I am So not a Pottering Mum

Oh Joyful Joyful Joy! It is FriYay.

As it is the last Friday of the summer holidays, Mammy figured it was PROBABLY about time she started some Back-to-school shopsy. I dropped Princess to childcare and headed into town with Mini-Me, fully intending to “potter” around the shops for a few hours, casually picking up the bits and pieces she needs for returning to her wonderful, joyeous, heavenly educational establishment.

I anticipated a leisurely day of “pottering” with my first-born, where we would hold hands and giggle and have treats, and Mini-Me (free from the competitive…sorry, companionship, or the Wobbler) would lavish in having Mammy’s undivided attention and behave like a Walton child…

And THEN I remembered that I am NOT one of those InstaMammies who can “potter”, especially when accompanied by a 5 year old She-Witch who HATES shopping, starts sentences with “Mammy, in the olden days when you were little…” and had asked “Are we going home now?” 1275 times by mid-day. ๐Ÿ˜ฃ๐Ÿ˜ฃ๐Ÿ˜ฃ No.

Mammy doesn’t potter. Rather, Mammy TROTS. Like a drunk Pig who can smell the truffles under the muck, I scrummaged through the rails of grey and navy tracksuit bottoms only to realise that every single fecking Mammy in the County had bought the 5-6yrs and 6-7yrs while THEY did their Back-to-school potter BACK IN feckin MAY! The WENCHES. ๐Ÿ˜ˆ๐Ÿ˜… I swear to you. There will be 11 year olds turning up to schools next week wearing 5-6 trousers, just so their Sanctimammies can scoff and tut “I told you so” at their screen tonight.

I eventually found trousers, only to discover that I had been truffling in the boys’ section, and after the kind lady directed me to the girls’ section, my futile search for the right size began again… (Seriously, the trousers are IDENTICAL. Why they BOTHER with separate sections, is beyond this last-minute Mamma.)

On top of the Back-to-school shite, we also had to scour the town for something nice for Mammy to wear tomorrow night for The Him and Jim’s Summer Shape Up Presentation night. I HAD ordered a FABLIS sexyful, lowcut (to the bellybutton like) jumpsuit, which looked AMAZING on Mylene-of-the-Klass online…

When it arrived however, I remembered that I shouldnt shop on the interweb after 2 glasses of malbec and that Mylene actually HAS boobage,so unless Littlewoods deliver instant boobjobs, the beautiful jumpsuit must be returned. How terribly sad I am about that. (I may writento them to suggest that their returns sheet should have a box marked “Not suitable for fried eggs” or “I forgot I don’t have boobs” or “WTF was I drinking?”๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚)

I didn’t get anything. There’s NOTHING in the town, just like all the NOTHING in my wardrobe. But whatever. Mini-Me is now asleep after her day of torture, Princess is snoring and there’s a grape in a glass, begging for mouth-to-mouth. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿท

How was your Friday? Any Feck-it-ups?

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. ๐Ÿ˜‚

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. ๐Ÿ˜‚

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? ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚

I am So not ready for Back-to-School Mum

Mammy is super-organised…

Mammy has started her Christmas Shopping.

Mammy has started thinking about next year’s summer holidays.

Mammy has started making plans for 2 or 3 significant birthdays in the family next year.

Mammy has thought so far ahead, that she has hotels AND Babysitters booked for the 2018 weddings she KNOWS she will be attending.

This is how THIS Super-organised-Mum rolls.

What Mammy HAS NOT started however, is thinking about the dreaded HELL that is “Back-to-school shite”.

Mammy HATES this time of year more than you can ever imagine. The Back-to-school Shite now starts in the middle of MAY… Before ANY school finishes up for summer break. May… As in MAY, the 5th month of the year and 4 whole months BEFORE Septemeber? Wtf?

When we were kids, the grey and navy skirts and shirts and lunchboxes and tin mathematic sets with the map of Ireland didn’t appear in the shops until the end of July. And by then, we’d had our weeks of sunshine, siblings, Zig & Zag and nothingness, and we probably didn’t MIND starting to think about the S word.

