Category Archives: Being Mammy

I am Seasons Fecking Greetings Mum

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“Hello my two minions. How are we at 5.30pm on this Friday evening after a full week of school and routine and mayhem? Shall we go to town and watch the Christmas lights being switched on? It is after all the season of glitter and Santa and smiles and joy. Let us go among the throngs of people and celebrate the official start of the festivities. Oh Joy! Oh Rapture! Let us not consider bedtime and the fact that Daddy is working. Let us girlies go anyway, to make memories and be blessed and potter around the atmospheric street. Mammy is a strong and adventurous Mammy, more than capable of taking you, my little cherubs, in to experience the joyous atmosphere and twinkling lights and seasonal songing from other local children. Let us go-ho-ho!”🎅

Mammy is the biggest Christmas Fairy walking and so my children must have obviously inherited my enthusiasm for all things Santaful… 🎅🎅
Mammy is also a Twat. 🙄

Having allowed one “OOOOOOOH!” at the lights outside the Voodon’t, and permitted me to find a “perfect spot” where we could all see Mr MC and the amazing snow, with a bench for them to stand on and room for Mammy to move, they decided that 3 minutes of chilltime was more than enough for Me.

“I’s cold”
“I can’t see!”
“Where IS Santa?”
“I don’t see any lights!”
“Stop singing Mammy!”
“I don’t wike it.”
“It’s too loud!”
“I need a peeeee”
(I had never intended to have my daughters in a pub toilet. Funnily enough, I never noticed how small the cubicles were. Probably because I haven’t ever had another person clinging to my knees and screaming “My Bum is soaking” in there. Well… if you don’t count that…never mind!)😂😜

Having lost the perfect spot because of the sudden need to peepee, Mammy and her minions struggle through the crowds to find another spot where we can safely stand without Princess being stepped on, or Mini-Me being hit in the face by a flashing fucking glowstick.

Mammy is insistent that we shall smile and grin and be merry and fucking bright, but Mammy forgets that despite the pintsize of the youngest Mini, when she decides she’s DONE with something, she is DONE.

Mammy can smile and grin and be merry and fucking bright all she wants, Mammy is not really in charge.

Mammy makes promises. Mammy makes promises through gritted teeth. Mammy makes threats through same teeth. Mammy allows her laugh to tinkle over the head of the tantruming threenager… Mammy hopes it does not sound as hysterical as it feels.

Princess Demonica takes every ounce of Christmas spirit from Mammy, throws it on the ground and stomps all over it. She then takes her Skye teddy from the handbag…Skye, her most beloved and revered teddy…and FLINGS it onto the ground, so hard I think I hear the teddy cry a little. Perhaps it is my poor self whose cry I hear. She then combusts into hysterics because “Skye is on da gwouuuuuuund!”

The other Doll is channeling her inner teenager, shoulders hunched, hair over her face, bored pout perfected. “Any chance you’d smile?” asks Mammy, desperate for some comeradierie. “I am smiling” she answers, rolling her eyes…

Mammy decides that nothing will ruin our fucking Memory making.

Mammy smiles and dances.
Mammy takes some photos.
Mammy videos the countdown and the faces of her two cherubs, who abandon their crusade to break Mammy for 20 seconds…

Mammy glances around at the other festive fuckers. All the families and children and flashing lights and smilings for the camera and wonders what she did in a past life to have children who are intent on testing the limits of twattery every time Mammy tried to ‘make fucking memories.

And then Mammy sees the other kids who are also protesting at being up past bedtime, or out in the dark, or cold. She sees the other Mammies and Daddies, struggling to carry little people and bags while pushing buggies.

She sees all of the adults who are determined to create a festive atmosphere and make memories for their children, despite the fact that the children give not one shit and would be quite happy at home watching Paw Patrol.

And so Mammy takes a breath, remembers that she is not alone in her deluded notions of festivity, that very few families are actually “pottering” happily around the street, or singing the carols in unison, or being Hallmark worthy… and then Mammy does something incredibly clever.

Mammy bribes the children with promises of Happy Meals and does the side-shoe-shuffle down the street to the car, just before the Santa arrives to add anymore drama to the Llamas.

And so we are in the car, through the Drive-Thru and back in Chez Rushe by the time the other knackered parents and their little Darlings have even thought about moving.

While the rest of the town are sitting in traffic, Mammy is jingling all the way home to do the Bedtime dance with two feral wagons. But despite the stress and #fml moments of the evening, Mammy is glad she insisted. Because thankfully, the only person who remembers any of those, is Mammy.

All they remembered as Mammy tucked them in were the lights and the songs. And really, it’s not MY #memories that are important. It’s theirs.

