I am Snow Day Mum

“Oh Look Darlings. It’s snow!
Oh YAY Darlings, school is closed.
Hurray! We shall frolic and flail in the snow, making snow angels and building snowmans while singing the Frozen songs, and then we shall return to the house, rosy cheeked and fresh and snug as bugs to sip hot chocolate and snuggle up on the sofa…”
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And as quickly as the snow thaws and leaves a sloppy, shitty mess of reality in its wake, so too do Mammy’s nonsense notions of Mary-of-the-Poppinsy frolicking.
Indeed we did play in the snow. Indeed we did build a Mahoosive Snowman. And indeed we did have fun.
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He is quite fablis isn’t he?

We also had runny noses, red fingers, sore cheeks, wet toes, cold legs. There was frustration at slippy ground, frustration at stones in the snow, frustration at disobedient snow which wouldn’t stick where it was being shoved, and general frustration at not knowing why exactly we are grumpy when we should be frolicking in the fucking snow.
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My wee Snowangel

And then begins the trauma. The utter drama of trying to get the Eskimos unwrapped from their onions of layers. Sticky wellies, wet trousers suckering onto skin, fingers regaining their nerve endings and burning in the sudden heat, stepping into puddles of water as they step out of the wellies… Faces stinging, tummies rumbling, noses running…
Mammy did make hot chocolate and for a while, all was well. The washing machine was started for the 13th time today as everyone heated their backsides and enjoyed the sensation of feeling returning to their limbs. We admired our creation through the window and sipped the heat from the cups. Fablis…
And then, the exhaustion hit and the rest of the evening was spent with two incredibly knackered little farts who both decided that their one mission in life today was to drive each other, and Mammy, absolutely MENTAL.
Fighting, crying, complaining, declaring oneself as abused as Cinderella, declaring oneself to be missing her teacher, refusing to eat ANYTHING put in front of them, “tidying” by re-positioning crap from one room to another… You get the gist?
And then, just as Mammy thought she was going to go outside to drink gin with the leftovers of the snowman, they decided they were best fwends again and all was right with the world again…
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Shitsters…

“Did you have a good day?”
“The BEST Mammy!”
“What was the best part?”
“Playing in the snow ALL DAY!”
There you go… We were outside for all of 34 minutes and yet that’s what they remember. What was a small part of a very long day was the best day ever to them. And suddenly the stresses and snots and tears and tantrums and screaming melted into oblivion, along with our Snowman outside.
Playing in the snow is fab. It’s like a snowman actually… fab and perfect for a very short while, before disintegrating into a big wet puddle! But the carrot and stones and scarf that are left behind are just like the memories…solid and the only thing that matters. And worth every sore finger and wet backside.
They’re now tucked up in bed, dreaming of white stuff and I’m sitting here dreaming of red. Time for a glass of Blogday wine. Cheers my Dears.
Hit me with your snowman pics… or cheers with your glass/cuppa!

I am Singing Happy Blogday to Me Mum!

Oh my BOOBNESS!
It’s my Blog’s birthday. It’s my Blogday! The S-Mum is THREE years old today. How the hell did that happen?
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When I started this, I was desperate to stay anonymous, terrified of what people would think and didn’t really know if I’d do it for long. It was a hobby. A way of finally doing that thing I’d been procrastinating about for so long; writing!
Well how things have changed eh?
I now have TWO little dictators at my ankles and they keep me on my toes every day. They are my inspiration and my world. And as much as some days I want to hide in the washing machine with a bottle of gin, I adore them both to the moon and back.
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Mad as a bag of brambles I tell you!

What other people think about me and my style of parenting (“style!” Makes it sound quite fablis doesn’t it…”Sham” might be more appropriate!)… doesn’t matter a damn to me. My Bullshit Barometer is so broken that even if I looked hard, I don’t think I could physically find two shits to give if people don’t like what I write.
I am no longer anonymous. That didn’t last long! I’m loud and proud and happy to write about being a Mammy. I love that so many other Mammies (and Daddies) get a encouragement or enjoyment or a laugh at least from my words. I adore the messages I get from Mums who say “You’ve read my mind”. And I love all of the opportunities this blog has presented to me.
I’ve made many new friends over the past 3 years, both in the Blogworld and in real life. I’ve laughed. I’ve cried. I’ve sworn. I’ve ranted. I’ve loved. I’ve lost and I’ve lived. And somehow, I’ve managed to keep finding time to write. And amazingly, you’ve kept finding time to read and interact.
Thank you.
Thank you for reading and commenting and laughing along with me. Thank you for supporting when things haven’t been fablis. Thank you for helping me, one Mammy to another.
I will keep writing. In fact, by the end of this year, I intend to have some of these smumblings printed on actual paper. In actual type. In a real book. I’m working on it. And now that I’ve said it, I have to right?
You are my Mammy Squad and you are Supermums.
Shall we have a virtual “Cheers” tonight Ladybelles? 9pm on the sofa? Who’s joining me?
Love and Thanks,
The Blogday Girl xxx
Here is the very first piece I wrote, this day three years ago. It didn’t make me cringe quite as much as I thought if would if I’m honest.
“To be someone’s Mum is a gift. From early childhood, little girls happily play at being mum to younger siblings, or indeed to dolls, or pets.
 
