I am “Silly Daddy” Mum

Mammy is usually very good at giving The Him the credit of being a very wonderful Daddy Bear. Usually…

But sometimes, he comes out with something, or DOES something, SO FECKIN DOUCHEBAG, that my brain starts singing Mary Magdalene’s “He’s a Maaaaaan, he’s JUST a man” at full volume and I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at him and put on my “Are you fecking KIDDING me?” face.

Today, The Him returned from Jim and decided to make himself an omelette.

 

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Now. given that the minions had JUST eaten their lunches, one might be forgiven for thinking that they would not require more sustenance for a few hours.

But knowing them, especially the Princess, like we do, one would also assume that The Him would have automatically made extra for The Bin that is our youngest daughter.

Nope.

He makes himself a lovely omelette and sets it down on the table. As he turns to get his coffee, The Fudgemonster has already climbed up on his seat and reached for his fork… or as she saw it in HER world… HER fork.

“Hi Wee Woman!” exclaims The Him, interrupting her cutting of the omelette with her finger. “That’s Daddy’s.”

It’s like a slow motion NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO scene from a movie where he has the words out before I can warn him…

She stops.
She stares at the omelette.
She looks up at Him.
She looks over at me. (I’m holding my breath at this point.)
She looks back at the omelette and then slowly puts down the fork…
(I swear to God, a MAFIA boss would have been less sinister in his calmness. I almost expected “Get rid of him Donny” to be the next words out of her mouth and for Bugsy style shooters to jump out from behind the sofa, dressed in 1940’s gear and DESTROY him!)

The Him by this point is realising that he MIGHT have made a mistake…

He looks at her.
He looks at me.
He looks terrified…

And just as the poor cretur is about to appease the situation by handing over ALL the food, Princess takes a breath, quivers her lip, climbs down from the chair and runs towards me, her little cheeks and thighs wobbling in the wind, and launches into THE SADDEST, most Genuine and heartbroken WAIL I have EVER heard.

Poor Princess.
Poor Daddy. He doesn’t quite know what to do.

“Cut off a piece for her and put it on her plate” I whisper. The Him briskly does what he’s told. He puts the plate on the table and says “Princess want some omelette?”

“YEAH!” she shouts, mid sob, before jumping off my knee and making it onto her seat in less than 4 seconds, where she happily munched on the omelette piece, firing dirty looks at her Daddy between bites.

You see, what Daddy didn’t realise, (or forgot, feck knows), is that there are rules about eating in the same room as a wobbler, especially OUR wobbler:

If I see it, it’s mines.
If you make it, it’s mines.
If I smell it, it’s mines.
If it’s edible, it’s mines.
If you cook it, it’s mines.
If you put food on a plate, it’s mines.
If I think it’s yours, it makes it more tasty and more mines.
etc., etc., etc…

How Daddy didn’t know these rules, I’ll never know.
But he knows them now and somehow, I can’t see him making the same mistake twice.

When you break an egg, there’s no going back, is there?!

How was your Bank Holiday Ladybelle?

I am Some Fruit and Cake Mum

What a FABLIS and slightly smug Mammy I am.
See picture 1. πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡

My minions are eating fruit.  Like, REAL fruit. Fresh and actual fruit.  πŸ‰πŸŒπŸ…πŸ“πŸŽπŸπŸŒAnd what’s MOST impressive is that they ASKED Granny for it… themselves.  Yes. Eating fruit. Voluntarily and happily, on top of their very impressed Uncle Brian, after eating ALL of their respective dinners.
Proud Mammy.

Good Mammy. 
“Ooooooh” I hear you gasp in awe, “How did you get them to eat all of their dinners S-Mum, you Wonderwoman Extraordinaire?” 
Well, the trick is in the second photograph. πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡ πŸ˜†πŸ˜† 


Cake.
They knew that if they didn’t eat all of their dinner, they wouldn’t be allowed any of the MAHOOOOOOOSIVE eleventy billion layered, schawipple-chocolate, monstrous birthday cake that Clever Mammy sneakily Showed Them BEFORE dinner! πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
Yes. 

Clever Mammy.

Bad Mammy.

Good Mammy… etc etc…
And so the fruit was requested yes, but about 90 minutes AFTER they’d come down from the sugar high induced by the chocolate cake! 

But still.
They ate fruit. 
And they also ate chocolate cake.
Now, if I were a Sanctimammy, I would ONLY have posted photograph 1. You know? To show how “perfect” and on top of this parenting shit I am.
But I am not perfect. 

