I am Study for your Mum degree Mum! ๐Ÿ˜…

โ€‹Grab a cuppa Bitchrepooooos.

  It’s a long one tonight!
My journey through the jungle of Mammyhood so far has many things. I am always learning and yet it feels like I never learn! ๐Ÿ˜… Regardless of how you become a Mamma: pregnancy, IVF, adoption, fostering, marriage… if you are responsible for loving a child, you’re a Mammy.  And it’s quite a job.  A career.  A vocation even! 
Letโ€™s face it.  If I want to embark on any career, I generally need to spend 3-5 years being educated to qualify me properly to attempt it.  Being a Mammy (and indeed a Daddy!) doesnโ€™t require a degree, and yet it is the most challenging career in the world.

As parents, we become educated in life and often hilariously terrifying ways of the world that no university could ever teach…
but if they did…
IF there was a degree in parenting, here is what I imagine it would look like:
“Bachelor of the art of Perfect Parenting”

Semester 1

Module 101 – Pregnancy and Parenting: A beginnerโ€™s guide

Module 102 – Preparing for your new arrival – Required equipment

Module 103 – Food preparation for the healthy family
Semester 2

Module 201 – Techniques for sleep and Behaviour

Module 202 – Planning your childโ€™s play and Sensory Scenarios

Module 203 – First aid for Mummies
Optional Modules 

๐Ÿ˜Relationships; maintaining healthy romantic and familial relationships

๐Ÿ˜Positivity, Mindfullness and Sleep Deprivation – How to deal with it.

๐Ÿ˜Reliabilty of resources available.

๐Ÿ˜Language and Speech Development.
And at the end, you would be a QUALIFIED parent.  You would have folders of notes, and a brain bursting with facts and figures, and lesson plans and medical references.
You’d be sorted. ๐Ÿ˜‰
But as a Real Mammy, who knows that most of the above is utter crap, and that these headings only SCRATCH the surface of parenting, let ME suggest what a parenting degree outline should look like!
“Bachelorette of Thoroughly Modern Mammyness.”
Semester 1
Module 101 – Pregnancy and Parenting: A beginnerโ€™s guide – Life as you know it, ends here.  You only think you know what pain, fear and exhaustion are now.  Pregnancy is like a “One size” bra.  It fits some women better than others. Mine fit like a 4 man tent.  You may glow, or you may puke.  It’s great fun.  But at the end of it, thereโ€™s a wonderful thing.  And there’s  also the Love. I wonโ€™t even try to prepare you for that. I canโ€™t. ๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ’™๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ’™๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ’™๐Ÿ’—
Module 102 – Change everything – The house, the layout of your rooms, the car.  Everything.  And enjoy your magazine perfect showhouse with your fancy candles and FengShuiโ€ฆ That shit ends once your minion is able to move about on your once-but-never-again-clean rug.  All ornaments and valuables should be put up on a high shelf, or locked away for approximately 15 years.  Actually, just sell them.  Youโ€™re going to need the cash for the Stuff. ๐Ÿ‘‡
Module 103 – All the Stuff.  Get your list of Baby Essentials.  Got it? Now, rip it up.  You do not need 250 steriswabs, or 5 pairs of scratch mittens.  The only thing on those lists that isnโ€™t exaggerated, is the quantity of industrial sized sanitary nappies, sorry, towels.  Buy ALL of those bad boys.  And then buy extra.

 And as for the list of furniture, equipment and travel accessories?  Get your basics.  Car seat, cot, baby bath, changing mat.  Depending on YOUR own house and YOUR own situation, youโ€™ll know what you need as you need it.  Do not buy all the everything!  Trust me, youโ€™ll end up with a house that looks like a Baby shop has puked on it and, in approximately 8 months time, as you put the only-used-once-stuff in the attic, youโ€™ll wonder why the hell you bought it in the first place. 

