I am Song Lyrics Mum

Anyone else not really pay attention to song lyrics?

I like to make up my own.
Whatever words I sing the FIRST time I sing along to a song, tends to BECOME the lyrics forever more.
You should hear my version of Desposita…FAAAAAAR superior to Justin Dweeber. 😂

But it seems that Mini-Me has adopted my poetic lyrical license habit…as I found out IN THE MIDDLE OF A SHOP today when Uptown Funk came on.

We were giving it welly for the “Girls singit alleluia OOOOOH! Girls singit alleluia OOOOOH! Girls singit alleluia OOOOOH… ” , even stopping to raise our hands for the OOOOH! much to the delight of Princess in the trolley.
People were watching.

We didn’t care… we were having fun and getting our funky donkey on to a WICKED tune, until I heard Mini-Me GO FOR IT with the next line…

“COZ FUCK TOWN UP GONNA GIBITAYA,
COZ FUCK TOWN UP GONNA GIBITAYA,
SATIDY NIGHT ANAMINDA ZAW
DON’T BELIEVE ME JUST WATCH!”

…At the top of her voice, before finishing up with a Michael Jacksonesque pose…

I didn’t know whether to applaud or DIE! Usually I don’t correct her cuteyisms, but I reckon this one MIGHT be better rectified, don’t you? 😂😂😂

In other news, it’s The Him’s birthday.

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The girlies had a lovely evening with their Daddy and now, it’s Bubbles o’clock.

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He does get quite the battering on here, the poor thing, 😂😂so hit him with some Birthday lurve Ladies. 👇😅😙

Oh and feel free to share YOUR favourite lyrical faux pas with me. 😘

 

​Sudocrem and last-minute-Mother-of-the-feckin-year mum

When Mini-Me started school, 2 months ago, I was determined to be Mother of the year.

No missed buses.

No forgotten lunches.

No homework at 8am.

No forgetting to wash school cardigan and having to lie that it’s in Daddy’s car…

No last minute projects. 😲
I would be Super Organised, Super slick, SuperMum…
2 LONG MONTHS LATER, my shit has ALL gone to shit.😂
Today, at her first PTM,  I hear the word “shoebox” being mentioned over the intercom…

And I had an awful realisation, right in front of the lovely teacher…
“She’ll have her shoebox in in the morning” I stammered…

Yeah Missy.  She sees right through you!
Shit shit shit shit shit…
Actually, if I’m honest, the growing pile of multicoloured Christmas shoeboxes taking over our own secretary’s office at work, has been subtly shouting at my subconscious all week that I must check something.  I have vague recollections of a brochure being taken from the school bag, like, yesterday (cough…no it wasn’t 3 weeks ago.  How very dare you..)
I get home and find the brochure. 

Final date 11th November. 😣😣
Fuck.
I COULD just leave it, and donate somsthing and not feel bad, but then Mini-Me will be in school knowing that Mammy is a toolbox.

😣

(And considering that she is already of this opinion, accusing me DAILY of losing an invitation from a classmate last month that APPARENTLY was in her bag but disappeared, even though I’m CERTAIN that the only invitation I took put of her bag was for her Cousin’s party, which I dumped because I already KNEW when the party was and it was OBVIOUS that she’d simply taken it to school like she does EVERYTHING… And it’s obviously just a COINCIDENCE that they have the same first names and she PROBABLY wasn’t ACTUALLY invited to the friend’s party so therefore didn’t miss anything because Mammy is a Toolbox really…) 😣😣😣
I digress.
Anyhooo. 
No. I can’t just leave it.  That would be terrible.
 So, I get my arse to work finding new or unused lovely things to put in, send The Him a text warning him NOT TO COME HOME without kiddie toothpaste and toothbrush and a pack of socks for aged 6.

Oh! 

And Christmas wrapping paper!
So it’s done. 😆

We doood it!


It was fine and we got to have very lovely conversations about how lucky she is ajd how it’s kind to share etc…

And I do love the concept of the project.  In fact, next year, I’m going to start the second the brochure arrives and we’re going to do LOADS of shoeboxes and I will be Supermum again… for 5 minutes.

My biggest difficulty tonight was getting the fecking sellotape off the roll with my lovely Cindafuckinrella nails that I got done yesterday for tomorrow’s ball…

Aren’t they lovely?

Note to self…

Lovely acrylic extension nails may look lovely, but changing shitty nappies and applying sudocrem suddenly becomes quite the adventure… 👇👇👇👇

I am So Smug Mum

So tonight, I am So Smug Mum.

