What's your Ying... And where the hell is your yang?

Time has just flown by. It's been a good couple of weeks since I last logged into my blog. 

And.... lots, lots has been happening. 

We welcomed the arrival of two new baby boys; Jack and Lucas. We celebrated a first birthday (Happy birthday Finn), and dressed to impress at Seths superhero party and Eddies train party (yeah to being 4).  Speaking of 4, we celebrated our Noah turning 4. Happy happy birthday to our (not so little) big man. He dressed as a brave knight and celebrated his extra year with his little buddies in the park. The rain stayed away, I declared war in the kitchen, the cake was moist, the piñata was a hit (!) and Noah declared it the "best party ever". 

Happy. 

We hosted grandpa in our bungalow for a week, we dodged the busy laneways and crazy trams as Noah discovered the joys of riding a big boy bike and we went to scienceworks and played on the dots. 

Jude grew some hair, which is looking very blonde (err, genetics?) and he has developed quite a strong core. He is all sorts of sitting. And the boys are playing (yes, playing!) as brothers, which makes me so incredibly happy.

I started mummy boot camp and well, found my core too. It just happened to be whilst crouched over the toilet bowl. Running and me have never been friends. But it was all for a good cause. Our beautiful friends Lissy and Luke tied the knot and I had the privilege of being a part of the bridal party. Hence, the running. It was a beautiful day, the boys wore bowties and I actually caught myself saying "amazing" for the 200th time because it was just all so, amazing... 

Stop it. 

And then amongst all this "busyness" I had some real moments of self reflection. Life has a way of doing this to me, of saying, "Hey, Jo! You seriously don't look busy enough, how about you start pondering everything in your life? Like, what's important to you and to your family? What makes a good friend and are you one? What's good in your life and what needs some help? Whats your Ying? And where the hell is your Yang? And what needs to happen to make all that (over there on the other side of your head) happen. Snap to it." 

Busy place is my head. Fair to say I am not even close to answering a single one of those questions posed by life. Ill get around to it one day, I hope.

And that my friends has been a couple of weeks in my house. Crazy, busy, happy random bits of chaos.

How's your week been? What are you looking forward to this week?

Love Jo xxx

Bad Mother in a Taxi.

All good nights end with a ride home in a cab and as I hailed for a cab on Saturday night, I knew my night was coming to an end. We had had a beautiful day for a beautiful future bride; sun, pretty ladies in pretty frocks, happy faces, bowls on the green, dancing in the doorway, a whole lot of laughs and a fake leg. Just how a Hens Day should be... Perfect Bliss.

The Bride & her brunette maids.

Lawn bowls.

Where's ya tractor? Bride.

Smiley faces.

Happy baby.

So when I farewelled the dance floor at 11 sharp and hailed for my cab on Brunswick Street, its fair to say I was a little sad. It had been a fabulous day! But it was over for me, which was okay. But, a little sad.

I left with a dramatic exit, as most of my exits are. Frantic hand waving out the cab window, air kisses, lip kisses, boob grabbing, hootering and hollering. You get the scene. So, once this was all done and the light turned green, Mr Yellow Cabs asked; "Where you off to...?" to which I replied with my address. To which he replied; "which way do you want to go...?" To which I replied, "Well, I don't know. Whichever way is quickest I have a hungry baby at home..!"

Mr Yellow Cabs was not expecting this response, nor was I expecting his, which went something like this;

"... You have a baby? You should be at home with your baby. You should not be out on the town drinking... ! Why are you out? Who is with your baby? It is not your place..." And then his phone rang so his rant came to an abrupt end. 

As I sat in the cab feeling horribly judged, I felt the need to justify my night out to myself. Mr Yellow Cabs  was too busy talking on his phone so his questions were left unanswered so I didn't get to tell him all of these things... 

I didn't get to tell him that I was out celebrating my best friends upcoming marriage. I didn't get to tell him that I had been looking forward to this day for over a year and that it was my first night out in 15 months, maybe more. Nor did I get to tell him I could count my alcohol comsumption on one hand. I didn't get to tell him that my husband was an adorable and capable dad that had not gone to the bucks day so he could drive my baby to me throughout the day for feeds, nor did I get to tell him that I had held my phone in my hand all day waiting for an SOS call. I also didn't get to say that I had been expressing milk from myself like a cow all week so that my baby could have breast milk because god forbid he have formula, whilst all along knowing he wont take a bottle. And I didn't get to say that I had pureed my whole vegetable supply just in case he got a sudden urge to try something new. Oh, and I didnt get to tell him that my boobs felt like solid rocks and were threatening to explode all over his cab.

