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…”

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.  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.  You would be popping to the shop to buy me grapes.

Yes.

On a Monday.😥

“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.  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?  Did I promise to smash the fecker off the back step after she’d gone to bed?

Of course not.  That would be mental…
It is sitting on the counter awaiting The Him and his Manliful Muscles to come home.  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 Stoopid Feckin Waddles Mum

This is Waddles.

Waddles is the class teddy.
Waddles gets sent home with the minions in turn.
Mini-Me brought Waddles home for the SECOND time this year, just a few weeks ago.
I’m only getting around to writing this now, because I was so fricken TRAUMATISED by Waddles…
🐧🐧THE WRATH OF WADDLES…🐧🐧
The first time Waddles came home was painless and quite enjoyable.  I now know that the little twit was luring this Mama Bear into a false sense of security.  He came, we snapped some pics and she drew a picture of her playing with Waddles…
Easy.
So when she bounced off the bus a few weeks ago, clutching Waddles to her little self, I wasn’t too bothered.
“LOOKIT MAMMEEEEEEE. I GOTTED WAGGLES!”
“YAAAAAAAAAAY” said Mammy.
“We has to write sentences about what we do wif him AND draw a pitchur,” she adds.
“YAAAAA…aaaaaaaay…”
I had planned a relaxing evening… I now knew that this was NOT going to happen. 😭
You see, getting Mini-Me to write a sentence I imagine to be akin to getting Donald of daTrump to write his own speeches, all by Himself.

She needs prompts, she needs guidance, she needs “motivation” , she loses concentration every 3 seconds and she needs to constantly correct her mistakes… It’s HARD.
So imagine the chills of horror that went through me as she completed her homework and I opened the schoolbag to see the diary of Waddles…
And just like “Christmas Card-gate” 😂😂, I realised just how PERFECT the writing of the other kids in her class is in comparison to hers.   The few entries before her blank page, looked better than some of my 6th years’ handwriting!
Feckitty, feck, feck, feck…” I muttered to myself as I rescheduled my whole evening.

She did go outside and had great fun with Waddles, before starting her “few sentences”.
An hour and a half…YES…almost 90 fricken minutes after she started, we had eventually managed 3 semicoherent sentences.  I was so knackered and mentally glooped that I ALMOST didn’t correct her mispelling of her last word “trampailín” which looked more like “tampon”.  I should have left it.  😂
By the time we had finished, everyone was grumpy, dinner was cold and Mammy wanted to put Waggles in the oven.
She went to bed that night, happy as Larry, hugging the googly eyed little shit as if her life depended on it.
And then I went back to the kitchen, happy that the whole evening had been worth it to see her so happy… Did I heck! 😥😥

I went back to the kitchen, poured a large glass of grapes and greeted The Him with “Waddles is a Prick” when he came in the door.
So there we go.

The Wrath of Waddles. 👇👇👇👇 (I MAY have added the horns to portray how I see him… 😂😂😂)
I’m actually palpitating slightly here even remembering it if I’m honest.

I’m obviously not over it.
#yesigetthatitsgoodforthembutstill #wrathofwaddles