I am “Sort out that Bull” Mum

Just another Saturday Morning…

I’m driving along, with Granny Dearest in the passenger seat and the two Minions behind me. Mini-Me has told 32 stories in 3 miles. I’m just about to tune out, glad that Granny Dearest is on with me to answer her. I don’t have to “Mmmmhmmm” and “Really?” and “Very good” like a broken record. Granny Dearest is doing a great job of making all the right sounds. I’m humming along to Despasito, when I hear a new conversation begin.

“Granda needs to move them Bulls out of the field Gwanny,” announces Herself.

“He’ll be bringing them in soon pet” answers Granny.

“No, no, no, no, but He Needs to take the Bull out of the field Right NOW.”

“Why Darling…?” (Oh Jeeeeesus I suddenly know where this is going.)

“Because that Bad Bull HURTED one of my wee Cows.” ( Granny Dearest takes a breath and I know that SHE also now knows where this is going.)

“Buckle Up Granny Bear” I mutter, knowing full well what is about to come out of her mouth and wondering WHEN she saw it, and WHY she is only telling me now?

“You see my wee cow Ellie was scratching her neck at the feeder that Granda weft in the field and that big, bad, black bull pushed her out of his way and he hurted her and it wasn’t very nice. That bad Bull CLIMBED up on Ellie’s BACK… and do you KNOW what he did THEN?”

Oh Sweet Jezabell… WHAT is about to come out of my child’s mouth?

“What Darling?” I just about get the words out. I can’t breathe.

“That Bull started RUNNING Granny! ON HER BACK! He is NOT a very nice Bull.”

That’s it. Granny might need a defibrillator in the passenger seat. I’ve pulled in and stopped at the junction. Trying to drive right now is NOT an option. Granny Dearest is turning a perfect shade of magenta, as she tries and fails to hold in her laughter because Mini-Me can see her face from where she sits on her innocent, self-righteous little throne.

I on the other hand am buckled over the steering wheel, in hysterics laughing, while Granny tries to redirect the conversation to a safer and saner place.

“Oh no. The poor wee cow. Maybe the Bull was just playing?”

“Nope. He was being mean. And poor Ellie couldn’t get away.”

“Was she giving him a piggy back maybe?” I venture through the tears.

“Now Mammy. (teenage eyeroll included here). They are COWS, not Piggies. Granda doesn’t HAVE pigs. You KNOW that…”

And that’s that. Granny explodes and I crack up completely.

“It’s not funny you guys. It’s for REAL LIFE
(This is her new one. Everything is “for real-life”.)

“You’ll have to tell Granda when we get home pet,” Granny has composed herself enough to be coherent. I’m still parked on the side of the road…

“I will. I’ll have to tell him to sort that Bad Bull out!”

(I think Ellie might have already done that. Lucky Bull. I now know how I’ll start my answer whatever day she asks where babies come from. “Well Darling. Do you remember that day the bull and Ellie were… )

#thedonegalmammy #thesmum #bull

I am Starving the Minions Mum

Is Mammy the ONLY Mammy whose minions spend the entire day either with their nappies sticking out of the fridge, or raiding through the cupboards?

This Fudgemonster currently eats 12 meals a day, not counting snacks hidden in secret stashes or cereal eaten off the floor. This was taken 20 minutes after her SECOND breakfast this morning. 😂

I’ve had to take the safety lock OFF the press which contains the bleach and chemicals. It is now on the fridge…

And it seems that there is a limbo or vortex of some sort between our house and next door. No matter how much they eat here, from the second they walk through the door of Granny’s, they EAT. Not only do they eat, they actually BEG. They whine as if they’re STARVING and scobe the food offered into them so fast, that the Grandparents most certainly exchange eyebrow raises over their starved little heads and genuinely wonder if I actually feed them AT ALL over in the torture pit of child hell that is my own house.