Nope. I didn't tell him all this. 

Instead, I sat there feeling like a bad mother. 

Bad, bad mother. 

Well, Mr Yellow Cabs, you can go stick it because I am not a bad mother. Nope, I am not. And I am darn right sick of people judging mothers. Really and completely honestly over it. We are all doing our best. Yes, we might forget to put a hat on our child's head on a slightly sunny day and yes, our child's shorts might be on back the front.  And, yes it appears I am crazy and loose, but reserve your judgement because you are only seeing a snippet of my day. You are not seeing the before and afters, the creative planning and the juggling act. 

Mr Yellow Cabs you should be kind to all mothers. Hear, what I say?!? Everyone should be kind to mothers. 

And you know what else... Don't ask me for flippn' directions. I don't bloody know. I am not the driver. YOU ARE.

And no, there is no tip. 

Love Jo xxx

Have you felt like a bad mother? Have you been judged by a cab driver? Why would you have said to him?

I don't do compliments. How about you?

I had a few wonderful stories to share with you today but then something happened. This thing that happened has been a bit of an issue with me for a very long time and I am hoping by sharing it I might commit myself to overcome it.

So here it is:

Breath.

I don't do compliments.

Crazy, right? But, compliments, all compliments they make me squirm in my pants. 

Someone compliments me on my outfit. "Well, this old thing I just got it at the op shop." Someone says I write well. And I say its just words. Someone compliements my hair? "Well, I just brushed it for a change." No drugs in childbirth. It was nothing, he was small. Anyone could have done it.

And see this photo:

... My friend commented on IG "you look pretty" and I replied "I look tired..."

Always making an excuse.

So when Frankie, my lovely neighbour today said, "Jo your looking great. Nice and fit and fabulous. Good on you." I actually feel vain writing this. I went into compliment slasher mode and did what I always do. I blushed, looked away and began mindless rambling about housework and being knee deep in soap suds for the last 4 hours {true!}.

I didn't say thank you. And I didn't enjoy the compliment. And quite frankly this annoys me. Because when I compliment a friend, family member, collegaue or acquaintance, I genuinely mean what I am saying. I don't want her to brush it off and make excuses. So, I feel the time has come for this to stop. 

Yes, stop. 

So, now when I receive a compliment I am going to try my hardest to say thank you. I think it will take some serious practice. And perhaps, some biting of ones tongue. But I will get there. I don't expect you all to stand up and applaud. But, I hope I can make this happen.

I am positive I am not alone on this. Am I ladies?

There are way too many of us compliment slashers out there and it is not okay. It's time we celebrate our awesomeness {hear my female roar, roooooaaarrr} and stop this putting down of ones self. So who's with me? Do you take a compliment well? Or are you a compliment slasher, like me? 

I dare you to come on this journey with me as together we learn to embrace & love compliments. 

Love Jo xxx

Ps. Your looking great, by the way. Why, thank you. Practice, practice.

Don't judge me but I can't read a map.

I have a problem. And this problem of mine causes serious {yet, predictable} issues every time we jump in the car and take off on a little family drive adventure.

Problem is I cant read maps or give any helpful directional advice. Nope, I really can't. They confuse the bleepn' hell out of me. I have on several lone driving excursions got very lost. 

And I won't even mention the time that a girlfriend and I got so ridiculously confused by a map that we ended up backtracking all the way back to Wodonga through bushfire scrubbery in the soaring heat. As a result we missed our bestest lady friends wedding rehersal. Bad bridesmaids. Sorry Simone.

Here we are, lost. It was so hot and I was so pregnant. At least we were still smiling. 

Hooray we arrived. Note the time. 5.17. Very. Very. Late.

So frazzled and hungered by our drive, we ate dinner at the local RSL where the local dinner dance was being held.

Thankfully, she was a blissfully chilled bride and didnt mind a bit. Rocking 36 weeks preg here at Gapstead winery. 

You see, the problem has only got worse since I met my husband. He is the map reader and I rely on this. I pack the nappy bag, the lunch boxes and fill the water bottles and he knows where to drive. 

Simple.

Except when he asks me to provide the directions, which is what happened on Tuesday on our way to the tulip farm.

We were so excited to get going that we jumped in the car and less than 5 minutes later he asks me "what road do I take Jo?"

I reply, "I don't know... Out that way on that big road." *Waving hand.

