I am so mortified Mum

This weekend, I met my threenager.  A work colleague kindly gave me this word on Monday when I mentioned by utter exasperation at Mini-Me’s constant whining and tantrums. It’s perfect.  Attitude, huffing, stomping, screaming and absolute defiance; and all quite out of character.  Thankfully, it seems to have passed and so I’ll happily attribute her shenanigans to her Daddy being away on business for the weekend as opposed to the beginning of a long-term hatred of Mammy.

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Thankfully however, even in the midst of her strops and screeches, she still managed to surprise me.  We were in a local supermarket on Sunday.  I’d like to paint a picture of calm and relaxation; you know where I hum happily as I push her around in the trolley and she sweetly impresses other shoppers by asking for oranges and singing at the top of her voice.  But no.

True to the form of the weekend, Madam refused to get into the trolley, insisting that she push the bloody thing even though she can hardly reach the handle.  By the time we got to the fruit aisle, (aisle 2), she had thrown two full blown tantrums; one over the pushing of the trolley, and one because she “neeeeeeeed buns!”

So when we moved into the next aisle and she seemed happier, (probably because she was holding said buns as if they were the last buns in the shop), I breathed a sigh of relief and carried on.  And then it happened.

A young man was stacking shelves.  He was bent forward over the onions, minding his own business, doing his job.  I had started humming, happy that all was calm again.  And then my adorable, innocent, (mostly) pleasant daughter lifted her little hand and slapped him square on the arse, shouting “Woooohoooooo!!” as she did so…

I…was…mort…i..fied!

Tell me.  What the hell does one do when their toddler assaults a stranger while they work?  The victim jumped up, dropped his onions and looked around to see a wee toot grinning up at him, proud as punch of her self! He looked at me with shock on his face.

And then he laughed.  Thank the Lord Jesus and the baby donkey, he laughed.

Mammy on the other hand, turned 50 shades of scarlet and made a futile attempt at scolding Mini-Me while apologizing profusely.  “It’s fine!” he said. “I have a wee rascal at home myself.” And with that statement, all was right with the world.

I apologized again, grabbed the bun-free hand and dragged her off.  She was absolutely oblivious to my mortification and sang her way around the rest of the shop.

By the time I got the frozen food, I had resumed my normal pallor.  And then I started to laugh.  It wasn’t just the slap.  It was the “Wooohooo”.  I don’t even know where or how or why she thought to do it.  I explained to her that we don’t slap people and all I can do is hope that it doesn’t happen again.

“I like buns” she replied to me.

Seriously…

I am So mortified Mum

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I am Soap-Mum

“It’s not bedtime.  It’s still early!”  Curse these long evenings!

Mini-Me has been growing increasingly difficult to get to bed at the usual time.  I find myself, for the first time, cursing the changing of the clocks.

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The last few nights were beautiful.   The sun was setting behind mountains.  The sky was 50 shades of pink. And the daughter was still singing “Let It Go!” at 9.30pm.  I tried in vain to explain to her that although it’s still bright outside, it is indeed bedtime.

She was having none of it, until last night.

The debate was becoming quite heated.  Her logic was, (obviously!) that it’s not night time yet.  How the hell does one argue with that? I was beginning to have visions of her sitting up until all hours, when suddenly the theme music for the 8pm episode of Emmerdale came on the TV.

Madam stopped stomping her foot, looked at the telly and announced “It’s bedtime Mammy.  I need Shreddies.

And so I find that I have finally morphed into my mother.

As kids, the music to Coronation Street was our cue to no longer grace the kitchen.It seems silly, and we often joke about it now as adults, that it frightened the lives out of us! How ridiculous that was.  How ridiculous.

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Except it’s not that ridiculous.  I finally understand.  I never realized that it marked the one time of the day where Mother Dearest could make a cup of tea (which she’d actually finish), collapse on the sofa, and grab a fleeting moment of quiet and escapism after the chaos of the day. (Before getting back up to prepare uniforms and lunches and do washing etc afterwards!)