Me, I’m the proud and doting mum of a 3 year old Drama Queen, and I am happy to admit, that I am STILL playing! No handbook arrived with the little sweetheart. I don’t have a degree in parenting. I don’t have a bloody clue really!
 
I make it up every day. I make decisions that I know make my own Mum cringe. I’m sure that at times, my dear Granny shakes her perfectly blow-dried head in horror at my parenting techniques.
 
In fact, sometimes, I swear that I’m having an outer body experience when I deal with the child.
 
The Boss, as she has taken to calling her pretty self, stands in front of me; arms crossed, pout perfected, audience’s attention caught and voice ready and poised to hit those terrifying high notes…while I chuckle like a crazy lady as I watch myself try to remain in control; Deep breaths, calm expression, remind myself that I am the adult here.
 
“Listen Darling. We need to leave the toy back on the shelf for another wee child. “
 
I’m winning.
 
“Good girl. Now, come on and we’ll go get a Babychino and then we’ll go home and watch Minions…” (Yes, blackmail. Get over it. It works…sometimes.)
 
I have her… I just need to get her to take my hand and then we’ll skip happily out of the shop, leaving behind the assembled audience in a cloud of applause, appreciation and awe at how well that mammy handled that…
 
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! I NEEEEEEEEEEEED TEDDY!!!!” Cue autotap tears and stratospheric screaming… Oh! and don’t forget the kicks and snake-like movements as I try to lift her gracefully into my arms.
 
I manage to wrench her under one arm, pick up the bags and move out of the shop. The audience shake heads and probably judge. At this moment in time, I want my Mammy!
 
We reach the bench outside. I put screaming child down and hunker down to have a positive parenting style talk with her. Her beautiful blue eyes are glistening with tears and her cheeks give the word “Rosy” a new level of meaning.
 
“Now Madam, listen to me. Don’t EVER…”
 
Her attention has been distracted by the huge cluster of helium balloons behind me.
 
“PEPPAAAAAAA PIG!!! Mammy wuk! It’s Peppa Pig bawoooooon! I NEEEEEEEEED IT”
 
Tears gone. Smile on. Adorable wee face up close into mine. “Pweeeeease Mammy. I wub it!”
 
“Next day we’re out, I’ll buy you a balloon okay?”
 
“Okay Mammy!”
 
And as we skip off towards the car, I look at the messy little head on her, and I know that for all my “playing”, I’m not doing a bad job really.
 
I am blessed. I am exhausted. I am happy. I would kill for a glass of Merlot. I am 100% in love with Mini-me. I’m trying my best.
 
I am Super Mum. 🙂”
 
 

Supermum?

So it’s The S-Mum’s Birthday! My blog is 3 years old today. Here’s my first ever post.
Happy Blogday to me!

Maria Rushe - Blogger and Writer's avatarThe S-Mum

To be someone’s Mum is a gift.  From early childhood, little girls happily play at being mum to younger siblings, or indeed to dolls, or pets.

Me, I’m the proud and doting mum of a 3 year old Drama Queen, and I am happy to admit, that I am STILL playing!  No handbook arrived with the little sweetheart.  I don’t have a degree in parenting.  I don’t have a bloody clue really!

I make it up every day.  I make decisions that I know make my own Mum cringe.  I’m sure that at times, my dear Granny shakes her perfectly blow-dried head in horror at my parenting techniques.

In fact, sometimes, I swear that I’m having an outer body experience when I deal with the child.

The Boss, as she has taken to calling her pretty self, stands in front of me; arms crossed, pout perfected, audience’s attention caught and voice…

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I am Still Giving Out About This Mum

I wrote this 3 years ago.

Unfortunately, it seems to be an issue that is never going to go away.

“Symbols are simple. The reason we use symbols is to avoid misunderstanding. They transcend languages and general capabilities, allowing for easy communication.

Universally, red means stop and green means go. We know which toilet to use because of the shape of the symbol on the door. We can understand symbols on road signs, on advertisements, on everything. But there is a verrrrrry special breed of person who has great difficulty in understanding a certain symbol…the parent and baby parking symbol.