H: "Which big road? The Eastern?"

Me: "Yeah, maybe. I don't know. Lilydale?"

Silence. Driving.

H: "So...do you want to look it up?"

Me: *groans. "Not really."

H: "Well, you need to. I'm driving"

So I begin searching google maps on my iPhone for directions and naturally I get distracted by a random Facebook comment, a very funny email and a friend sunning it up on Instagram. 

5 minutes pass.

H: "You got it, yet?"

Me: "Yeah it's here, see?"

I shove the phone in the husbands direction and point at a big road. 

H: "Jo, I can't look at the phone. Tell me where I need to go. This road or that road? Read the map!"

He is not impressed.

Me: "I can't read maps. You know that."

H: "its not hard, look at the numbers."

I turn the iphone upside down on its head looking for numbers. Irritating husband further. All I can see is green, which I think is grass. I stare blankly at a strectch of road. That must be it. I point to road. 

Me: "Here, maybe?"

H: "Where the heck is here?"

Me: all huffy now* "I dont know, I dont know. You know I can't read a map. You married me with this knowledge. You know I don't have the map reading gene. Blame my genetics" as I throw my phone on the car dashboard.

Husband pulls over to look at map. 

Silence. Makes a u-turn and takes off down road.

Me: "We all good now?"

H: "Yes, Jo."

And that's a typical family adventure drive. Map reader, I am not. Don't judge.

Love Jo xxx

Ps. The Tesselaar tulip festival is amazing. And if you are heading out there, here's a map. You can thank me later. 

Are you a map reader? Can you teach me a thing or two about maps?

I forgot about my maths exam... Again.

Do you have a reoccurring dream?

I do.

It's a dream where I turn up for my year 12 maths exam. I open the paper and realise I am completely unprepared. I haven't been to a single maths class all year, in fact I had completely forgotten I was enrolled in the subject. I am sitting at a wooden desk staring at complex equations. And I start to panic. The dream always ends with me handing in an empty paper. And when I wake, I feel horrible.

So, what does this all mean? I don't quite know. What I do know is that I disliked maths in high school. It was my most challenging subject and one that my parents pumped a lot of money into additional tutoring for me. It was never an easy subject. But one I had to sit down and work hard at, unlike many of my friends. At uni, I farewelled all subjects related to mathematics, except statistics, which was kind of important given my job as a genetic counsellor. I married a maths teacher. And to this day, maths exams are constantly piled high on our kitchen table.

Sigh. If only, my maths teacher could see me now with all this maths around me.

So, it leaves me with this question. What on earth does this dream mean? Why do I keep dreaming about this exam? And why the hell am I not taking the classes?

I was once told that this dream expresses a fear of failure. An expressed feeling of being unprepared for the challenges in waking life. 

Which, I admit might not be far from the truth. As this dream often appears at rather poignant life stressing times, like upcoming work commitments, assignment due dates, etc. But last night threw me somewhat. I wasn't aware of any looming life events. I thought I had everything under control. 

Until dah. *Lightbulb moment. 

I have been somewhat stressing about my upcoming return to work. Oh, who am I kidding I am totally flippn' out of my mind stressed about going back to work. Stressed about how I am going to manage two kids, turn up to work without a boob hanging out, do kinder drop offs and make kinder chit chat, run into day care with a backpack and a smile, fight off daycare vomit bugs, meet patient demands. Breast feed, exercise, dinner, dishes and everything in between. 

Could this be what my dream is telling me? Is my dream screaming "hey dude, your stressed out of your eye balls about this balancing act? Wake up." Is this my personal challenge that I am feeling unprepared for? And is it possible that my subconscious, dream state knows me better than me? 

Probably.

So, tell me am I crazy to be worried about all this? I have 2 and a bit months to sort my shit out. Tell me, what's your hot tips and flashy tricks for succeeding at being a working mum of two. Do you have a reoccurring dream? 

Love Jo xxx

Boobs at the beach.

Ah, Happy Monday everyone! 

How was your weekend? 

Ours was divine, minus the oh say, 16 hours of sleep we missed out on. 

Thanks Jude! Amen for coffee. 

Noah had his karate grading early Sunday morning. And he did very well despite my early morning fears that he would fall asleep mid machine gun kick. He impressed us and the judges too. He won most outstanding performance. Twice. 

Eep, mummy gloat.