But now? NOW, Mammy wants to find the store managers who have signed off on putting Back-to-school shite on the shelves in mid-MAY. I want to find them and I want to HURT them. ๐Ÿ˜  I want to poke them in the eyeballs with the metal tools in the tin mathematics case… (they’ll be more useful to me now and they were in 1989.) I want to beat them over the head with a cheap plastic-lasts-until-halloween-lunchbox, Snap their noses with elastic neckties and then lock them in a container with nothing but copies of Ann & Barry and Sugradh…but NO PENCIL. ๐Ÿ˜ˆ๐Ÿ˜ˆ

But Mammy is a sane and calm lady who would never entertain such thoughts. Since June 1st, I have been increasingly flummoxed by the status updates appearing on my timeline from other ACTUAL Mums who have the Back-to-school shite done and dusted already. I have hovered my finger over the “unfriend” button in some cases, wondering if Bookface would entertain my proposal for an “unfollow until September 1st” button. ๐Ÿ˜›

Now, if YOU have all the stuffs for all the minions sorted already, good for you. I’m not feeling jealous, or inferior or intimidated by your organisation skills AT ALL. ๐Ÿ˜‚ (There is a slight chance that a psychologisty person MIGHT argue that my anger towards the aforementioned shop owners, and my annoyance at the Super-organised-Mums, stems from my own insecurities and weaknesses being highlighted to me by the clever forward thinking Back-to-school Experts.)

I would argue that NOPE, my anger and flumoxing are perfectly justified. Maybe it’s because I have had to do the Back-to-school shite for 32 CONSECUTIVE years. Since starting teaching, I have managed to avoid thinking about it until the ACTUAL night before school starts, when I sob into my grapes, knowing that summer is over and I have to now dress in something other than my gymgear and that makeup will have to be used every day.

But now, as a Mammy, I DO need to get everyone else organised a few days earlier than when it was just ME going back to school… But, I MEAN a FEW days earlier. I refuse point blank to go near the dark, bleak section of the store until AT LEAST the final week of her holidays. I convince myself that I am more clever than the Early-Back-to-school-organisers, and I browse through what is left over on the shelves of synthetic smelling geansaรญ and pleated skirts, because at least there is no chance of Mini-Me taking a growth spurt between the Back-to-school shite being bought and her putting them on. ๐Ÿ˜… #lazymammywin

See. Clever Mammy. (And pleated skirts? The Gobshite who invented those little bitches needs to be locked into the container WITH the shop owners along with 2000 of those skirts, an iron and an ironing board…)

So go on. Sicken me… Hands up who’s all organised already? ๐Ÿ˜™

I am Shopping Stupidity Mum

“Hello My Him. Welcome home from work, Love of my life, Winner of all Bread, Head of our home.”
“What are you looking for Wife?”
“Oh nothing. It is a Saturday and you are home at last! I know! Let us pop our minions into the car and drive to the lovely store and peruse the wallpaper, potter around the paint section and purchase all of the everything required to make our lovely living-room Walton-esque. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

The Him looks about as excited as a Turkey at an invitation to a Christmas dinner…

What I MEANT of course was “Let’s put everyone in foul humour by going to the sensory-overload store that sells all-of-the-everything and DISAGREE on everything, spend our time telling the kids to “Shhhh” so we can hear each other disagree on everything, listen to the minions take it in turn to complain and whine, before leaving with absolutely NOTHING for the house except 3 samples of wallpaper, which NEITHER of us actually likes anyway… Doesn’t that sound fun Darling?”


Seriously Ladybelles… WHY the feck do we bother?

Mini-Me decided from the second we entered the shop, that she was having absolutely NONE of the pottering. She made it her mission to be speaking for EVERY single second of our journey around the store, especially in the pauses in our conversation where we stopped to, you know, BREATH? She did the OPPOSITE of what we asked and of course because she had the other adult in the family to play me off, she did.

Princess was fine for the first 20 minutes, until we walked past a Peppa Fecking Pork cushion and didn’t give in to her “Miiiiiiiiines!” She took that as her cue to start the song of the She Devil.

Now see, while Mammy here is perfectly capable of continuing on the task at hand, despite the best attempts of my two proteges, The Him is not quite so capable. After 45 seconds of Princess’s shrieks, he had lifted her out of the trolley.