 Oh! And those lovely nursing chairs that we all want for our idealistic moments of feeding baby in the nursery?  They are the most glorified clothes storage devices in the world.  Your baby will more than likely be in your room for the first 6 years…sorry monthsโ€ฆ anyway, and when you ARE doing night feeds, youโ€™re more than likely going to want to do them in the heat of your bed,  rather than in an empty room.  Yes, theyโ€™re lovely and Iโ€™m sure someone will disagree here, but thatโ€™s how I see them… A clothes horse.
Semester 2
Module 201 – Techniques for Sleep and Behaviour  –  Pray, wing it and go with your gut.  You canโ€™t control your babyโ€™s sleep.  You canโ€™t control your babyโ€™s behaviour.  You can only go with what you get on a daily basis and trust me, often, as cliched as it is, it IS just a phase.  And if you do find yourself genuinely struggling with either of these issue, ask for help.  There are brilliant (and actually qualified with real degrees) professionals in our community and there are SO MANY brilliant resources that Mums and Dads can access easily.  Google Parent Hub. Parent Hub, Donegal

You’ll be amazed at what they offer. Or talk to your PHN or GP.  
Module 202 – Planning your childโ€™s play 

 Buy toys.  Watch child play with boxes, lunchboxes, remote controls and ANYTHING they shouldnโ€™t have that could pose danger to them.  Shake head at the amount of educational crap in the toy corner and get out the saucepans and wooden spoons.  Oh and get down on your knees and play! ๐Ÿ˜…
Module 203 – First aid for Mummies – Have a meltdown everytime they cut themselves, bump their head, break a sweat, have a strange poo or get a temperature.  Slowly learn to recognise your own babyโ€™s physical reactions and signs.  Google symptoms, freak out…ask on a Mammy forum…freak outโ€ฆ 

But seriously, weโ€™re mums.  Unless you ARE a Doctor, if youโ€™re concerned about Baby, GO TO A DOCTOR!  And follow your gut.  While it may be sick with worry, Mammaโ€™s gut is always right.
Optional Modules 

Relationships – learning how NOT to murder your partner at 3am

Sex – You will want to think about it again some dayโ€ฆ ๐Ÿ˜ˆ๐Ÿ˜‰๐Ÿ˜ˆ

Alcohol – It shall be frowned upon, but some days, even the most Sanctimonious of Sanctimommies thinks about gin at 11am.  They just won’t admit it.

Swearing control – Any parent who has never sworn behind the back of their child, or at least mouthed a profanity when they hear โ€œMammyโ€ for the 387th time that day, is either sedated or a liar…

Disney lyrics – because you will need to know them.
And so there you go. I hereby declare the Bachelorette of the Thoroughly Modern Mammyness open for application.

No previous experience or qualifications required. 

Itโ€™s a tight course, but the end result is something that no amount of paper or letters after your name can measure.  But if you really want to show off your qualifications, just start signing off like this…
  S-Mum (Mum.Mum.Mum.Mum.Mum.Mum.Mum.Mum.Mumโ€ฆ)
Suggestions for extra optional modules on a postcard please. ๐Ÿ˜™๐Ÿ˜™๐Ÿ˜™

How do you measure up? ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚

โ€‹I am Slippy Feet Mum

Well it’s officially Christmas.  

Jack Frost arrived this morning, the mischievous little fecker, and forced me to have to nearly break in to my own car.  He also forced half of Donegal to reduce their speed, which of course is never a bad thing, unless you reduce it from 100 to approximately 54km/hr on the very LARGE, STRAIGHT and very SALTED road into Letterkenny and hold up all of the rush hour traffic.  
In that case, you’re simply a twatsickle.   
But I digress.
I love Jack-of-the-frost, I do.  

I love the chilled air.  I love seeing breath clouds. I love the glitter. 
I loved seeing the clouds sitting ON the Swilly this morning.  I particularly loved Mini-Me’s expression when she saw this sight and exclaimed “Mammy! The Cwouds are touching the waaaater!”

I was very organised this morning…completely prepared for the frozen car and slippery steps and extra time needed to get down off S-Mumble Hill.  
I’d love to say it’s because I’m Supermum and that it was my maternal instinct that told me, through osmosis obviously, that it would be a frozen morning, or indeed that, like Yeats, somone as infamous as Homer…ormin my case Jack Frost… “came whispering to my mind” warning me to jump out of bed and be a Winter Wondermum…
But in reality it was a text from The Him at 5.45am which read “ROADS SHITE GORGEOUS. BLACK ICE. DON’T BE RUNNING LATE. I LOVE YOU TO THE MOON AND BACK…XXXXXX”  (No you CAN’T prove that I’ve edited this or exaggerated the content of the text, so there! That’s what Him typed…honest like.)๐Ÿ˜‚
And so I wrapped Princess up like  the fat little spanx-wearing Christmas pudding that she is, got Mini-Me into her new fingered gloves – (that’s another post ALTOGETHER! ๐Ÿ˜ ๐Ÿ˜ ) – and carried them both down the very slippery steps to the car, which I’d EVEN managed to have running for 5 minutes so I wasn’t putting the kids in a fridge.

