Feeling guilty? One wife confesses everything. And it’s awesome.

I should probably be awarded 'Mother of the Year'
I should probably be awarded ‘Mother of the Year’ NB: This is not a photo of Jacquie.





To my darling husband,

Now might be an appropriate time for me to come clean about a few small misunderstandings that may have made their way into our family. These things happen, its no one’s fault. Let’s not dwell on it.

Firstly, you know those homemade sausage rolls that you love so dearly? Yes you do. The ones packed with vegies and goodness and snuggled so nicely in their puffy little jackets. Well, darling. We won’t be having them anymore.


You see, the chicken shop that I used to buy them from has closed.

It’s awkward for all of us, I know. I apologise if my use of the word “homemade” mislead you. When I say I “made” them, I meant of course that I “made” them hot but putting them in the oven for the recommended time. Did I leave that out? I see how you might have been confused.

Secondly, those cute little chickpea and veggie balls that you sometimes see me feed our son for dinner? I can’t go into all the details of their delicious composition but I know it’s good.

I know this because they come from the “Macro” section of Woolies. They only have good stuff in that aisle. It’s the only stuff I don’t feel guilty about when other people watch me load my trolley contents on to the conveyer belt at the checkout.

You may have been slightly misled about the birthplace of these veggie balls…

Again, I know, you may have been slightly misled about the birthplace of these veggie balls, due to the fact that I take them out of their little green and white bag and pack them into zip-locks in our fridge to give them that authentic “made with love” look, but nevertheless MACRO.

I guess I should just keep going with the confessions, yes?

Okay, you know that fresh eucalyptus smell that greets you at the door when you come home of an evening? It screams: “I’m scrubbed clean, hygienic and liveable.”

Well, I guess it’s true in the sense that the doorstep is. It thoroughly enjoys the nightly spritz of Dettol I I give it right before your arrival. You could say we have the cleanest doorstep in Sydney.

The rest of the house… not so much.

Genius, no?

And while I’m airing some dirty laundry, I guess I may as well talk about the dirty laundry.

I mean it’s clean now… just a few sizes smaller.  I cannot, for the life of me, work out how not to shrink your t shirts. And frankly, I’m sick of lying about it and agreeing that yes, your arms are looking bigger, and absolutely you’ve filled out across the shoulders, to disguise my washing shortcomings.

Wash your own damn T-shirts if you like them true to size.

Now, I don’t want you thinking that while you’re at work, I’m not busy too. I’m damn busy – hence the shortcuts that I’ve outlined above. Of course I’d love to be mixing chickpea balls and baking sausage rolls but frankly, I don’t even have time to scratch myself.

In fact, sometimes I like you to see how many loads of washing I’ve done, how many undies I’ve folded, how many socks I’ve paired. That’s why I leave them in cuddly little piles on your side of the bed of a night.

"I wear shapewear. Often."
“I wear shapewear. Often.”

You can understand then how heartbreaking it is to see you toss them on the floor as you climb in bed, undoing all my work.

I therefore can’t be blamed if some of your dirty undies end up entwined in your clean ones.

You see, the next day as I fold them all again they all look the same. I won’t be smelling them for confirmation, you’ll just wear dirty jockeys.

And here are some more home truths that may as well be out there: I wear shapewear. Often.

And I’m not talking about the black ones with the lace on the side that somehow try and masquerade as sexy pants (you’re fooling no one), I’m talking about the peachy/nude gut huggers. The really high ones that I practically tuck my boobs into.

I know when you saw them hanging on the line I said they were the post surgical pants from after the c-section but truth be told, they are on regular rotation under my clothes. Sexy, I know. You are One. Lucky. Man. It’s true that I feel like a suction-packed ham most days but they suck it in and slim it out so well… and really? Everyone’s happy. Except my diaphragm.

Now onto the children, lets just get it out there: I don’t wash them every day.

I mean, the dog goes weeks on end without seeing shampoo so I figure we can stretch the kids out a few days too. A quick top and tail and a smattering of baby powder will suffice on days when they take too long to finish dinner and I see the clock creeping towards bedtime.

Sometimes I even wet their hair to add to the “freshly bathed” look. Baby wipes + baby powder = clean enough. Frankly, if the neighbours wouldn’t look over the fence (prying bastards) I’d hose ’em down in the yard with the garden furniture.

So there you have it, I’ve come clean about not keeping the kids clean.

I guess I should start drafting my acceptance speech for Mother of the Year.

Thanks for the nomination by the way.

Jacqui x

Jacqui is 27 years old and is a full time mum to two young boys. She lives on Sydney’s Northern Beaches, with her husband, children and a yappy dog that makes her neighbours hate her. Jacqui has studied degrees in Criminology, Psychology and Law but still can’t work out how not to shrink her clothes in the dryer. Jacqui enjoys writing about parenting, news and lifestyle, but finds most enjoyment focusing on light hearted pieces and justifying her obsession with cosmetics in the name of ‘research’.
Confessions time: What do you hide from your partner?


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