Game over Douchebag.
That, my friend, is the end of that.

Any hope we had of agreeing on all of the DIY crap we were perusing, went out the window, faster than she went out of the trolley. She looked at me with a smugness that said “Pahahaha Mammy Bear. You lose.”
And lose I did; my cool, my patience, my will to live. Ok, an exaggeration perhaps, but what I DID lose was ANY interest I had in looking at anything OTHER than the cake in the coffee shop. (Mango and Passionfruit… slabberlicious)

And as we had our coffee and the two screaming Trolley Trolls stuffed their faces with overpriced crap long enough for us to HAVE a conversation, The Him suggested “Why don’t you come back in during the week without the girls. Bring your Mum. You’re going to chose what you want anyway…”

And in fairness, he’s right. I always do this. I drag him around these places, apparently needing his opinion, when we both know that I’m going to chose what I like and he’s going to tut that it’s awful until it’s up on the wall and then he’ll admit that ACTUALLY it’s lovely and “See, you didn’t need me did you?”

So we agreed that next time, we’d just go straight for the cake, and save everyone the hassle of the pretend “Pottering”.

Look at the pair of them. “You are our slave Mr Him. Dance for us!”

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Cheers Supermums xxx

I am So not in Galway Mum

Another year, another Ladies’ Day. ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿฆ„๐ŸŽ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿฆ„๐ŸŽ

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!๐Ÿ˜‚)

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. ๐Ÿ˜„๐Ÿ˜˜

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) ๐Ÿ˜„

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!๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜˜)

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.


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. ๐ŸŽ๐Ÿฆ„๐ŸŽ๐Ÿฆ„

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 Skirt Mum

โ€‹There are DVDs in the bath. ๐Ÿ˜ฒ

Because that’s the most obvious place to keep the DVDs.

I have no idea why.

  But there they are….

And there they’ll stay until tomorrow when normality and “give-a-shit” return. ๐Ÿ˜‚
Yesterday, my two little fashionistas-in-training and I went shopping.  
I was delighted when Mini-Me replied “Oh yes Mammy!” to “Will you help Mammy pick a new outfit for tonight?”

 I just assumed we’d finally reached that lovely part of Mammy/daughterness where we can go into clothes shops WITHOUT her screaming “NOOOOOOOO!” once she realises it’s not the wonderful toy-filled world of “Smuffs” or that there is ZERO chance of her finding a shelf with sweeties ANYWHERE in the store.
And indeed, she was very well behaved.

She walked around the shop pointing at dresses and tops and announcing things like “Oooooh dis is Bootiful!” and “What about dis one Mammy?”
I wasn’t quite prepared for her ENTHUSIASM to be honest.
I certainly wasn’t prepared for her HONESTY either.
I picked up a slinky silk skirt.

“That’s too small for you”.
I looked at a funky wee top.

“Dat’s not for Mammies.  DAT’S for Childwen like me.”
I lifted a Mini skirt.

“That’s Aunty รine’s.” ( My 17 year old sister…)

 Subtext: you’re way too old for Mini skirts Mamma Bear.
She was standing there in a fricken Elsa dress, telling ME what I should wear. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚
And yet, I DID find myself putting the items she disapproved of back on the rails.

Isn’t that ridiculous?

I was letting my baby girl influence my opinion of things that I was OBVIOUSLY attracted to for SOME reason.

I had to remind myself that she’s  FOUR and obviously I needed to set an example that you shouldn’t buy clothes based on what someone else likes. 


My girls will learn to wear whatever the Feck they like. (Note the frequent trips to town dressed as Princess. When else can you do that but when you’re 4?) ๐Ÿ’–๐Ÿ’–
I found a less sliplike skirt and a top with a little bit more material around the MumTum.

Then I reached for the Mini skirt and said pointedly “You know what? Mammy likes this so I’m going to buy it.”
Did I teach her positive body image?

