I am Seriously Tested Mum

There are days when things happen to test us.

Yesterday, it was not just Mammy who was tested by events.  No.  Mammy AND Daddy and our marriage in general were tested. By what? By who?

By our Princess Poonami.

“She’s a great age now.  We can go anywhere and it’s so much easier than when she was tiny” scoffed Mammy to her cousin-with-older-kids at approximately 5.10pm.  We were standing watching our minions playing in the garden at Granny-Mary-Queen-Mother-of-the-whole-wide-world’s birthday party.

“All I need now is to throw a nappy in my handbag and go! No need to be lugging half the house around anymore!” Mammy was so sure of herself.  Cousin with older kids agreed.  How smug and fablis Mammy is about how clutter free Mammying is when out and about now that my wobbler is 2. Smug mammy.  Silly Mammy.

“Mammy.  We have a poonami!” I hear The Him call.

“Sorry what? We do not have poonamis anymore.  Silly Daddy.  Don’t you know that our mini is now of the post-poonami age? You have made a mistake.  Check that you have lifted the correct child from the garden.  You must be mistaken.”

Mammy is past the point of the Poonami.  I am no longer THAT Mammy. I no longer have to carry a changing bag.  I no longer have to remove brown sticky vests from the back of my child. I have past this stage.  I am Poonami free..,

Except that I am not.  And when I look up, the child in The Him’s arms is indeed mine.  He is pretending that she is an aeroplane, so as not to have to touch the bum region.  Of course, this WOULD be the first day she is wearing a dress and is bare legged and so I can already see the rivulet which SHOULD have been held inside leggins, trickling down the crevaces of her fat little legs. And the unmistakeable smell wafting from her arse can only be one thing.  Yup. Poonami.

And all that I have in my handbag is a single nappy.

Who’s smug now?

My sister calls out “My baby bag is in the hall. GO GO GO!!” and GO GO GO we GO.

There are approximately 120 people in Granny-Mary-Queen-Mother-of-the-whole-wide-world’s house, through which we have to manouvre the leaking posterier of the aeroplane baby.  She is “WEEEE”ing with glee as Daddy flies her through the crowd.

Scuse us.  Poonami alert, poonami alert.  We rush to the spare room and throw a towel onto the bed.  Princes Poonami is having a great oul laugh as we rummage through the sister’s baby bag for nappies and wipes.

I’m about to start changing her and I look at the Him.  He looks at me.  And we know that we are both thinking the same thing… HOW the fuck do we do this?

You know how they say that a parent forgets all the bad stuff…the labour pains, the pain pain, the recovery, the exhaustion…well it seems that we also block out the cleaning up of the bum explosions too.  Because for a few seconds, neither of us had a clue where to start!

Right.  We can do this.  And for the next 10 minutes. (Yes, it took 10 minutes, such was the extent and reach of the exposion.) we were a tag team.  Back in the throes of early parenthood. Working together. A team with one purpose.  Our marriage being strengthened, tested and verified by a shitty nappy.

“Nappies…nappies.”  “Wipe…wipe.”  “Hold that.” “Wait wait wait!”  “Watch her hair.” “Mind the bed” “You missed that bit on her neck”  “Fuck fuck fuck!” “Is that it?” “WTF? HOW did it get in THERE?” “Where will I put this?” “Go get a plastic bag.  NO a Bin bag!”  “Christ the smell…” “Get your HANDS out of THERE!”

The bumbag went into the binbag.  The clothes and towel went into another one.  The Wobbler was dressed in a spare outfit that my sister-who-will-always-be-prepared-for-all-eventualities-and-is-not-a-smug-relaxed-twat-like-Mammy-here had packed for her girl.  And at the end, Mammy and Daddy hi-fived. Yes.  We did. That’s how proud of ourselves we were.

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GRRRRRRRR!

“Still got it Daddy” says Mammy.

“Hell yeah!” says Daddy.

“I dood a pooooooo” said Princess.

No Shit Sherlock!

Lesson learned.  Mammy needs to go back to keeping a changing bag in the boot of the car.  Be prepared for all seasons…and remember that when she is on an antibiotic, there is a high chance of poonami, whatever age she is.

And together, there is no shitstorm that Mammy and Daddy can’t handle together.

 

I am Saying Happy 60th Daddy

granda2My Daddy is the King of the Whole Wide World.* (official title decreed by me)

And today my Daddy turns 60.

How fablis!

