Category Archives: Uncategorized

I am Screen Time Dinner Mum

Posted in parenting, Uncategorized by

“Tut tut. Look at those parents using their phones to distract their child. Tut tut.
Lazy young parents of today. Not able to handle their kiddies in public. Whatever happened to conversation at dinner? Tut tut. In my day… yadda yadda fucking yadda.”

Now. Mammy did not HEAR the actual shpeel of verbal diahorrea that was ACTUALLY coming out of the older couple’s tight-set mouths, but the looks and disapproving glances at our table (and the table beside us might I add) when The Him stuck an episode of “Ben & Bolly” on his phone were more than enough to tell us what they were thinking.😡

Now. I am not one who condones screentime at the table, either at home or in public. And actually, our 6 year old does NOT get to look at a screen when we’re eating. Not a hope… but the twoublemaker? Absofeckinglutely. 😂

The couple Saw a snippet of our day. They saw the 9 minutes where Mammy’s lovely dinner had gone cold as she’d spent her time ensuring that Princess did not launch her plate at Mini-Me’s head or SPILL the glasses of milk all over our dinner.

They DIDN’T see the 2 hours of the girls playing at their Doll’s house and in their bedrooms this morning.

They DIDN’T see the 3 hours of fresh air and exercise in Glenveagh.

They DIDN’T see the 45 minutes of colouring in and general chatter as we waited to order and eat.

What they SAW was the “We need to distract the minion for a few minutes to allow Mammy to finish her food and Daddy to order a coffee trick” that most parents turn to as a last fecking resort when their Knackered child has reached their quota of sitting and behaving like a good little girl.

I’m sure they meant no harm. I’m sure they’re lovely. I’m sure they would never have allowed it. Whatever.

Did it bother me? Eh…no! 😂 But I’m pretty sure it might have bothered another Mammy. This Bad Mammy Wagon seriously considered letting her watch another 3 episodes so I could order another glass of grapes. 😂 I didn’t. Cos see, that WOULD MAYBE have been cause for the tutters to tut.

I finished my Yummy dinner. We drank our coffee and we turned off the EBSD. (ElectronicBabysittingdevice)

Then we drove our fed, watered and quite relaxed wee family home.

And we didn’t give a tut what the tutters thunked. They didn’t see the full movie you see. They only saw the blooper reel. So really, their review doesn’t matter, does it?

Now.
A glass of grapes on a Sunday night? How very dare I!? Yay!

Happy Bank Holiday Sunday Bitcheepoos.

Any fun for me?
Mammy x

I am Screw-top Lid Mum

Posted in parenting, Uncategorized by

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.

And chocolate.

jam
“You want toast Princess of mine?”

“Mmmmhmmmm” she nods.

“Mammy get you toast now.”

“Mmmmmhmmmmmm” she says, wobbling her fat little arse 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…

It HAS to be Grape o’clock already no?

How was your day?

I am She was wearing the Blue Jumper Mum

Posted in parenting, Uncategorized by

Mini-Me’s powers of description and interrogation are wonderful. There are departments of Intelligence all over the world who could do with hiring her.

Daddy was driving yesterday as we passed a local school.   

Mini-Me announces:

“My friend Nancy goes to that school.”

“Very good Darling.”

“She doesn’t go to my school but we’re still best fwends.”

“I wonder if they were in Daddy’s gym the day the school visited.”

“WHAT?”

“Some of the boys and girls from that school came to visit Daddy’s gym last month. I wonder was your friend there.”

“Are you JOKIN?”

“No. I’m not joking.”

“You mean to tell me that my BEST fwend Nancy came to see your gym and she NEVER told me?”

“Well I don’t know.  Maybe she wasn’t there.”

red hair

“Was there a girl there with Red hair?”

“There were lots of girls there.”

“But was there a girl with red hair?”

“Maybe…”

“With reddy Blonde hair?”

“Ehm.  I’m not sure.”

“Well it’s more blonde. Was there a girl there with blonde hair?”

“There might have been pet. I don’t…”

“It’s long and wavy and blonde… with red. It’s kind of red but a wee bit blonde.”

“Daddy didn’t notice.  There were lots and lots of girls and boys there.”

“But was there a girl there with red hair and GLASSES?”

“I…”

“Glasses Daddy.  You HAVE to have seen the glasses?”

