• Lara Flanagan

My Blueberry Butt

Updated: Feb 28, 2020

I was contacted by a very cheery chappy recently who advised me that I should warn people about the content of my posts.  I felt like saying to him, why the fuck do you want to read something that offends you?  Not only do you choose to read something that offends you, you then take the additional time to send me a happy little message.  I wanted to remind him that if you go into a blog post, or stalk someone’s Facebook page or Instagram profile you are choosing to do this.  Sometimes I find life simple. If I don’t like something, I don’t read it.  I did not say this to him, I just thanked him for his time and wished him a lovely day.  I hoped that he had time to go out and enjoy some late winter sunshine after he had finished reading shit on Facebook that offended him.

This warning is for him.  If he is masochistic enough to continue reading my posts, at least he will get a warning.  If the warning does not stop him reading something that is bound to offend him, then I really can’t fucking help him.

WARNING, WARNING.  This post includes talk of bodily functions and my lily-white arse.  It may well involve cursing like a pirate as well but as I have not written it yet, I don’t honestly know.  I thought I would cover all bases though.


I went to the toilet the other day.  This is not a strange occurrence.  I go to the toilet all the time.  Though I wish I did not have to.  I don’t like toilets and I don’t like any sort of substance that the body creates.  Sometimes I wish I was a Barbie doll with no orifices whose shit did not stink and who was not remotely real.  I digress. Due to my problem with bodily functions, I am fastidiously clean when it comes to toilet cleanliness.  We all know what goes on in there, but I avoid the reality at all costs.  I don’t like smells and I don’t like a mess.  I am rather obsessive when it comes to checking the toilet after I have finished my business.  The thought of leaving any type of toilet footprint makes me cringe.  When I have gone into a toilet after someone who has left a great big dirty skid mark I am in awe and appalled in equal measure.  How can someone have the confidence to say, there you go lovely, I have incredibly powerful bowels, look at what I have left for you.

So, I went to the toilet and after I had flushed I checked the bowl and was slightly repulsed by a bobbing remnant.  I momentarily questioned as to whether I had turned into my son with the bowels of steel who can produce indestructible turds that put the fear of evil into my soul.   I investigated further by having a closer look and I realised that what was floating in the toilet bowl was a blueberry.  Not only was it a blueberry, but it was perfectly formed.  I had popped out a blueberry. I had a blueberry butt.

I was never very good at science when I was at school.  I was a humanities kid all the way.  Give me a book, a stage, or a historical tale and I was in my element.  However, science and maths left me undone.  I immediately revert to a 16-year-old quivering wreck when I remember my maths and science classes and that Maths teacher arsehole who told me that I had nothing positive to offer the world.  Bit harsh really.  But Maths and Science had that effect on me.

One thing I do vaguely remember about science is that if you laid out all your smaller and larger intestines then it would be the length of a football field, or maybe two.  I wondered for days what sort of sicko even thought to lay out all your intestines on a few football fields.  Regardless of how many football fields they cover or the fact that there was a psycho at some stage in our scientific past who laid out metres of intestine on a bloody football field, the fact remains, that there are a lot of intestines.  I had eaten a blueberry one morning with my porridge and it had travelled throughout the many metres of the intestine and popped out in my toilet bowl perfectly formed.  Life truly is amazing.  I almost felt like I had a little miracle in my toilet.

The human body fascinates me.  It is astounding what it can do.  During my pregnancy with Archie and Rissie, when I was not throwing up everything I ate, I found the whole baby making process truly astonishing.  How did the baby form?  I am not talking about the tin tacks here of baby making.  I do know how sex works.  Even I can remember that.  It was what happened afterwards.  The little egg knew when to grow hair follicles and eyes and organs.  When Archie and Rissie were about 6 months into the process of this crazy development, it was discovered that Archie had a possible heart defect.  Whilst they were in my stomach he was examined by a neonatal cardiologist.  This is a man who specialised in the workings of the hearts of unborn children.   It was amazing. 