Well of course not.  She’d found a shelf of furry keyrings and sparkly phonecovers and was trying to figure out how to steal them, the little criminal. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚

So I paid for the outfit, mini skirt and all, and home we went.
I packed both skirts and went off to (the utterly AMAZING) MacNean House, determined that I am STILL a #glammymammy and that thanks to #operationskinnyarse I could INDEED wear a teeny tiny Mini skirt if I want to…
But then when we got there, I only had time for 2 Gins before dinner, so the longer skirt went on and the Mini skirt remained in the suitcase like the shameless HUSSY that it is.
I have as much business in a feckin leather Mini-skirt as the DVD’s do in the bloody BATH!

I’ll return it tomorrow.
Actually, NO.

I won’t.
It will hang in my wardrobe and, I PROMISE, some night soon, there MIGHT just be enough Gin!


I am Simple act of Kindness Mum

Yesterday, I ran into a lovely young Mammy whose little Princess was born on the same day as my Mini-Me.

We’ve known each other for many years, because once upon a time, I had the pleasure of being her English teacher. (I’m not sure if she would describe her time in my classroom as a pleasure, but that’s my take on it anyway!) ๐Ÿ˜‚
Our two girls are due to start school together in September and will be in the same class.๐Ÿ‘ญ

Her daughter, (let’s call her Pretty Curls), is just beautiful; gentle and sweet. โค

We stopped to speak and as usual when there are kids included in the situation, it was more a direction ro the girls to “Say hello” to each other, rather than a conversation between the grown-ups.๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚

Mini-Me was having a bad day. She has sore ears, was running a slight temperature and was still in the throes of being completely traumatised after going to her ballet class for a whole 3 minutes before deciding she NEEDED to go home. (That’s another blog…) ๐Ÿ˜ก

Mini-Me and Pretty Curls were eyeing each other up.ย  Mini-Me spotted a packet of Disney Princess rings in the hands of Pretty Curls and began that incessant “But why does SHE have?/I WANT RINGS” whining that brought the conversation to a close.ย  I said goodbye and ushered her off to the next aisle, praying she’d calm down. ๐Ÿ˜ข
(She didn’t. She slipped and fell and began to bawl. It was one of those genuine cries that overrides the whining to make Mammy realise that ACTUALLY, she’s NOT being a brat, she feels shitty and is upset at everything and simply needs to be snuggled on the sofa with a big glug or Calpol.)

So we went to pay for the shopping.
The other Mammy and Pretty Curls were at the next checkout.
And then the most beautiful, wonderful thing happened.

Pretty Curls came around to Mini-Me and put out her hand, saying “Here. You can have this.”
In her little hand was one of the rings.๐Ÿ‘ญ๐Ÿ’

Mini-Me was delighted and cheered up instantly.
Mammy was gobsmacked. ๐Ÿ˜ฎ
ย  It was the sweetest thing I’ve seen in a long time.
There were hugs and smiles and statements like “You can be my best fwend!”

Such a simple, thoughtful gesture of kindness from a 4 year old stopped me in my tracks.
It was adorable to watch.๐Ÿ˜‡
It was humbling.
It was the perfect example of how one, seemingly small, act of kindness can change someone’s whole day.๐Ÿ˜„
It wasnt small.ย  It was HUGE. It made Mini-Meย  forget her sore ears (until we got home at least!) And it made her happy.
It also made me realise that I need to learn from this Mammy’s lovely example.
She’s taught her little girl to be kind and to be nice.๐Ÿ‘

Pretty Curls was able to share her brand new toys with a little girl she doesn’t even know.ย  She’ll go a long way in life; just like her Mammy.

They’re both fabulous and I couldn’t be more impressed. โคโค


I am Stuff-that-is-frozen Mum

Today, I did the grocery shopping.
Or as we say here in Donegal, “I got a few messages“.

I had a full 30 minutes in the supermarket, without the babies.
It was thoroughly enjoyable.

It was quiet.

It was, dare I say, relaxing.

Like a holiday in fact.

If I had been allowed to sit in aisle 7 with a glass poured from one of the many bottles of wine that lined it, I may even have been able to get that “holiday feeling” you only get with daytime tipples in the sun.

Obviously,ย  I didn’t drink wine in the supermarket.
Instead, I bought the “messages” to keep my wee family fed for another few days.

I bought the meat…(sausages and all, despite all the ranting on the radio today about a certain Friday night talk show host…)

I bought the fruit; lots of it since Mini-Me has decided that she only eats “fwoot” now, not dinner.
I bought the vegetables; fresh and frozen.

