Still-no-poopoo-mum

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I did a poo tomorrow!” she screams at me. In the mind of 3 year old Mini Me, this makes perfect sense and should be sufficient in getting mummy to leave her alone and stop asking her to “pleeeeeeeeeeeease do a poo in the toilet”.

If only.

We’re potty training.  Actually, no.  She’s been potty trained since Christmas. And I’m a very proud Mum as it really only took a fortnight and 3 wee accidents to get to no nappies/no pull-ups territory.  It’s wonderful.  We can leave the house without a suitcase of paraphernalia.  A spare pair of Peppa Pig pants and a pair of leggings are now popped into my handbag, and off we go!

While I am of course, enjoying the utter joy of carrying my grown up handbags again, (in place of her baby bag/Minnie Mouse backpacks which have served as Mummy’s handbag for the past 3 years), I’m still terrified.

What if she forgets to tell me she needs to pee?  The ball-pool is after all, just too much fun to think of such banal bodily functions

What if she announces that she has to pee while we’re in that bloody retail park in town that doesn’t have a public toilet?

What if she pees herself when she’s away from me, and someone scolds her for not telling them she needed to go?

What if she poops?

Because, my little darling, while “potty trained” for the number 1s, is refusing, point blank, to poo in the toilet.  She promises me every day that she’ll “do my poooooos in da toiiiiilet cos I’ms a big gurl” She proudly announces to Daddy at bedtime that she “dood a poo in the toilet yesterday.” (Her lack of time awareness is quite cute and utterly comical really!)

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The reality is that she holds it in for days on end, resulting in a sore tummy, spotty blemishes on her porcelain skin and huge tennis-ball-esque poops protruding from her little toochie as she comes out from her playhouse or from behind the sofa.

She announces innocently that she needs the toilet, then, when she hears the plop of said tennis-ball hitting the water, she beams her sparkly smile, gasps and announces “I dooood it!  I pooed in the toiiiiilet!!”  (usually followed by “I need a Kinder egg” – thanks Granny!)

How do I tell her proud little self that actually, no. You did a poop that an adult would struggle to produce, in your pants, and the toilet/my hands/your little legs are now covered in it. In fact, sometimes, the offending poop looks ironically like a bloody kinder egg! (or in her own words…”It’s only Playdough Granny!”)

I’m living in a playdough nightmare.

I am quite literally. in. the. shit.  And I don’t have a clue what to do.

Everyone is offering advice.  I am taking it all gratefully and have tried everything from blowing bubbles while on the toilet, having whistling competitions to encourage the muscles to move, scolding, blackmailing and crying.  (me, not her!)

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I explain to her patiently that Mummy put the poopoo into the toilet, after she did it in her pants, and that she’s a big girl and should tell Mammy next time.  I’ve turned the poos into little crocodiles who want to go for a swim in the toilet with the peepees.  I’ve tried the “You can show Baby Cousin how to do poops in the toilet“… I’ve tried everything.

So, tell me.  What have I not done? And more importantly, what can I do?  Because I know that “it’s just a phase”, “that they all go through it,” and “that she’ll be grand”, but as Mummy, I need to know how to avoid scarring her for life and leaving her afraid of the toilet! And yes, I know I’ll look back on this and laugh.  Yes, I’ll be well prepared for next time and it’ll be a breeeeeeze.

Yes, maybe she’ll just decide suddenly that the fear she has is gone.  Maybe, I’ll have another 3 months of poops in the pants.  Maybe one of my aunties or friends will untap the secret for me.  Maybe I’ll find something that works for us.  Or maybe she’s actually a psychic child and she will “did a poo tomorrow!”

Whatever.  While we wait, I am indeed “Still-no-poopoo-Mum.

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I am Step-mum

“Will you marry us?”

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Not exactly your typical proposal is it? But it’s how many proposals should now be phrased, because let’s face it, for most of us now, marriage is not just between the traditional two people. Sometimes, there’s the ex.  Sometimes there’s a dog who thinks he owns the bed.  Sometimes, there’s a child.  Sometimes, there’s the children.  Regardless, there’s the reality.

As a child, I did the “Monica“; marching through an aisle of appreciative teddy bears, wearing a pillow case as a veil, happily telling Ken that “I do,” while my sister practiced being bridesmaid.

I’m a Disney girl, so I’ve always been pretty sure that someday my Prince Charming would appear on horse back to my castle, to whisk me off into my happily ever after. And appear he did, (after a loooooong string of kissed frogs), admittedly however, not on horse back.  He arrived in a taxi to a house party, but he did indeed sweep me off my glittery stilettos and we’re doing a mighty fine job of the happy ever after!

But when I dreamed about my wedding and my future husband, at no point did I dream of marrying two men.  But that I did.