And so, if this music is going to mark bedtime for my “genius but not quite aware of time yet” daughter, then by golly, I am going to jump on that train!emmerdale

And whether it takes me to the Dales, or to the Cobbles is irrelevant, as long as it acts as a bedtime marker, I’m as happy as a character in a Soap Opera!

I am Soap Mum.

I am Stuffed Mum

Happy Easter S-mummers! Today, it’s all about the eating. 

This morning, Mini-me is suspiciously quiet in the kitchen. I voice this observation to Husband, who instantly looks guilty and replies with an “Ermmmmm”. 

I hot foot it to the other room, to find Madam on top of the sofa with half of an Easter Egg in each hand! She was grinning like a Cheshire Cat and was as happy as the proverbial pig. Chocolate for breakfast (Yes I know… despite my promise that that would never happen!). 

But hey! It’s Easter Sunday. She’s hyped up on sugar. We had chocolate with every meal. We ate chocolate between every meal. We made a chocolate butterfly cake for dessert. The eggs have all been anhialated and I’m on the same sofa now, resembling an upturned turtle;  A happy upturned turtle at that. 

Happy Easter! 

I am Stuffed Mum. 😉 

I am Shoplifter-Mum!

My 3 year old is a thief! And a damn fine thief she is too. 

Yesterday, we were having a dander around a local shopping centre. Mini-Me was being perfectly behaved in her buggy, allowing me the rare pleasure of looking around clothes shops. It was heavenly. 

We went into a card shop and as I stood at the till, she was happily singing to herself and swinging her super-long legs. Being a responsible Mammy, I moved the pram back so that she wouldn’t knock the little Yankee Candles off their shelf. 

The shop assistant cooed down at her, telling her she was a lovely girl, then continued the usual chit chat as she packed up my purchases. And so, off we trotted to Marks and Sparks. 

“Isn’t this lovely?” I think to myself, pleased and slightly smug that Mummy and daughter are finally at that lovely stage of being able to go shopping together without theatrics and tantrums. She’s obviously enjoying herself too.
She’s content and quiet, which, come to think of it, is very unusual…suspicious even. 

I stop and step around to look at my sweet, innocent angel, only to see her grinning at me over the top of a pink Yankee Candle. I’m shocked and outraged at once, but all I can do is laugh. 

“Where did you get that?” I ask, with my Mummy is serious voice. 

“It’s PINK and I neeeeeed it.” Comes the reply. 

“Sweetie, that’s not ours. You can’t lift stuff out of shops. You’ll get Mammy in trouble”. 

She looks bothered. 

Holding the evidence up to her pudgy wee nose, she sniffs dramatically before announcing, “Mmmmmm! Smells Taysteeee!” And giving me her sweetest smile. 

What does one do when they catch their toddler stealing? I felt like every passer by knew that we’d been shop lifting. I had sudden visions of the shop assistant arriving with three burly security guards, pointing her accusing finger, declaring “That’s her! There with the buggy!” I could see the headline “Mother uses toddler to steal Yankee Candle!”  

So I did what I knew I had to. I told Princess that we’d have to take it back to the lady in the shop. She protested of course, but I marched (OK pushed) the little criminal right back to the card shop. 

There was a different girl on the till this time. “What do we have to do now?” I asked Madam. She held the offending article up to the Assistant.
I quickly explained that she’d lifted it while I was paying for cards a few minutes earlier. Shop assistant barely looked up, took it back with a “Grand love.” And that was that. 

I was a bit disappointed to be honest. Where was my gratitude? Where was my praise for being such a moral and good person? Where was my award for teaching the toddler that sometimes you must face up to mistakes that you make, and sometimes you have to make things right? 

It’s in the same place as all those  other mummy awards…it’s sitting in the pram. I walked away knowing that we’d done a good thing and that Karma would be happy with us, even if no one else cared. It might have only been a tiny candle, but it wasn’t ours. 

But the person who learned the most valuable lesson was me. Keep a closer eye on my little Sticky Fingers if I don’t want to be Shoplifting Mum again! 

S-Mum Xx