To celebrate, we all went to the beach. And when I say beach, I'm talking about some gritty sand and dirty water by the bay. There are no waves. The sand does not squeek. The shells are all shattered. And in the distance you can see a giant cargo ship dumping all sorts of toxins in the water. 

Welcome to Melbourne. We have it all, except a beach. We do have latte sipping on the sand though. That's a Melbourne thing right? A coffee cart at the beach? Only Melbourne, right? 

Once upon a time, the beach was a place to relax. Read a book, catch a tan and eat hot chips whilst partaking in some people spotting. 

And then we had kids. And that all became a distant memory. Distant. Distant. Memory. 

Although, I did take my book. The five people you meet in heaven. Optimism right there. Who was I kidding?!? 

There was no reading. Instead, Ill tell you what did happen. 

We had a spot of lunch on the beach. Some overly packaged bakery delights plus a can of coca cola {pure class here boys and girls}. Whilst sipping from that cool cola, Jude face planted the sand. He cried and demanded boob. Previous experience had taught me breastfeeding on the beach is no fun. 

The sand, the boob exposure, the fiddly hats, the slippery sun screen, the twisted bather top and the bloody sun. Not my idea of fun. So, we struggled through it together and once the boob was tucked away again, Noah decided he wanted to go for a splash. So off the boys went into the water, whilst I took some happy snaps. 

After 5 minutes of splashing, Noah got ridiculoudly wet and decided he was too cold. Swimming was over and Jude cried. The boob came out again and I fed him some more. And then a huge gust of wind whipped along the shore. And you all know how much I hate wind. And with the wind went our overly packaged bakery scraps. 

Tumbling across the sand and into the sea. I could see people shaking their heads, my head was shaking too but I had my boob out. What was I to do? Brad was nowhere in sight. 

I had no choice but to run after the littered goods. I had brain images of dolphins choking on MY bakery pie and turtles tangled in MY cheesecake glad wrap and seals sipping on MY cola. And it was all going to be MY fault. Me, the litter bug. 

It was too much. 

I whipped the baby off the boob and made my dash. By this time, the litter was knee deep so I plunged into the seawater, denim jeans and all. I dived forward and retrieved the litter and made my way back up the beach. The beach spectators started to cheer. A lady congratulated me:

"Well done love."

Beach hero, is me. I sat back down feeling proud of MY efforts. How many sea animals had I just saved? And then I looked down. My boob was half hanging out of my top. And my baby tummy was out for all to see. What a sight it must have been. Me with my boob and tummy chasing MY litter...! 

Brad returned back from the toilets with Noah and I said its time to go. 

And that was our beach visit. 

Boob and all. 

Love Jo xxx

Do you love the beach? What tips do you have for surviving the beach with little ones? 

There's a Vagina in My Bath.

I live in a house of boys. I have a husband, a toddler, a baby and a beagle. 

Boy. Boy. Boy. Boy.

And what comes with being a boy is a whole lot of general untidiness. Don't get me wrong, I love my boys. But I do not love their mess. 

I am of the strong opinion that all boys are messy. Hold on. Sorry! I know of one boy who isn't messy. Hi Mr N. 

Therefore, based on my observations, I conclude that this messy business is inherited on ones Y chromosome. The mess gene. Its there. Hiding under a cushion {with all the smelly socks} on the Y chromosome. You wait. Someone will find it. And I bet that 'someone' is a female who is fed up of tripping over boys shoes, finding smelly boy socks, and washing dirty boy cups. 

But, until that day comes, I have learnt to accept that boys will be boys and that mess is all a part of living with these boys. No use getting angry, or cross.

But, what does get me cross is when one of these boys focuses on a small mess of mine. I am no angel. I admit I can make a mess. And of recent times, my hair has been making all sorts of mess. I am malting. Losing every strand of hair from my head. Something to do with breastfeeding or post-pregnancy hormones I am informed by my lady hairdresser. 

And of course, the best place to loose all this hair is in the bath, much to Noah's dismay and fright. The poor child is convinced that the clumps of hair are out to get him and worse still, he thinks they are tiny floating vaginas. 

Tiny. Floating. Vaginas.

*laughing too much*

And so every night as he sits in his bath, I wait for him to squeal, "Marm, there's a vagina in the bath." And every night, I go in there to scoop out the floating vaginas and I wait as I am condemned by my three year old child for my untidiness. 

He shakes his head, tuts his tongue and waves his finger too. "Look at this mess Marm."

Oh, I am sorry. I reply.

"How dare I, me, the female of the house make a mess?" 

