I am Screaming Leaving Granny Mum

​It is sooooo  Grapejuice o’clock on this wonderfully unfeckeuped feck-it-up Friday.
I was doing well you know…
I was doing SO well that I smugly thought I’d get through a full day without shouting or scolding or being a generally horrible Hell-Beast to my little angel.
 I nearly did it…
And THEN she pulled her usual stunt in “Gwanny’s” that leaves HER in dramatic floods of tears, ME ready for the Nut house and my poor Mother torn between remembering what it was like to be mortified in front of HER Mother, and wanting to steal the Demonchild from me and to raise her in the non-shouting, calm and much more cushioned safety of Granny’s house.
Imagine a Disney Fucking princess as she is dragged, sobbing, from her Prince, hand outstretched and a sad and melancholic expression on her tear stained face, mouthing the name of her lost one, in slow motion of course…
Imagine the child in The Railway Children or such orphanesque tale, watching their only relative as the train pulls away from the platform, knowing that they’ll never see them again…
Imagine the scene in The Hunger Games where Catniss is about to be catapulted up into the Arena and the baddies attack her BFF right before her eyes.

There’s nothing she can do.
She is helpless.

It is terrible.
Now imagine the Gobshite who is causing the drama.  

That would be me.  πŸ˜­
And poor Granny is witness to the atrocities.  She wants to scoop the little angel into her arms and hush her and sooth her and tell her it’ll be OK and that OF COURSE she doesn’t HAVE to go home with Mean old Mammy and OF COURSE she can stay with Granny for ever and ever and ever and ever cause Granny will NEVER get cross like mean old Mammy.
She wants to.
But of course she doesn’t. 
She helps poor, mental, wits-end Woman put the obviously  abused, unloved and despairing child in the car, telling her she’ll see her tomorrow and to be a good girl for Mammy.  It breaks her heart no doubt.  
The girlchild is so convincing that a little part of ANY witnessing adult would possibly consider ringing fucking Childline to report Cruel, Uncaring, Crazy Mammy.

But.

Granny has been here before.

Granny has been on the other side of it.  

(Obviously with much less dramatic daughters, given the three angelic girlchildren she raised…πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜œπŸ˜œ)

Ans as much as Granny does indeed want to save her little girl from the Scary One for a night…she also knows that her little girl HAS to take the scary one home! πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
This scene pretty much kills both of the grown ups, but they BOTH know that by the time Madam TurboTwat gets to her own house, (a whole 76 yards away), she’ll have completely forgotten the dramatic ordeal which evil Mammy has just subjected her to by asking her to put on her fucking boots to go home. 
The 90 second drive home will be sufficient for her to completely FORGET her violent and impressively fucking MENTAL protest in Granny’s street.  She shall wipe her tears away, skip in the door and ask “Is scooby Doo on?” before demanding a “cuppa mulk pwease” and then informing Mammy that she is her “best wee mammy” as she is handed said cuppa fecking milk.
And Mammy will stand at the door, watching her in disbelief, completely fooked and wishing that there was some time machine that would whizz her forward half an hour so she could sit on her arse and recover her sanity with some grapes.
Cheers Dollies.

🍷🍷🍷

#callthemammypolice #notathingwrongwithher #fml

I am Snapping before bedtime Mum

​Today is Chooseday.

Today, I choose the word YES.
Pre bedtime chaos shot. πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡


Yes, they are too close to the tellybox.

Yes, I know it’s not good for their eyes.

Yes, they’re watching reruns of Scoobyfuckingdoo,πŸ• with Velma and Daphne and the other weird-eye-animated unaging and omni-teenage detectives and their big thick plank dog🐢 chasing yet another fucking zombie in disguise.

Yes, it will possibly give herself nightmares.(Princess, not so much, given that the zombies would run AWAY from Crazy little her.πŸ˜‚)

Yes, I know they shouldn’t be encouraged to watch Tellyboxes or any other evil screen (or as I like to call them Mammy’s sanity savers) so late at night… tut…

Yes, I know I’ve probably just ruuned my chances of winning “Mammy of the year.” πŸ˜‚

Yes, I give NOT ONE continental fuck what the “No way. Bad S-Mum. My kids would NEVER get screen time” Sanctimammies think. (Do you think they binge watch Scoobydoo in their cupboards while the kids play scrabble and suduko and stuff?) 😈😈
Yes, Princess is sitting inside a box..πŸ‘‡πŸ˜‚

Yes, she got in there all by herself.