I like my kids to eat fruit. (Real fruit πŸ˜…πŸ˜…)
But Golly do I also enjoy the looks on their wee faces when Granny tells them to go ahead and stick all of their fingers into a big chocolate cake!
And now, I’m going to ring the Birthday Boy and tell him to drop me over another slice before the salivating ruins my screen here… πŸ˜…πŸ˜…
Happy “No uniforms Sunday” Bitches. 
(Mammy’s turn for fruit now. 😘😘😘)

#nocapsulesaroundhere #realfruitonly #letthemeatcake

PS.  If you have the tellybox on, stick it over to #OneLoveManchester I’m notnsure who many of these people are, but what a show so far. And if THAT is who our little girls aspire to, I’m happy.) πŸ’—πŸ’—

How terrible I am.
How truly awful and immature I am.
Today, Mini-Me ate chucken.
My long time followers will know that Mini-Me decided recently that she “HATES chucken,”πŸ“ so imagine my surprise when I found her happily devouring not 1, not 2, but THREE Chucken fingers earlier today.
I’m not sure if it was because Her Uncle Daniel cooked them for her,  instead of Mammy who obviously tries to poison her every mealtime by even SUGGESTING chucken, or because her cousins were eating them, declaring them to be yummy! 😐😐
 It MIGHT have been SOMETHING to do with the fact that she THOUGHT they were “fushfungers”… πŸ˜‚
I was about to ask her if she was enjoying her chicken, when she piped up “Uncle Daniel, these Fushfungers are yummy!” πŸ˜‚
I didn’t correct her.
I offered her another one and told her what a good girl she was… and then I laughed and laughed and laughed. πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

Yup.
Terrible and awful I am, but terribly funny and awfully satisfying it was! πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
Bad Mammy… 

I’m going straight to hell.

But that is OK as all of my friends will already be there and the grapes shall always be warm. πŸ˜ˆπŸ˜ˆπŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
How was your day? 
πŸ“πŸ“πŸ”πŸ“πŸ”πŸ“πŸ”πŸ“πŸ”πŸ“πŸ”πŸ“πŸ”πŸ“πŸ”πŸ“πŸ”

I am Sentence Smell Mum

We’re all about the senses here at S-Mumble Hill today.  
Princess’s favourite sense is TASTE.  She’s quite like me really.  She loves to eat…  Her CONSTANT eating is becoming a problem however. 

Why? 

Because it’s becoming difficult to get her backside out of the cupboard or off the kitchen chair long enough to GO ANYWHERE or DO ANYTHING!  I used to worry about leaving the house without nappies in the bag.  Now, I break out in a cold sweat if I realise that I forgot to put a banana or fruit in it.

Her most used word each day is “Muh, muh, muuuuuUUUUUHHH!” (More, more, mooooooore!)

Mammy went for Sense of TOUCH.  I decided to listen to my hairdresser and buy some Argan Oil for my dry hair. As I rubbed the 3-4 drops through my wet hair, my sense of touch informed me that it wasn’t quite enough, and so I slabbered a big dollop of the oil between my palms and rubbed it through my hair.  Then, I dried it…or tried to.  Because, no matter how much I blasted the hair with the dryer, it remained heavy and moist and shiny. 

 I bunged on my baseball cap as I didn’t have time to wash it and headed on into town, like an uberskank, and of course met EVERYONE I know in the space of 30 minutes.  If I squeezed my hair there’d be enough oil to make chips… which would be quite handy if Fudgeybum gets hungry again.

And then, on our way home, Mini-Me announces “Mammy someone’s spreading Slurry!” 

Indeed there was slurry.

“Slurry is the Irish for Poo you know Mammy?”  (Eh…no, it’s not actually.)

“I KNOW that it’s Slurry, because I have a good SENTENCE SMELL,  you know?”

“Of course you do Darling…”

And Mammy used her other sense, her COMMON sense, and changed the conversation…

I am Stoopid Jar Mum

Is there anything more frustrating than jars?

You know jars?

With Screw top lids?
“Oh, S-Mum, you are being ridonkulous and melodramaria now. Β HOW can you be frustrated by a jam jar, you silly woman?” I hear you scoff.
And usually, I would agree, but tonight, if YOU had witnessed the EPIC meltdown offered by my Princess because S-Mum here couldn’t get a FECKING JAR OPEN, you would not be scoffing. Β You would be popping to the shop to buy me grapes.

Yes.

On a Monday.πŸ˜₯

“You want toast Princess of mine?”

“Mmmmhmmmm” she nods.

“Mammy get you toast now.”

“Mmmmmhmmmmmm” she says, wobbling her bum to the fridge, where she stands grunting at it and at me until I open it.

“Will we get out the butter, my cherished cherub?”

“Mmmmmhmmmmmmm” she nods, reacing for the jar of jam from the fridge door.

“You want jam on your toast?”

“BAAAAAAAAM!” she squeals, dancing her happy nappy dance…

“Mammy get you jam surely pet.”
Except she won’t.

NO,

Because this Jam jar has not yet been opened and it seems that its lid has been welded to the jar by trolls, using their extra special concrete mix, which is completely unmoving regardless of how much you twist, or turn, or grunt or swear.
Mammy was certain of ONE thing after a few minutes.
Mammy was NOT getting the lid of the blasted jar. 😭😭
Nope.
Now, let it be known, that I am a stubborn sort of Ladybelle. Β I am not beyond smashing a jar (or bottle) with a hammer to get at the contents, but considering that Princess was SCREAMING “BAAAAAAAAAAAM” at me, whilst swinging off my legs, and considering that smashing things would NOT be best parenting practise, I opted to control my temper and distract her.

I was unsuccessful.