Ah, boys! Aren't they the best!

Love Jo xxx

Are your boys tidy? Or mess monsters? 

My boys!

Ladies. Book yourself a Pap smear, we have a new Prime Minister!

As I woke to this morning news, I read in the paper, two facts that concerned me. 

Fact One: We have a new PM and his name is Tony. And some people are really, genuinely happy about this. Some could even be heard chanting "its Tony time." Wow. Tony, you've got a long road ahead of you, mate! I hope your up for it.

And fact two is according to Pap-screen Victoria, only 57% of women aged 20-69 have had a Pap smear in the past two years. That leaves approximately 43% of us women who have not dropped our undies in order to undergo a potentially life saving test that can detect {up to 90% of detectable} cervical cancers. 

And I get it.

Pap smears are no fun in a box {pun so not intended, but, it works}.

But they can save your life. Your friends life. And quite possibly your mum and your cousins life.

Lives all worth saving.

But, sadly, we are not talking about it. News-poll found that one in four of us women feel too embarrassed to talk about Pap tests. I am not embarrassed by pap smear talk. In fact, I will talk about it night and day with whoever wants to listen, especially if I know all this talking may get one or more of you banging on your doctors door, screaming "give me my smear."

I can see all the boys signing out now. 

And that's ok. Bye boys.

But, let me tell you, I have had not one but four Pap smears in the past year. 

Four! Poor me, right. Let me describe them. Smear by smear.

The first smear sample ended up on the emergency room floor when the training doctor shattered the smear slide in her hands. The second sample collected by the same doctor returned an invalid result. Training doctor, anyone?

And the third test suggested some abnormal cells with a repeat sample suggested post-baby. So I played the waiting game. I was convinced it would be all bad news until finally the forth sample came back with the news I was hoping for. Normal. Repeat sample in 2 years.

But you see, prior to these 4 Pap smears, I hadn't actually had a Pap smear in almost 5 years. 

I had my excuses. 

Too busy travelling, I'm growing a baby, my obstetricians on leave, I am breastfeeding, I have no car, I am too busy at work, there are no available appointments, my GP moved to Tasmania, the kids are sick. I'm baking a cake. I need a wax.

It's endless. And all pretty pathetic because really, there is no excuse.

And I am bloody lucky that after all those smears, it came back normal. But it didn't come without stress and worry. 

So, it is my hope that by reading this, you might be encouraged to show your bits. Book that appointment and take the test. Even if just one of you do this that would make me happy! 

Because unlike the Tony fact that I read about this morning that is now completely out of control. This, this Pap smear statistic we can change. 

Go on, go have your bits checked and while your at it ask at least one other friend if they too have had their bits checked lately.

Love Jo xxx

A fancy public toilet: don't get caught with your pants down.

There are a some things in life that make me nervous. And public toliets are right up there.

It's not about the germs or general grossness either. That's a whole other issue. The public toilets that make my nerves rattle are those baby change /disabled toilets with automatic shut doors where you press the button once to shut the door and a second time to lock it.

They are a bit fancy.

And its their fancieness that makes me nervous.

You see, the first time I used one of these toilets I was at Melbourne Airport. There was a huge line up for the ladies, so I, being 8 weeks pregnant and running a tad bit late for my flight, granted myself permission to use the fancy toilet.

I ran into the fancy toilet, pressed the button to close the door and dropped my dacks. I am admiring the wall tiles. Daydreaming about my final destination and the flight ahead. M&Ms or peanuts on todays flight I ponder when "whoosh" that fancy door slides itself open.

OMG!

I am on a toilet.

I freeze and don't make a sound. I don't want to draw anymore attention to myself. But the person who has opened the door has her back towards me. She is busy with her mop and bucket. 

She is the cleaner and behind her is flight 109 to Sydney.

She finally looks up and sees me sitting on my porcelain thrown. Mouth wide open. Cheeks bright red. Pants around my ankles. Hands on bits.

"Tsk, tsk." She says and then loudly announces to me and flight 109;

"You need to lock the door. Once to shut. Twice to lock."

Right. I got it lady. 

She bends over and puts her bucket down.

"Canyoujustshutthebloodydoor?" I shout.

I watch as the door comes to a slow close. I close my eyes and try to wish it away. Nope. Still there. Cleaner, people, vending machines, blue carpet, coffee cart, newspaper stand. Airport lights.

Fark.

What just happened? I stare at the button and take note of her advice.