And then I went to collect my first born from her ballet class.

We were driving home.
“Can we go to Gwanneee’s house for TEN minutes?”

“Yes, but we can only stay for ten minutes because I have frozen stuff in the bags.”

And then she belts out a scream of excitement so loud that she’s either a) seen Santa Claus or b) seen a unicorn.

I almost crash the car, such is the volume of the scream.


I’m completely confused.ย  (This morning I’m pretty certain she told me I was “not my fwend.”)

And then I realise that when I say “frozen stuff”, I think this…


And when Mini -Me hears “Frozen Stuff”, she thinks this...


And if you look closely, you’ll see that when I Googled “frozen stuff” to search for images for this blog, Google thinks the same as my 4 year old.

My daughter is obviously a genius.

My daughter and Google are on the same wave length.

My wave length?

I’m still stuck on holidays on aisle 7.

I am Stuff-that-is-frozen Mumโ„โ„โ›„โ›„โ„โ„

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https://m.facebook.com/Secretsofsmum/ โคโค

I am Shake-a-bootay Mum

On Saturday, I took Mini-Me on what was intended to be the perfect Mother & Daughter day out.
With the recent arrival of her Little Sister, some quality-time was badly needed.  As it turned out, it was more needed by Mummy than by Daughter.

The day was planned out in detail.  We’d been talking about it all week.


We would go to the hairdresser, then to the shops.
Mini-Me would have sausages and chips; we’d collect the balloons for Princess’s Christening lunch.
Mummy would have coffee in her favourite coffee shop while Mini-Me would sip milk from a cute little milk bottle with a stripy straw.
We’d chitter and chatter, hold hands and skip from shop to shop.
It would be calm, relaxed and blissful.
We would take selfies that wouldn’t look out of place in a glossy mag.
Other mummies would look at us, in our matching coats, and think “Aaaawwww!”

And when it was over, we’d go home to Daddy and Princess and tell them all about Mammy and Mini-Me’s Day of Fun!

What actually happened was that a PMS-Crazed, sleep deprived Mummy took a post-chest-infection, over-tired Threenager into town…in the rain.

AND, there was a full moon…actually there were two.

Said Threenager began her tirade of strops and tantrums in the hairdresser. The angelic Hairdresser managed to trim her hair while I had mine blow-dried.  When she began to protest because she wasn’t allowed to take a toy home from the basket of distractions in the corner, I was hugely grateful that the hairdresser intervened before I had to. She received the quite terrifying dirty looks that only my daughter can throw, but as with all toddlers, fighting with a stranger is no fun, so she conceded.
Only slightly embarrassed, we left, with Mini-Me promising she’d be good for the rest of the day.

She did have sausage and chips… which she ate while glaring at me because I’d committed the crime of stealing a chip.  (I was actually making sure that they weren’t too hot.  Next time, I’ll let her find out for herself will I? NO.  I probably won’t.)

We went to collect the balloons, only to be told that the helium machine had broken before they started my order.   Having no balloons for the christening lunch REALLY wasn’t a drama.  Turns out… trying to leave the shop without balloons, really was a drama. Who knew?  (In hindsight, I’m quite proud that I didn’t give in and buy her a balloon.  Trust me…life would have been easier, but I couldn’t buy treats after the previous strops!)

I didn’t get the yummy coffee in my favourite cafe… their water was off.  Granted, it was a bigger problem for the establishment than for me, but still.  At this point, I imagined myself throwing a tantrum to see how she’d react.  I didn’t.   Instead, we went to a different cafe and I sipped on a crappy cappuccino.

I’d put crayons and a mini colouring pad into my handbag.  She should have coloured in happily while I enjoyed my cuppa.  The first crayon broke. The second one fell under the table and somehow disappeared.  The Threenager refused to drink her hot chocolate until I told her that that made me happy because I’d drink it after my coffee.
I got 30 seconds of quiet time while she made sure Mammy couldn’t have it…
She drank it in one go.



I stared ahead, praying that the smell of the coffee would calm me down, cursing the full moon (I swear by this by the way!) and wondering if 4pm was too early to think about a glass of wine.