I dropped Princess off and headed to drop Mini-Me to the bus. (at 54km remember?)
I was so proud of myself and already planning the accomplished and smug text to The Him when I reached school saying that I was early and that of course I loved him more etc., ๐Ÿ˜ˆ๐Ÿ˜…and then as I drove into the carpark, I realised something.
I realised that I had CARRIED Mini-Me out of the house and set her safely into the car.
And then it dawned on me that I, or Himself, have probably ALWAYS carried her in and out of places if it was icy.

And so now, I was dropping her off to get OUT of the car, where she’d  have to WALK BY HERSELF TO the bus, which someone ELSE was driving,

And THEN she’d have to get OFF the fecking bus in a slippery playground and make her wasy to the door ACROSS the playground…


And my Blood chilled as if Jack-of-the-frost himself had kissed my chapped lips…
I stopped the car and actually had to take a few deep breaths.

How ridiculous am I? 
“This is NOT A BIG DEAL you Silly Woman!” said Mammy’s inside voice.

“Cop yourself on Woman” laughed Mrs Anxiety.

“But what if she falls?” answered Super-bubblewrap Mum.
My gut was telling me to ring work to announce that I had an emergency and that I’d be half an hour late so I could drive her ther myself.

Of course I COULDN’T let someone else drive a bus with my Precious (if sometimes terrifying) Minion on it… 

THAT would be NUTS would it not?
You’ll be glad to know that Common Sense slapped me across the face, because obviously, Mammy being MENTAL and CARRYING HER to the door of the school would be MUCH more embarrassing and have life long repercussions compared to her slipping on the ice and bumping onto the ground.
So I reminded her that said ground was REALLY SLIPPY and that the school yard would be EXTRA slippy and that she’d have to take small steps and walk slowly.  I made sure the gloves were still on so that at least if she DID fall,  it wouldn’t be too sore on her wee hands.  And then I walked beside her to the door and quite literally let her find her feet.
And she did.

She slipped a few times, and then like a little Bambi, found her balance before looking up at me and announcing “I’m just like Elsa Mammy.”

I nearly pushed her across a puddle just to see if she’d land like Elsa too, but I though better of it.
Here I was stressing the feck out about HER and she’s off being a Disney fucking princess in her own head.

STORY OF MY LIFE! ๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ’—

(She sooooo gets that fromThe Him obviously.)
Hope you all had a Marvellous Monday xxxxx

I am She’s One Mum

โ€‹It’s here.  
Princess will turn one tomorrow.  


12 whole months…

365 days…

1 funfilled amazing year has passed since her chubby little self bounced into our world.  Well, I say “bounced”… she didn’t bounce, but I did as the amazing surgeons tugged and pulled and lifted her out my sunroof! ๐Ÿ˜‚ 
But arrive she did. And as with the arrival of any little one, our lives have been changed utterly.
I’m a bit gobsmacked at how quickly the year has gone. 

I’m sitting looking at her wee party shoes ๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡and I’m really not sure how I feel if I’m honest.

 It’s like I’ve blinked and she’s suddenly transformed from a chubby cheeked helpless new baby into a standing-alone, scoffy-laughing, Rambo-Hulk whose smile lights up the room and who has “Mischief” written all over her.
When Mini-Me turned one, we felt a huge sense of achievement.  We’d made it to ONE! We were fecking awesome! We were no longer NEW parents… We rocked!
With Princess, it’s more like a sense of Survival. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚Because, we’ve done it! We’ve survived a year of being parents to TWO rascals! And although it’s wonderfully fun, it isn’t always easy.
Even now, as I’m preparing for her wee party tomorrow, I’m very aware of how much I’ve overcome as a new Mammy of 2 in the past year: from figuring out how to manoeuvre carseats up stairs while holding a toddler’s hand, to negotiations with said toddler when Baby required attention than she did, from figuring out two bedtimes in one routine, to managing to give both of them all my love and time… 
And it hasn’t been easy.

In the words of one of my colleagues, I try very hard to keep it all “between the ditches”.  Sometimes, I feel like I’m steering 14 cars at the one time. ๐Ÿ˜ฃ
And yet, despite sharing MANY of my #mammyfails and #feckitupFridays on here, people still think I have my shit together.
I don’t.

