Moving is a huge pain. The packing, uprooting, shifting, repacking, the whole works. It totally sucks. Moving a blog is just as tedious, but here’s the bright side. It’s always for the best. You get new stuff, better technology and way cooler gadgets.

After toying with the idea for a while, I think it’s time for the big shift. I’m chucking the old honda for a pimped out Audi R4, so it’s gonna be one heck of a ride.

Thanks for taking the time to visit us here at binkiesnboogers, but from today, we’re moving on to greener pastures so come by the new site for a gander.

I feel like it’s been a long time coming. I haven’t even been a mom for a whole year and it seems like I’ve been waiting endlessly for my first real mother’s day. I’d like to say that the rewards of motherhood are sufficient to make up for everything, but if you ask me, I’m desperately in need of some pampering and something wrapped up in a bow.

I’m expecting to wake up at 11 am to a sumptuous breakfast in bed and a little blue box with something sparkly inside. Tru will be all fed, changed and ready for his morning nap. After getting smothered with hugs and kisses, I’ll be whisked off for a manicure and a massage, followed by a relaxing bath of goat’s milk.

No diapers, no laundry, no food-slinging and certainly no screaming or whining.

Even then, it’s hardly a fair exchange. A day off to relax at a spa and some diamonds is not fair trade for 364 days of hair-pulling and hemorrhoids. But I’ll take it because it says “you deserve it cos are the most amazing human being on the face of this earth”.

Having recently been admitted to the elite club reserved only for the brave souls who dared to venture into the world of motherhood, it feels different being on the other side, as it were. Like most experiences, you need to be in it to fully comprehend what it really means. I used to hear moms talk about all their mothery stuff and I can try to look sympathetic, but it doesn’t really sink in.

But now, I GET IT. They can talk about 6-hour screaming fits and I totally understand. When Tru was sick and couldn’t fall asleep, I was holding him for 6 hours straight till I was sure my arms weren’t there anymore. I hear about nappy rash and projectile vomiting and I’ve literally been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, took the photo.

It’s like how doctors have their Hippocratic Oath. Mothers also have a code of conduct that they swear to keep the moment the kid pops. In summary, it goes like this. “I shall henceforth cease to exist as a free-spirited individual and place my kids over and above my own needs for the next 18 years. In short, I will become Mother Theresa.”

Only on Mother’s Day, we get a moment of brief respite. To sit back and bask in the adoration and gratitude. So to all the mothers out there, MILK IT FOR ALL IT’S WORTH because it’s over all too soon. Savor every moment and have a brilliant day.

Wikipedia explains nesting as “an instinct or urge in pregnant animals to prepare a home for the upcoming newborn”. In humans, it is commonly characterized by a strong urge to clean and organize one’s home. Great, now I’m having the same primal instincts as rodents.

Seeing that I have no qualms subscribing to the philosophy of maintaining an organized mess in my home, I thought I’d escape the nesting instinct by sheer rationality.

*Phew, my superior brains are one-up over the common mammals.

I draw the line at living like a slob, but in general, I’m ok with stuff like rolling my laundry up into little balls and stuffing them in the cabinets. As a rule of thumb, as long as the common areas are neat and tidy, hidden mess does not qualify as mess. (In philosophy, it’s the falling tree in the deserted woods theory – if no one is there to witness it, it technically does not exist)

Which is why I was totally caught by surprise when the nesting instinct kicked in. Against my better judgment, I found myself having the need to organize and reorganize every little thing at home. It was pretty mild when I was pregnant with Tru (maybe it’s a boy thing), but with Kirsten, I’m unstoppable. It’s like an itch that I have to scratch.

With 9 weeks to go, I’ve repacked the nursery about 4 times. Each time, I would dig out all her clothes, re-iron them, re-fold them into neat little stacks (in exact dimensions) and place them back in the wardrobe, only to repeat the process all over again. I’ve arranged all her diapers with the precision of a neurosurgeon and practically sterilized the entire room.

The bizarre thing about the nesting instinct is that it just completely disappears the moment the baby is born. Within a week after Tru’s birth, I was back to the ball-rolling thing. Believe me, with a newborn, there was barely enough time to take a full crap, much less organize stuff.