Poor unfed, unloved minions. Bad Mammy who never feed them. 😂

So now, with them going back to school and playschool for 5 full days a week, my biggest fear is NOT how they’ll adapt, or settle in, or survive without me… nope. I am seriously concerned that they won’t manage to ONLY eat at breaktimes and lunchtimes. I fear that they shall fade away without the constant drip of food from my poor, knackered cupboards. I expect the childcare facility to send me extra bills for all the EXTRA food that this doll will insist on eating every day.

I wonder if I should smuggle in some extra snacks in their bags? 😂😂😂😂

Thoroughly Modern Mammy – I am Say what? Mum

Rational thinking goes out the window the second a pregnancy test indicates a positive result.  

Logic goes with it.

They are replaced by panic and worry and fear.

 

From the moment the word “Pregnant” appeared on the little screen over 6 years ago, the sensible and calm me has been replaced gradually by what I like to call the “Hormental” Me.

 

And of course, we CAN blame hormones for our newly irrational, illogical and panicked minds…  But we can also blame ANOTHER factor.

 

People.

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When you are pregnant, people and the things that people say, when mixed with the hormones and genuine fears of pregnancy, create an explosive cocktail of mental mayhem.  Generally people mean no harm and their comments are 100% innocent, but what they say and what we HEAR are often two very different things.

 

Person Says:  “Oh my Gosh, you’re so neat!”

Mammy thinks:  “Oh my Gosh, there’s something wrong.  My baby must be too small.  What if he isn’t growing properly? When is my next appointment? I wonder is it too late to ring my midwife? I must order a doppler online right now.  Why am I not bigger? What’s wrong with me? Something’s wrong…”

 

Person Says:  “Oh my Gosh, you’re blooming!”

Mammy thinks:  “Oh my Gosh, there’s something wrong. I’m too big.  I must have extra fluid. What’s wrong with me? What if there’s something wrong with the Baby? Or maybe I’m just fat. I must look like an upturned turtle. I’m huge. When is my next appointment? I wonder is it too late to ring my midwife? I must order a doppler online right now.  Why am I so big? What’s wrong with me? Something’s wrong…”

 

Person Says:  “Oh my Gosh, you’re carrying so low!”

Mammy thinks:  “Oh my Gosh, there’s something wrong. I’m too low.  I must have dropped.  I’m too early to be low. I’m going to go early. There’s something wrong with the Baby? When is my next appointment? I wonder if I should ring Maternity…What’s wrong with me? Something’s wrong…”

 

Person Says:  “Oh my Gosh, you’re carrying so high!”

Mammy thinks:  “Oh my Gosh, there’s something wrong. I’m too high. I must look like I have three boobs. Why am I so high? Should my bump not be lower? There’s something wrong with the Baby? When is my next appointment? I wonder if I should ring Maternity…What’s wrong with me? Something’s wrong…”

 

Person Says:  “Are you feeling lots of kicks?”

Mammy thinks:  “Oh my Gosh, when did I last feel a kick? I can’t remember. It hasn’t kicked today. Did I feel kicks yesterday?  How do I know if it’s kicks or just wind?

There’s something wrong. When is my next appointment? I wonder if I should ring Maternity…What’s wrong with me? Something’s wrong…”

 

Person Says:  “Oh my Gosh, you look wrecked!”

Mammy thinks:  “Oh my Gosh, she’s right.  I look awful. Why am I so tired? I’m too pale.  My iron must be low.  Can I buy an iron level tester online? There’s something wrong with the Baby.  When is my next appointment? I wonder if I should ring Maternity…What’s wrong with me? Something’s wrong…”

 

Person Says:  “Oh my Gosh! You look AMAZING!”

Mammy thinks:  “Oh my Gosh, there’s something wrong. I should be sick.  Should I not be tired by now?  Why do I feel so well? What’s wrong with me? Oh my God, there’s something wrong with the Baby?  I When is my next appointment? I wonder if I should ring Maternity…What’s wrong with me? Something’s wrong…”

 

See the pattern?!

