push it.
And his head is back down on my bouncer and I think maybe I won’t push it, so I cry for mum instead and this time she’s running with clothes on, which isn’t nearly so exciting as Greek Goddess Mum with the bouncing boobies.



Filed under Baby, blogging, Boobs, Cats, Communicating, Family, Fiction, Food, Humour, Inspirational, IVF, Love, Motherhood, My Book, Pregnancy, Sex, Women/Feminist, Writing

I’m a Human Being – part three


We’ve come to the end of the story of Cricket’s birth. Had you in suspense, right? Here’s where we left off last time…

…I could hear the womb-doctor asking Dad if he wanted to cut the cord.

You what, now?

CUT THE CORD??! I thought they wanted a live baby? This is worse than a Shakespearian tragedy. Maybe they didn’t realise Placenta had to come with me? They’d never done this before after all.

Here’s what happened:

I unwedge a hand just long enough to grab a big handful of Bungee and sling it around my neck a few times. There, that should show them how attached I am to Placenta.

Suddenly the womb doctor starts pulling and tugging at me way too hard. This is very alarming and my neck is starting to feel a little bit… constricted. Mum’s whole body is being rocked from side to side and she’s locked eyes on Dad as if he’s the only person in the room, but he isn’t. And now there’s one more. The womb doctor called in another womb doctor to help her and now she grabs one side of me and he grabs the other and they obviously think I’m perforated down the middle because they’re pulling me in opposite directions.

I’M NOT A ROLL OF PAPER TOWEL, I’M A HUMAN BEING! I squawk through my rapidly closing esophagus. But all that comes out is a squishy sounding wah-wah-wah and I get my first, bitter taste of the crushing disappoint that is baby language.

The womb doctor is sweating now and her accomplice is swearing. This is a cardinal sin in hypno-butter-birthing. You basically have to abandon that baby and start over if that happens.

Dad had long ago abandoned the camera and is holding onto Mum’s face as if his life depended on it and just as I’m about to faint, I see a giant silver claw aimed right at my face.

SPARE MY EYEBALLS! I yell, as I swim in and out of consciousness.

None of this is what I prepared for, especially being drawn and quartered and the face-eating claw of death. Maybe I shouldn’t have been quite so… resistant. But suddenly, there’s a pop and air floods in and my head is poking out of Mum’s insides! And I can see! Sweet Jesus they spared my eyeballs! Look!, there’s Mum’s small intestine! And then another big tug and the rest of me is out and I feel like someone air-dropped me in the arctic with no snowbooties and everyone is shouting, but through the glare of the lights someone lifts me high in the air and I see her face and there’s not a hypno-butter class in the world that could’ve prepared either of us for that moment. “You’re safe”, she said to me, with tears streaming down her face. “You’re mine”, I said to her. Then someone wrapped me in a scratchy towel and I’m plonked in Mum’s face and I squish her nose with my hand and then I’m whisked off to the other side of the room where we were all going to sit and have a civilized discussion about Placenta coming home with us, attached to me, where she’s supposed to be.

Placenta got left behind. They told me she’d go to a loving home, but that she couldn’t come with us because Mum and Dad had only ordered one baby and that was me, Cinnamon Cricket. It was my first bone-crushing disappointment in this life. Goodbye Placenta, fare thee well.

The rest wasn’t so far removed from how a hypno-butter-birth is supposed to go. I did get to put my bare skin body on Mum’s bare skin boob and I did find my own way to that colossal. It was ok. Cake is better. And then I slept for three days while Mum bled and cried and Dad drank whiskey and cried and the room filled up with flowers and people and the nurses gave Mum gianter and gianter pads until she disappeared under a mountain of cotton wadding and giant basketball boobs. And oh how the milk flowed. It was pretty cool.


Filed under Baby, blogging, Boobs, Books, Family, Fiction, Health, Humour, Inspirational, IVF, Love, Melbourne, Motherhood, My Book, Pregnancy, Sex, Women/Feminist, Writing

I’m a Human Being – part two


We last left Cinnamon Cricket telling us the story of her birth. She was two weeks overdue and had decided she was never ever coming out…

But suddenly we were sitting in the womb doctor’s room and Mum was being told they were doing a caesarian the next day. Scarlett had looked up caesarian in the manual and she said it’s the opposite of being born serenely by a deer in a forest. That didn’t sound good to me. When we got home Mum sobbed into Dad’s best work shirt for three hours. Frankly, I thought it was a bit selfish of her. I mean, wasn’t this whole birth experience meant to be about me?