It wasn’t in my plan.  I’m pretty sure it isn’t in anybody’s plan.  When a couple are expecting a baby, it surely doesn’t come into their thoughts that someday, another woman or another man, will be parent to that child.  Of course it doesn’t.  But then, sometimes, our plans don’t quite work out the way we dream they will.

Families are complicated.  When you marry the man, or woman, of your dreams, the “us” you dreamed of can suddenly include a whole lot of people you never imagined having to deal with:  The child.  The other parent.  The parent’s partner.  The other baby. The mother’s family.  More often than not, things get messy, but if you’re in it for the long haul, you’ll quickly realize that the fighting has to just end in order for anyone to get on with things.

Of course every circumstance is different.  I’m one of the lucky ones I suppose.  My husband came with a perfectly wonderful mini-him.  I’ve had the pleasure of being mini-him’s wicked stepmother since he was only a wee toot of a four year old.  He doesn’t know anything else except Daddy and Me. And he is his Mammy’s own Prince Charming.

He’s wonderful with our own Mini-me.  He knows he’s part of a wonderfully functional dysfunctional little unit.  He knows that there’s been the obvious  difficulties in the past, but he also knows that he has a whole lot of love directed at him, from many different angles.

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I had friends at the start who thought I was crazy taking on another woman’s child.  I’m sure some of them still think it.  But, what some of them didn’t realize was that watching my manfriend be the best father in the world to his little person, was one of the reasons I loved him so immediately.  He would go to the ends of the earth for him.  He did actually, and you can’t buy that level of love and commitment. So as I stood on the altar and promised to love him, “and all the children we’d be blessed with“, forever, I was making that vow to not one, but two, men…And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’m also blessed that his mother knows that I love him and has allowed me the pleasure of helping to raise her precious one.    Granted, I’m sure that I was never in her plans.  I know she was never in mines. But guess what? The universe threw our happy ever afters together whether we liked it or not.  We’re not in charge.  Even in my own self-righteousness, I’ve never underestimated how difficult it must be to allow a step-mum into your child’s life…I’m not sure I could do it. That takes guts. That takes a supermum. 🙂

I am SlowCooker-Mum!

Sizzling…steamy…simmering, slow and steady… I love my Slow-cooker.

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It’s everything that I’m not on this dreary Monday morning.  I’m tired and I’m dosed, and I have to take a massive step back into reality after one of the most wonderful weeks of my little life.

But thanks to my Slow-cooker, I’m one step ahead of myself.

At 6.30am, I am sipping my coffee, enjoying the initial kick to the taste buds and waiting for the jump-start my body so desperately needs. By 6.40am, I am happily slicing and chopping; onions, chicken, carrots; Everything gets bunged in a casserole dish. Salt, pepper (a sneaky wee stock cube) and we’re done. As I head towards the shower, I have a smug little grin on my face.   Take that Monday morning!

I’ve only recently discovered this life saving invention.  It’s AMAZING! It allows me to come home from work to an aromatic kitchen.  It means that dinner is all but ready when we get in. It stops the horrible mind-boggle on the journey home, of having to figure out what’s in the fridge, what will be quick and handy to throw together in record time.

Most importantly, it gives me the gift of time. That extra hour of Mini-me time that I never before realized that I was missing.  Instead of frantically chopping and peeling, while trying to placate the hungry child, or being faced with the terrible temptation to fire on some Waffles just to feed the monster, I can add the gravy and serve up a stunning, satisfying and nutritional dinner to my little lovey.  And indeed, to myself.

Then, rather than it suddenly being half an hour before bedtime, there’s suddenly time: Time to read a story, time to simply sit beside her to watch another re-run of Peppa Pig, time to throw on a load (or three!) of washing, or time to let her indulge in a bubble bath – the not-rushed type!

I’m genuinely gunked as to how I’d never heard of the slow-cooker before now.  I’m slightly put out by the number of friends and family who have proven to be already practiced and experienced in the art of slow-cooking.  I’m ever impressed by the variety of exciting recipe groups and online slow-cooker groups available.  I’ve entered a whole new world and I love it!

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It allows me to feel on top of things as I leave for work. It gives me that warm, fuzzy glow that you get from being organised. It allows me to put a line through one of the to-dos on my daily list.  It gives me a sense of control.  Yes, I know it’s a piece of kitchen equipment, but it really does have these magical qualities. I’m smitten.

When I lift the lid off my sizzling stew this evening, it will be simmering and steamy, it will be superb and it will be bloody satisfying! My slow-cooker –  it’s 50 shades of awesome! 🙂

I am SlowCooker-Mum xx

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I am Snuggle-Mum

Duvet days. We dream of them. Yet, when we do get the chance, how many of us actually take them?