Not one bit! 
I’m not Supermum.

I’m far from it.
I’m so far FROM it sometimes that I wonder how the hell I’m even going to make it to bedtime without banging my head off the wall.
I’m so far from it that even today, after the lovely job of buying Princess a pretty dress for tomorrow, I stood outside the shop on the phone to my husband telling him that I was “shitty mum”. 


Because both Me AND Mini-Me went off to school this morning upset and in tears. 

Because we’re both bad-tempered volatile little women, and Mammy needs to cop herself on and chose her battles.

Because I’m a human. I’m flawed and I’m sometimes fecking useless.
So there.
Yes, tomorrow we’ll have a lovely party to celebrate the first birthday of my precious little Fudgeybum. And we’ll enjoy every second of it.
The photos will hopefully capture the joyful celebration, but while some bloggers like to, or need to, pretend that their lives are perfect ALL the fecking time, I’m more than happy to admit that behind the smiles and photographs, some days are hard and some days are downright shite.
And EVERY Mammy needs to be able to say that out loud WITHOUT feeling weak for saying it…
To admit that it’s not all ok all the time.
To have another Mammy tell us “I do that too.” or “You should have been in MY house this morning!” (Words of another colleague who met my snivelling self in the carpark this morning. They’re a wonderful bunch my workmates.๐Ÿ’™๐Ÿ’—๐Ÿ’™)
To admit that sometimes, the only shit we have together is the one floating in the unflushed toilet in your dirty bathroom… and that’s OK, because it WILL get flushed…eventually…briefly! ๐Ÿ˜…
But when the days are wonderful and when life is good enough to give us celebrations and blessings, put on your glittery shoes and enjoy them.
And take pictures and videos.

And try to be IN some of them too! ๐Ÿ˜Ž๐Ÿ˜‰
Now, I need to scrape the blu-tack out of the dress Mini-Me wants to wear tomorrow and mop the floors so none of the other children catch Mad Cow disease off them.  And then, I’m going to have a bath, because I haven’t heated up today.  I’ve been freezing since 8am!

(Might have something to do with the fact that I got everyone else out the door warm and dressed this morning, but forgot my own coat!)
MammaBears eh? Who’d have us? 

Happy Friday Ladybelles.


I am Soooo Mammarella Mum ๐Ÿ˜‚


You all know her.
The dolly who is a COMPLETE skivvy to everyone in her house and who gets a chance to go to the ball,  but has NO hope of going because of her fecking  To-do list and the constant pile of laundrey and sewing and cleaning and crap that grows and grows and grows, until her Fairy Godmother appears and BibbityBobbetyBoos her ass all the way to the ball.
Well. Let me introduce you to the modern age Cinderella… 

The modern generation of Queens who sometimes get a chance to go to a fancy ball, but who wonder HOW THE HELL it’s going to happen because of the same reasons as Cinderella…being general skivvies, having to organise EVERYONE else in the house beforehand, and fecking  to-do lists that would knock poor Cinders off her glass slippers. 
On Monday, knowing that we had a super busy week ahead, but happy that it was going to end at a wonderfully glamorous affair, I took a breath and it was all systems go! 
THIS Mammarella however,  ain’t got no Fairy Godmother and so rather than being magically BibbityBobbetyBood from a pumpkin to a Princess, I had to cram a combination of grooming appointments and general maintenance, like you know, showering etc…into my already STUPID schedule.  
Do it I did,  with the help of my own fairies, and I EVEN managed to get my arse mahogonised in a spray booth.  
On Friday morning at 6am, I WAS Cindafuckinrella. ๐Ÿ˜‚

 My To-do list was RIDICULOUS, because as well as making myself appear at the ball looking ALIVE, never mind FABLIS, I ALSO had to sort the minions, make a bed for the Granny, go to my JOB, fit in two meetings cook dinner for everyone else, write out baby routines, and keep everyone alive, pack bags and get to the hairdresser by 5pm….
The day was a whirlwind.

But we got there.

