I read today that Britney Spears ex security guard has dobbed her into the American version of DOCS for allegedly taking to her two small boys with a belt and feeding them food that caused them to react violently to their allergies.

Now if this is true, shame on you Brit, not cool.  But to be honest, I always had this idea in my head that the rich and famous kind of just well, you know, avoided all the hard stuff.
 
I mean doesn’t she have minions to get cross at her kids?  And cooks who just organise nutritional meals 24/7? After arsenic hour is complete, I’d like to think she just drifts on in ready with warm and loving hugs whilst accompanied by soft violins and candlelight.   Isn’t that what separates her life from mine? 
 
I guess I’m only wondering this because today I awoke to the sweet, sweet smell of faeces.  Well, actually no, scrap that, I firstly awoke to Maddie whispering loudly about 2 inches from my face “MUM!  Jack has done a poo on the toilet floor”.  My eyes flicked open quicker than Kevin Rudd called the removalists.

“What?”

Maddie, almost apologetically mumbled “Sam is running around out in the hallway saying he can’t POSSIBLY use the toilet”.  Newsflash Sam, we have two toilets; Dad installed the other one over a month ago.
 
Still, I had that sinking feeling.  Turns out that feeling was justified.  There on our poo brown tiles (note – white grout), was a slightly darker shade of poo.  And it was mushed like mashed potato.   I, as a fully grown adult have never, as far I as I can remember, crapped out something as large as my three year old managed to today.    Perhaps I should stop right now and tell you, lovely reader, I’m about to massively over share.  Actually maybe I should have done that about two paragraphs ago.
 
Imagine being in your pyjamas with copious amounts of sleep in your eyes, three children inexplicably hovering around the mountain of poo whilst simultaneously trying to keep the kitten from eating said mountain, all the while struggling to work out what in the fuck is going on.   Well, that was me. 
 
Now, for some reason, I don’t reckon the Britstar has found herself in this kind of situation.  I’m pretty sure that shit (literally) would have been cleaned up well and truly before she arose from her slumber.  Nor would there be a rude awakening to find the kitten pissing on the folded washing in the corner.   But maybe I’m making wild assumptions here.

Maybe Brit is a hands on “Mom” and gets up at sunrise when her children do.  Perhaps just like me, she wakes up hearing Lego men being dropped like bombs onto her timber floor.  Perhaps she gets up and makes them early morning Milo and gets quite cross when, for the fourth morning in a row, one child cannonballs themselves into the other whilst holding that Milo. 
 
Do we just imagine the rich and the famous live such different lives to us?  Surely no amount of money gets you out of childbirth of some description?  Surely no amount of cred means you don’t have to wipe your own bum?  And like any other mother, I imagine she loses her shit from time to time.  Actually I reckon we (the common people) are lucky to some degree.  We don’t have a third party stranger watching us 24/7 who sees us lose our patience, sometimes unfairly, with the little ones.  No one is generally there who keeps a keen eye on say, our meal choices and tut-tuts when we decide a pie & chips night is the best we can manage.  
 
I always marvel at Oprahs fluctuating weight.  I mean, I excuse my weight gain and lack of organic, healthy eating by blaming my innate lack of ability to plan and my complete busy-ness.  Surely, as the richest woman IN THE FREAKING WORLD, she could just employ someone to prepare really healthy yet tasty food and then just pay someone to whirl her round on an Ab-King Pro?

I digress.
 
The point is, we all lose our shit from time to time and hey, stand too close to my front door on some days and you may well hear what sounds like a screaming banshee with its arse on fire.  That would be me, telling off my kids for one reason or another.  Sure, not all of us shave our heads in front of millions and/or lose custody of our kids, and to be honest, if I see another photo of her having a ciggie above her kids head, I may very well go postal myself, but the point is, not one of us can say we are without fault. Can we?