A caesarian is the exact and total opposite of a butter birth. In a hypno-butter-birth there’s supposed to be low lighting, no sound, and hardly anyone in the room when you slide out. The first voices you’re supposed to hear are your mother and father’s. You’re supposed to slide out of that canal with no pain and then be held against your mother’s naked skin with Bungee held higher than your heart at a 48.7 degree angle for three minutes, or as long as it takes for Bungee’s blood to drain into you and not be wasted in the rubbish bin. Then you’re supposed to go immediately (quicker, if possible) onto your mother’s bare skin boob with your bare skin body and get on that boob sucker and drink the colossal.

But we didn’t do that. Instead, Mum got into a white gown and was bundled onto a white bed with wheels and got wheeled into a very white room with LIGHTS AND BUTTONS EVERYWHERE! Then the doctor next to the womb doctor got out the biggest needle you’ve ever seen that goes in Mum’s SPINE and Dad got escorted out because apparently Dad’s can’t deal with seeing giant needles in their beloved’s spines.

Then it really got interesting. The womb doctor CUT MUM’S TUMMY OPEN AND I WAS IN THERE!!! By this time Dad was allowed back in and he had the camera poised and ready because the womb doctor told him it was all about to happen really fast… Except now I’ve got stage fright… and I’m not coming out. Ever. Now Mum’s tummy is open I can feel a VERY cold draft coming in and the lights are very bright and there are too many voices and I think maybe a life on the stage isn’t for me after-all. There’s only one thing to do. I spread my arms and legs out as wide as I can and hold on for dear life. Dear, sweet, womby, placentary life.

Scarlett had told me that on the outside you couldn’t take Placenta with you. I didn’t believe her obviously, because that would be ridiculous, how can you live without Placenta? I ADORE Placenta. Placenta is my only friend. But now I could hear the womb-doctor asking Dad if he wanted to cut the cord.

You what, now?

CUT THE CORD??! I thought they wanted a live baby? This is worse than a Shakespearian tragedy. Maybe they didn’t realise Placenta had to come with me? They’d never done this before after all.

Here’s what happened:

Stay tuned for part three!





Filed under Baby, blogging, Boobs, Books, Family, Fiction, Food, Health, Humour, Inspirational, IVF, Love, Motherhood, My Book, Pregnancy, Sex, Women/Feminist, Writing

I’m a Human Being – part one

smiling_baby_girl_cartoon.pngCinnamon Cricket reminisces… 

I’m going to tell you the story of my birth. Apparently talking about disappointing and traumatic things helps you let them go. Firstly, I saw no birth canal. This is of extreme disappointment to me. In hypnobirthing, the only thing the mums talked about for months was the birth canal and how they were going to just breathe us out of that canal. They’d all lie on the floor on puffy cushions with us all stuck up awkwardly in the air under giant stretchy pants and breathe and sigh and imagine us sliding down that birth canal as if we were a stick of butter and that canal was a hot stovepipe.

Scarlett told me they were all kidding themselves because we’re not butter, we’re babies and babies have skulls like basketballs, made out of cement. Scarlett knew everything there was to know about being born because she had an older sister who was in the womb-room before her and left the instruction manual behind. Scarlett said her sister got stuck in the canal and they had to send in a crane with a giant claw attached to pull her out, and her mum screamed and yelled instead of breathed and sighed and her sister came out looking like a squashed eggplant.

But I wasn’t scared of the crane with the claw, I still wanted to whiz down that big slide like a hot stick of butter. Mum and I imagined it all the time. She’d sit on the couch with cushions all around and put her hands on her big tummy and tell me what we were going to do when the time came for me to be in the big-girl-world. She said we were going to bounce on the ball and drink hot tea and dad would massage our back and there would be NO PAIN and we’d all smile and love each other and we’d do that until the very last minute before dad drove us sensibly to the hospital with our birth music on the CD player and mum doing soft breaths like a graceful deer giving birth in a field of flowers in a forest under a rainbow.

Except that didn’t happen. Nothing happened. We waited and waited and imagined and imagined and all that happened was Mum got fatter and fatter and I got bigger and bigger. And the fatter Mum got, the less serene she felt and the bigger I got, the smaller the womb-room was and I felt less like a hot stick of butter and more like a rhinoceros in a snuggie.

On day 41, Mum ate vindaloo and I hiccoughed for seven hours straight. On day 46, Mum ate jalapenos in raspberry swirl ice-cream and I kicked for Australia. On day 54, Mum got stuck on the couch and dad had to come home from work to rescue her. It was that day I decided that no matter what, I wasn’t coming out. I’m not sure what changed my mind, maybe it was being stuck on the couch watching TV and snacking from my food Bungee – it was comforting, you know?

Stay tuned for part two…


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Ode to Boobs

From the vault. Because boobs.


