I am Smashed Cup Mum

​What do you get when you cross a cup and a bin lorry?

Let me tell you a story on this Fablis Friday evening…
Once upon a time, there was a little girl called Princess Mini-Me.  One day, OVER a year ago, Granny brought Mini-Me to a pottery cafe.  

Mini-Me painted a cup, much like the one in the image below.  As Mini-Me was just about to become a Big Sister, they decided that the cup would hereforth be known as “Big Sister cup”.


Cute so far eh?
Mini-Me brought her new cup home and for 3 whole months, the Big Sister Cup sat in the cupboard, where Mini-Me pretty much ignored it, apart from the odd day when she took a notion to ask for it.
Then, one fateful, cursed day, Mini-Me dropped the cup and it smashed into 3 million Smithereens, all over the kitchen floor. Cinderella’s glass slipper didn’t have a look in and THIS fairy Good-GOD-mother, didn’t have a CHANCE of fixing it.  
And so the Big Sister Cup went to the big cupboard in the sky.  OK, I exaggerate.  It went INTO the bin, AWAY in the Bin Lorry and OUT of our minds…


A few months later, it was mentioned again out of the blue.
We drove past a Bin Lorry. She started to shout “Follow THAT BIN LOWEEEEE!” and “BIG SISTER CUP!”

We laughed (Hahahaha!) and hugged her and gently explained, once again, that the cup was BROKEN and it was GONE.

And they all lived happily ever after…

Until this evening.
8 MONTHS LATER…As the Poor Queen S-Mum collected Mini-Me from school, she was summoned by the very lovely teacher, who informed her that Mini-Me had cried for 45 minutes after breaktime.  She was VERY upset apparently, and try as she might, Teacher could NOT figure out what had caused the Tootsy One’s meltdown.

“She kept talking about a cup for her sister?” said Teacher.

“Huh?” said S-Mum.  (Not a single clue.)

“And something about a bin lorry?”

(Penny drops.  Oh. DEAR. GOD…) 

“Aaaaaah! Darling, did you see a Bin Lorry at Breaktime?” ventured S-Mum. 

“Yush Mammy and I wanted my Big sister cup back…”
Well I won’t go into the verbal diahorrea that began projecting from my mouth to try to explain to Teacher why my Daughter had FALLEN APART at the sight of a bin lorry.  πŸ˜πŸ˜πŸ˜
Because, it’s just too fricken weird and too hilariously ridiculous and is YET another example of how S-Mum may get used to feeling COMPLETE MORTIFICATION AND CONFUSION for the foreseeable future.

It seems to come with the territory.

  It should be part of the instructions on the Pregnancy test… “Pee on stick, Wait for line, Get used to being confused about EVERYTHING.” πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
So what do you get when you cross a cup with a bin lorry?
An ABSOLUTE TRAUMA which will continue to cause Mini Meltdowns WELL into the teenage years apparently.
I smell grapes.🍷🍷🍷
Happy Friday Lovelies.πŸ’–

Watch out for the Bin Lorries. πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

I am Say Hello to Floor Mum

​Let me introduce you to my friend Floor.
“Miss Bedroom Floor” to give her full title.
Mummy misses Miss Floor. 😭

We have a complicated relationship.

We often go for months without seeing each other.

We can spend weeks apart, not talking, not asking how the other is doing, seemingly not caring aboit each other.
When Floor and Mummy fall out, it’s usually over clothes and shoes.

We have the same taste see.🀐

Floor also has a lot to deal with.  

Mummy neglects her. 

I do.

Since the kids came along, Mummy just doesn’t have the same time to spend with her.  You could say she has been abandoned, dropped on, forgotten by Mummy.

I walk all over her really.

There is a layer of cobweb on our relationship, and it’s horrible.😭😭😭
And of course, there are the OTHER Floors… Floor MUST be jealous as Mummy keeps the other floors generally tidy.

 SOMETIMES, (believe or or not), Mummy even MOPS the Other Floors.