Yes, she could have sat in the cool pink princess size chair.

Yes, she could have squished herself into the slightly bigger box

Yes, she got stuck.

Yes, of course I left down the mug and lifted her out.😜

Yes, she climbed right back in.
Yes Mammy was drinking coffee at 6.30pm and we all know that one should not drink the magic beans so late in the day, but let me put it to you like this.
It was too early for grapejuice…🍷
Yes, Mammy is knackered.

Yes, the kitchen is a mess.

Yes, I still have to cook dinner.

Yes, Princess still needs a bath and so without the magic beans, Mammy wouldn’t have actually been awake enoigh to wash the slabber covered salty little fudgemonster.

Yes, I’ll probably be up all fucking night doing “to do ” lists in my head.

Yes, I’ll regret it at 1am.

Yes, The Him will want to kill me when I wake him up at 2am to ask him if he thinks we should wallpaper the living room.

Yes, I’m clever. The Him will agree to an indoor pool and special “Mammy grape cupboard” with a comfy chair and everything, if it will shut me up at 2am.

Yes, I am a genius 😈😜 and yes, the coffee worked and so I functioned enough to wash Princess and put the two little terrors to bed.

And now, I have JUST ABOUT enough energy to ACTUALLY tidy the kitchen and cook Him some dinner.☹
So now…what do you think?

Is it time for a little glass of grapes to reward Mammy for being such a feckin legendary Goddess?
The word you’re looking for, is YES!
How was your Chooseday?😘😘

I am She’s hit Poohbeartee Mum

​Once upon a time there was a Supermum who woke up full of the joys of spring.
“I’m going to go for a quick run before you go to work Darling ” Her said to Him.

Then S-Mum saw the glittery slippery ground outside and so opted for a long shower instead of a quick run.  
S-Mum had a whole 7 luxurious minutes standing under the hot water, as opposed to her usual “step in, quick rinse and step out” routine.  (S-Mum has mastered the art of showering in the length of time it takes Princess to crawl from the kitchen to the bedroom.   It’s a skill I tell you.)   
This morning, S-Mum shampooed her hair not once, but TWICE…AND… she put conditioner in.  And get this? She got to leave the conditioner in for a whole 2 minutes.  She EVEN got to use the scrubby face wash…
And so, S-Mum bounced to the kitchen, full of the joys of spring and determined that today would be a perfectly marvellous day of fun with her two perfectly behaved princesses.  
And then S-Mum remembered that her almost 5 year old Mini-Me is going through “Poohbeartee.”

Poohbeartee is what I have decided to call the phase of utter fucking MAYHEM that is happening in my little darling’s world right now.
She is emotional. She is impatient. She is cranky. She is grumpy. She is impossible and she is unpredictable.  One minute she is laughing, the next she is crying. She reminds me of myself…(you know…once a month..for like, oh, I dunno, about 29 days or so πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚.)

  It’s not pretty.

One second she loves me, the next she is declaring that she “has to go live with Granny”.  Yesterday, she spent 20 minutes on top of me BAWLING because “I’m not the perfect daughter!”.  (Note to self. Mulan is banned, the fucking Twit.)
But, today, full of the joys of Spring and invigorated by having had TIME to SMELL the actual SMELL of the smelly shower creams, S-Mum remained optimistic that all would be right with the world and we would have a wonderful day.

And we did, up until about 5pm.


Between 5pm and now, I have lost the spring in my step.

She has screamed.

I have screamed.

 I have tried very hard to “ignore it” and “stay calm”. 

She has slammed doors.

I have pissed her off ROYALLY with such unreasonable requests as “Please eat your dinner” and “Brush your teeth.”
I have said each instruction on average 9 times each. And have realised that regardless of the tone or volume of my voice, she’s decided not to fucking HEAR me, never mind LISTEN to me.
It seems that all I have to do now to cause a complete “Poohbeartescant” strop, is to walk into the same room as her.  

