A sneak peek at the soon-to-be-released ebook

Yes, you read right. I’m giving you a little sneak peek inside the long awaited ebook from my popular newspaper column, Mum’s the Word. The ebook will be released in conjunction with Fairfax’s The Advocate Newspaper in Tasmania.

To get you all up to speed, back when I first became up the duff with Princess Ella, I began writing what was a light-hearted and humorous look at having a bun in the oven. Once Ella was born, readers requested it continue and so the columns went on to document the first year of her life –  the good, the bad and the down-right hilarious.

The series was read by a readership of 90,000, yet many of my readers here on the blog know little about it. So this is my chance to share that story with you. But the real reason? Four years on, The Bloke in The Shed and I receive comments weekly  about that column -what parts they could relate to, what made them laugh and what was happening in their child’s life at the time. Can I add, a large number of these are middle-aged men. No joke.

One of the reasons for introducing you to this just before it’s released is because we’re on the hunt for the best title for the book. Whoever can come up with the title that wins our hearts – and maybe even makes us laugh – will score a credit in the book!

Here’s the first column in the book for a bit of inspiration:

Nauseous, patronised and fat — but happy

August 15, 2007

PEOPLE ask ‘‘how are you feeling?’’ like I’ve been diagnosed with a terminal illness. I’m just up the duff, for Pete’s sake. And if it is a disease, for me at least, it wasn’t that easy to catch — despite the warnings.

What you don’t learn — until now — is that there’s this minute window of ovulation each month, which will have you running to the bedroom faster than a cheetah chasing a limping gazelle. Sorry, nan. Perhaps you better go and make that cup of tea now.

Now, there’s some tragics — who shall remain nameless — who try to help the little blighters in their swimming endeavours by raising their legs in the air after ‘‘the deed’’. Come on. We all know it’s easier to swim with the current, not against it.

Mind you, the other theory is that you only want the toughest swimmers, not some measly little tadpole that got through on a free ticket. Just because Steven Bradbury won a gold medal, it doesn’t make him a legend.

If you want to get technical, you can go into the whole lunar moon thing, which gives you a second crack each month at scoring. But, in the end, the mission was achieved and no, it’s no disease.

Unless you count the first four months, where I felt like I’d been on the biggest New Year’s Eve bender —just the spewy end of the bender, minus the high. Plus, I look like I haven’t slept for a month after stumbling from my slumber for a leak for the third time in one night and being kicked awake in-between.

My tummy looks like I’ve indulged in Christmas lunch every meal — with beers — for the past six months. And you leak from everywhere. Trust me, it’s gross. OK, so maybe there’s reason to think I have The Pregnancy Disease.

But the worst of it is the baby eating my brain. Those times when you put the Cornflakes in the fridge or leave the paid-for groceries at the supermarket, happen regularly. But seriously, I have nothing to complain about, in fact, it’s been one of the most amazing things I’ve . . . Sorry, what was I saying?