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“Your parents are so young!”  I hear this often.  As Daddy turns 60, I see people’s brains doing the maths! It’s great that my parents are young. And yet while they had me when they were only 20, they were older than I am now when my youngest sister was born. And so my parents know what BOTH are like; to be young parents and to be not so young parents.

So which is best?  Well that is for another post… but my Daddy Bear remains young in his antics and his heart!

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Clowning around at our wedding!

 

I am blessed to still have both of my parents and even more blessed that they are young and healthy. Being 31 when Mini-Me was born, (and trust me, that was young enough for me!), I often shudder when I consider that when she is my age, I shall be 67. (I hope!)  And to think that I’ll be 72 when Princess reaches where I am now, puts the fear of God in me. I just hope I’m still around to annoy them!

And so my wee Daddy, who is the ABSOLUTE King of my world, is 60. He is my rock. He is my guiding light.  Sometimes, he has been my truth barer and by GOD has he had the brunt of it with me. He has done EVERYTHING for the 6 of us.  He still busts himself every day to provide for us.  He works harder than any other man I know and he has taught me every single thing that I know.

The main things he taught me?

  1.   If you want it, work for it, earn it, deserve it. (Yup!)
  2.  Your morning is your day. (as she types at 5.30am!)
  3.  Remember who has the problem.  (There’s the elixer of life in a single sentence right there. Make it your mantra.)

There is no one in the world who can talk sense into me like Daddy.  I am his double in every way.  We have had epic fun and we have had epic battles. What happens when an immovable object meets an unstoppable force? Well, eventually the unstoppable force realises that the immovable object is usually right and that she should just have listened to him in the first place.  The minute I realised that Daddy was and is usually right, my life became easier instantly!  What a waste of teenage angst eh?

Not only is he the best Daddy in the world, there is no Granda in the world as much in love with his Grandkids as he is. He is so like MY Granda, his Daddy, who was the centre of our world. And he is idolised and adored by his little herd of kiddies. He is strong and kind and genuine and amazing.

He is my Daddy and I am the luckiest girl in the world.  (and he loves me more than he does the other 5.  He’s loved me the longest like!)

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Happy Birthday my Daddy Bear. Here’s to the rest.

I am Some Chilling Facts Mum

“And that’s how valleys were made!” says Daddy, utterly proud of himself as he helps Mini-Me into her carseat.  He’s just had her looking over one of Donegal’s most beautiful valleys, The Poison Glen.

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Look at meeeeee Daddy!

They’ve stood out, looking and pointing and chatting, with Daddy being ‘the business’, informing her, teaching her, being the Daddy of all knowledge, and her little ears taking it all in.  I’ve been in the car with a sleeping Princess who quite frankly couldn’t give a hoot about anything other than when she next gets to eat or sleep.

He straps himself in and starts to drive.

Did the Ice-age really happen then?’ she asks, still wide eyed.

‘It did indeed.’  he answers smugly.

‘When like?’

‘Oh Millions of years ago.’

I’m enjoying this.  It’s nice having someone else answer her questions!  It reminds me of when I was her age and my Daddy knew EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING too. I was in awe of him.  (I still am.)

The Him’s enjoying it too. He smiles his handsome smile at me as he stops at a junction. Superdaddy…

‘Millions of years ago Daddy? Really?’  There’s doubt in her voice/

‘Yep.  Millions and millions of years ago…’

‘And was it really cold?’

‘It was. So cold that everything was covered in ice!’

(I know what’s coming in the way that only a Mammy can know what’s coming…)

‘So did Granny have to buy you a warmer coat?’

And just like that, his ice bubble was shattered into millions of pieces.  It’s amazing how quickly thathandsome smile can be replaced by Grumpy grump!

I turned up the heating.  It was suddenly quite chilly in the car…

 

I am Shopping with Him Mum

The weekly shop.

The middle aisle of shite…

When Mammy does the weekly shop, all ingredients and things required to fulfill the meal plan for the family for the week shall be acquired as economically and quickly as possible.

Mammy knows which shop sells what and where the best place to buy kidney beans is.

Mammy can walk into Aldi-Everything and fill the trolley without really having to think too much about it. We’re creatures of habit in our house see, the weekly menu doesn’t change much, and so even if I’m distracted, or in a hurry, or just knackered to the point of Mombie, Mammy automatically reaches for the usual and will always leave quite content that she can feed her minions for the next 5-7 days.

When DADDY goes into Aldi-everything however, while the shopping list will be acquired (mostly…how he misses the eggs everytime, I shall never know…), there is also a 100% chance that we might also acquire some new gadget or item which is completely unnecessary and altogether superfluous. Leaf blowers, power drills, strange shaped batteries, and paint… none of which taste good in a chilli con carne… have all be purchased alongside the nappies and bananas.