I know. 

I’m awful.😲

So I really can’t blame Floor for hiding from Mummy and ignoring me sometimes.
But like any TRUE FRIENDSHIP, when distance grows between us, we both feel sad.

Mummy misses Floor terribly.

When she is sad and isolated and upset, and the distance between us is great, Mummy could cry.  

It’s all such a MESS. I feel like the whole house is falling down around me.  I can’t get over her.  I can’t get past missing her. I feel like my head is going to fucking EXPLODE.
This morning, my broken and disintegrating relationship with my friend Floor, became too much for me to deal with.

At approximately 7.45am, Mummy freaked out on The Him. πŸ‘€
I couldn’t DEAL with the absence of Floor any longer. 
“I can’t deal with this situation any more. It’s driving me insane. I just can’t get the time need to find Floor!” were just a few of the things I ranted and rambled while trying to find the trousers Floor had hidden from me.

STRESS CENTRAL.
I went to work, promising myself that this evening, I WOULD make time for my Friend Floor.  I WOULD fix this mess. I WOULD make her remember that she is loved and valued.
I would.
As I collected Princess from The Him after work, I was still determined to make amends with Floor.

As HIM drove off, he called “Try to get that Floor sorted this evening will you?”
He was waved off with less than 5 fingers and many obscenities, expletives and petnames muttered after him.

He will pay for that.
And then we came home and I opened the bedroom door to find THIS…

πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡

NOT ONLY had The Him tidied up the room, he had rearranged the wardrobes to GIVE ME MORE SPACE!

I. Shit. You. Not.
I almost FELL on the floor in shock (and joy!)

I think I fell a little bit in lurve with Him all over again too.πŸ’™πŸ’™πŸ’™πŸ’™
Joking aside, I can’t find the words to express how much this simple, unexpected action meant to me today. It isn’t even the tidying that has floored me…(boom)… it’s the fact that he noticed how much it was stressing me out.

In a house where I sometimes feel like no one even HEARS ME most of the time, just to have something be noticed is amazing.
Tonight? If he bought flowers, diamonds, chocolates… none of that could compete with the utter joy of seeing Floor again.
The Him gets a tough time on here, so I must give credit where it’s due.

He is my Superhero. 

My S-Him.

AND I’m NOT even going to REARRANGE the rearranged wardrobes!
(I’ll do that tomorrow!) πŸ˜‚πŸ˜˜πŸ˜˜πŸ˜˜

I am Sometimes I need my Mamma Mum πŸ˜š

​Sometimes, S-Mum needs her Mamma too. πŸ‘­
This evening I HAD TO stay at Mum’s for a few hours after work. 
See my driveway was full of lorries and diggers and workmen.  It looked like the opening of “Fraggle Rock”, so I was FORCED to pop in to hers for an hour…or three!
She drank tea.🍡

I drank coffee.β˜•

We ate cake…(Seriously guys, she is THE BEST BAKER in the world. Click onto Cakes by Ann to see!)🍰
She cooked dinner.

Princess rearranged ALL of her cupboards.


Mini-Me provided a moment of immense achievement for Techy-Granny as her demands for Inside-Out caused Granny to figure out how to work the Brother’s Playstation as a DVD player!  

I am in AWE of this woman.

I wouldn’t even know where the on switch is.πŸ˜…
And then, I brought my Minions home and we have just had the most suspiciously calm and ordinary bedtime EVER…
This morning however?
This morning was not so calm.😭😭😭
We slept in.

I had NOTHING DONE before bed last night, because the smug TIT that is S-Mum had planned the usual 5.30am start and didn’t consider ironing uniforms or making lunches before bed.  Clever Mummy.
We were running on the dodgy side of late.