Boobs. Angel Cakes. Gazongas. Cupcakes. Breasticles. Funbags. Knockers. Zingers. Baps. Bouncers. Bazooms. Girls. Norks. Ta-tas. Cha-Chas. Bongos. Rib Ticklers. Pillows. Peepers. Watermelons. Gob Stoppers. Milk Cans. Muchachas. Mams. Yams. Loblollies. Butterballs. Hooters. Humdingers. Boobs.
Boobs are cool.
Boobs have pizzazz.
Boobs see the world just before everyone else does.
Boobs have magic and mystery.
Boobs belong.
Boobs create scandal.
Boobs feed the world.
The world!
That’s when they hum.
You don’t believe me?
Next time it’s quiet put your ear to the wind. You will hear a steady sound. Like a whispery wail or a looping tale. Quiet as a sigh and clear as the sky, the feeding boobs are singing. They’re lulling and trilling and jiggling and spilling. And all the babies in all the world understand the joy they are giving. So sing back, if you dare, when night time looms, and see what happens when you charm a big bouncing pair of bazooms.


Filed under Art, blogging, Boobs, Flash fiction, Humour, Motherhood, Poetry, Sex, Women/Feminist, Writing

Ride of the Valkyries

fc,220x200,whiteI’m wrestling. Mum’s got me in a half nelson, trying to get right boob in my mouth, but right boob is evil and must be stopped. I will gladly sing into it, but I will not partake of its vile juices. Not today anyway. I’ve twisted my head so far round I’m in danger of falling off Mum’s lap. Mum pulls on my arm to bring my head swinging back around and I screw my face up in such extreme agony (I learnt that from TV – Mum’s fault for lazy parenting) she thinks she’s broken my arm and pulls me up into a life-affirming, left-boob-loving, hug-of-extreme-deliciousness, and I win.

Hoot witnessed this tussle and doesn’t look impressed. (I don’t think he likes me very much.) I poke a finger into right boob just to make sure Mum knows there’re no hard feelings. It feels like a basketball made out of cement. She should really do something about that.

I can feel a poonami approaching. I know it’s a poonami because:

  1. I haven’t pooed in four days (I overdid the prime rump).
  2. Mum and Dad bought me a new sippy cup with a princess on it and I refuse to drink out of it and they haven’t noticed. Princesses are stupid. So are sippy cups. So are Mum and Dad.
  3. Hoot is agitated. (Hoot has a sixth sense about poo. Mum and Dad haven’t worked this out yet. They’re very slow off the mark sometimes. See 2.)
  4. Grandma sent me Wagner.

Wagner is like the biggest ski slope in the world and all along the sides of it are the best, most magical things you could ever imagine (like a giant jumping thing tied to another giant jumping thing, made out of cake) and as you ski down it you try and grab all the magical things that are whizzing past your head. It’s two parts bliss and one part terror. This is why Wagner is music to poo to. Grandma didn’t teach me that per se, but she did plant the seed by sending me Wagner in a particularly poo-incident filled week – the week Mum introduced lentils if I’m not mistaken.

Wagner wrote Ride of the Valkyries. It’s about tough women who carry dead men. It’s not for the faint of heart. If you are feeling a bit fainthearted, or you’ve had too much prime rump, it can be a sphincter-popping experience. Hoot LOVES it. He runs around the house like he’s a cheetah, but with his fur all puffed up so he looks like a cushion with eyes and a tail. D-da-da-daaaah-dum, D-da-da-daaaah-dum, D-da-da-DAAAAH-dum, d-da-da-DUM!! It’s hilarious!

When Grandma sent me Ride of the Valkyries Mum played it in my room and turned it up loud because of education. I shat my pants immediately. Except I wasn’t wearing any pants. Or a nappy. Everyone was feeling a little delicate after that. Except Hoot, he ran around like a cushion for ages and then fell asleep on Dad’s work pants. Pants are overrated anyway.

But I can feel a poonami building right now. This is four days of steak and sultanas and crushed garlic (mum left the jar out, I found it) and absolutely no water. I’m a desiccated Italian meatball locked in a hot car, minutes from exploding. Hoot knows it; he senses the countdown has already begun and is preparing his hind limbs for extreme slinkiness. Except Mum, without any cat senses, is putting new Wagner on, freshly delivered by the mailman, ready for education, and suddenly everyone is very confused. Because, instead of the prelude to Tristan and Isolde, Ride of the Valkyries comes blaring out of the speakers! Hoot puffs up into a cushion and then levitates in the air just as my sphincter pops and I burst into exploding-garlic-meatball-poo tears and Mum drops the coffee she’s carrying because Hoot’s claws are stuck into the flesh on her thighs and there’s blood coming out. What a kerfuffle!

Later, when I was supposed to be sleeping, I could hear Mum in the next room on the phone to Grandma. Here’s what they said: (I couldn’t hear Grandma of course, but I could work out what she was saying easily enough from what Mum was saying.)