But, nowhere does it say press twice to lock lady cleaner. Argh. I stand up. Pull up my strides and wash my hands. I look at my reflection. I am all shades of red. And I cant delay this any longer. I need to catch my flight. I press the button.

Once to exit. I put my head down and avoid eye contact and make my dash.

I get on my flight and leave the scene. The scene of fancy toilets and opening doors. But you see, this day has stayed with me and these fancy toilets they make me nervous. Even more nerve-wrecking is a toddler fingers hovering over the open door button whilst on seated on the toilet. Today, he teased, "Marrrm, look out. Ill press it". Bless him.

So, whatever you do. Remember, once to shut, twice to lock!

Notice, how the toilet is in front of the door? Cruel.

So, tell me what makes you nervous and what's your most embarrassing story? 

Who turned on the wind?

Wind makes me grumpy.

No, not that kind of wind. The other wind. Howling, gustily, soul-sucking, blasting, ear-aching, gale force wind. 

And... today there was wind in the city. 

The unexpected blast greeted me this morning with an almighty whoosh shouting, "Good morning Jo, I'm wind! Let's dance." And right there in that moment with the wind slapping me in my face, I was instantaneously grumpy.

The wind was flicking against my arms. My hair was under attack. My fringe was sideways. My eyes were watering. And Noah was crying "I hate wind." I was eating my own hair. I had the wind grumps.

I threw my hands in the air cursing Mother Nature. Did I miss some sort of tornado warning? I tie my hair in a sporty pony. We have jobs to do. I grab Noah's hand and squeeze it tight. I place our hands on the buggy and together we push through it. Wind, you will not defeat us! 

(Me snapped whilst battling the wild wind. Whaaat?!? I swear, it's me.)

I open the gate. Our rubbish bin is sideways. Everyone bins are sideways. There's all sorts of week old trash filling the sky. Don't mind me, wind. I'll clean up your mess. Whoosh. Wheeze.

We make it to our destination but it is not without wind carnage. We drop a baby shoe and watch helplessly as it tumbles down the street. The wind whips up Noah's sausage roll in its haste and I am left with half eaten flicks of wild hair.

Fark. I. Hate. Wind. 

Anything but wind. Melt your thongs off your feet heat, I can deal with. Antarctic chills. Fine. Thrills and spills rain. Ill wear my gumboots. But wind, you are not okay. 

It has been suggested by friends that I try to embrace the wind. 

I did. Once. 

We bought a kite. She was yellow and blue. A real beauty. 

One windy day, we laid her colourful display on the grass and we pulled on her strings. We encouraged her to take a wind journey. We wished Mother Nature would embrace her in her windy arms. We you-tubed "how to fly a kite." {yes, we did!}

But it didn't happen. That kite never flew. And my wind grumps raged and they will forever rage because wind gives me the grumps.

Rant. Over. 

Love Jo xxx

What's your weather grump? Is it the wind? Or perhaps, a snowstorm, or rain? 

My happy place!

Today, I woke up, hold on, scratch that. I didn't wake up. For one to wake they need to sleep. Ah, children. Bless their {tiny} cotton socks. 

Start again.

Today, as I peeled my sleeping baby off my chest and reluctantly, yet silently crawled my way out of bed with toddler in hand I had a strong irresistible urge to listen to David Grey. More specifically, track 9. Sail Away.

It was a David Grey day. 

Let me explain. David takes me to my happy place. At this happy place. I am at a beach on an exotic island. I am wearing a sarong {good idea at the time}. My feet are buried deep in the sand. I am swinging in a hammock. I have a kahlua and milk in hand {I was 21!}. My toes are all sorts of fabulously pedicured. And the gorgeous David Grey is playing.

I am in Kho Samui, Thailand.

Happy places are important. My pre-natal yoga teacher taught me that back in 2009. As we downward dogged with an overly large baby tummy, she would chant:

"Your happy place will promote relaxation. It will reduce stress and fear." {A story for another day, perhaps}. 

And so this morning I found my old friend, David. He was hiding at the back of the cupboard. I said hello, introduced him to Noah and I sat myself down with a coffee and I turned him up. Loud. Track 9, repeat. And there I was in Thailand on the beach feeling fabulous all over again.

My happy place.

Ten minutes with David and I was a new lady and I suddenly had a strong urge for an asian pedicure. You know the one. It's not quite Thailand but it is a hell of a lot cheaper.

Where's your happy place? What takes you back to your happy place? And, finally here are some photos of my happy place. Green toes and all. 

Love Jo xx