She’s gone to bed declaring me no longer her best fwend because I wouldn’t let her take a glowing red fucking torch to bed with her.  Then she cried for ten minutes because she doesn’t  WANT me to no longer NOT be her best fwend, before telling me that Daddy is reading her a story tonight because I don’t “dweseve one.”
“I love you” I called after her as she gnarled and hissed at me going out the door…
Him puts her to bed and Mammy tidies away the toys, trying not to think about the fact that she is OBVIOUSLY doing EVERYTHING FUCKING WRONG because S-Mum stooopidly thought that Little girls didn’t start to hate their mums until the good old age of 13 or so.


Then, she looks at the “Worry Plaque” she’s bought to “appear” on the wall tonight and says a prayer that it works as well as everyone says it does, so that her little Pooh Bear might learn to relax a bit and Mammy won’t feel so fucking useless and impatient and frustrated.
Fuck me.

I’d try anything at this stage.
Mammy can not win.

Mammy wants a gin. 😍
And then sneaks down to give the Scary one a kiss on the cheek as she sleeps, when she is not quite so terrifying and there is no chance that Mammy’s simple general presence in the room can bring on a row.
The End… until tomorrow. 😐
#pouritnow

I am Sleepless Nights & Schoolbags Mum

​Hello Ladybelles.
It’s been a funny old week here at S-Mumblehill.

I feel like it’s been 16 days since Monday.  I’m knackered.
Monday was apparently officially the shittiest day of the year.  I don’t usually believe this crap but by 8.50am I was agreeing out loud with the radio presenter as I pulled into the school carpark. “YES. Yes it fucking well IS the shittiest day of the year. And it’s not even 9am.”
  Mini-Me had been up for yet ANOTHER full fecking night, PLAYING in her room and setting up weird little messy shrines in the fricken hall.  “Oh she’s imaginative” said one of my colleagues in a futile attempt to comfort me.  My reply…”Well she can be imaginative without creeping around the flipping house at 3am, making an unholy fucking MESS of random crap in my hallway, just outside my bedroom door thank you very much.”
 I’d taken great pleasure in bouncing into her bedroom at 7am, turning on the light and singing “Good morning Beautiful. It’s time for schooooool!” (That’ll teach you you little night creeper.) I was prepared for a grumpy little Gollum who would pull the covers up in protest and be like a bag of bitches all day.  I WAS NOT prepared for the little face glaring up at me, COVERED in blue.  She had drawn ALL OVER her feckin face in blue crayon and both she, AND the pillow, were like something that smurfville had puked up.πŸ’™πŸ’™
Cue meltdown central, for both of us… Me trying to keep cool and not scream at her and FAILING miserably; her trying to remember wtf was on her face that was making Mammy so mental at Stupid O’Clock…and Princess crawling at my leg shouting “nonononono! ah! Ah! Ah! AH!”

So off I trotted to class, feeling shite at having lost my cool and sent her off to school probably still covered in blue crayon.
#Twatmum.
 The rest of the week has been busy and filled with MANY stressful bedtimes, where she’s been up, still wide awake until after 10pm.  I have NOOOOO IDEA what is going on. She’s usually so good at bedtime, so this is weird and I PRAY it’s only a phase.  I tried letting her have some chill out time in her bedroom before bed.  Didn’t work.  She just made a complete mess.  I’ve even had to lock my bedroom door as she was in there last night and left a trail of my fricken Chanel lippy on the wall. Cheers love.  I’m going to do it back to her you know.  When she is old enough to have nice stuff, I am going to draw all over her bathroom mirror with her favourite lippy.  So there.
So today, I’ve opted for the good old faithful Fresh air stunt.  I let her run wild on Fahan beach, πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡ (my ABSOLUTE favourite spot in the world.  AN hour there can fix all the world’s problems!), and then directed her towards the trampoline for half an hour when we got home.  I’m afraid to look down the hall, but I have a small notion that she MIGHT just be asleep, WITHOUT any hallway adventures.