             “Mum, I had to pick sultanas and clumps of garlic out of her labia. It smelt like a five day old corpse wrapped in a garlic sauce kebab.”

“Oh darling, of course the world’s most precious baby didn’t smell like that. Her little fanny is the sweetest thing in the whole world.”

            “I don’t understand why she doesn’t poo for days on end lately.”

            “Because you’re a terrible parent who gave Cinnamon princesses and garlic when all she should get is cake.”

            “Yes, but she’s now refusing one breast all the time, it’s so frustrating.”

            “That’s because of singing and world domination, it’s not hard to understand darling. Just let her sing and give her cake.”

            And then they talked about what to put on thigh welts and I fell asleep because of boredom.

            Dear Slave,

What can I say? You failed. As a mother, as a slave, as a wife, as a human. Wagner is for valor, haute monde, lion-heartedness – not wailing, rivers of shit, third degree burns, and four-day-old intestinal garlic gas. You’ve dimmed my luminous soul. You’ve crushed my lion heart. I may never get over it. To begin the healing process here is my list of demands:

  • Adopt out the mutant to a new home, or, if none can be found, an orphanage
  • Three kilos of lightly seared maguro tuna
  • My own TV
  • (I’m willing to forgo the last two if you organise the first.)

Truly, I will never understand all these issues you’re having with the mutant’s fecal matter. Just buy the thing a box, put some sand in it, show the thing the box with the sand, let the thing work it out. Honestly, the amount of drama in this household is getting overwhelming. It’s bordering on dog-like. There, I said it. Do we really need to get overexcited by everything? Do we really need to lose control of our bowels? Must there be drool everywhere? You really think I chose to live here so I could end up living with a pack of dog impressionists? Think again, slave, think again.

            I will be in my special place if anyone needs me. At the back, where your stinky, doggy arms can’t reach. You may leave the tuna at the entrance.


            Thiha Archibald Hootentoot the Third


Filed under Baby, Boobs, Cats, Dogs, Family, Fiction, Food, Humour, IVF, Love, Motherhood, Music, My Book, Pregnancy, Women/Feminist, Writing

Pretzels, Farts, and Perfect Breasts


Gas. And wind. That’s what pregnancy is all about. Plus, you kind of faint a bit if you try and bend too much. Believe me, I tried to paint my toenails and my lungs had serious words about it. It’s actually a cacophony of noise inside my body. I have no idea how the precious little one gets any rest. It goes something like this:

Lungs: Back off toes.
Toes: But we’re ugly!
Lungs: It’s about to get real ugly if you don’t back the fuck off and stop trying to get everyone to bend down.
Brain: Huh? Does anyone need any… zzz…
Toes: Brain! Wake up! Lungs have gone feral again!
Stomach: Urgh, I hurt, I’m going to barf. Toes, get up, I need pretzels, stat.
Toes: Can’t, we’re being held hostage!
Stomach: Toughen up, princesses and get me to the kitchen.
Nose: I need a tissue. I’m miserable.
Vagina: Hey guys? Guys? Do any of you remember what I look like? … I miss myself, I’m bored.
Nose: Holy CRAP! What is that smell?
Stomach: I’m going to barf!!
Anus: Oops. My bad.
Nose: Jesus!
Anus: I said oops, give me a break. Blame brain, she decided to have curry again when all stomach wanted was crackers.
Uterine Muscles: Owwwww! It hurts! Oh the humanity, I’m melting!
Lungs: How friggin dramatic do you have to be UM? You’re not melting, you’re stretching. Deal.
Brain: Who’s UM? ….Zzz…
Ankles: Go back to sleep brain, but before you do could you organise that we lie with our legs up the wall? I’ve puffed up again.
Lungs: Fuck off ankles, no-body cares.
Ankles: Talk about Mr. Grumpy. Jeez.
Head: I hurt. Is Panadol seriously all I can have?
Back: I don’t wanna hear it, Head, not til you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.
Toes: No-one is walking anywhere until someone paints us, I’m not kidding.
Nose: OH MY GOD!!!
Anus: Sorry! My bad again.
Stomach: Yeah, go Bummy! That feels better! Woo hoo!
Boobs: Seriously, how can you all not be looking at us?! Look at us! We’re MAGNIFICENT!! Tra-la-la-la-laaa! [bounce bounce]
All: Oh WOW!!!! Did you feel THAT?! She kicked! The baby kicked!!
Toes: Boobs, do that again, bounce around some more! She liked it!!

And right at that moment, when you’re on the couch and the entire living room smells like fart and you’re shaking your perfect, big jugs around to try and feel the baby kick again, your husband walks in to see if you need anything. By now he’s acknowledged that things will never, ever be the same again, so you just smile and nod and ask for food and he stares at your boobs and goes off to the kitchen in search of pretzels.


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