Social Media is not real. Or maybe it’s a half-truth like a little white lie. Arguably it’s more like a one-hundreth of the truth.

The images that stop your thumb represent only the best frames of our lives, edited, curated and filtered for mass consumption.

One hundred-percent staged and edited.

I try to be as authentic as possible with Kangaroo Spotting but even I find myself forming an online ‘brand,’ depending on the platform of course. On Instagram, I focus more on artwork and creativity because it lends itself to a visual aesthetic. On Facebook, it’s parenting so that we can have discussions. The audiences in both places are different. I know because I look at analytics.

One of my close friends dropped in the other week when she was in the neighborhood. And because she’s so lovely, she apologised for not checking in on me more (which she shouldn’t have done because she’s one of the few people I’ve seen more than once since Imogen was born). She told me that  social media told her I seemed fine and in the same breath she chastised herself because “that stuff isn’t real.”

Her throwaway comment got me thinking. And until I sat down to write this, I don’t think I realised just how much I curate my own social media feeds, even though I pride myself on writing honestly about personal topics.

Back to my friend who simply wanted to see for herself…I had to wonder. Does everyone else think I’m fine?

Fine. It’s a ‘four letter word’ in my opinion. My high school English teacher called it a wimpy word. It’s just another, vague, crappy description that could mean anything and nothing at the same time.

Embarrassingly real.

Right now as I’m sitting here writing for the first time in forever, my four-year-old is screaming for me to bring her books to read on the toilet and I fully screamed back at her like a person possessed. My voice had a nasty edge that would make me ashamed if anyone else heard.

Five minutes to tap while the baby sleeps, it’s all I wanted. Just enough to open the value on my pent up creativity. It’s been bottling up inside me like hot steam. I have trouble falling back to sleep after night feeds because I think of topics and sentences that I’m too tired to write down during daylight. 

I’m lucky the baby and I are both physically healthy, she’s eating and feeding well but it’s still a struggle (and I am too tired to fight the battle.) Shout out to the Mama’s who deal with colic, reflux, latching, sleep-issues ect. I don’t know how you do it. Even without any of those problems my brain chemistry is thrown off and I can slip into dark moods. 

And I’m even luckier that with this postpartum period, I don’t linger in those shadows for very long. They usually disappear when I have rest, help, or if I manage to accomplish something other than keeping the kids alive for the day.

Guilt floods my brain now as I hear my sweet Lavinia reading a story to her baby sister whom she woke with her (our) yelling. The little ten-week-old, giggling, makes me realize that I haven’t done any damage to either of my girls.

The moral of the story is don’t believe everything you see.

The less-than-Glamourous yet magical time of life with a newborn

Won’t you take stock with me? Copy and paste this list, fill it in, keep it to yourself or share it with me dawn@roospotting.com It’s amazing to see what sorts of themes develop when you answer such simple questions. Find out what’s on your mind! Scroll down to copy and paste your list.

Making : Messes.
Cooking : Reheating frozen meals and enjoying food that friends are dropping off.

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Pumpables Milk Genie gave me a pump to try and it’s a beauty so I’m going to tell you about it here (post contains affiliate links).

Bright lights, a blue sheet, instructions spoken in serious tones. I’m shivering despite the lower half of my body being deadened. Unfamiliar faces briskly go about their business around me in the crowded room.

I never imagined giving birth by caesarian section.

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Sponsored by Bupa

It may not surprise you that in some research Bupa recently did, it showed that lots of parents are turning to Google to confirm or deny their parenting fears, and answer questions about that are bound to come up in that First Thousand Days of parenthood.

While it’s comforting in some ways to know that there’s potentially support at the end of our fingertips,

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Sponsored by Bupa

My daughter is an awesome sleeper. Don’t hate me! It hasn’t always been that way.

I’ll never forget that night. My husband stood between me and the doorway, while our four-month-old daughter wailed and my heart shattered.

This is not a story about controlled crying. It’s a story about how I found a combination of gentle methods to teach my daughter to self-settle.

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‘Padcicles.’ like popsicles but for your postpartum lady bits! Oh, how fun the name sounds for such an unpleasant situation.

This simple padcicle recipe promotes healing, reduces inflammation and soothes sore bottoms after giving birth. All it takes are two ingredients, five steps and ten minutes.

Padcicles are essential to care for your perineum post birth. They help numb and heal the painful area with a simple mixture of (alcohol-free) witch hazel and aloe vera. 

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Brought to you by Bupa

Postnatal depression; the gift I never asked for or wanted. Fighting my way through it made me stronger and taught me self-acceptance.

Now that I’m in my First Thousand Days, and pregnant with my second baby, I worry about postnatal depression returning for a rematch even though ‘theoretically’ I should have all the tools I need to tackle it again.

One major advantage is that I know my opponent.

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These hacks were passed down on my Italian-American side of the family (it’s no surprise that many of them have to do with food- mangia!) These low-tech tidbits ended up in our family cookbook and I thought it only fair to share the wisdom with the wider world.

Before they became meme’s or pins, life hacks were advice passed down from generation to generation.

I came across a section in our family cookbook called “Did you know tidbits,” a section jammed with tips,

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I attempted to board my flight to Sydney yesterday and the attendant stopped me, asked how many weeks pregnant I was, snatched my doctor’s certificate, and studied it suspiciously. “Wait here,” she said, while passengers politely sidestepped me and disappeared down the jetway.

Every airline has different regulations for flying while pregnant so even if you think you know, double check. Then check again.

At 31 weeks, it’s my last trip for the foreseeable future.

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Four nights in a room to myself (practically), someone bringing me meals, checking on me, giving me medication and nurturing. All expenses paid (except for the epidural).

All I have to do to earn that little vay-cay is give birth.

Wait a second- what?

Yup. Giving birth is the ultimate excuse to stop. doing. all. the. things.

Is this sad, hilarious, or just insane?

I think what this means is,

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