I dropped Princess next door, realised I’d forgotten her dummies (not just 1 for my ruined rascal!), jumped back into the car to grab them from the house, spun the car BACK AROUND because of Big Digger SUDDENLY BLOCKING my driveway, ran back into Mum’s, kissed the Baby and apologised profusely for lack of dummies, jumped back in car, remembered I’d forgotten her bibs and FINALLY started on our journey to school…feeling UTTERLY FRICKEN USELESS! πŸ˜‚
Mini-Me THANKFULLY announced that she wanted Quiet time, so I allowed myself to be soothed back into a more positive vibe with the familiar soothing tones of Donal K on the radio machine… 
My train of thought followed this track:

“Snap out of it S-Mum.

You forgot her dummies, not her.

She’ll be fine.

Mum will get one from some magical place and Princess will not even know what a shit Mammy you are.

This is NOT a problem…

Other people have REAL problems…

Get over yourself…

Stop stressing…

Let that car out in front of you…

There we go…karma being restored already.

Positive thoughts only.

Practice what you preach…

Deep breaths…

Negativity breeds negati…
“Mammy.”

“Yes Darling?” 

“Why am I not allowed milk at school?”

(Vague recollection of note saying milk starts on the 23rd.)

“Of course you’re allowed milk at school Sweetie.”

(Shit.  Racks brain for memory of form to fill in…nope…nothing!)

“Teacher says I don’t get milk. Wilena gets milk coz HER Mammy sent a note and she’s ALLOWED milk, but I’m not, coz you never writed a note.”

(Seriously… I don’t remember ANYTHING about sending in a note. Shit Mummy!😭😭😭)

“Mammy will sort it pet.”
There’s that Train of thought again… like a steam train with a big sign on front of it announcing arrival at “USELESS MAMMY-ville” and whistling “You forgot the dummies Dummy and you didn’t writed a note!”
How easily the silliest things can become HUMONGOUS eh?
I writed the note before she got the bus.

She gotted the milk and so is no longer the unloved child with THAT Mummy.

Mum found a Dummie under the sofa.

Princess was unaware of the utter neglect.

The diggers blocked the driveway.

Granny made the dinner.

The kids went to bed…

Mammy poured a gin…

And they all lived happily ever after. 

πŸ˜‚

I am So Eating the Chocolate Mum

​Sweet Jebus.
“Mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum MUM MUM MUM  MUM MUM.”
“WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?”
Insert random, usually COMPLETELY sporadic and unplanned question or statement here.

She doesn’t even have anything of importance to say.

She doesn’t CARE that she hasn’t even thought of what she’s about to say before she starts the 

“Mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum MUM MUM MUM  MUM MUM.” 

The only two things she knows at that moment are:

1. Mammy has started to talk to someo6else.

2. Mammy must NOT talk to someone else while I am in the room.
It’s exhausting.

And sometimes, depending on WHO mammy is DARING to have a conversation with, it’s ridiculously embarrassing.
I can handle a class of 28 teenagers, but I have NO CONTROL over a 4 & 3/4-er…

Shoot me now…
The two pictures below, top and tail the evening I’ve just had with my Mini-Me.
The first picture is about 44 minutes before THE BEDTIME FROM HELL that has lead to #operationskinnyarse being thrown THE FECK out the window, just for tonight. (Image 2…not cropped to hide grapejuice.)πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰


The lovely Samantha @nappiesandlattes brought her this lovely Princess Bubbles last night. (non-alcoholic of course, although I would seriously consider throwing some gin into it right now…)
She ate all of her dinner, even AFTER a birthday party so The Him popped it, making a nice wee fuss over her and giving us a really sweet Mummy and Mini-Me moment.
 45 minutes later, both of us are screaming, both of us are in tears and BOTH of us are ready to freak the hell out.

Why!?

Because BOTH of us THINK we’re the alpha female of the group and BOTH of us need to learn to calm the feck down.

We’re as bad as each other and I have no one to blame but myself…and of course The Him.  Because she has HIS temper… she OBVIOUSLY doesn’t get her headstrong stubborness from me now does she?

