I am She’s Punishing Me Mum

Smile and Nod.
Mammy must smile and nodโ€ฆ
Mammy is very good at the smiling and the nodding. ๐Ÿ˜†๐Ÿ˜ถ

โ€œSheโ€™s the best girl. Thereโ€™s not a bother with her.โ€ ๐Ÿ’•

Every day I hear this. And the lovely Ladybelles who say it, mean it 100%.โค
And I smile and I nod and I agree, but as I do, my inner Mammy voice is laughing.
She is laughing hard.
So very hard.

On the outside, I Smile and Nodโ€ฆ
What Iโ€™m THINKING however, is “Let me tell you, as a Mammy with previous experience of a โ€œStreet Angel, House Devilโ€, that while she is indeed being ‘the Best Girl’ and giving you ‘Not a bother’ here all day, she is simply saving all of her energy for the Wilderbeastial Demonic Darling that she will morph into when I get her into the car.” ๐Ÿ˜ˆ

It begins with her luring Mammy into a false sense of security with her displays of excitement as she runs into my arms when I arrive to collect her. Cue โ€œOoooooohsโ€ and โ€œAaaaaaaahsโ€ from all with ovaries in the room. She hugs and kisses and answers โ€œUhhuuuuuโ€ in her adorable little husky voice as I carry her little Koala Bear Butt ๐Ÿจto the car. I breathe her in and sniff her sticky hair and coo at her, knowing full well that I may enjoy it while it lasts. ๐Ÿ˜‚

Once in the car (maybe even before I get her strapped in if sheโ€™s feeling particularly thick with Mammy), her demeanour changes. Sometimes, itโ€™s gradual, building up as we approach home, revving up with every gear change. Sometimes itโ€™s instantaneous, spontaneous combustion because Iโ€™ve looked at her wrong, or asked her a question, or you know, breathed.

It escalates with a simple โ€œNoโ€.
Not just an utterance of negativity or disagreement. A proper, teenage โ€œNOโ€, complete with attitude and challenge. When the โ€œNOโ€ is accompanied by the furrow of the brows, we know we are entering the beginning of the tantrum. ๐Ÿ˜ฃ

By the time we reach home, my excitement at the thought of an evening at home with my Baby has been replaced by a devastation of the reality that ONCE AGAIN, I have NO control over the moods of my minion. Any notions I had of a picture perfect evening of #Mammywins have been left at the creche. And once again I remember, that I have NO idea what the hell I am doing.
I am winging this Mammy craic, 100fricken%. Iโ€™m scrambling my brain for tricks and clever Mammyisms that might avert the direction of the storm that is brewing in the back seat.

I throw promises around like a Politician before an Election.
โ€œWeโ€™re going to have pizza for tea!โ€
โ€œNO!โ€
โ€œWill we play jigsaws when we get home?โ€
โ€œNO!โ€
โ€œI canโ€™t wait to get snuggles when we get home!โ€
โ€œNO!โ€
and eventually (yes always) โ€œWill we watch Peppa?โ€
(Hold breathโ€ฆ)

Princess โ€œYEEEEEEAH!โ€
Mini-Me โ€œAw Maaaaaaaaaammy, not again!โ€ (insert eye roll here)
Me โ€œFMLโ€ (Probably under my breath. Maybeโ€ฆ Maybe SLIGHTLY audible. Bad Mammy.)๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜‚

Parenting experts and friends with kids have explained to me many times in the past, that such behaviour is normal and that the child acting in such a manner is a โ€œcomplimentโ€ because she feels that she can finally release her frustrations and confusion at the world, in the arms of her favourite person. That I am her safe place and that it all means that she loves me.๐Ÿ˜ถ

SOME days, I buy this. Other days, I prefer to see it that she is a little wagon who actually HATES me and is determined to PUNISH her evil Mammy for abandoning her cute, bad-tempered little fudgeybutt to go to work. She sees me coming, smells the Mammy-guilt off me. After her initial โ€œOh thereโ€™s my Mammyโ€ excitement, her mind goes straight to โ€œHang on a second. WHERE do you think YOU were all day Woman? Did you DARE to drink warm coffee and have adult conversations? Do you not know that YOU ARE MY SLAVE?โ€ ๐Ÿ˜

She has to fit 8 hours of reminding Mammy who is the BOSS, into a very short evening. And she must make sure that Mammy PAYS for leaving her at the Fablis and fun-filled creche, where she spends her days being loved and played with and fed and stimulated without the tellybox, and where she is the โ€œbest girlโ€ and gives them all โ€œnot a botherโ€. She nevers bites or screams NOoooooooooooooo or kicks or throws custard or cries or scratches the lovely girls.