When I have the girls with me, I spend my time hissing things like “Put that watermelon down please”, “We don’t need wool and knitting needles” and “Would you come away from the sweets please.”

When we ALL go to do the shopping, which is rare in fairness, it is a fun experience for Mammy.

I get to say things like “Put that ski gear down please.” (We have NEVER been skiing and it is not something that is on the cards for us, like, ever.) “We don’t need a power washer” and “Would you come away from the countertop fridges please. We HAVE a fridge.”

In fairness, I don’t even see the middle aisle usually. I see the peppers and mushrooms and binbags. But for Himself, the joy of a tilecutter across from the breadsticks is utterly intriguing…and baffling.

It’s always fun seeing what he’ll bring home when he does the shopping however. And aren’t I lucky to have a Him who does help out a bit with the boring weekly tasks?

Now, does anyone have a recipe for Paint Stroganoff?

I am Strapping her in Mum

To the Lady in the Car.
I know that right now, it does not look like it, but yes, yes they ARE my children. I am not trying to kidnap them.
Yes it may look like I am a stranger, dragging them against their will to a world unknown, to torture and penance, but trust me, the only one enduring torture and penance at this particular moment, is me. (and perhaps your eardrums.)
I am not a stranger however. I am their Mammy. I carried each of them in my stretched womb for 76 months… I have loved, fed, clothed and nurtured them since their births, and I spend the entirety of my existence working to provide for them, both spiritually and physically. Sometimes, mentally too, but that’s mostly Me. I have paper to prove that these little ones, who right now are screaming and hollering so much that I forgive your raised eyebrow, ARE INDEED MINE. I also have the stretchmarks and ruined ladybits as a receipt.
Right now, as I fight with my Twoublemaker to get her into the car seat in the car that they know well as ours, I wonder if I had an ACTUAL receipt, would some shop take them back…even just for ten minutes? Her plank is stronger than any grown Man in our Jim, and her ability to remain in said position despite Mammy’s manipulation, begging and near force, is fecking ridiculous. While she refuses to allow her arse onto HER car seat, the 6 year old wails because apparently going home with the woman who feeds and clothes and loves her, is a punishment worse than anything imaginable. She too, is crying. WHY? Fecked if I know…
What I do know however, is that to a stranger, it looks like the crazy sweaty woman in her honking gym gear has randomly pulled up to the childcare and lifted the first two children she bumped into. It looks like I am a monster, determined to steal them to sell them for rubies or diamonds…or gin or something.
And as I finally force, (not gonna lie, she didn’t go gently…), my uberstrong fartypants into her seat and strap the crying one into hers, I get into MY seat to start the car. I turn off the radio as I can’t hear it over the pair of them anyway. One is now asking why it is not Friday so she can have a treat, and the miniest one is screaming “POP POP POP” at the top of her strapped in little lungs. I look across and see you smile at my sympathetically and I wonder if your children also like to play the “Let’s make her lose the will to live as she straps us in the car” game. I believe it is their way of expressing their love for me… They love me dearly, they do.
We begin the long journey home, to the house where YES we do all live together, and of course, after approximately 35 metres, both of the little feckers are singing and chattering away in the back seat as if NOTHING has just happened.
I imagine them high-fiving each other behind my back, their eyebrows communicating in secret code, “Go us… we’ve made the wench pay. Now, let’s work on getting pizza for tea.”
“What’s for tea Mammy?”
“Brocolli”.
Take that Bitcheepoo. (Yes, they’re getting pizza… )
Sincerely in nappies and gin,
Mammy
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Funny how Jessie and Woody don’t freak out on HER when she’s strapping them into her “car, isn’t it?
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I am Some Things I Once Thought Mum 

The S-Mum

10 things I thought before I had kids:
1. I shall never shout at my child:  Oh you will you know.  Actually, it’s more a case of shouting at yourself really, because if you are having to shout at all, chances are that you’ve reached that wonderful stage where the little minions have decided to ignore every single fricken word you say, until you are screaming it at the top of your lungs like a mad woman.  And do you know what else? Even THEN, they’ll probably not listen to you.
2. I shall love my child unconditionally always.  Yes,  indeed.  But that doesn’t mean that you have to LIKE them unconditionally or always.
3. I will never have to deal with a tantrum in a shop:  Oh yes you will.  The 30 seconds of your Minion’s meltdown will feel like an HOUR and even though no one is…

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I am Section Mum

“Are you hoping to do it properly this time?”