All Him.πŸ˜€
And so now, it’s finally quiet, I had a good old telemobile rant at my Buddy “Rainbow” and The Him bought me a bar of chocolate.

NEVER underestimate the power of dialling a number to another Mammy Bear. You can say ANYTHING and swear as MUCH AS YOU LIKE, and they’ll just sit on the other end of the line nodding their heads and agreeing with you and saying things like “Mmmmhmmmmm” and  “Oh I hear ya!” and so you don’t fell quite so shittiful or USELESS as a parent.
So there.

That is how quickly things can escalate, or indeed disintegrate when you have a tired Mammy and a tired Minion in a room.  

The smiles in the first picture are real, but so are the tears.

I just don’t have a picture of those.
And the chocolate bar is also real, so Over and out Bitcheepooos!
I have some slabbering to do… 😘😘😘

I am Saturday Morning Love Letter Mum

​A Love Letter to my Beautiful Daughters.
To my daughters.

You know how much I love you both. But on this particular morning, I go above and beyond to express my adoration for you.  You are the absolute loves of my life and I would do ANYTHING for you both.  This morning, I prove this.
I have many things to teach you in life my Darlings.  Love, respect, manners, Dance routines, Beyonce lyrics… I will endeavour to give you the skills you need to spot a Gobshite from 100 yards, to identify Liars before they get into your head, to determine who is real and who is a Master of Bullsheeeet… skills I am still learning myself.  You, my precious Darlings, shall be armed and ready for all of these, and yet you shall STILL encounter them and you shall probably make some of the same mistakes that I did… do.
I shall teach you lots of things. But this morning, as the wind and rain batters the house and my to-do list is laughing at me from the table, where it lies forever unfinished, there is only ONE thing that I TRULY want you to understand.
SATURDAYS.

I WANT YOU TO UNDERSTAND THAT IT’S A FRICKEN SATURDAY!
I NEED you to understand that a Saturday morning is DIFFERENT.
Monday through Friday, I HAVE TO WAKEN YOU at 7.30am to get us out the door. 

But this morning? 

This morning, you BOTH bounce to full blown Minioness at STUPID O’CLOCK.
You have obviously conspired against your poor Mamma Bear. 

Is this my punishment for having 2 hours of Me-only time with Scrumptious Pacha last night?

Did you have a midnight meeting to establish your coincidentally coordinated wakeup time of 6.03am?

Do you not love me?

Do ypu not care?
Of course you don’t!

You’re both snuggled on the floor, in your fluffy dressing gowns, engrossed in that snottery little bitch Peppa Pig, while I am on Coffee number 3.

You don’t give a continental crap that it’s  a Saturday.
And why should you? 

I do love you, no less this morning, although I complain that it feels like lunchtime already.

I just hope you appreciate my sacrifices.

Sleep, bed, slumber, adult only snuggles… who needs them eh? 

You’re cute and funny and slabbery and adorable and I love you both more than I love myself, even at stupid o’ clock on a SATURDAY.
Now, my Darlings, tomorrow is Sunday…SUNDAY! 

And it’s Daddy’
s turn to get up with you, so feel free to awake from your slumber whenever you so please!
Love always my little fluffybums,

Mammy xxxxxxx


πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–πŸ’–

I am Stupid Bin Mum

​Sssssssssh!

Strictly has started!
It’s officially winter.

It’s cold, dark and stormy.

The fire has been lit for the first time.

Strictly is on the tellybox.

Mammy is snug in my room, making smoochie with my favourite.  It’s a REALLY good grapejuice actually, bought on sale in The Counter last week.  Herself-of-the-wine told me to make sure to let it breath…

I gave it 3 minutes and then started mouth to mouth.

The Him is watching Braveheart or some such shite in the other room.

The Him is not allowed to interrupt Strictly.

The Him values Him’s life and would like to live another day to see Him’s Jim.
The Him MAY alos be SLIGHTLY in S-Mum’s bad booklets.

Why?