I put lines through that To-do list like an ugly sister on rollerblades.
And when I FINALLY got to the hairdresser, she used magic potions and lotions and turned me from sweaty, dishevelled, skivvy into a slightly #glammymammy. 
I got to the hotel, after being stuck in the most hilarious traffic ever, with ten minutes to spare, titsickle-taped myself into the dress and I was finally ready to go be a Princess.  
And The Him??
How did HE transform himself from a gym-gear wearing servantboy into a Handsome Prince?
He left work, took a shower, stuck on a tux that someone HANDED to him in a bag, and Bibbity Bobbity Boo! Turns into James Fecking Bond… ๐Ÿ˜ฒ๐Ÿ˜ฒ๐Ÿ˜‚

But then he won and after all, he WAS the reason I got to pretend to be a Princess for a night wasn’t he?
Actually, Princess my arse… this Mamma Bear was a Queen for the evening. 

So yes, Mammarellas.

Cinderella doesn’t have a CLUE! ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚
Wait until she has 2 minions and a Him to get out the door! ๐Ÿ˜™

โ€‹Sudocrem and last-minute-Mother-of-the-feckin-year mum

When Mini-Me started school, 2 months ago, I was determined to be Mother of the year.

No missed buses.

No forgotten lunches.

No homework at 8am.

No forgetting to wash school cardigan and having to lie that it’s in Daddy’s car…

No last minute projects. ๐Ÿ˜ฒ
I would be Super Organised, Super slick, SuperMum…
2 LONG MONTHS LATER, my shit has ALL gone to shit.๐Ÿ˜‚
Today, at her first PTM,  I hear the word “shoebox” being mentioned over the intercom…

And I had an awful realisation, right in front of the lovely teacher…
“She’ll have her shoebox in in the morning” I stammered…

Yeah Missy.  She sees right through you!
Shit shit shit shit shit…
Actually, if I’m honest, the growing pile of multicoloured Christmas shoeboxes taking over our own secretary’s office at work, has been subtly shouting at my subconscious all week that I must check something.  I have vague recollections of a brochure being taken from the school bag, like, yesterday (cough…no it wasn’t 3 weeks ago.  How very dare you..)
I get home and find the brochure. 

Final date 11th November. ๐Ÿ˜ฃ๐Ÿ˜ฃ
I COULD just leave it, and donate somsthing and not feel bad, but then Mini-Me will be in school knowing that Mammy is a toolbox.


(And considering that she is already of this opinion, accusing me DAILY of losing an invitation from a classmate last month that APPARENTLY was in her bag but disappeared, even though I’m CERTAIN that the only invitation I took put of her bag was for her Cousin’s party, which I dumped because I already KNEW when the party was and it was OBVIOUS that she’d simply taken it to school like she does EVERYTHING… And it’s obviously just a COINCIDENCE that they have the same first names and she PROBABLY wasn’t ACTUALLY invited to the friend’s party so therefore didn’t miss anything because Mammy is a Toolbox really…) ๐Ÿ˜ฃ๐Ÿ˜ฃ๐Ÿ˜ฃ
I digress.
No. I can’t just leave it.  That would be terrible.
 So, I get my arse to work finding new or unused lovely things to put in, send The Him a text warning him NOT TO COME HOME without kiddie toothpaste and toothbrush and a pack of socks for aged 6.


And Christmas wrapping paper!
So it’s done. ๐Ÿ˜†

We doood it!

It was fine and we got to have very lovely conversations about how lucky she is ajd how it’s kind to share etc…

And I do love the concept of the project.  In fact, next year, I’m going to start the second the brochure arrives and we’re going to do LOADS of shoeboxes and I will be Supermum again… for 5 minutes.

My biggest difficulty tonight was getting the fecking sellotape off the roll with my lovely Cindafuckinrella nails that I got done yesterday for tomorrow’s ball…

Aren’t they lovely?

Note to self…

Lovely acrylic extension nails may look lovely, but changing shitty nappies and applying sudocrem suddenly becomes quite the adventure… ๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡

I am Spa Mum


So far, So FML.
Today, I cleaned.  After a week of Midterm Break where I, as fecking usual, ended up dosed to the eyeballs with babies also dosed to the eyeballs, the pit that is S-Mumble Hill needed some serious detoxification. 

Princess goes for her morning nap.  Mini-Me gets plonked in front of the Tellybox…(RTE Junior… I’m not able for Christmas adverts this morning!). S-Mum COULD pour a coffee and try to catch up on that Doll on the Train, but noooooooo.  S-Mum starts to clean. 