I kid you not.  This is what I was asked recently by another Soon-to-be Mum with whom I was having the “When are you due?”conversation.

She’d asked if this was my first.  I’d answered that it was number two.

“Me too” she smiled.  Then she asked if I’d had a tough time last time.  I replied that I’d had to have a planned section.  Her next line floored me.

“Aw, so are you planning to do it properly this time?”

 

Now in her defense, she was an absolute stranger, who probably didn’t intend any harm whatsoever.  I don’t think she even realised that she’d said it…but she had.

I smiled politely and said Goodbye.  As I walked away, my smile remained on my face, somewhat forced… I wasn’t quite sure whether I wanted to laugh or to cry.

Smug I-push-mine-out-Mum carried on, oblivious to the fact that she could have just offended or upset the other very pregnant lady.  I carried on about my day, and it was only when I was telling my friend about the conversation that evening that I realised that her comment was lingering in my mind.

The word “properly” has been bothering me since.

Because not only did it dismiss my first childbirth, it suggested that I did something wrong; that my first birth was improper.

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Did she automatically assume that I was “too posh to push”?  Did she think that I asked to have my stomach sliced open and my baby lifted out by surgeons? Did she really class a c-section as a sub standard, improper way of delivering a child?  If she’s told that she needs to have one this time, is she going to say No because it’s not the proper way to do it?

What is the proper way?  I listen to conversations all the time about childbirth and babies.  There seem to be so many proper ways to do things.

Without medication.  With just gas and air.  With classical music on in the background.  Without bright lights and alarm.  Mammas who breathe through the pain are fantastic.  Those who refuse drugs are wonderful.  Those who have 60 hour labours are phenomenal. But those who take as much pain relief as we can have are equally as brilliant.

I don’t know of any new Mother who had Andy Peters standing waiting at the bottom of the bed to pin a Blue Peter Badge onto their properly born child afterwards.

I applaud and congratulate these warrior women, in the exact same way as I applaud and congratulate the woman who, for whatever reason, may it be medical, personal or indeed emergency, has to undergo the trauma of childbirth on an operating table.

A caesarean section is not what any woman anticipates when thinking of how their baby will be born. It’s terrifying.  It’s painful.  Your body goes through all of the same physical and indeed hormonal reactions to having just given birth as the body of a woman who has been lucky enough to give birth naturally.

There are stitches.  There is afterbirth.  There is pain…by God is there pain.

There is recovery time.  There are hormones.

But most importantly, with the help of some higher power and whatever wonderful staff that are on hand in the hospital, there is a baby.

And that is what childbirth, in any form, is about.

It’s about getting your precious little darling out of your big swollen tummy as quickly and safely as possible.  It’s about causing as little trauma as possible to your newborn, regardless of what your own body must go through.  It’s about love.

And there is absolutely nothing proper about any of it.

Every woman dreams of a quick, pain free labour and uneventful delivery.  How many do you know that have achieved that?  I’d love to meet them.

Of course I’d love to have experienced childbirth like most women do.  But do I feel like I have missed out on anything?

Erm, no.

Do I feel that my darling daughter is any less born than her friends or cousins?  Nope.

If my next child is born by VBAC, will that be more proper than Mini-me’s birth?  Eh…no!?

But If I do manage proper childbirth this time, does that mean I’m finally a real mum and that I can finally be admitted into the proper mum club? Well I think you know where I’m going with this!

I’m already a real mum.   I’ve already had a proper baby.  I’ve already been through the horrors of childbirth, perhaps just a little differently to others.

In the same way as some women judge others for not breast feeding, or for taking whatever drugs are safely available to them from the doctors, or for giving their baby a dodo/soother/pacifier, that lady judged me for having to have a c-section to bring my baby to me safely.

And of course she didn’t intend to offend, but when we so flippantly share our own opinions on bump and baby matters, (and we do!), we sometimes dismiss experiences that we have never had ourselves.

And we should consider that before we speak.

My experiences of pregnancy, birth and of being a Mummy are very different to every other Mummy’s experiences.  My experience isn’t exclusive.  There is no such thing as properly when it comes to being a Mum..

So if this time round, my consultant advises me that I should have another section, I’ll listen to her, because guess what? That’s her job.  She knows best and I trust her.  And because it’s my job too…the only job a mother has when they go into hospital, is to get their little bundle out of their belly!I

And I will happily hang upside down from the rafters, singing Jingle Bells, buck naked and high on horse tranquilizers if that ‘s what it takes to get my little one here properly.