Fingers crossed. πŸ˜‚
I am confident that she shall sleep like a cherub until 7am and that I shall NOT break my ankle tripping over a fortress of lego and naked dolls outside the bedroom door.  Then, she shall awaken from her slumber and the bad tempered, exhausted, emotional wreck demon I’ve had here all week, shall be replaced by my smiling, perfect little angel… hugely confident.

Well confident enough.


And incase anyone doubts that I’ve lost my shit altogether, here’s my #mammyfuckup of the week…  I sent her to school today WITHOUT HER SCHOOLBAG.
Yup.

Do you think I deserve a wee grape? πŸ˜’πŸ˜’


Make me feel better supermums.

What was your #Mammyfuckup of the week? πŸ˜‚

I am So Here’s my Translation Mum

​Have a read at the extract from 1950 Home Economics Book below. πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡

Then read my 2017 translation.😈😈😈
Have Dinner Ready.
Plan ahead, even the night before, to have some sort of food in the house for your family, possibly including your husband, not because you have been thinking about him or give a continental shite about his needs, but because YOU need food so he might as well get fed too.  Most men are hungry when they get home, but most men are well able to get their own feckin dinner, and make you some while they’re at it.
Prepare yourself
Take a 15 minutes rest if you can. Or, sneeze so your eyes close briefly.  Just make sure you remove the key from inside the front door so he doesn’t waken you with the doorbell as he lets himself into the house.

Your man should think you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, even when you haven’t worn makeup for 5 days, stink like a badger’s arse and have forgotten what a razor looks like.  If he suggests putting a ribbon in your hair or spraying perfume, threaten to bobbit him with said ribbon, spray the perfume in his eyes and use a pointy stiletto to give his day a little lift. Smile gayly while doing so.  It’ll make his day more interesting and less boring.
Clear away the Clutter.
If you can make it from one end of the living room to the other without stepping on lego or tripping on a Paw Patrol weeble,  your house is perfect.  Tidying everything up before he gets home only leads to a false impression that the kids have NOT destroyed EVERYTHING on sight since 7am.  Reality is good.  The messier the house, the more chance there is that He will run you a bath, or pour you a gin, realising what kind of afternoon/day you must have had with his Holy Terrors.  Your Husband will probably not notice either way as he’ll be too busy answering very important emails or catching up on Bookface to give a crap.  If he wants a haven of rest and order, he can just give you a hand to lift everything off the floor.

Equal rights and all that.
Prepare the Children
Do try to wash the children’s hands and faces, if only to avoid spaghetti bolognese stains on your duvets. Do not attempt to comb hair in the evening, unless you are really in the mood for a screaming match.  Do not under any circumstances change their clothes.  Feck that. You’re just creating more washing for your bottomless basket. Actually, remove their clothes before dinner and cover them in bin bags. You might even get another day out of their outfits if you’re really clever.  They are his little treasures, so let him play the part. Piss off to the cinema with your mamma squad and let Him do bath time and bedtime. Let’s see how much clutter has been lifted by the time you get home eh?
Minimise all noise.
Scrap this.  Turn on all appliances before he arrives home, just to emphasise your absolute busy-mummy-ness, because unless he sees it being done, he often won’t realise it’s been done!  Let the children scream and shout at each other, turn up the Tellybox and any other devices and do not attempt to hush them.  Actually, if you are heading out shopping or to a sewing class, give them sugar before you leave. Greet him with a warm smile, be glad to see him and run out that fecking door as fast as your feet can carry you.
Some Don’ts
Don’t greet him with problems or complaints.  Wait until he is having his dinner and the kids are listening and casually remind him of what you’ve asked him 309 times to do already.