And as she cleans, she realises just how fucking DISGUSTING the house actually is.  There’s nothing like cleaning one surface to show you just how MINGING the other surfaces are.  So as I clean and scrub and wipe, I’m making mental notes of all of the jobs that need done…you know, at midterm.
THEN, I open the cleaning cupboard under the sink, you remember the one that The Him locked with Alcatraz style childlocks a few weeks ago? Yeah, the one with all of my lovely BLEACH and carpet cleaners and such dangerously Fablis magic potions that must be kept away from Minions, and apparently Mammy because she can’t work the fecking lock thing… and what do I see sitting pretty IN MY CLEANING PRODUCT CUPBOARD???

Fucking mice droppings.
Because the little shit that we THOUGHT we’d gotten rid of last weekend, apparently hasn’t disappeared, and suddenly Mini-Me’s dramatic mumblings about seeing “da wee meece wunning under the cooker” at 7am doesnt seem quite so ridiculous.
So yes.

S-Mum has reached new level of BAT SHIT CRAZY today.  I have BLEACHED EVERY SURFACE and disinfected everything in the house. I FINALLY washed the MAC Foundation out of the cream carpet… (yes I KNOW that happenend ten days ago. THAT is how UNTOGETHER this MammaBear’s shot is this past few weeks.)

And now?
Now, I’m ranting at you lot as I wait for the floors to dry and watching the clock as I drink a coffee, because in approximately 15 minutes, when Daddy Dude walks in that door, I am OUT it as fast as my bleach sparked pumps will carry me.
And guess where I’m going?
I’m taking myself off to a SPA.

A place of tranquility and smelly stuff and quiet.
Where there are NO minions and where thereare no mouses.
Where a lovely lady will squeeze my shitty spotty dried-out skin and batter the shoulders off me and then let me soak IN PEACE in a big bath of seaweed or some other such stuff.
I don’t particularly give a continental shite WHAT she does to me.

As long as I dont have to clean said bath, I’m pretty much good for ANYTHING today.
I’m just going.
On MY OWN…YES.  I have FINALLY rwached that stage of Mammyhood wherw I am a happy big saddo who is quite happy to NOT have company for a few hours.

And as I hand The Him his children, and grunt at him that “Yes, she needs fed, no there’s nothing in the fridge and yesm it is indeed true that I shall not be returning u til Him and The Bloke have managed to rid the house of the fucking mouse/s, I shall kiss him goodbye and add “Oh and she hasn’t poonamied today! Enjoy.”
Over and out Bitcheepooos.

This Mamma is done today.
I shall return a new woman, with marginally less rage and a little less swearing.



I am She’s on the phone Mum

โ€‹”I’m just on da phone Mammy”

“OK Darling.”
I carried on cooking dinner, laughing to myself as she chittered and chattered away on the phone.  She rang her old preschool teacher and had a very convincing one way conversation that went like this…
“Hi Macewa. S’me.  Hi. Yeah. Scuse me Macewa, it’s me here.  I need to speak to Danyel. No not my sister Danyel, ypir kid Danyel.  Yeah..yeah.. no…no.”  Pausing at the proper times and everything.
It was about 100 on the adorascale.
Then, a few minutes later, she announced,

“Scuse me Mammy. I’m just talking to Gwanny Mum, can you pweeeeease be quiet?”

“Ok pet.  You chat to Granny.”
I battered on in the kitchen.  She was sitting on the window sill on the other side of the room having another conversation with Granny apparently.
“You see we took down the Halloween Decorations cos it’s Christmas and now we have to get ready for Santa and I didn’t get to see da fireworks but I did go Twickatweeting and can I come to your house for a sweepover later? Oh Ok Gwanny.  See ya! Byebyebyebyebyebye”
“You finished talking to Granny?” 

“Yup!” And off she went on her next imaginary adventure.
“Wee dote” thinks S-Mum to herself, wondering where on Earth she EVER got the Byebyebyebyebyebye. ๐Ÿ˜‚
Fast forward a few hours.

“Gwanny” calls.
We chat about the funeral she’d been at.  We talk about Princess’s nasty cold.  We talk about going wallpaper shopping on Friday.  She says she’ll call for a cuppa later. 

Pretty normal.
And then she asks “Did Mini-Me hang up properly that time?”
Sorry WHAT NOW?๐Ÿ˜ฒ๐Ÿ˜ฒ๐Ÿ˜ฒ
“What you mean Mum?”