Why? you ask…
I’ll tell you why shall I?
The HIM did NOT put the BIG GIANT BIN up to the road this morning.
S-Mum even HINTED AT HIM as he crept out of bed at 5am “Did you remember to get bin labels?”… (Sleepy, sweet, cute wife voice to remind Him of my tininess and not-of-the-putting-out-of-the-big-binability.)

It OBVIOUSLY didn’t work.
I lay in bed thinking “He’ll put the bin out. I’m so clever reminding him I am.”

He went out the door thinking “I remembered to buy bin labels and she only reminded me once. I am fricken awesome I am.”
Perspective lads.πŸ˜‘
So at 5.45am when I noticed the HUGE FECKING WHEELIE BIN STILL at the back door, imagine my surprise!

The sunrise was pink and beautiful.

My exhaltations were colourful to say the least.
That BIN weighs AT LEAST 15 stone.

I DO NOT weigh 15 stone.πŸ˜‚
I dragged nearly 2 times my bodyweight UP A BLOODY HILL. (OK, Maybe not quite 2 times my bodyweight, but for dramatic purposes I exaggerate. Shup…)🀐
Big bin.

Me in my PJs.

Big hill.

LOTS of expletives.

Savage dose of self-righteousness.
Worse than a workout?

Better than a workout?

Who knows, but one was NOT impressed. 🀐
And yes, of course I’m all about equal rights and gender equality.

Just not when the bin needs to go out.

πŸ˜™πŸ˜™

I am So like a Unicorn Mum! πŸ¦„πŸ¦„

​Another typical car journey from school…
Herself: “Mammy, did you fart?” 
Indignation! 😲
Me: “No I did NOT!”

Herself: “Well it smells like fart.”

Me: “Well it wasn’t me.  Anyway, you know Mammy only farts glitter.”

Her: “Oh, are you like a unicorn?”πŸ¦„πŸ¦„πŸ¦„

Me: “A unicorn?”

Her: “Yeah a UNICORN.  You know how they fart glitter too Mammy? So you’re like a unicorn.”

Me: ” Yes.  Mammy IS like a unicorn.”πŸ¦„

 

Mammy is quite liking the idea of being compared to a FABLIS, majestic, mysterious and beautifully elusive mythical being.

 Mammy drifts off on a tangent of thought in which my first book is entitled “MOTHERHOOD: TALES OF GLITTER FARTING UNICORNS”… and on the cover, I am styled in a multicoloured unicornesque dress, clattered in glitter and looking all unicorny and wistful and magical.
Her: “So if you’re like a unicorn, does you burp rainbows too?”

(I’m enjoying this now.)

Me: “Yes, Yes I am Sweetheart.  Mammy burps rainbows!”🌈

Her: “And does dat mean you’re horny like a unicorn?”πŸ¦„

Me: “Erm…. 😲😲😲
The title of my book may have changed slightly…

 “MOTHERHOOD: TALES OF A HORNY, GLITTER-FARTING RAINBOW-BURPER.” πŸ¦„πŸŒˆπŸ¦„
Who wants to pre-order?

πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

I am So Happy it’s Bedtime Mum!

​I love my girls.
I really do.
I love them soooooooooo much.
But JEEEEEEEEESUS do I love their bedtime! πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚


Our visitors have left.

The house is upside down.

We’re all knackered after the last week of mayhem.

  I’m honestly still catching up with myself from the Blog Awards last Thursday night! 
We all miss the visitors alweady:

Mini-Me is NOT impressed that Uncle Brian has gone back to London and not taken her with him. (I must admit, for about 20 minutes this morning, I almost wished he had too!πŸ˜‚)
Princess is looking around for her fan club after spending 3 days with continous attention from them all.
The dog is suitably depressed in the back hall because they’ve gone, and I am seriously concerned that I obviously don’t give my family enough attention, when the departure of visitors causes such feckin DEVASTATION among my babbies…furbaby and all! πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
But now that they’re both snoring, I’m watching Corrie and having a savage case of writer’s block. The groceries are still sitting on the counter and I REALLY need to get up off my arse and put on some dinner.
And no more visitors means that The Him will now be delighted to have my full attention back when he gets home.