Like, soooooo smug.

Why?
Because tomorrow, Mini-Me turns four and I will no longer be the mother of a Threenager!

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When the sun rises tomorrow, it will mark a new phase in our family’s life. 

Gone will be the irrational, illogical, utterly terrifying (and slightly demonic!) three year old.
Instead, from the bedroom will emerge a calm, sweet and reasonable little four year old.

Mini-Me will be four.  As she told me today, when she’s four, she’ll be able to touch the roof because she’ll be so grown up.

The tantrums will end.
The screaming will cease.  (Mine too!)
Her moods will become more predictable and she’ll become more logical and rational.
I will have the bestest little buddy that a daughter becomes.  Obviously, she’s my best buddy already, but the love and ability to appreciate each other’s company will be mutual from tomorrow…obviously!

Because the Threenager will have left the building!
And I will have survived the “Terrible Twos” AND the “Tantrumesque Threes”.
So therefore, tonight, I raise my glass of red juice and say, quite happily, that I am indeed So Smug Mum!

See you on the other side S-Mummies!

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I am So-Smug Mum

I am SeelaSalaaCassello-Mum!

“SeelaSalaaCassello
SeelaSalaaCassello
SeelaSalaaCasselloooooooo
And so say all of us!”

This is what Mini-Me sings EVERY time she finishes singing “Happy Beffday”.
It’s completely ridiculous, but so cute that I don’t have the heart to correct her.  In fact, on Friday last, while her Aunty blew out her candles, everyone started to sing Mini-Me’s version of the song.  I have a feeling that it will be one of those things that will haunt her into adulthood.

And it got me thinking.  Why do we automatically correct some mistakes, while accepting others?
Why do I think it’s okay for her to change the entire lyric of a song, but yet when she says “Where is her?”, I immediately correct her with “Where is she!”?

It’s not like my own speech is perfect.
I sometimes talk really quickly.
Like, really quickly.
Or so I’m told.

I’m always aware that I need to slow down, especially if I’m speaking to someone new.
It can be full speed ahead, to the point that if you’re not from lovely Donegal, there’s a good chance that you’re smiling politely at me, but you’ve no idea what I’m saying.

Why do I do this?
I have no idea.

I do make an effort to slow down obviously, but if I’m nervous or excited, I speed up dramatically.
If I’m excited and I’ve had coffee, I go to superspeed.
If I’m excited and I’ve had wine, well you had better buckle up and try to keep up!

As an English teacher, I am constantly aware of the mistakes that we make in our everyday speech.  Indeed, outside of the classroom, I am happily able to slip into the colloquial dialect of my hometown.   I don’t apologise for it.

I’m am however, that person who is silently correcting your grammar.  I don’t mean any harm.  It’s my job I suppose.

When people mispronounce words, I cringe.  (I had a meeting once with a lovely lady who loved the word “specific”, but who pronounced it “pacific”.)
When my students make the (very Donegal)  mistake of “I seen him down the town,” I have been known to start singing “See-Saw, See-Saw, See-Saw!!!!!” at them.

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I want to throw people who like, say “like”, like a lot, out the like window.

So of course I try to teach my own girls to speak properly.

I find myself using the phrases “Slow down” or “Let me hear your words please” with Mini-Me quite frequently of late.

Her speech is generally very good.  It’s never been a cause for concern for me.
She drives my brother crazy saying “Lellow“.  He once spent 20 minutes teaching her “Ye-Ye-Yellow.”  She proudly ended the lesson with “Ye-Ye-Lellow!”
Everything is “Bery” good and she wears a “best” instead of a vest.
I don’t stress.  She’s three… (or free!).

She lost her first tooth last week and for a few days, her newly acquired lisp provided great entertainment to the adults in her life.  Of course, we didn’t make her aware of the humour she was providing to us, but we had a little chuckle at the cuteness among ourselves.  It passed after only a few days.

But it got me thinking.
Over the past week, I’ve found myself paying attention to the little words she mispronounces or gets completely wrong.  And where I would usually automatically say the word correctly to her straight away, I’m trying to remember them.
She’s growing up so quickly and as she proceeds through the school system, those little mistakes will be rectified by her well-intentioned teachers.

Instead, when she announces that she wants another “escapode” of Peppa Pig, I smile and enjoy the fact that she’s can even try to say that word!