Because, now I come to think of it, Mammy doesn’t remember anything other than fun and festivities when I think of things MY parents brought me to. I must ask Mum how SHE remembers them! 🤣😂😘

I am Scolding the Bitchee Mum

Posted in Being Mammy, Uncategorized by

A few weeks ago, Mini-Me had a melt down because “Granda called me a Bitcheeeee!”

I was in one room, changing a savage nappy and hadn’t heard Granda talking to her, or indeed to anyone.

She arrived into me, eyes wide and ready to tell me ALL the tales.  He did!  He called me a bad wod.”

He did not call you a bad word Darling.

He did!  He said “you wee bitchyee. I hurd him!” eyebrow raised for maximum effect.

So Mammy goes into the kitchen, just in time to see Granda tripping over the dog. (Well. They say she’s a dog. She’s not a real dog.  She’s a toy dog; a little, sharp faced, shrill barked,white hairy snowball who I do indeed love even though I’d never admit it….)

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How THEY see her…

“Damnitanywayyaweebitchyeeee!” he gnarls at the toy-dog as she scutters away from under his feet.

“What are you scowling about?” I ask him.

“That’s the second time I’ve tripped over that dog. Put her in the hall!” he growls. The toy dog is jumping on her hindlegs at my knees, looking for a treat that even after 12 years the dumbass hasn’t realised I do NOT HAVE to give her.

I open the door to let the toy dog into her fluffy bed and laugh as I hear Mini-Me announce “Ganda dat was NOT vewy nice!”

“What wasn’t nice?”

“You called me a bitcheee!” she accuses.

Poor Granda looks genuinely confused. “I did not!” he defends himself.

“Granda called the DOG a wee Bitchee Darling. Not you.” I intervene.

I await her “Ah OK Granda”, but instead, her face clouds over with even more tempered indignation and as she inhales, I know that poor Ganda is about to feel the wrath of a 6 year old whose favourite ball of fur has just been insulted.

Suddenly, her own feelings are irrelevant. But is he going to get it for calling the toy dog exactly what she is?
You bet your life he is.

I leave them to it and go to the hall where the little “Bitchee” is lying, curled up and oblivious to the absolute bolloking poor Granda is undergoing on her behalf in the kitchen…
or is she?

She may be cute and fluffy.
But there’s a streak of Gremlin in her. And I don’t mean Gizmo.

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How MAMMY sees her…

The wee Bitchee…

I am Step Aside in the Loo Queue Mum

Posted in Being Mammy, Uncategorized by

Listen up Bitcheepoos!

Can we introduce a new law?

Let us call it the Potty Parent law…

And let us apply it to all public toilets from this moment on.

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The law shall decree:
“When you see a parent in a queue for a public toilet, with a Potty Training Smallie who is on the verge of leaving lellow puddles at his or her or your feet, you MUST GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY and let that parent fast track to the porcelain pot IMMEDIATELY.”

You shall know the true Potty Parents by their desperate, fidgeting demeanor, as they
jump around trying everything to distract their child.

You shall know them by their repetitive-but-increasing-in-frequency-sing-songing of “Just hold on a minute” and “Keep that peepee in your touchee for two seconds” or “It’s nearly our turn Darling”.

And you shall recognize the wild and bulging eyes of the Potty Parent as he or she holds the volcanic wobbler on their hip, worrying not only for the lapse in dignity of their child if they peepee or poopoo on themselves, but also for themselves that Peepee or Poopoo will most likely end up trickling down THEM also.

And of course, while said parent will likely have a change of clothes in their bag for the offending wobbler, the chances of them carrying around a change of clothes for themselves is as likely as the wobbler’s bladder holding on much longer…

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So if you are in a queue in a public toilet and you see such a parent and child behind you in said queue, you must step aside and offer the next available cubicle to them.

Trust me, they shall bestow gratitude and praise upon you faster than the peepee that is running down their hip and Karma shall repay you in the future.

Thank you to the lady who recognised me as one of these potty parents in the SSE Arena last Saturday. Who turned to me and said, “You go ahead Love. She’s so good!” when I truly thought that the floor of the loo was going to end up as shiny as the ice the skaters were dancing on…

It was clear to her (Not to the other numpties who simply looked at me as if I were mental as I bounced around singing the “Just hold on!” song) that I was a Parent of the Toilet Training variety. Perhaps what gave it away in fairness, was my eventual roar of “OK PEE FASTER PEOPLE!” for this Mammy had reached her level of potty patience and knew that her little monster would not be able to hold it in much longer.

So yes. A new law. Or maybe even a little fast track lane drawn on the floor, you know like bicycle lanes in the city? Or a Bus lane? A little queue lane with potties drawn on it.

Because not only would it save the peepee of the wobblers, it might save the parents from losing the absolute “poopoo” too.

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I am So What Age is Best Mum?