  NOT…😐😐😐
He’ll probably miss them just as much as the attention hungry minions and dog because he’ll have to ACTUALLY listen to my ramblings tonight and will no longer have the peace he’s had to stare at him’s screens over the past few nights! πŸ˜‚
I hope you all had a Marvellous Monday.

Enjoy their bedtime! πŸ˜‚

​I am Scratching Already Mum

Lice.
Dirty rotten little shits.😠


How many of you are scratching your head already?

Even thinking about them has me ripping the skin off my scalp.
Two days…yes… TWO DAYS after Mini-Me started school, I received a phonecall from another S-Mum to let me know she’d already found the nasty little feckers in her Minion’s hair.  

She’d already treated the whole house and was just letting me know as our two little Darlings love to hug, they do. πŸ’–
(Scratches…)
My reactions included:
1. Serious testing of my “It’s Soooo OK, I’ve got my shit together” face.

2. Immediate scratching of my own head.

3. Instant scrutiny of Mini-Me’s head. (Thankfully, no nits!)

4. More scratching.

5. Instant gratitude to my lovely Hairdresser for making me buy Lice prevention spray and warning me to NEVER let her out the door in the morning without a spray. (Thanks Ciara.)

6. A bit more scratching.

7. Checking her head again JUST to make sure.

8. Calling my Mammy to ask if I would see them or if they’re invisible to the naked eye, in which case my friend who owns a telescope was going to be getting a visit!
I’ve NEVER experienced head lice.

I have fond memories of the metal comb on a Sunday night after bathtime each time “The letter” came home in one of the schoolbags to announce the arrival of lice to the classroom.  

Thankfully, we never actually got them so I can honestly say that the phonecall last week, 

FREAKED 

ME

 OUT.😣
I went straight to the chemist and actually BOUGHT the treatment, just to have in the house, because whatever day I spot the little pricks in her hair, I don’t want to have to go through the trauma of leaving the house to kill them. I shall be Super-exterminator-Mum and I shall DESTROY them withing 3 minutes.
In the local chemist, I quietly asked for “Calpol, teetha…Oh! And whatever you use to treat lice please.”

(Scratches.)
“How many heads are infested?” nice lady asks. (Scratches head ever so subtly.) 
“Oh noooooo!” High-pitched immediately panicked voice. 
 She can’t POSSIBLY think we have nits.  I can’t have people thinking that! 😣😣 

Dammit, I should have gone to a huge chemist where no one knows me and no one cares what you’re buying, (Like when I used to give a shit who sold me “the pill” years ago! Anyone else? πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚)
  “It’s just to have it in the house incase. They’re in the classroom apparently and I just want to have it in.”

I then heard myself rambling on about my hairdresser warning me to use the spray yadda yadda and how THANK GOD I had listened etc…you know, as if to PROVE that I wasn’t lying and to justify buying something so terribly uncouth as lice treatment.
“I used to do that too love!” Said one of the other chemist ladies.

Well thank the Lord and his Donkey for that.  πŸ’–
Because I’m OBVIOUSLY not the first Crazy Mum to buy Lice treatment BEFORE there are even lice!
And I will OF COURSE need it at some stage, and I shall be the S-Mum sending the text or making the call.
And I am grateful to the Mummy in question for giving me the heads up…boom…πŸ˜‚

 (It probably didn’t cost her a thought as she is a fablisly experienced and not-crazy-first-time-mummy-of-a-school-goer and knows how much of a silly NOT-big-deal lice are and she’ll probably roll her eyes when she reads this!) 😁
It’s just another first for this scratchy Mummy.

And at least now, I am READY for the little feckers.

But I still won’t say “Bring them on”, because I’m already scratched out at the THOUGHT of them!
Go on, admit it.