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner. It’s him who’ll have to eat it cold, not you. Why give a hoot? Save complaintsnor ranting for after the kids have gone to bed, so you swear more effectively. Men love a passionate woman who knows her mind.  If his day can trump being covered in poonami, screamed at incessantly by a teething toddler or puked on 3 times, then in fairness, be nice.  And then tell him he needs to change jobs.
Make him comfortable.
Indeed, wait until he’s comfortable before telling him the bin needs to go out. Stomp about screaming “Fine then I’ll  do ot myself!” Until he gets up to do it…  If you catch him lying down in the bedroom while there are still children at large, throw a cold drink over him and tell him it’ll be hot next time. Threaten to arrange the pillow on his face while he is sleeping if he doesn’t get up RIGHT NOW to help with bedtime. Speak in low, soothing, threatening tones. It’s much more effective.  
Listen to him
You may have a list of things to tell him.  Write that list down so that you don’t forget all of the things, and then email, text and stick that list onto his forehead, before still having to repeat the same list tonorrow.  Wait until he has his coat off, or better still, catch him on the toilet. He has no escape from there.
Make the evening his
Fuck off 1950.
The Goal
Try to make your home a place where you can both manage to keep the children alive and teach them not to be completely feral and grumoy little shits, while (the odd time) having some down time together to remember that you actually do like each other.
Oh. And you can see why the man who wrote this was so anally retentive and ridiculous… there is no mention of sex anywhere.  πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

I am Such Big Rubber Balls Mum πŸ˜‚

​Balls.
Big, plump, inflated, rubber balls.
Best.

Fun.

EVER!
Santa brought Mini-Me a “Fun hopper”.  (I have no idea if that is the correct name for the magical spherical delights, but that’s what myself and my siblings called ours on Walton Mountain many moons ago.  It was blu and had Zig & Zag on it. Good times…)


I hear a rumour that while Santa and Mrs Claus were perusing the workshop for toys that Mini-Me would enjoy, that Mr Claus dismissed the big yellow bouncy thing as pointless ahd a waste of money, whereas Mrs C, who also had a fun hopper as a child many centuries ago, dismissed HIS dismissal and chose it anyway because she knew best and Mrs Claus’s decisions always trump Mr Claus, because despite being a hardworking, clever and  legendary man, he’s still not quite as hardworking, clever or legendary as his wife. Obviously.
And so the magical yellow funhopper with the face of a minion made its way through the dark skies on SC’s sleigh, and into the stocking of Mini-Me.
And oh how glad S-Mum is that Mrs Claus didn’t pay any attention to her Him, because not only is the fun hopper EXACTLY as much fun and craic as she remembers it to be, it is BETTER!
She hasn’t left it since she opened it.  If she has to get something from her room, she uses the hooper to go there. Princess is getting hours of fun from rolling over it, chasing Mini-Me on it and trying to eat it. And my Him, who would NEVER question Hims’s wife’s judgement like thon Santa Twat, has even admitted to it being one of the best toys brought by Santa. (He especially enjoys kicking it out from under her while she bounces.  This is not cruel. It’s teaching her life skills. πŸ€πŸ˜‚)
I should admit that it’s not the first big, fat, inflatable rubber ball to have entered our home.


It is not yellow.  It is pink.

It did not have a handle by which S-Mum could boince it up and down the hall.

It was declared pointless ahd ridonkulous and banished to the naughty step of the attic…

It was permitted off the naughty step only when S-Mum hit the upturned turtleness of the third trimester and declared her tailbone fooked.

 Apparently it is helpful for comfortable sitting.  
This is true, but S-Mum’s arse was soooooo inflated that she couldn’t quite get up off the inflated ball and so deemed it too dangerous and never sat on it again. Until AFTER the baby was born when once again, nature had kicked her tailbone up her arse and made the simple pleasure of sitting, quite horrific.  It was used to sit on while watching Coronation Street thereafter, until the cruel sofa could be tolerated once again.  I became quite the expert on the ball actually.  I could even eat a bowl of Cheerios while sitting on it… 

Skill yes?
But since the return of a functioning posterier, the big pink ball has been a thing of ornament in the hall.  It was destined once again for the attic, but the recent arrival of the minion ball has given the big pink ball a new fate…a new purpose.
It is now used by Mini-Me to roll upon and chase Princess up the hall as she half walks/half crawls around, dragging the minion ball with her.
The craic!

The Noise!

The balls.πŸ˜‚
Best.

Fun.

Ever. πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
Do you have an inflatable rubber ball? If not, get one. πŸ˜‚
I saw them for €6.99 in Smuffs if you don’t want to wait for Santa, sorry,  Mrs Claus to deliver!  πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

I am She’s Deadly Mum

Oh it’s been a deadly week.

