Monthly Archives: November 2016

I am Spa Mum

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​Saturday.

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???
MICE DROPPINGS.
Yes.  

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.
YES.  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.

Maybe.

😈

I am She’s on the phone Mum

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​”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. 😂
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?😲😲😲
“What you mean Mum?”

“After she called me earlier? Did she hang up afterwards?”
Hole…eeeeeeee shit.  😲😲😲
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! 😂😂😂

I am Sick days are no more Mum

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​This 👇👇👇sums up me this week.


My minions are dosed.  I’m dosed. Everyone is dosed.
Today, I have had quite a few fantasies… 😈

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

I’ve been reminiscing about…

Sick days. 😂
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.😈😂
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. 😳
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 alive😂… 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. 😂
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. 💖💖💖