Comment below if you’ve scratched your head even ONCE while reading this. πŸ‘‡πŸ˜™πŸ‘‡πŸ˜€
(Scratches.)
Happy sunday night Scratching! πŸ˜™πŸ˜™

I am Swearing MumΒ 

​S-Mum has come to realisation that we should really stop swearing.
I say “we” to include ALL of the members of my family who sometimes swear; you know?  Me, The Him… Mini-Me…
In the past few weeks, little Miss Moral Knickers has upped her game of correctional disapproval.  If anyone drops a swear word, her reaction is to announce “BAD WOD!” with an urgency and fervour to match only a Mamma who ALMOST spills her wine.  Her speed and accuracy are AMAZING!
Mini-Me’s aunty stubbed her toe yesterday and, of course, reacted with a FABLIS rendition of JEEEEEEESUS CHRIIIIIIST!

BEFORE she had even pronounced the T at the end of Christ, we heard “BAD WOD!” resounding  through the air…from ANOTHER ROOM!

Even watching Peppa Feckin Pig, by which she is, (like most kids), for some reason ENGROSSED to the point that I doubt she’d notice if SANTAπŸŽ… HIMSELF walked in!, Her High-moral-horse-ness picked up on the expletive in the other room and had it suitably disciplined within nanoseconds.
Impressive. πŸ˜‘πŸ˜‘


The funniness of her reaction however, is LESS FUNNY when she starts correcting non-family members. πŸ˜₯πŸ˜₯πŸ˜₯
 Our Gardener was here earlier and got admonished for his accidental use of “Shit”.  He tripped over the dog-horse.🐢

 It was a perfectly appropriate use of emergency expletive, but not for Mini-Me.

“BAD WOD!”

(Thankfully, he too has bossy minions of his own…) πŸ˜‚
On Saturday, The Him announced “I keep forgetting to put that bloody box in the attic.”
“BAD WOD!”

“I did NOT say a Bad Word!?”

“Yes, you did Daddy.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“I heard you.  You said Bloody Box. Dat wight Mum?”

“I did NOT!”
Me and Bloke stifling spontaneous combustion…”You did Honey. She’s right I’m afraid.”
He genuinely didn’t even realise he’d said it and proceeded to apologise. “Ah Ok! Silly Daddy didn’t mean to say that.  You were right.”
Cue smug little fartsickle shrugging her shoulders and saying “See! Told ya!” before flouncing to her room.
The Bloke starts to laugh.

We have the “very seriously good parenting We really need to stop swearing, before she starts repeating us!” conversation…
The Bloke buckles.

“BEFORE she starts? She told me yesterday I was a Duckhead.”
Oh.

Sweet.

Gemima. 😣😣😣
And that’s not the worst one.

I had jumped out and frightened her that morning and had a good old giggle to myself as she ran screaming down the hall.  Apparently what I didn’t hear because of my guffawing was her telling her teddy “She’s a BITCH!” 😁😁
So there you go.

  My Mother-Theresa-esque-Morally-superior Mini-Me is actually an absolute potty mouth.
I am officially terrified that she will decide to use her colourful language at school and her lovely young and polite Teacher will think she comes from a family of Potty mouths… She does of course, but it’d be nice to keep that hidden for a while.
Terrible isn’t it? I’ll await the referral Social Services and the disapproving eyebrows from the perfect parents who never let their kids HEAR them swear, πŸ˜‰ and I promise to try to be a better example to her.
But as a positive, she has been using them in the correct context, so as a language teacher I must commend that. πŸ™„πŸ™„


I’m often reminded by my parents of MY first day of school, where I seemingly came home from school and called my baby brother a “Wee Bastard.”

  My lovely ladylike Mum has never recovered from the shock, but sure look it…I turned out alright didn’t I? ( Tumbleweed rolls across page…)πŸ˜…
Goodnight Bitcheepooooos. 
“BAD WOD!” πŸ˜‚