No,
She saves that for Mammy Bear.
Because she loves me and I am special.
And apparently because I am her safe place. ๐Ÿ˜๐Ÿ˜†

Right now, she is playing with sudocrem…but she’s no longer screeching at me, so we’ll roll with it.

Smiles and nods. ๐Ÿ˜™

#fml
#mammyguilt
#yessheistheboss

I am Such a GENIUS Mum ๐Ÿ˜˜

Mammy is a genius.

A feckin genius I tell you.

As Mini-Meโ€™s ability to COMPLETELY ignore me becomes increasingly professional, I find myself sometimes wondering HOW the FECK to get her to do even the most simple daily tasks?

My orders, my requests and any other hint of a suggestion of her doing something that might please me, seem to float around her head, never quite making contact with her ears. Usually, it’s only when I SHOUT or SCREAM that she eventually acknowledges that my voice HAS in fact been sending massive soundwaves in her direction.

She’s just chosen NOT to surf them. ๐Ÿ˜‚

And even when she finally acknowledges that I’ve asked her to do something, she still finds 162 ways to procrastinate or forget or simply not be able to do it.

“Put on your Pjs please Darling.”

“Put on your Pjs please Darling.”

“Put on your Pjs please Darling.”

“Put on your Pjs please Darling.”

“Put on your Pjs please Darling.”

“Mini-Me I am not going to ask you again…”

“Whaaaaaaaaat?!” (Add eye roll or exasperated sigh for effect.)

“I’ve asked you to Put on your Pjs. Get them on right now.”

“But where ARE they?” (Still watching Tellybox/making jigsaw/rolling on the floor etc…)

“Wherever you left them. Now go put them on!”๐Ÿ˜ก

“But…” insert random WTF-inducing excuse/problem/comment here.

“PUT ON YOUR PJS NOOOOOOOOOOW!” Screaming BansheeMammy appears.

“Okay! Okay!” Stomps down hall, muttering something about “no need to shout”. (Little twatsickle.)

Mammy sighs in deluded, false victory, before being interrupted by “MAMMEEEEEEE. I can’t FIND them!” or some other shite like that, then stomps down hall, muttering and swearing to find her standing right in FRONT of the fucking Pajamas, which are the ONLY thing lying on the floor, but which are seemingly fucking INVISIBLE to my daughter.

Cue scolding, fighting, retaliation, defiance, huffing, puffing, threatening, snarling, crying and Mammy eventually putting the fecking things ON HER. (It’s that or throw them AT HER. Bad Mammy. No! Terrible thoughts Mammy.)

Different night, same old shite. Until tonight. Tonight, Mammy is a genius. The requesting, finding and putting ON of the fecking PJs took a whole 1 MINUTE AND 37 SECONDS.

I SHIT YOU NOT.

Why?

Because as I was about to ask her for the first time to “Put on your Pjs please Darling”, I opened the cupboard and spotted this๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡ and I had a brainwave.

“Oooooh look what Mammy found! I know, let’s have a race!” (Singsongy voice, think Mary-of-the-poppins.) “I’m going to time you to see how quickly you can put on ypu Pjs. Will we see what number we can get?”

“Yay! I LOVE races!”

“On your marks, get set…GO!” And I swear to God, she slid sideways back into the kitchen, fully dressed in her fricken PJs, a whole minute and a half later…

“Did I beat it?” (Not sure what she’s beating, but when it stops me wanting to beat my head off a brick wall, I’ll roll with it! ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚)

“Of course you did, you are AMAZING!” And it was.

Amazing.

And I am a genius.

And I will try it again tomorrow night, but she’ll probably have copped on to me by then.