At this point, Hubby rang.  I should really have listened to him and gone home there and then, but I had to pop into one other shop to return a dress.
Big mistake.

I was flicking through a rail of dresses to find my size.  Mini-me was at my side, humming to herself.
She stopped humming.
I glanced down to her.
Instead of her cheeky but adorable face, I saw her bare backside… wiggling in the air at me.
She sang “Shake-a-bootay! ” as she shook it.

Full moon.

Total eclipse.

I actually screamed.
My response was to pull up her tights and knickers and to fix her skirt, frantically whispering “You CANNOT do that!”
And then I left the shop, with Skinny Arse running behind me.  I kept walking until I reached the car.  All the while, Mini-Me was at my heels, repeating “Mammy? Mammy?”  She was undecided as to whether she should be crying or throwing a tantrum.  Her Threeness was suspicious of my lack of scolding.  I think she was experiencing that fear that we all remember from when we were kids and Mother gave us the look.

In reality, I was mortified.  I was annoyed that I’d taken my eyes off her long enough for her to commit the offence…and I was trying not to let her see me laughing!

As I strapped her in to her car seat, I asked her why she’d pulled down her tights in the shop.
Her answer?
“I just quite did.”
And that’s as good as I’m going to get.

We drove home.
It was getting dark.
There was a full moon.

Another one.
This time, in the sky.
And it turns out, it wasn’t too early to think about wine.
When Hubby heard about our lunar fiasco, he opened the bottle for me!

I am Shake-a-bootay Mum

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Or on Twitter @Maria_Rushe  โ˜บ

I am so mortified Mum

This weekend, I met my threenager. ย A work colleague kindly gave me this word on Monday when I mentioned by utter exasperation at Mini-Me’s constant whining and tantrums. It’s perfect. ย Attitude, huffing, stomping, screaming and absolute defiance; and all quite out of character. ย Thankfully, it seems to have passed and so I’ll happily attribute her shenanigans to her Daddy being away on business for the weekend as opposed to the beginning of a long-term hatred of Mammy.

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Thankfully however, even in the midst of her strops and screeches, she still managed to surprise me. ย We were in a local supermarket on Sunday. ย I’d like to paint a picture of calm and relaxation; you know where I hum happily as I push her around in the trolley and she sweetly impresses other shoppers by asking for oranges and singing at the top of her voice. ย But no.

True to the form of the weekend, Madam refused to get into the trolley, insisting that she push the bloody thing even though she can hardly reach the handle. ย By the time we got to the fruit aisle, (aisle 2), she had thrown two full blown tantrums; one over the pushing of the trolley, and one because she “neeeeeeeed buns!”

So when we moved into the next aisle and she seemed happier, (probably because she was holdingย said buns as if they were the last buns in the shop), I breathed a sigh of relief and carried on. ย And then it happened.

A young man was stacking shelves. ย He was bent forward over the onions, minding his own business, doing his job. ย I had started humming, happy that all was calm again. ย And then my adorable, innocent, (mostly) pleasant daughter lifted her little hand and slapped him square on the arse, shouting “Woooohoooooo!!” as she did so…


Tell me. ย What the hell does one do when their toddler assaults a stranger while they work? ย The victim jumped up, dropped his onions and looked around to see a wee toot grinning up at him, proud as punch of her self! He looked at me with shock on his face.

And then he laughed. ย Thank the Lord Jesus and the baby donkey, he laughed.

Mammy on the other hand, turned 50 shades of scarlet and made a futile attempt at scolding Mini-Me while apologizing profusely. ย “It’s fine!” he said. “I have a wee rascal at home myself.” And with that statement, all was right with the world.

I apologized again, grabbed the bun-free hand and dragged her off. ย She was absolutely oblivious to my mortification and sang her way around the rest of the shop.

By the time I got the frozen food, I had resumed my normal pallor. ย And then I started to laugh. ย It wasn’t just the slap. ย It was the “Wooohooo”. ย I don’t even know where or how or why she thought to do it. ย I explained to her that we don’t slap people and all I can do is hope that it doesn’t happen again.

“I like buns” she replied to me.


I am So mortified Mum

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