“After she called me earlier? Did she hang up afterwards?”
Hole…eeeeeeee shit.  ๐Ÿ˜ฒ๐Ÿ˜ฒ๐Ÿ˜ฒ
The little rascal had apparently called Gwanny after all, and had a full conversation with her. 

When Granny asked her if Mummy knew that she was on the phone, her answer was “I’m just talking to Gwanny Mum, can you pweeeeease be quiet?”

And of course, Gwanny heard me answer “Ok darling. You chat to Granny” so obviously assumed that I’d dialed her number for her to have a wee chat.
Oh how Mummy laughed.  

And Oh how Granny laughed.

And THEN, Mummy started to replay the conversation and the PANIC of “JEEEEESUS what were we saying?” set in! Thankfully, all poor Gwanny heard was my bad singing as I cooked.
But I’ll tell ya.

The phone shall be locked from now on, or at least when she’s “playing” with it, we’ll be checking if she’s ACTUALLY playing.
Couldn’t watch her! ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚

I am Sick days are no more Mum

โ€‹This ๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡sums up me this week.

My minions are dosed.  I’m dosed. Everyone is dosed.
Today, I have had quite a few fantasies… ๐Ÿ˜ˆ

I’ve been reliving old memories of long days in bed, snug and sweaty… 

I’ve been reminiscing about…

Sick days. ๐Ÿ˜‚
Remember those? 
Where if you were too poorly to go to work, you simply didn’t. You dragged your  sorry ass as far as the doc and chemist, stocked up on whatever you needed to haul same sorry ass through the next few days, plonked said ass on your sofa or in bed…and SLEPT.
You SLEPT, interrupted only by zombified wakening to carry out basic bodily functions…like eat if you could, or take a pee, or take more drugs.
You could remain horizontal for AS LONG AS YOU WANTED to, watching whatever crap was on the tellybox.  It was perfectly permissable to watch thon Jeremy Kyle dude.  It made you feel better, because despite your feelings of utter shittiness and the fact that you probably haven’t showered in 3 days, you STILL looked better than some of the specimens on there.๐Ÿ˜ˆ๐Ÿ˜‚
And when the JerKylers were finished shouting at each other in a language you couldn’t quite follow fully, you turned off the tellybox and closed your eyes…and SLEPT.

You slept until you felt better, then you pulled yourself together, had a shower and went wearily back to reality.
Sick days.

I miss them. ๐Ÿ˜ณ
Because I realised today that since I became a Mammy, I haven’t had one. 

Sure, I’ve been sick or unwell or felt shitty, but despite that, and even on days where Doc declared me off work, there’s one job we don’t get sick days from.
Being The Mammy.
Where you can nurse yourself through a nasty cold with a few boxes of Day & Night; where you can stifle your own need to puke while you clean up someone elses; where you can survive on coffee and painkillers, because there are LITTLE PEOPLE who don’t give a shit if you feel like sleeping or puking or crying.
You still make sure they are fed, they are washed, they are kept alive๐Ÿ˜‚… and the washing still gets done and the dinner still gets made (or ordered!) and you get to fit all of your wallowing into the time it tales for one episode of Corrie before you get up again to start whatever needs done before bed.
So yes, today, I fantasised.  Now, instead of watching chicflicks and drinking flat 7up or lemsip, you drink coffee and berocca boost and put Paw Patrol (or even Peppa Porkdepending on the severity of your illness) on a loop and pray it’ll entertain them long enough for you to sit in one place for 30 minutes.
  You trick your body into thinking it’s on a sick day, when REALLY what you’re on is a ‘same-as-every-other-day-except-you -feel-and-look-SHITTIER-than-every-other-day’ day.
Yet another line they omit from the Parenting manuals… “You will NEVER have a sick day again…the sick days you now see as terrible and depressing, are soon going to look like a weekend in a spa. You will NEVER sleep yourself better again.  Unless you’re in hospital, where let’s be honest, the nurses have to waken you so many times with beeping machines and charts that you might as WELL be at home with the toddler.”
So yeah.  Poor fecking me. ๐Ÿ˜‚
In fairness, I’m not that bad, it’s just a headcold, but still, as I sat under my Minis today, I remembered the days where I lay on the same sofa doing nothing but getting myself better.  And then I wished I could take all of their snuffles and coughs and fevers off them and make them all better and then I pulled up my big girl knickers and looked after them.  
Because I am Mamma Bear. And that’s what Mamma Bears do. ๐Ÿ’–๐Ÿ’–๐Ÿ’–