When the opportunity for a duvet day presents itself, I bet that nearly all of us, don’t actually get our behinds onto the sofa for more than ten minutes.

Duvet days should be renamed “Do it” days. These are the days where we catch up on the washing, mop the sticky floors, stock up the freezer, or finally make that phone call to sort out that insurance or bill…And these days are gooood.
We may not have spent the day relaxing, but we’ve climbed up a little of the mountain of stuff that needs done. And it might just result in having time at the weekend to snuggle.

I frequently find myself looking at my Mini-Me during my working week and just longing to spend a full day snuggled up on the sofa with her. Of course, keeping a very busy 3 year old snuggled up for more than 25 minutes, is pretty impossible.
On the rare occasion that we do get a chance to snuggle for a few hours, she gets distracted by a game or toy, (or needs a pee!), and we’re inevitably pulled from our snuglywuggles.

I’m currently off work for a few days and as usual, have list of things to do. Having just moved house, there’s a room full of boxes to unpack. I haven’t really even touched upon the things I intended to do this week. I’ve just been too bloody shattered!

Last night, a friend told me she’d stayed in her PJs until 6pm. I was instantly jealous. Of course, with two young kids, she too was busy all day, but the thought of staying in my pjs past 7.30am was just amazing. As I lay in bed this morning going through my “to-do” list got the day, I thought of her words. And I made a decision.

Today, I would do a whole pile of absolutely nothing. I promise myself that I will indeed stay in my pjs until just before I head for the theatre. Mini-me and I read stories, build jigsaws, watch Minions (for a change!), and play a very rule-free version of Twister. When she asks to “ply like tinkabell”, I pick her up and fly her around the room until we’re both in a heap of glitter and giggles on the floor.

We snuggle like we’ve never snuggled before and I enjoy every, single, snugly second… Until I remember that the bed needs made up, and I need to leave dinner for Husband, and I need to get bin labels, and Granny’s coming over to babysit later so I really should tidy up a bit and… Well, you know yourself. Reality pulls the fluffy duvet off me.
But I lasted 5 hours and it was so good while it lasted. Madam is sipping hot chocolate and is as happy as the proverbial pig, having had Mammy’s undivided attention for 5 hours. And I had hers. I got to watch her and adore her and play with her…properly. So I’m feeling pretty chilled out too… Oh! And I am still in my PJs! 😉
I am indeed Snuggle-Mum. X

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I am Showbiz mum!

Humpty Dumpty was pushed? We often hear debate about imagination. Are we responsible parents if we give our children an unedited, realistic and clinical outlook on life? Or are we fools if we immerse our little darlings in Disney, Santa Claus and fairies?  When should we give our children a reality check? When is too soon? Is there any harm in allowing them to believe image image in all things glittery and magical? Is reality prematurely injected into their lives with TV, Media…and sometimes the shitty reality of real life? Everyone has their own ideas and circumstances, but for this S-Mum, I’m all about the imagination and the happy ending.

Yesterday, I watched Mini-Me gazing into her Fairy Door (check out the Irish Fairy Door Company!) and singing to Fairy Rosie. The fairy door is a part of her daily routine. She talks to Rosie. She sings to her. She blows her a kiss every night. It’s cute and adorable, and I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.

We all know that reality is unavoidable, but what’s wrong with a bit of make believe? I’m in my 30’s and love the fact that my parents have never yet told any of us that there is no Santa Claus. We figured it all out ourselves of course, but we keep the magic every year, looking forward to finding our Santa gift under the tree back at home when we visit…and long may it last!

The imagination is a powerful thing. As long as we, as parents, equip our little darlings with the skills they need to deal with reality, what’s the harm in them believing that good prevails and we can all live happily ever after?

Tonight, this big child begins her annual week of treading the boards of our local theatre, playing a big old game of “make believe” with my friends.  I’ll pretend to be a hooker from New York. We’ll sing.  We’ll dance.  We’ll laugh; and hopefully, we’ll bring our audience out of their own realities for few hours, into a world of true love and murderous, talking plants!

What’s the harm? No one will go home afraid that their plants will eat them. (Or will they?!)

After the curtain falls on Saturday night, we’ll wash off the make-up, go home to our own beds, wake up to our own worlds, play with our children, go to work and continue to live our own real lives…but we’ll have had a week to remember, playing make-believe and not hurting anyone, on the stage.

So yes, Humpty Dumpty did fall off that wall. Maybe he was smashed into smithereens. Maybe he was pushed, but in my head, he landed on a soft mattress and waddled off into a glittering sunset with Mrs. Dumpty… 💗😉 I am Showbiz Mum 😘