I am She’s a Stay at Home Working Mum

“Your Mammy doesn’t work.” or “Your Mammy doesn’t have a real job”

I remember hearing this a few times as a child and as a teenager.
I remember not thinking much of it. I didn’t see it as an insult or a scathing comment until I was about 16 and my Mum had had Baby Number 6, and I overheard a visitor “jokingly” dismissing my Mum with “Oh at least you don’t have a job to go back to. You should try having a career on top of it….hardeeharrhar.”

And I remember that moment because it was probably the first time I lost the plot with an ACTUAL adult. Let’s just say, there were metaphoric stitches required for the new posterier that might have been ripped. She didn’t visit again.

It was a line delivered with one of those fake “hardeehar” Mary of the Poppins laughs, which people of the bitch variety add to their insults to mask them as “Only jokes” or not meaning any harm. At 17, I was old enough to recognise that the visitor was in fact being a grade a Sanctimammy. And I was old enough to defend my Mum. Because my Mum might not have put on her face and heels every morning and gone to an office or a school or a hospital or a shop or wherever to do a JOB, but BY CHRIST did she work. She worked harder than any other person I know. She still does. She was there, and is there, for us every step of the way, and I’ll never know how she did it.

Being the eldest in a house full of Babies, I learned VERY young that being a Mum is a full time job. There is no rest. There is no relaxation. There are no coffee breaks. There is no “Clocking in” or “Clocking out”. No one cares if you’ve had your lunch hour. Hell, most days, you don’t get lunch! (unless you count their leftovers as lunch, which somedays, we all do. 😅) You don’t have a team to thrash ideas over. You don’t have a Boss to ask for advice. You don’t have a Supervisor to show you the way.

When we were kids in the Donegal sticks in the 80’s, our Mums had a VERY different life. Many of them were at home, all day, without communication, without conversation, without cars, until the Daddy came home (for an hour before hitting the farm.). There were no Forums to ask questions about teething, or wind, or puke. There were no online nurses to contact if a rash appeared. There were 3 TV stations FFS! So there were no digital babysitters. (and no Peppa in fairness.) There were few telephones and even if there was a phone in the house, you didn’t call up your mate for a 20 minute chat unless you were able to pay for it. There were no Mother and Baby groups, no baby massage, no Mammy meet ups… Being a Mammy TODAY is lonely. I can’t get my head around what it must have been like for our Mums. And remember too, that then, you DARE not admit that you were struggling with your emotions or your “nerves” as they used to say in hushed, loaded tones.

Being a Mammy is 24/7. It’s the hardest job in the world whether you’re a SAHM(Stay at home Mum) or a CM (Career Mum). If you don’t leave the house to work, you don’t get to say things like “Sorry, I’m finished for the day” or “That’s not my problem. Talk to JohnJoe” or “I’ll leave that until tomorrow.” You work all day, every day (and all fecking night sometimes) and there is no pay-cheque at the end of it. There is no sick pay. There is no annual leave. Running a home and organising a family is hard. It is full on. It is stressful. It is exhausting. You might not a get a playslip or wages at the end of the month, but boy, do you work.

Now, Before anyone starts their “Try doing all that AND working an ACTUAL job”, let me stop you right there. I AM a working Mum. I have a very busy, demanding and stressful job. I am fully aware that when I go back to work next week, I will have 3 times more crap in my head to think about than I do today. I know too well how fecking EXHAUSTING it is to trying to juggle being professional and organised in your JOB, keeping your family on top of all the EVERYTHING and trying not to lose your shit completely.

It’s a whirlwind and it’s madness, but do you know what? Just because I have a career AND kids, doesn’t make me better or superior to a Mum who stays at home to work. I envy Mums who can stay at home. I’m blessed that I was able to work part-time last year and that I get so much time off to spend with the girls. I know that. But it’s time for me to go back full time and I’m terrified. I love being at home with my girls, but do you know what? I love my job too. So that’s what is right for ME.

Today, I’m looking forward to dressing in my school clothes and having an uninterrupted conversation and a hot coffee in the staffroom next week. Next week, I’ll be breaking my heart that I’m not snuggled up in my PJs on the sofa, watching Peppa Pork.

But let’s get this straight. The mums who stay at home ARE working. They work full time. They just aren’t on a payroll. (Working Mums get the Children’s Allowance too so don’t even TRY that BS).
I envy the Mums who stay at home through choice, but remember that so many are SAHMs because the RIDICULOUS cost of Childcare doesn’t give them any feckin choice. Many would love to be back in the workplace. Many of them look forward to it. But, the shoe fits both feet. To the Mammies who tut at Career Mums for leaving their children to go to work, remember that you’re not a better Mammy than a Career mammy because you stay at home with your kids.

We all do what we have to do.

I go back to my usual mantra… Don’t be a Sanctimammy.