Ah well, I’ll enjoy it while it lasts. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚ How was your day? ๐Ÿ˜˜๐Ÿ˜˜๐Ÿ˜˜

I am Screaming Leaving Granny Mum

โ€‹It is sooooo  Grapejuice o’clock on this wonderfully unfeckeuped feck-it-up Friday.
I was doing well you know…
I was doing SO well that I smugly thought I’d get through a full day without shouting or scolding or being a generally horrible Hell-Beast to my little angel.
 I nearly did it…
And THEN she pulled her usual stunt in “Gwanny’s” that leaves HER in dramatic floods of tears, ME ready for the Nut house and my poor Mother torn between remembering what it was like to be mortified in front of HER Mother, and wanting to steal the Demonchild from me and to raise her in the non-shouting, calm and much more cushioned safety of Granny’s house.
Imagine a Disney Fucking princess as she is dragged, sobbing, from her Prince, hand outstretched and a sad and melancholic expression on her tear stained face, mouthing the name of her lost one, in slow motion of course…
Imagine the child in The Railway Children or such orphanesque tale, watching their only relative as the train pulls away from the platform, knowing that they’ll never see them again…
Imagine the scene in The Hunger Games where Catniss is about to be catapulted up into the Arena and the baddies attack her BFF right before her eyes.

There’s nothing she can do.
She is helpless.

It is terrible.
Now imagine the Gobshite who is causing the drama.  

That would be me.  ๐Ÿ˜ญ
And poor Granny is witness to the atrocities.  She wants to scoop the little angel into her arms and hush her and sooth her and tell her it’ll be OK and that OF COURSE she doesn’t HAVE to go home with Mean old Mammy and OF COURSE she can stay with Granny for ever and ever and ever and ever cause Granny will NEVER get cross like mean old Mammy.
She wants to.
But of course she doesn’t. 
She helps poor, mental, wits-end Woman put the obviously  abused, unloved and despairing child in the car, telling her she’ll see her tomorrow and to be a good girl for Mammy.  It breaks her heart no doubt.  
The girlchild is so convincing that a little part of ANY witnessing adult would possibly consider ringing fucking Childline to report Cruel, Uncaring, Crazy Mammy.

But.

Granny has been here before.

Granny has been on the other side of it.  

(Obviously with much less dramatic daughters, given the three angelic girlchildren she raised…๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜œ๐Ÿ˜œ)

Ans as much as Granny does indeed want to save her little girl from the Scary One for a night…she also knows that her little girl HAS to take the scary one home! ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚
This scene pretty much kills both of the grown ups, but they BOTH know that by the time Madam TurboTwat gets to her own house, (a whole 76 yards away), she’ll have completely forgotten the dramatic ordeal which evil Mammy has just subjected her to by asking her to put on her fucking boots to go home. 
The 90 second drive home will be sufficient for her to completely FORGET her violent and impressively fucking MENTAL protest in Granny’s street.  She shall wipe her tears away, skip in the door and ask “Is scooby Doo on?” before demanding a “cuppa mulk pwease” and then informing Mammy that she is her “best wee mammy” as she is handed said cuppa fecking milk.
And Mammy will stand at the door, watching her in disbelief, completely fooked and wishing that there was some time machine that would whizz her forward half an hour so she could sit on her arse and recover her sanity with some grapes.
Cheers Dollies.

๐Ÿท๐Ÿท๐Ÿท

#callthemammypolice #notathingwrongwithher #fml

I am So Eating the Chocolate Mum

โ€‹Sweet Jebus.
“Mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum MUM MUM MUM  MUM MUM.”
“WHAAAAAAAAAAAT?”
Insert random, usually COMPLETELY sporadic and unplanned question or statement here.

She doesn’t even have anything of importance to say.

She doesn’t CARE that she hasn’t even thought of what she’s about to say before she starts the 

“Mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum mum MUM MUM MUM  MUM MUM.” 