“Daddy didn’t look…”

“They are blue…or mabye green glasses.”

Erm…

“And they might have Cinderella on the side.  Did you see a girl with reddy blonde hair and bluey-green Cinderella glasses in your gym Daddy?”

(Daddy’s eyes are beginning to glaze over…)

“I’m not sure.”

“You HAVE to KNOW Daddy?  She was probably wearing a blue jumper.”

Daddy is now speechless.  Mammy decides to help…

“Come on now Ted, she was wearing the blue jumper like”.

It’s probably a good job he was driving…

 

I am Spas and Chopsticks Mum

Posted in Lifestyle, Uncategorized by
Once upon a time, in a land far away, Mammy went for a massage.
 
In Mammy’s many experiences of massages, this one was particularly memorable.
 
Mammy carries a lot of her stress and tension, not only in her wine glass, but sometimes in her shoulders. Every year, around the time where Mammy has finished marking eleventy squillion mock English papers while managing to direct and be in a musical, on top of working and you know, Mammying, my little shoulders tend to seize up and act the bollox.
 
It happens every year. And so THIS year, Mammy decided to meet the fecker head on by booking myself into a spa, far far away, for a deep tissue massage.
 
Hah! Take THAT shoulders. I shall go to the spa and have some handy genius “rub my cares” away as I hum to the tune of Fraggle Rock and then I shall leave, relaxed and glowing and detoximified and calm. I shall be so relaxed that when I meet my mates in the hotel bar afterwards, I shall consume only water to aid the detoxifying cleanse that the magic fingers shall have induced.
 
And then, I went.
 
Spas are funny places aren’t they? We’re spoiled here in Donegal in fairness, but in general, they’re weird.
 
Think about it.
You are ushered into hushed and candlelit darkness, with hissing things and smells popping from every corner. We tell ourselves it’s classy. In reality, it looks how a lap dancing club might look.
Then, we put on a robe and slippers which are way too big over our bathing suits. What do you wear to a spa? A costume gets wet and then it’s icky to get off and impossible to get back on if you’re in for a treatment. And let’s be honest, a bikini often requires a certain mood doesn’t it? As in an “I don’t give a fuck” mood.
Then you flip flop your way into a glorified swimming pool which farts bubbles sporadically and you try to be graceful as you descend into it, not having a fucking clue where the steps are. You try not to look out of place amongst the other spa-goers, who are obviously all pro at this crap.
The other spa-goers, already positioned in their bubble blower seats, look ahead, aloof and sophisticated and looking altogether “together”, with expressions of nonchalance and boredom that makes them look cool…as if they BELONG here, pretending not to see you but secretly thinking, “Do NOT sit beside me. Do not speak to me. I can’t look but I want to suss out whether you should be wearing that costume or not… fuck. Is that a bikini? Bitch. I should have worn mine. I could soooooooooo wear mine. Next time. Yeah, of course she sat beside me. I’ll have to move now… Must look composed. Must look suitably bored. Must not smile.”
 
And you sit among them, pressing random buttons and trying not to scream in fear as things start spurting at you. After a few minutes on sitting in the pool in which you can’t really swim, you get up and head for the steam room and sauna, wondering why the hell you bothered getting your cossie wet when realistically, 89% of your time in this thermal suite shall be spent in the dry rooms.
 
You sit in the steam room until you are medium-rare and then try to dry off in the sauna, wondering why the place has been decorated like a brothel might be. Red lights are not relaxing.
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Red is not my colour…

 
And then you begin to wonder how long you have to wait until your therapist comes to save you. In this case, I was forgotton about and had to go find one. They’d forgotten me. No biggy… I was perfectly chilled after my hour in the steam room and red light district.
 
A massage will relax me eh?
Well. She was a lovely girl…
Let me sum it up for you in simple terms…
My “deep tissue massage” was a 15 minute head rub/hair pull followed by very strange and altogether frustrating rub on one side of my body because she couldn’t reach the other side and apparently didn’t know to move… It included random pinching of my skin as if she was using calipers to gauge my BMI and then, THEN… she started to slap my skin, up and down my back before doing CHINESE CHOPSTICKS on my sides…
I.
SHIT.
YOU.
NOT.
 