 

No matter WHAT people say, on certain days, your rewired Baby Brain will divert immediately to worst case scenario; to fear, to panic.  And this is completely normal.  It’s our brains preparing for the constant alertness of being a Mammy.  It’s instinct kicking in and it’s one of the ways we ensure that our little beans are as safe as we can possibly keep them, from the second they’re conceived.  

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If I had called Maternity every time I felt the urge to, I’d have been on the phone to the poor midwives 24/7.  Hell, I’d have moved into the labour ward the day I peed on the stick if it had been an option!

 

People say things to us, meaning no harm whatsoever.  We can’t help but over-think things.  It’s normal to overreact, especially when people make silly, albeit innocent, statements like the crackers above.

 

(But joking aside,  if you DO have a niggling worry or concern or you just feel like something isn’t right, DO contact your GP or PHN. Follow your gut… or bump.  You might be irrational and illogical and slightly hormental, but you’re also a Mammy-in-the-making and Mammy knows best.)   

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I am She’s whistling Mum

Today, Mammy feels a bit like Peppa Pork.

Mini-Me discovered at 6.45am that she can FINALLY whistle. And whistle she did, persistently and consistently, until 7.30pm. It was quite impressive. The only time she stopped whistling was when she was talking, which was quite a bit LESS than most days, as obviously, talking now comes SECOND to whistling.

Now, remember please, that as today is the FIRST DAY of the whistling, for every ACTUAL, succesful, WHISTLY whistle, there were 23 muted, spitty, soundless blows… It was cute until 7.10am. For the rest of the day, it was feckin IRRITATING. She whistled/SPAT at EVERYONE today: shop assistants, friends I bumped into, my buddy who visited, the Grandparents, the aunty, the postman, the guy filling up the petrol… EVERYBODY.

And she’s getting better already. I’m being all Super-soccer-mum, encouraging her and reminding her 36 times an hour in my sing-songy Mammy-of-the-Poppins voice, that “See how good you can get at things when you keep practicing!?” Partially because I’m slightly impressed by her determination ajd partly because Mini-Me suffers from that syndrome I like to call “Why-am-I-not-good-enough-to-be-in-the-Lympics-after-one-lesson syndrome.

But all the while, I’m feeling slightly pissed off and Peppa-ish. See, here’s the thing. Mammy can’t whistle. Never could, never can, never will. And while Peppa could hang up the phone on that bitch Suzie Sheep, Mammy here has to cheer the little spitter along, like her own private fucking cheerleader and pretend to be ecstatic everytime she blows out a feckin NOTE rather than a salivated facefart.

So yes. For the ONLY time in my life, I can empathise with the Pig Prat.

😣😣 But I’m luckier than Peppa Pork, because Mammy is old enough to have a glass of grapes to try to remove the whistling from her ears now that Mini-Me has gone to sleep. 🍷😅

(On another note however, look at what ELSE happened today, 👇👇👇👇 4 x eggs with double yolks!

Apparently it’s good luck? Apparently it means twins? Let’s go with good luck eh? )

How was your Wednesday? 😘😘😘

I am So not in Galway Mum

Another year, another Ladies’ Day. 🐎🦄🐎🐎🦄🐎

I’ve just scrolled my news feed to see all of the EVERYBODY dressed up and eyebrowed to the hilt, in glorious colours and HUMONGOUS hats. And then I switched over from RTE Jnr to the lovely Ladybelles on Expose, (who succeed daily in EITHER inspiring me to wash my face and put on proper clothes… or hide in my pit eating icecream, depending on the level of hormental), and watched the interviews with all of the Everybody in their shiny perfection.