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This one seems to cause great confusion.

MORE than once upon a time (unfortunately), I have witnessed a seemingly fit and healthy 20-something male, bounce from his car and pop into a local supermarket. There were plenty parking spaces in the massive car park. The weather was perfect for a little amble from car to shop door.

He had absolutely no sign of child in his well kept Golf and he wasn’t pregnant, as far as I could tell anyway. And yet, he felt the need to park in the space.

Now, maybe he wasn’t taught symbolism very well in school. Or, maybe he was taught it too well by one of those wonderfully talented teachers who taught him how to see hidden meaning and to think outside the box. In this case, the box is the very clearly lined parking space, and his metaphorical musings probably allowed him to interpret the blatant symbol as “a space for people who hope to one day have sex and make a baby in the future, so save your energy for the action and don’t walk unless you have to.”

Or maybe, he’s just an entitled plank.

Either way, I followed him, tutting disapproval and shaking my head. He saw me. He carried on, probably wondering why the crazy lady was glowering at him. I was angry. I was furious and I was quite happy to let him know it.

But, I didn’t.

When someone doesn’t see that this is wrong all by themselves, it seems that explaining it to them would probably a waste of breath.

He upped his speed and moved away from my disapproving glares as fast as his non swollen ankles could carry him. And I carried on into the shop, getting over the episode by the time I reached the meat section.

Then, I returned to my car. Non-pregnant man’s car was still in the parking space. Another car had just parked in the one beside it and out popped a middle aged lady and her daughter. Now, granted these spaces are reserved for Parent and Child, but when your child is in her late teens, you’re taking it a bit too far!”

It’s as relevant today as it was three years ago. And it’s something that is getting worse. It seems that some people have simply been brought up to disregard the needs of others. I recently posted about a similar experience on my blog. It seems that most of my followers have witnessed similar events. And it’s NOT simply young men who abuse these spaces. It’s men and women of all ages. Discrimination is indiscriminate it seems…

What really surprised me was the fact that some people will defend themselves passionately.

There is a section of society who truly believe that they are every bit as entitled to park in these spaces as the lady who is 8 months pregnant and whose pelvis is threatening to fall around her ankles with every painful step. Some fully believe that if they are “only scooting in” quickly, then it is perfectly acceptable to make the Dad with the buggy and the toddler park at the other end of the carpark. And there seems to be some misconception that just because you drive a fancy newish car or jeep, then you are more entitled to the wider spaces. Saves your doors being bumped you know? Never mind the woman with the actual bump who can’t park there now because of you.

This is an issue that is ongoing. It happens EVERYWHERE, every day. It happens in Wheelchair spaces too. Despicable…

How can we stop it? Well, short of waiting for our legal system to step in, the only hope we have of removing the dismissal of the importance of these spaces is if the supermarkets become proactive and begin clamping or fining (or whatever is in their power on their property) to deter people from parking their lazy arses in these spots.

If it isn’t something that bothers you, chances are you’re the twat who’s parked in that space.

It’s simple. Do you have a Baby in your car or in your Belly? No? Well park somewhere else. Simple as a symbol really.

(There is currently a petition circulating started by Niamh at The Mammy Blog which will be shared with major supermarkets. If it’s something that grinds your gears too, go sign it.)

I am Such a Twat Mum

Mammy is a turbotwat.

Mammy drove in her gate this evening only to get a phone call from Afterschool.

“Hello?” (Checking Mirrors to make sure I have both girls in the car…)

“Hi Mammy. Erm. Just letting you know you left Mini-Me’s schoolbag in the middle of the carpark. We have it in the office here.”

Mammy doesn’t really know WHAT to say and so she laughs like a hysterical feckin hyena down the phone!

I could have apologised profusely and said things like “oh my goodness” and “Oh I’m SOOOOO embarrassed!” or “I cannot BELIEVE I did that!” I COULD have turned the car around like a good Mammy and gone back to get it.

But Who the feck would I be kidding? 🤣

Instead, I finished laughing and said “well it’s official so. I’ve lost it! I’m a twat!” followed by “If Himself doesn’t get in for it, I’ll get it on Monday morning.”

Then I laughed some more and thanked Lovely Lady for rescuing the poor bag, which I clearly remember setting down beside the car. (She knows me well enough by now. 😂)

Ah well.
“DID you SERIOUSLY forget my Bag Mammy?” She’s aghast and mortified…

“Yup. But guess what?”

“What?”

“I didn’t forget YOU!”

Because at the minute, I wouldn’t really put ANYTHING past myself. 😂😂

Brain = MUSH!

How was your day? 😗😗