If anyone had been watching my face through the head hole, I’d say they’d have had a laugh at my eyes popping open in shock!  I swear to God, I was waiting for Jeremy Beadle to jump out from the shower curtain with his camera.
 
Chopsticks.
 
Now, she wasn’t putting ANY pressure at all on my back so I figured she was doing very little harm, and by the time I’d plucked up the courage to tell her to stop the massage, she’d moved on to my legs and was doing a grand job chopping my arse. There was a bit more there for her pinchers too so she seemed happy enough.
 
“Was that OK for you?” Poor wee pet was so proud of herself and I was in a confused state of WTF. I grumbled something about getting a glass of water and headed back to the dressing room.
 
I’m not a complainer. I wasn’t going to say anything really but then I looked in the mirror.
My HAIR looked as if it had been backcombed ALL OVER. It was standing STRAIGHT UP all over my head. Forget Something about Mary, there was Something about Mammy and it was NOT good. I tried to brush it and Oh my GOD, Ladies I couldn’t get the brush through it. I couldn’t even get my fingers through it. No one should leave a spa looking like this.
 
I rarely complain. I hate complaining, but sometimes, it’d be wrong to leave without speaking up. I pulled on my tracksuit and headed to reception, where the manageress was absolutely wonderful and so very kind. In fairness, as customer service goes, I can’t fault her. However as spa treatments and relaxing evenings go… yeah, it didn’t.
 
I had to step into the shower and pour the full bottle of conditioner onto my hair to try to ease out the tangles. I pulled on my clothes to go for dinner.
I was first in the bar. Water my arse. I needed grapes.
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My mates arrived, expecting to find me in a sleepy state of smug water consuming relaxation, all chilled and shiny.
They found me with a bottle of wine, three glasses and my hair fecked in a bun because I couldn’t get the brush through parts of it, even after the shower…
 
As for my back? I thought I was fine. Turns out I thought wrong. I’m currently being fixed by a lovely Physio, who actually snorted when I mentioned the Chopsticks.
My Mother’s Day Fizz was courtesy of painkillers.
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But hey! Lesson learned.
My shoulders shall indeed fall to bits every March and Mammy should stick to the local, fablis and non-red-lighting spas I know.
They’re a whole lot less traumatic!

I am Some Mother’s Day Feels Mum

Posted in parenting, poetry, Uncategorized by

From Mammy on Mother’s Day

 

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

I love you each second of every daymammy

And even when sometimes I grumble and scold

I hope that you know that even if you’re being bold,

I trust you, I get you, I love you so much

I’ve loved you since the minute I first felt your touch,

(Whether at birth or first meeting, It matters not how

I became your Mammy, I’m your Mammy now.)

My total existence revolves around you;

Your growth and your wellness, everything that you do.

I’m thinking about you, awake and asleep

And even if I’m not with you, please know that I keep

you so close in my heart and always on my mind.shoes

You’re my reason for living, the reason I find

to get up on the mornings where there’s been no sleeping

to keep smiling and going, when I just feel like weeping.

But always, no matter how much I may struggle

The world can be fixed with just one little “cuggle”.

When I look at you sleeping, so pure and calm,

I love you with everything that I am.

I’ll push you, protect you and help you to grow,

I’ll make sure you know all the things you should know.

I’ll keep you as safe as I possibly can

I’ll make sure you know just how proud that I am

To be raising a child who’s so brilliant and clever

and to be your wee Mammy, forever and ever.

So how do I love you, let me count the ways.

Every day Darling, not just on Mother’s Day.”

 

To Mammy on Mother’s Day

How to I love thee, well count I cannot,

But I don’t need my numbers to tell you a lot.

mygirlsI love you for reasons that do not need words,

For the fact that you’re mine since I came to this world.

Because you love me every day and each night,

When I’m being my best, or I’m giving you frights

I know that you sometimes are worried and scared

But you don’t let me see that, You’re too busy being there

When I need you for playtime or stories or songs,

When I call in the night, and you carry me long,

long into the hours where we should be asleep,

runjulia

When I hide from the monsters or cry or hurt deep.

When I eat all my dindins or throw it you

When I giggle and cry, when you’re covered in poo.

It really doesn’t matter what I do or I say,

You are my Mammy and I’ll simply love you always.

 

 

Much love to all the Mammies of any Babbies, all over the world.

The S-Mum xxxx