Every year, I declare that NEXT YEAR, I too will be Glammy Mammied to the ninety-nines, with eyebrows and concrete muckup and AMAZING high hair, quaffing chambubbles in a tent and smiling gaily at all the other Dollybirds. I would be wearing something chic and spensive and fablis and my neck would be sore from a MAHOOSIVE headhat which keeps stabbing The Him when I move, but I would NEVER admit that it is heavy because he would then be able to say “I told you so” and be all “Such a waste of money”, (even though he’d OBVIOUSLY never have been told how much it ACTUALLY cost!😂)

The Him would be beside me, all dapper of course, and my friends and I would clink glasses, admiring the fashionistas and keeping our smiles expertly fitted while we say things like “WTF is she wearing?” and “How can she walk in those?”, without words of course… just using our secret eyebrow code. 😄😘

And then we would have the coveted “FINALIST” sticker stuck on our outfits, and the afternoon would be a whirlwind of camera flashes and sore faces and I’d feel like a feckin Rose (yes, a geriatric rose, but still, it’d be as close as I’ll get.)

And then we’d all pop back to the G Hotel or some such fablis spot, where we’d spend the evening quaffing yet more chambubbles with all the fablis, shiny, eyebrowed Beauties, before rolling into bed, tipsy and still fablis.

Next year… (Coughs) 😄

For tonight however, I shall sit in my messy kitchen, listening to Princess refusing to go to sleep, getting over the fact that my Mini-Me told me she “doesn’t wub you no more” because I asked her lift the blocks before bed, wondering what I’ve eaten that has caused my skin to look like pizza and considering that I should perhaps change out of The Him’s PJs before he gets home.

(Lucky boy Him!😂😂😘)

Then only thing high about my hair, is my Mum bun, but in honour of all the glamour on my news feed, (which YES, I AM going to continue to stalk for the next hour or so), I have decided to glam it up with a big flower so I don’t feel quite so unglam and DOWDY (and slightly grubby if I’m honest!). Probably should shower the smell of lasagne off me too.

Yeah. I’m quite content here.

Who would want to be in Galway eh?

Not me.

Nope.

Noooooo sirreeeeee.

I much prefer watching everyone else being glam. I am however, going to pop a wee cork here and do some quaffing myself, all in honour of the horsies of course. 🐎🦄🐎🦄

Congrats to the winner in Galway, who seems to be getting a mixed reaction, but who I think looked fab. Amazing headpiece. (But I must say, Lisa’s Lust List was my favourite.)

Who was your favourite? #galwayraces #glammymammy

I am Slight Bum Boke Mum

I’ve been a changing nappies since I was 10.   I am well used to super poos, or “The Poonami”, as I often refer to the most savage nappy explosions.

 

But today, just as I was looking at the clock for the 189th time wondering HOW THE FECK it was only 6.14pm, Princess decided to treat me to a new level of Poonami.

 

We were on Skype singing Happy Birthday to my nephew, when I got a whiff of puke.  Of vomit.  Of that distinct and unmissable pong of stale belly bile.  As I hastily hung up on the family in Scotland, (seriously wondering how they hadn’t smelled it), I checked to see if and where the Princess on my knee had puked.  She hadn’t, and so I blamed the hoodie she had insisted on pulling on her to go outside earlier.  

 

And then I realised that the smell of puke was NOT in fact of puke.  It was ACTUALLY of the Poonami in her nappy.  The explosion in the bum bag was so hideous, that I can not simply refer to it as a Poonami.  That would be unfair on the humble Poonami.  NO. What was (just about) being held in by the Bum Bag, was not a Poonami.  It was disgusting.  It was vile.  It was a new level of shite that I have not witnessed or seen before. (And remember please my love of red grapes and hot Indian dishes.)

 

Princess had not simply Pooed.  She had vomited out of her posterier.  She had Butt boked.  She had arse vomited.  Because what I cleaned up, should only ever be projectiled into the porcelain bowl.  It should NEVER exit the bottom of a Baby.

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Has she been unwell?  No.

Has she been off form? No.

Was she OK afterwards.  Hell yes.  She continued the evening as happy as a pig in the proverbial and light as a fecking feather.  She is cutting nasty big teeth, and normally, has a history of savage Poonamis while teething, but she must be cutting an 18ct gold Wisdom tooth tonight, because there was nothing normal about this.