She screamed for approximately 13 minutes, before instantly calming herself down when she heard the opening notes of In the Shite Garden and toddling over to chat to Macka Feckin Packa, leaving Mammy a sweaty, traumatised mess in the kitchen.
Did I threaten to hurt the Jam Jar? Β Did I promise to smash the fecker off the back step after she’d gone to bed?

Of course not. Β That would be mental…
It is sitting on the counter awaiting The Him and his Manliful Muscles to come home. Β He’ll pick it up, twist it like a milk bottle and tut at me for being such a girl.

OR.

He too shall struggle with the fecking thing and I will regain a molecule of my sanity, laughing at him.

Fecking BAAAAM…

How was your day?

I am Smile for the dentist Mum

“Mammy. MAMMY. Da dentist came to school today.”
“Oh how lovely. Very good darling.”
“I gotted a noo toofbwush and EVERYFING,”
“Excellent!”
“And da dentist says we have to bwush our teef TWICE a day. After Breakfast and JUST before bed so we have fresh mouvs going to sleep…”
(Mmmmmmhmmmmm. Just what Mammy’s been saying for years.)

“Yes Sweetie. That is right!”
“We has to bwush our teef after EVERY time we eat you know. Sh-very important.”
“No sweetheart, you don’t brush them EVERY time you eat” (And considering that you, like your Mammy, have your arse sticking out of the fridge every 5 minutes, we’d have to hang your toothbrush on a necklace and stick a tube of toothpaste up your sleeve.)
“NO MAMMY. DA DENTIST SAID EVERY single TIME. And she is de BOSS of teef.”

Pulling into Granny’s, I have a feeling I’m going to want to hurt this dentist by bedtime.
Granny has a cuppa poured, digestive in her hand…

“Noooooooooo GWANNY STOOOOOOOOP!”
Granny drops the biscuit and almost scalds herself with the tea, such is the ferocity of Mini-Me’s scream. πŸ˜‚

“What is it?” gasps poor Granny.
“No BISCUITS. Biscuits are BAAAAD for your teef!”
I swear to God Ladies. There aren’t enough words to describe that panicked, innocent wee face; the fear and terror that Granny was about to eat a digestive was genuine.. πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
Enter Granda.

Poor, unsuspecting Granda!

“Ooooh pour me a cuppa” he says, reaching for a biscuit…
“GRANDA NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” She scares the proverbial out of him too! πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚

“What what what what?”
Biscuits will make your teef fall out. You can NEVER EAT BISCUITS AGAIN.”
Now it’s Granda’s face that is priceless. πŸ˜€

And so you can imagine how the rest of the evening went…
She has brushed her teeth 5 times since 4pm.πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚
And she refused to do a pee before bed, because apparently da dentist says “Brush your teeth and go STRAIGHT to bed, Mammy, so I don’t have time for a pee. Sowwy.” 😭😭😭
I’m quite unsure about how long this little fad will last…

Possibly until the first time she’s offered some chocolate! πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰
Why is it that it takes a complete stranger to get them to believe the stuff WE’VE been telling them everyday since they were born?
I wonder if we sent the school a list of things we need the minions to start doing, would they arrange a series of visitors? You know, like someone who likes to eat vegetables? Or someone who likes to go straight to sleep? Ooooooh, or a waitress? Or a cleaner? Or a laundry Lady?
What profession or job would you ask them to send in?
Let me know.

Oh! Β Mind you don’t choke on your biscuit there!
AAAAAAAAAAAND smile! πŸ˜†πŸ˜†πŸ˜†πŸ˜†πŸ˜†πŸ˜†πŸ˜†
πŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺπŸͺ

Well normality has resumed.
I’ve said before that Princess is like me… she LOVES her food and has always had a wonderful petite.
One of the worst parts of her being sick for the past few weeks has been watching her having no interest in food. 
But it’s all OK apparently, because her appetite has returned, and with it has arrived her attitude.
I think she has fecking worms.
For the past 3 days, she has spent the ENTIRE afternoon and evening…right up until bedtime, either standing at the fridge grunting, opening every cupboard while lamenting the lack of food in her hand, or pushing her high chair around the kitchen, wailing like a cailleach.
And I’m not exaggerating.
Here is what she ate between 3pm and 7pm yesterday…

1 banana

1 yoghurt

2 rich tea biscuits

1.5 rice cakes 

Half of a wrap with ham

A bowl of Cheerios 

Pasta and 3 sausages
Not too bad you say? 

This was AFTER her day in creche, where I am informed she ate:

 Toast

 grapes

 brioche 

and TWO, YES TWO Bowls of Chilli with mashed potato.
TWO.
And once she saw the sausages going onto the pan, she cried incessantly until I lifted her up in my arms, from where she watched them cooking, alternating between squeaks of joy and whines of despair that they were not in fact in her fudgy hands yet.
My back was broken.

My head was busting.

My fridge was dangerously empty.  Only the meat for The Him’s dinner and brussel sprouts remained.

And they were in genuine danger!
Today, we’re slap bang in the middle of her “Feckin Feed Me” dance.  She is currently quiet because she is eating the end of Mini-Me’s yoghurt, deeming her own pot too empty for her.  

I have about 3 minutes before Round 3.