The only two things she knows at that moment are:

1. Mammy has started to talk to someo6else.

2. Mammy must NOT talk to someone else while I am in the room.
It’s exhausting.

And sometimes, depending on WHO mammy is DARING to have a conversation with, it’s ridiculously embarrassing.
I can handle a class of 28 teenagers, but I have NO CONTROL over a 4 & 3/4-er…

Shoot me now…
The two pictures below, top and tail the evening I’ve just had with my Mini-Me.
The first picture is about 44 minutes before THE BEDTIME FROM HELL that has lead to #operationskinnyarse being thrown THE FECK out the window, just for tonight. (Image 2…not cropped to hide grapejuice.)๐Ÿ˜‰๐Ÿ˜‰๐Ÿ˜‰


The lovely Samantha @nappiesandlattes brought her this lovely Princess Bubbles last night. (non-alcoholic of course, although I would seriously consider throwing some gin into it right now…)
She ate all of her dinner, even AFTER a birthday party so The Him popped it, making a nice wee fuss over her and giving us a really sweet Mummy and Mini-Me moment.
 45 minutes later, both of us are screaming, both of us are in tears and BOTH of us are ready to freak the hell out.

Why!?

Because BOTH of us THINK we’re the alpha female of the group and BOTH of us need to learn to calm the feck down.

We’re as bad as each other and I have no one to blame but myself…and of course The Him.  Because she has HIS temper… she OBVIOUSLY doesn’t get her headstrong stubborness from me now does she?

All Him.๐Ÿ˜€
And so now, it’s finally quiet, I had a good old telemobile rant at my Buddy “Rainbow” and The Him bought me a bar of chocolate.

NEVER underestimate the power of dialling a number to another Mammy Bear. You can say ANYTHING and swear as MUCH AS YOU LIKE, and they’ll just sit on the other end of the line nodding their heads and agreeing with you and saying things like “Mmmmhmmmmm” and  “Oh I hear ya!” and so you don’t fell quite so shittiful or USELESS as a parent.
So there.

That is how quickly things can escalate, or indeed disintegrate when you have a tired Mammy and a tired Minion in a room.  

The smiles in the first picture are real, but so are the tears.

I just don’t have a picture of those.
And the chocolate bar is also real, so Over and out Bitcheepooos!
I have some slabbering to do… ๐Ÿ˜˜๐Ÿ˜˜๐Ÿ˜˜

I am Some reality Mum

For anyone who complains that Mummy bloggers portray an unrealistic and ideal life… they’re reading the wrong bloggers.

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Mini-Me has upped her Bitch-game this evening. Seriously, there are teenagers with less attitude.
Am trying to remind myself that “a strong-willed daughter will be a strong woman, able for anything the world can throw at her.” Whatever…

Tonight, SHE threw EVERYTHING at me before bed. Tantrums, crying, huffing, puffing and death stares. She threw herself onto her bed, arm across her face, sighing and declaring dramatically “I am just FED UP.” (Looks through elbow to see if she’s getting required reaction.)

I had to leave the room; Part of me laughing at how hilarious she is, part of me DYING a little inside that I saw myself in front of my own eyes. ๐Ÿ˜ณ๐Ÿ˜ณ๐Ÿ˜ณ
Bad Mammy.
Bad, not-doing-anything-right, setting-seriously-bad-examples, fucking-my-child’s-emotional-responses, opposite-of-positive-parenting BAAAAAAD MAMMY.

Deep breaths. Compose oneself. Remember who is in charge…
(Little voice… “She is. She’s in charge you Crazy Woman…”) ๐Ÿ˜ˆ

I eventually got her settled, read “The Dinosaur that Pooped the Bed” and tucked her in.
Then I came up the hall to THIS MESS.๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡๐Ÿ‘‡

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I don’t even know where to start, and so I’m ranting to you, my lovely S-Mummies ๐Ÿ’–, to avoid it…

And to stop myself from pouring a HUMONGOUS grape-juice. ๐Ÿท๐Ÿ˜‚

On a BRIGHTER NOTE… ๐ŸŒž๐ŸŒž๐ŸŒž

I almost puked in public today. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜‚

Week three of #operationskinnyarse began with the most terrifying and dreaded piece of equipment in the gym…
The mat.
I shit you not. It turns out that the most torturous, challenging, hardcore machine in there is my own fricken bodyweight and a mat.
Who knew?

Hope your Monday was equally as wonderful as mine.
Maybe Winnie the Poop was right! ๐Ÿ˜‚

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Over and out…
๐Ÿ›Œ๐Ÿ›๐Ÿ›Œ๐Ÿ›

#SMum #Mammyblogger #Mummy #MiniMeAndPrincess #glammymammy #meandmygirls #parentblogger #RealStruggles #reallife

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