 

I have never before, nor do I ever again, want to experience the Arse Puke.  The vest went into the nappy bag along with the nappy.  Actually, this bad boy required three nappy bags and then a plastic bag, and it didn’t even get to make the usual pit stop in the inside bin.  Oh no.  Once Princess was dipped and dressed, this particular nuclear device was escorted straight outside to the big bin.

Traumatised I tell you …

This morning, I bought a lovely new bottle of a new gin that I have been meaning to try.  “I’ll open that on Friday night” thought I as I slipped it into the trolley between (thank Jebus) the nappies and the lemons.  

 

Friday night my backside.  It tastes wonderful. And oh how good it smells! It has finally removed the smell of the bum boke from my nostrils.

 

How was your day?

I am “Sneak Peak to a Princess’s Brain” Mum

“Peppa Pig is starting.  I do like Peppa Pig.  Oooooh. What is Mammy doing? I is a clever witto Princess. Look at Mammy.  Mammy is hoovering.  She is trying to make the room nice and tidy and she has lifted all of my toys.  Wait a minute.  Why has she lifted my toys? That is NOT vewy nice of Mammy is it?  How can I let her know I am not a happy Wobbler?  I could scweam and scweam and throw the toys out of the basket, but NO.  I am NOT a cliche.   I is a Pwincess.  I don’t do fings by half.  I am like my Mammy.  I do it ALL.  She will be so proud of me.  Now, let me see.  Oooooh!  Lookit!  Mammy is hoovering over there and she has left the door open over here.  I like to run.  Running is my Fayvwit.  I shall run down the my bedwoom and wrestle Winnie da pooh.  Daddy calls him Winnie da Shit, but my big sister got scolded when she sayd that so Pwincess is NOT going to say dat.  Pwincess is clever.  I like to run.  OOoooooh LOOKIT!  Oh.  My.  DOG!  Mammy left the bafroom door open just for me.  I must swing in to the bafwoom and see what I can do!  What has Mammy left for me to play wif?  Oh look!  There is the white roll of baby wipes that they always put down the toilet.  I shall put it down the toilet.  I shall put ALL of it down the toilet.  I is soooooo clever.  Mammy will be so proud.  Where is Mammy?  Mammy is still hoovering.  I have put all of the white stuff into the toilet.  I will close the lid now and I will go see my Mammy.  Mammy is now hoovering the kitchen.  I come in and she says “Hello Darling. Are you OK?” and I nod and say my favourite word “Mmmmhmmmmm!”  I will play wif my blo…ooooooh da BUM Cweam!  SHE HAS WEFT THE BUM CWEAM ON THE TABLE! Mammy likes to put the bum bweam on her face.  She never puts the bum cweam on MY face.  I shall be just like Mammy.  I shall put the Bum Cweam on my face and Mammy will be so pwoud.  I am putting the bum cweam on my face.  Mammy turns around and I KNOW she is happy because she is smiling.  Oh.  Now she is running.  She must need the bum cweam.  I hold it out to her and she takes it quickly.  Snapping is not nice Mammy.  Silly Mammy.  Mammy is wiping the cweam off my face and she is cross.  That is OK.  It’s just a phase she is going through.  She goes to put the hoover in the cupboard.  I am climbing on to the chair.  Mammy is calling my sister to come up for lunch.  I am climbing onto the table.  The big table.  I am very fast.  I am a big girl.  

Mammy comes in and Mammy seems excited.  She is screaming and saying some new words.  I likes these words.  She lifts me up and I am so high and I LOVE it so I giggle and put the bum cweam that is hiding on my hand all over Mammy’s face.  She asks my Sister to go get her some toilet roll.  She will be sooooo happy when she sees that I have already put it all into the toilet and so now she has less work to do.   I like to run…

  Peppa Pig is over already.  What can I do now?  I like to run.  Time for a Poo.  I am a clever witto Pwincess.  Aren’t I a clever Pwincess?  Isn’t my Mammy a lucky Mammy?  I wonder where she left my Bum Cweam…”