And for now, when she has the confidence to stand in front of a room full of people and sing “Seeeela Saalla Casello!” At the top of her voice, I let her.
(How “She’s a jolly good fellow” became “Seeeela Saalla Casello!”, I will never know).
But it is hilarious. It’s cute. It won’t last forever.

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(Sometimes however,  we must correct.
Like yesterday when she bumped her elbow and screamed “You hurt my Booobeeeee!”, I HAD to correct her.
I’m not even going to try to understand how she got those two particular body parts mixed up, but she did.)

Because she’s three.
And for  “Seeeela Saalla Casello!” And so say all of us!

I am  “SeeeelaSaallaCasello-Mum”. 😅

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Or on Twitter @Maria_Rushe

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I am So-it-begins Mum

We’ve reached week four of pre-school and all was going well, until this morning.

As I dropped Mini-Me off, her lovely teacher smiled at me, chirping “This is for you Mummy!”  I took the piece of coloured card from her, thinking that it must be a note from the school about something that she needs or did.  Thanking smiling teacher and waving goodbye to my little one, I left.

When I got to the car, I looked at the piece of card…it was a birthday invitation.

And so it begins.

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My initial reaction was one of shock.  This is the first invitation she’s received to a party that isn’t one of her cousins. And then it inspired a mixture of feelings inside this inexperienced Mummy that I still can’t quite describe.  I was initially delighted and a little part of me felt smug that she’d been invited.  Having been one of those kids who watched others getting invited to the cool kids’ parties, a part of me felt chuffed that my Princess was popular enough to be invited to a party after only a few weeks!

Then I laughed at my own stupidity as I remembered a friend telling me that the parents in her daughter’s pre-school invite ALL of the kiddies to ALL of the parties.  Most likely, all of the parents had been handed the pretty pink card this morning.  I was no different, I just happened to be the last parent to get mines…and that’s when the fear hit me.

There are 22 in her class.  This lovely, kind parent, who is going to the bother of possibly inviting (and obviously paying for), ALL of the kiddies to meet up on Saturday to play, may have just started a class tradition.  Or is it a dilemma?

Am I the only Mummy who thinks ahead to my daughter’s birthday in a few months and now panics?  If this “invite the whole class” pressure is now mounted onto us as parents, how does one stop the spiral?

Because I know that I for one, can’t even imagine being responsible for having 22 toddlers in my care for an afternoon, never mind being able to afford to pay for a party for the full class.  And then there is the fact that this number will be added to the 8 cousins and 6 baby-friends that have made up her first three birthday parties!

Add parents.  Add Grandparents.  Add aunties and uncles.

Add valium.

As children, my siblings and I were always allowed 3 or 4 of our best buddies from school to come home on the day of our birthday for a small party.  I’d imagined that I would do the same for Mini-me when the time came.  I didn’t anticipate it beginning in pre-school.  I didn’t anticipate it happening so soon.

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I thought that I had a few years to go before I had to be “that mummy” – you know the one who bucks the trend and stands her ground by not giving into playground politics?  Yeah, that’ll be me.  I thought.  Now I’m not so sure.

I read a thread on a local Mummy page today where another new-to-this-craic Mummy asked advice on inviting her 6 year old’s full class to a party for her son.  The responses appalled me.

All of them were saying that yes, the whole class is usually invited and that the basic expectations include village halls, gifts for all the kids so that no one is left out, bouncy castles and hot food.

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The responses terrified me and made me really understand that I am bloody well clueless and that my notions of being “that mummy” might just catapult me (and in turn Mini-me) back into that abyss of unpopularity.

So yes, mixed emotions.

Looking at the lovely invitation, I recognised the beautifully scripted name as that of the little girl my Princess sits beside (and whom she talks about non stop, attributing the title Best Fwend to her daily).  So yes, of course I will happily take her to the party.  It’ll be lovely to meet a few of the other pre-school parents…she’ll be with this group of kids through national and probably secondary school after all.

And of course, it comes with the territory.    But I will be hugely interested to see if only a few of the kiddies have been invited or if the whole class and their entourages do indeed, arrive in force.

If that’s the case, the panic will be founded.  If not, I’ll sigh a huge sigh of relief and rest easy for another while.

I quickly took a snap of the invitation and sent it to Hubby.  His first reply was “Aw, her first invitation”…followed two seconds later by “And so it begins!” The latter text had a laughing emoticon at the end.  But we’ll see who is laughing when it’s our turn to send out the invitations.

I am So-it-begins Mum.