Monthly Archives: April 2018

I am So It’s a New Baby Mum

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Mammy does love the news of a new babby.

Mammy doesn’t particularly fancy the prospect of having another one herself now, but Mammy still does be smiling when the news of another wrinkly little Squisheeface is announced.

Mammy does be particularly excited when the new babby belongs to someone she knows and cares about. 

And while Mammy couldn’t give a continental contraction about the Family Royale in the Brexit state, Mammy couldn’t help but think “Ah nice” when she saw the news on the Twit-feed this morning.

Mammy is glad that Katie and Billy Boy have welcomed another little prince to their family. Lovely. Honestly.

What Mammy doesn’t get however, is where the Media managers of the family Royale are and what they are drinking? Mammy would like to know why the fook they think that the poor woman needs to be paraded around only 4 hours after the birth, dressed to the nines and made up perfectly?

God but she looks stunning in fairness and no, Mammy is not bitter as Mammy is very aware that that is one of “the joys” that Katie signed up to when she sold her soul to the life of the eternal celebrity. And as long as she is happy, good for her.

(Also, Mammy is quite certain that I too probably looked EXACTLY like that 4 hours after the birth of her girls… Because Mammy was so drugged and knackered that she would have believed ANYTHING at that particular moment. I may have reached that level of bloat free and prettiful again by 5 months postpartum!)

Mammy would love to have seen lovely Kate (for she is indeed beautiful) walking out of the Lindybob wing looking happy but knackered, with her hair scraped back from her face and a comfy tracksuit. And flat shoes, for I am sure her Ladybits are crying with every step.

Because then, while I still would have wondered and awed at the fact that she was, you know, STANDING, I would have seen what she is behind the royal BS… A warrior woman who has just brought life into the world and who should be left the feck alone with her lovely wee babby, rather than having to not only parade around outside the wing looking like she was at a Ladies’ Day, but to look perfect while doing it.

I do hope that there are no Mammies looking at her today feeling lesser or inferior to what they are because they weren’t smiling to the world with a blow dry. I hope that no Mammy feels that she was doing something wrong because 4 hours after the birth she was wrestling with sanitary nappies and crying because she was crying and didn’t know why she was crying.

And mostly, I hope that right now, Kate is snuggled up in her baggies, on her sofa, hair up, bra off, cozy with her Hubby, enjoying tea and toast and smiling at her new wee Baby and glad that all of that circus is done with!

Congrats to them. And congrats to all the Mammies who didn’t have a live feed of their hospital wall running on Twitter as her little Prince was getting his crown on!

I am Seriously Tested Mum

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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

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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

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“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

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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?