But for now, I can’t help myself. Apparently, my super brains aren’t so superior after all.

It’s the one day in every year that you get to stand and shout “Look out world, here I come!” The only chance you get to celebrate your very presence in this world and all the potential greatness you hope to achieve.

But after 25, it’s all downhill. You start to realize that birthdays are nothing more than a reminder that you’re quickly moving past the age of being a “sweet, young, thang” and into the “frumpy, middle-aged” zone. Before you know it, you’ll be steep into the “nasty, old hag that tsk, tsks at other sweet, young things” phase.

I used to think I was invincible and I’ve got my whole life ahead of me. And then the years start to slip through your fingers. “Like the sands in an hourglass, so are the days of our lives“. (Don’t ask, I was a fan of daytime soaps) Suddenly, you start to consider Botox and facelifts in a desperate bid to hang on to what’s left of your youth. Not a good place to be, if you ask me.

And with a kid and a half, it gets even worse. Somehow after giving birth to another human being, it kinda takes away the gloss of birthdays. Ok, so it’s the day you were born. Big deal. It’s not like you had anything to do with it. EVERYONE’s been born before so what makes you so special. If anything, birthdays should celebrate mothers for having to go through the ordeal of childbirth.

So unlike all the other years before, I found myself missing the anticipation of celebrating my birthday. More of like a “Oh, it’s my birthday already. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was still 26.” 27 seems so old. Sportsmen approach retirement at 27. Britney’s 27 and she’s got 2 kids, a whole bunch of plat albums and more moolah than she can spend.

When I was a kid, I used to dream that by 27, I’d do something great like invent the cure for cancer or be a rock star or write a New York Times bestselling novel. But I actually turn 27 and I realize that my life is just… well, painfully ordinary. And every year, I’m running out of time for greatness.

But now I understand why so many mothers put their own dreams on hold for their kids. I look at Tru and I know that he’s going to rock this world when he grows up. He can be anything he wants, and we’ll make sure he gets a decent shot at achieving any crazy dreams he has. And best of all, I realize that maybe all the fame and recognition in the world can’t take the place of having my kids draw me a butt-ugly picture (that resembles giant blobs) and say, “I wuv you, mommy, Happy Birthday”.

Tonight is the big night. Manchester United is taking on Arsenal at the Emirates Stadium for the 2nd leg of the Champions League Semi-Finals. After we demolish the Gunners at their own pitch, we’ll be moving on to whip Chelsea (I hope it’s not Barca) in the Finals.

I have to explain my fascination for soccer. It all started way back in 2000 when Italy took on France for the Euro finals. A bunch of girlfriends decided to come over to my place to check out the cute Italian dudes, and I’d reluctantly agreed to watch 22 men chasing ball like a horde of wildebeests.

But when they zoomed in for a close up of Fabio Cannavaro (who still tops my list of hottest soccer players), I was hooked.

Along the way, I fell in love with the game (and the muscular men all decked out in their soccer garb). There’s all that sweat and testosterone oozing out, complete with masculine grunts. When you watch good soccer, it’s like poetry in motion. Magic.

It’s a myth that only men love to watch soccer. There are plenty of reasons for moms to be a soccer fanatic.

1. Entertainment in your living room.

Being a stay home mom, entertainment options are limited, to say the least. I’m cooped up at home with a kid all day and night, so it’s a good thing I’ve got the telly for company. But with the vast array of trashy programs monopolizing the prime-time slots, soccer is often the best there is, which brings me to my next point.

2. Ogle-fest

It’s the only chance to blatantly ogle at ribbed muscles and tight butts in front of the husband. On a good day, you even get to sneak a peek at their washboard abs when they yank off their shirt with a flourish after scoring a goal. Just make sure you hold a bowl of popcorn so your drool doesn’t collect on the floor.

3. Soccer Barbie

On match days, you get to dress the entire family up in matching soccer jerseys in a show of solidarity. Once you get past the cheese, there’s nothing cuter than dressing the kids up in the tiny jerseys and knee-high socks.

4. Midnight Snacking

It’s the perfect excuse to load up on chips and soda in the middle of the night. So totally sinful, but oh-so-good. And with the occasional ice-cold beer thrown in, the snacks alone is reason enough to be up at 2.30 in the morning.