It also reminded me how lucky we are to live in Australia, a country that has a phenomenal health care system. Turns out that Archie was ok.  At the time of birth, we had a team of specialists on standby to whip the kids out as fast as possible and take him to surgery if he needed it.  I don’t have any warm and fuzzy memories of the twins’ birth.  Not only did we have all these specialists waiting to take my son away and cut him open, my epidural also stopped working for 2 minutes and 27 seconds.   Whilst they were dealing with the fact I could feel them cutting my stomach open, the cardiologists were examining Archie. 

All I can remember is waiting for the pain to stop and waiting to be told that the kids were ok.  Turns out, it was a benign arrhythmia that fixed itself immediately after he left my tummy.  I can vividly remember wondering if it was normal for newborns to look so weird.  I can also remember being in awe of what the human body can do and withstand.

I still feel that way.  We can get through grief and trauma.  Cope with illness.  I look at my kids with their perfect little bodies and wonder how does the body know what to do when it does.   The body can do all of that and nurture a little blueberry so it pops out of your bum perfectly formed.

I am a very private person.  Some people might laugh at that (especially my cheery little mate – shout out to cheery little mate), as I tend to put my most private moments on my blog.  The good, the bad and the fucking ugly.  I have discussed my love of canestan cream, talked about my children’s bowels, shared my devastating experiences as I deal with the loss of my sister and dear friend.  I have alerted people to the fact I don’t shave my legs and sometimes sleep with a beanie on my head.  Despite all of this, I am very private, I keep to myself and feel most comfortable with my family, my dogs, my kids and a handful of special friends.

I keep my privacy going in my house.  I used to have two areas that I did not like sharing with my kids.  My bedroom and the bathroom.  My bedroom is my sanctuary.  It is where I sleep and where I read a million books.  I have never been one of these mum’s who likes to have the kids in her bed.  In fact, the few occasions I have had to share my bed with Archie and Rissie I resent them wholeheartedly.  It is my space, dammit and they have the rest of the house so get out of my bed.  Out damn spot, out.

After travelling, the bathroom became a sanctuary that I had to give up.  We shared such tiny spaces and Archie and Rissie got used to coming in and telling me vitally important things.  I can remember in Costa Rica, the kids would walk in and throw their togs at me as I showered.  I loved being slapped in the face by a pair of swimmers that were filled with black sand.  I think it was their way of telling me that whilst I was showering, I could also rinse out their togs.  It filled me with rage.  Ever since then the bathroom is as much their space as mine.

Rissie can come in swinging her little hips following Jesus.  Archie will stick his head in and ask me do I think he can really play for Australia in soccer.  I am an expert at tuning out and I continue to stand under my hot shower in my shower bubble and ignore them.  Some days it is hard.  The other day Rissie informed me that I had a wrinkly butt.

I looked at her and told her that my butt was covered in soap suds.  I am a huge believer in body image and teaching your kids to love themselves rather than worry about their appearance.  I told her that my butt was magnificent. I glared at her as I fumed and reminded myself that I was 45 and not 18.  She shrugged her shoulders as only Rissie can do and said, “Whatever mummy, just saying, that’s all.”  Where do kids get expressions like that?  Just saying?  Just fucking saying.  There were a lot of things I could say but I chose not to say them. My butt was wrinkly and it must be so because Rissie had just told me. 

After she had gone to school that day I jumped up and down naked in front of the mirror trying to see my butt.  Jumping up and down naked in front of the mirror was quite disconcerting. However, I concluded that my butt was just fine.  Was it perfect? No. Was it wrinkly? Hell no.  It was part of a body that was strong.  That had created two children from scratch.  That had kept moving when I was told that movement was not going to be an option for me much longer.  It continues to walk for thousands of kilometres through moments of heartbreaking beauty in places that I adore.

The next time Rissie invades my space and informs me that I have a wrinkly butt I am going to smile at her.  I am going to tell her that I do not have a wrinkly butt.  I have a blueberry butt and she can put that in her pipe and smoke it.  It will have her confused all day long.

My butt produces blueberries and it is simply wonderful.

#SingleMum #Motherhood #Humour #MyStories #MyNotes

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