Or even Deathly…☹☹☹
☹Monday:☹
“Mammy why do people die?”

 (Fuckitty fuck…)

“Erm, they just do Darling.” (Yes… Even as I say it, I know THAT is not an answer and I need to follow it with something else.)  “Sometimes people’s bodies stop working and they die Darling.” 

(Not bad for off the top of my head as I navigate merging in the town’s spaghetti lanes of the one-way system that was possibly designed by a party of drunk monkeys.)

“But why? Why does they die?”

(Fuckitty fuckitty fuck…)

“Because that’s how it is pet.  Sometimes people get old or sick or something happens so they go to sleep for a very long time.”

(Silence.)

“And where do they go?”

(Christ on a stick. I’m so not ready for this. Note to self, find out who has been talking to her about dying.)

“Erm, they leave here and go to Heaven and then they can help look after us.”

“Awwwwwwwwwww yeah yeah yeah. Like Granda Pops?”

“Yes Darling.” (I love that she remembers my Pops.πŸ’™πŸ’™πŸ’™)

“Aaaaaawwwwww yeah,  and like The Dinosaurs? They disappeared too you know?”

(Well that sentiment was nice while it lasted I suppose.πŸ˜‚)

“Do you wanna listen to Frozen?”

“YAAAAAAAAAAY…LET IT GOOOOOOO!” 

Phew.
☹Tuesday:☹
“What happens when EVERYONE in da whole world DIES?”

“That won’t happen Honey.”

“How do YOU know?” (It’s started already. My word is no longer gospel.)

“Because people will always grow up and have babies and then those babies will grow up and have more  babies.” (Unless Children of Men happens, in which case, we’re fooked.πŸ˜‚)

But why come the dinosaurs stopped having babies and all went to Heaven? What if dat happens us? ” 

(Feck you Andy of the Adventuuuuuuures.)

“It won’t Sweetheart. Will we listen to Frozen?”

“Yaaaaaay!”

Etc…
☹Wednesday:☹
“Gwanny are you old?”

“Well I suppose I’m a BIT old.”

“Dat means it’s nearly your turn to DIE YOU KNOW.”

Poor Gwanny. πŸ˜…πŸ˜…πŸ˜…
☹Thursday:☹
Silence between school gate and car.

Sad face, shaky lower lip and one single tear.

“What’s up Darling?”

“Hemenahemena’s cousin died?”

(Oh fuckitty fuck fuck.  One of the kids must have had a death in the family…)

“Who’s cousin pet?”

Sobbing now…

“PRINCESS POPPY’S COUSIN!  Branch is DIED.”

(Oh you have GOT to be shitting me…)

“Branch from Trolls? How did he die? Sure he’s still in the movie, perfectly safe…”

“No. He got knocked down outside dacimena (the cinema) last night and he dieded!”

(FML)

“Ah pet. It’s ok.” I let her cry for a few minutes and then put on Frozen which eventually distracted her.

Then we got home and she opened her schoolbag and produces this. πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡

The image apparently includes:

🀐 Princess Poppy

🀐 Branch lying dead outside Dacimena☹

🀐 A scrapbook which Poppy is not allowed to scrap in anymore because Branch is dead (note the x through it.)

🀐 a sad face with tears falling out (see close-up) πŸ˜‚

🀐 a broken heart… literally… a heart with a crack on it.

I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or disturbed.  
☹☹☹Today’s obituaries:☹☹☹

“The death has taken place as the result of an accident outside the Dacimena of Mr Branch Troll. He is survived by Princess Fuckin Poppy Troll and a gang of big grumpy Berkins.  Removal from Dreamworks-in-the-tellybox, to repose in the imagination of Miss Mini-Me, with the fricken dinosaurs. Wake is private please as theres no actual fecking way to visit the remains of an imaginary dead troll os there? And internment will take place at some random point in the future when she remembers that hims dieded or when she decides to become obsessed by a different movie. No flowers please.  Donations in lieu to Mammy’s grapejuice fund.”

Pour.🍷

Now. 

πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