I am Section Mum

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I am Some of Their Current Tricks Mum

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Do your little minions keep you on your toes?

Mine do.  So much so that I might as well dance around in ballet pumps, never mind walking.

While they try to keep me on my toes, half the time I’m actually walking around bare-footed…on lego.  I think I’ve sussed them.  I think I know them and their tricks. And then they remind me that actually, I have not a clue what I am doing and that I am most certainly NOT in charge in our little home.

Here are the top 5 ways that Mini-Me and Princess are keeping me “dancing” at the minute.  But sure hey, who wants boring well-behaved kids eh?

  1. Silence is… dangerous. Especially if there is more than one minion in your charge. Do not be fooled into thinking that they are playing quietly.  If they are quiet, they’re hoping you won’t catch or see them doing what they know they are not supposed to be doing.

 

2. Hiding is the best fun ever!  Especially when they hide behind their fat wee hands, right in front of you and genuinely believe that you can’t see them.  However, as they get bigger, hiding becomes a skill. And it becomes quite the pain in the posterier…especially if they decide to play “hiding” just as you are trying to leave the house. Princess is unbelievable at it.  She runs down the hall shouting “I Hideeeeeeen”.  Her favourites are in the bottom of a wardrobe, happily still in the dark, or standing like a statue behind a curtain.  Nightmare.  The only way I can find her in a hurry is to make her giggle.  (Mammy on the other hand can not hide.  ANYWHERE. Don’t waste your time trying.  They will find you.)

3. Clean nappies are best for pooing in. Especially when you’re just about to leave the house. Again, if a clean nappy is combined with silence and hiding, you’re getting a hat-trick Mammy.

4. If Mammy cooks it, they will not eat it.  If Granny, Aunty, Uncle, Childminder, Binman cooks it, they shall eat it.  Also, if, like me you have a child who doesn’t eat a particular food (still no go on the chucken), be warned that they WILL eat it EVERYWHERE ELSE.  Just to keep you look deranged and mad when you tell people they don’t like a certain food.

5. Crying is reserved for Mammy. A child can bump her knee at 10am and be brave. When you arrive at 5pm, they will cry about it.  A child can be as good as gold all day.  Once you enter another house or indeed, once someone else walks into your house, they will begin to act like demonic dictators just to remind you that they are indeed the Boss of the whole wide world. And to maintain your outside-the-house-persona as the Mammy-who-is-always-scolding.

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Otherwise, all is perfect and all is right with the world. I hope you all got lots of eggs and that the little faces are covered in chocolate.  Bring on the sugar rush and crashes this evening eh?  And don’t forget to put some egg in the fridge to have when they go to bed tonight! Goes well with grapes they tell me. 🙂

What is your little one’s trick of the month?

I am Simply Feeding my Baby Mum. 

Speaking of choice…

The S-Mum

​“Mumpty Mumpty sat on the wall,

Mumpty Mumpty had a great fall…

All the Queen’s buddies and all the Queen’s men,

Couldn’t put Mumpty together again.”

Yup.

Mammies face a wall.

And boy it’s a big wall.

It’s huge.  It’s long.  It’s terrifying to sit atop because it’s so high.  It’s divided Mammies for years and a much as we campaign and try to promote awareness about the wall,  it only seems to be getting higher. The Mammies on each side of this wall think they’re better than the Mammies on the other side.  And the Mammies still sitting on top of the wall are generally terrified because not only do they not know which side to jump off, but most of them know that regardless of which side they choose, they’ll be judged.
And the worst thing about this wall which divides Mammies?
We built it ourselves.

And…

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I am Sliabh Liag Mum

Happy Easter Ladybelles.

Hope the sugar highs weren’t too manic and that the sugar crashes were tolerable!

We headed off to the beautiful Sliabh Liag today. Unbelievably, neither of us have EVER been and us living in Donegal our whole lives!? How? No idea but we’re so glad we have finally ticked it off our list.

It’s absolutely stunning. So beautiful. Our girls are a bit young yet to be walking it so we’re planning a trip back this summer with our #Rushefitness family to attempt the trek up to the top. 😎

Then we went to Walton Mountain for a wee egg hunt. Great fun! And Granny fed us which was great as Dumbass here forgot to put the roast in the Slowcooker this morning. 😜

Girls are in bed at last. Bond is on the TellyBox and there’s s bottle of bubbles almost chilled in the fridge. 🥂

Hope we all had a fablis day.

Xxx