Posted in Being Mammy, Uncategorized by

The recent pregnancy announcement of one of the pretty Princess People in London has caused quite a stir, not only because everyone loves a royal Baby as much as a royal wedding.  This one has caused a stir because Princess-wifey-of-the-other-one will be deemed to be having a “geriatric pregnancy” because she is over 35.

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Geriatric?  The woman looks about 21.  And yet, this is a medical term, much used and much accepted across the medical world.

So, what age is the best age to have kids?

Well now that is really the same as asking how long a piece of string is, or how much wine is too much wine? Erm…

My own parents have done it all!  I was born when they were 20 and 21, the baby being born as they both turned 40.  They tell me that each of us (and we are 6!) brought our own challenges.  I don’t think they’d say which is best, because they wouldn’t change a thing. (I think!)

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I remember when my Dad turned 30. At the wise old age of nine, I thought he was ANCIENT!  And as I now hit hard on 40 myself, I often consider how wonderful it is that so many of my generation were born to such young parents. (and I am grateful to have them both still young and thankfully well.)

In the 80’s, it was the absolute norm for Mums to be 19 or 20.  It was perfectly acceptable to be married at 18 or 19. I remember hearing my Aunty proclaim, on her 21st birthday, that if she wasn’t married by the time she turned 25, to sign her up to a certain religious institution… And yet now, most don’t even consider settling down until late 20s/early 30s and most of us are having our kids in our mid to late 30s.

Having babies young has its benefits as well as its cons.  And waiting until later brings different struggles and joys.

As a Mammy who had Baby one at 30 and Baby two at 35, (Yup! Geriatric Mammy right here!), I can honestly say that the energy levels I had for number two differed desperately.  As did my physical recovery.

But again, everyone is different.  30 was the right age for me.  I was settled in my own skin, in my career and in my relationship.  And yet my friend who had her three kids before the age of 23 will tell you that she loved having them when she was younger and had more time and energy.

When you have your babies, really has no baring on the life of anyone else does it?  You are not ‘better’ if you have kids at whatever the national average is.  You are not ‘better’ if you have your kids young than the woman who is 41 when she gives birth.

Every one is different and as with all things parenty, there is no right or wrong.

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I am Strap your Kids in the Car Mum

Posted in Being Mammy, Uncategorized by

Most days we all see something silly or shocking on our roads.

Maybe it’s a close call.  Maybe it’s a near miss.  Maybe it’s someone speeding…

And usually, we tut, or we hold our breath, or we swear or gesture some form of WTF at the offending driver…

But there is ONE thing that is becoming more and more prevalent on our roads, and Mammy can not for the life of me get my head around it…

Driving with kids who are NOT STRAPPED IN.

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In the past fortnight, I have seen THREE cases of this.

One car swung around a busy roundabout in my town with two toddlers standing at the windows in the back seat.

One pulled in to a carpark beside me and the child, no more than 5 years old, jumped out of the front seat, having been already standing when the car came to a stop.

One had a three year old standing between between the front seats as she swung into a parking space this morning. And yes, I know the child is three, because I know the woman who was driving.

Can I say anything?

God no.

Because how do you say it? Why is it my business?  How do I have ANY idea what that parent has been through this morning? How can you possibly comment without turning into the one thing that I personally despise…a sanctimammy.

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Others will say “Oh there were no seatbelts when we were children”.  I know.  I am one of that generation.  But hey, guess what? There was a lot less traffic and the roads were very differnt. Also, in the 80’s we thought it was safe to smoke while pregnant and that it was OK for teachers to hit our children…

So, HOW is it possible that this is happening?

My kids have grown up thinking that my car won’t start until they have their seatbelts on.  Of course I have rows with them where one of them will refuse to get into the seat, or where one has planked so impressively that I can’t get their belly to buckle so I can buckle them in.  And we have been late many many times because of these stand-offs.

But guess what?

This is ONE battle of wills which this Mammy will ALWAYS WIN.

Because I don’t give a continental shite how late I am, or how much she is crying, or how much I want to scream and tear my hair out, there is NOTHING in this world which will make me put my children into the car without them being strapped in.

NOTHING.

(And trust me, I have put my back out trying!)

Because as difficult as kids can be and as much as we are “only going around the corner”, none of us know what or who is also coming around that corner and even strapped in, none of us are 100% safe on the roads.

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I hate to sound preachy.  I really do.  It goes against every fibre of my blogging-being.  But seriously, the one and only true thing of any value that we have, is our children.

And while none of us can guarantee their safety when we’re on the roads, we CAN guarantee it within our cars and thereby give them the best possible chance in the event of the unthinkable happening.

I’d rather put up with tantrums and fights than live with my self if anything happened my child while I am driving.  Because if you don’t strap them in, then it’s as much your fault as the other driver’s if they get hurt.

Stop it.

Strap them in and wise up.

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