Just because you do things differently, doesn’t make you better.
Just because you work AND have kids, doesn’t make you better than the Mum who is working her ass off at home.
Just because you’re able to stay at home with your Puking minion, doesn’t make you a better Mum than the Mum who had no choice but to leave hers with Granny.
Every Mum does what SHE has to do for HER family. ANd the only person who knows what is right for your family is YOU.
You don’t know another Mum’s circumstance. You don’t know her. You don’t know if she’s happy, or watching you getting into your car to go to work, longing to be you. You don’t know if she’s driving to work in tears because her Baby cried as she was dropping her off. You don’t know how many times a day the Mammy in the office feels a gutwrenching guilt at being away. You don’t know how the Mum in her kitchen is longing for a conversation.

And if you EVER hear yourself dismissing another Mammy because she’s doing it differently to you, lift your hand, grab that redundant wooden spoon and hit yourself a good hard slap on the arse with it. 😂

Then get over yourself. 😘

Have a Fablis Friday night my Lovelies.
And keep up the good work.😘

I am She’s in Charge Mum

It looks like he’s leading her through the woods doesn’t it? 👇👇

Well. What’s REALLY happening here is that this little Wobbler is leading HIM right up the garden path. Princess has morphed into a Demon.

On Sunday she threw her first FULL BLOWN tantrum. We were out for dinner. She lost the bap. We sat looking at each other like two teenagers, neither of whom had a CLUE what to do or how to react. She was screaming and kicking. I held on tight while Daddy pulled Peppa Feckin Pork up on the phone. #needsmust 😢 She stopped screaming once the music started. I swear to God, she was like a deflating balloon and then peace was restored and the other diners stopped glaring at us…

Granda didn’t believe a word of it. Nooooooo. HIS little Princess wouldn’t do that. Not his wee angel…Nope. Granda got his eyes open today however 😂when we went out for tea to celebrate my little sis’s little brown envelope. Once again, DemonDoll threw a strop in the restaurant. Granda declared her a feral tyrant and declared HIMSELF officially retired from all tantrum duties, now that his own youngest is all grown up. I do believe that after 36 years of parenting MAYHEM, it has taken a Curley haired cherub to finally break him. 😂😂

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl”… and when she was bad, she was TERRIFYING! ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING. 😈😈😈

So as innocent as she might look here👇, dandering up a laneway with her Daddy, from behind, you can’t see the glint in her eye that tells him “I own you Daddy. I own you.”

(In fairness, he’s well used to it. Note what he’s carrying in the other hand… because the OTHER Dollyanna insisted on bringing her scooter and lasted approximately 3 minutes. #rascals #daddy)

Still. I wouldn’t change them for the world. How was your day? I do hope all of the brown envelope Mums are having a large grape tonight and that the Minions have fun and safe celebrations 😚😚😚

I am Some Knickertwisting Fiction Mum

Once upon a time, in an imaginary faraway land, (NOWHERE near Mammy’s house), a COMPLETELY fictional little 5 (and a half) year old girl went for a sleepover to her Hypothetical Granny’s house.

As she was getting dressed the next morning, she showed Granny her new “Big Girl” pants which her very lovely Mammy had bought her, just that week. 😲 She proceeded to put them on and then turned to grab her jeans, giving Granny quite the eyeful.

“Fictional little girl, why have you pulled your pants up between your bumcheeks?” asked a bewildered and bemused hypothetical Granny. “Because they are my Big Girl Pants and Big girls wear their pants up high like this, the same way Mammy wears dem,” answered the fictional little girl, quite matter-of-factly, as if Granny was the silliest hypothetical Granny in the world.😂

The fictional little girl’s fictional Mammy was slightly mortified by the fictional daughter’s “revelations” and only thanked her lucky stars that fictional Granda had been spared the episode, as he was at mass, praying for his good and moral children and their offspring.

*All characters and events are completely fabricated and fictional. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is utterly coincidental and accidental.

(And No, The fictional Mother DID NOT buy thongs for her fictional Daughter. They were perfectly acceptable and respectable undergarments, quite suitable for a fictional 5 (and a half) year old.) 😂😂

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 “Silly Daddy” Mum

Mammy is usually very good at giving The Him the credit of being a very wonderful Daddy Bear. Usually…

But sometimes, he comes out with something, or DOES something, SO FECKIN DOUCHEBAG, that my brain starts singing Mary Magdalene’s “He’s a Maaaaaan, he’s JUST a man” at full volume and I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at him and put on my “Are you fecking KIDDING me?” face.

Today, The Him returned from Jim and decided to make himself an omelette.

 

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Now. given that the minions had JUST eaten their lunches, one might be forgiven for thinking that they would not require more sustenance for a few hours.

But knowing them, especially the Princess, like we do, one would also assume that The Him would have automatically made extra for The Bin that is our youngest daughter.

Nope.

He makes himself a lovely omelette and sets it down on the table. As he turns to get his coffee, The Fudgemonster has already climbed up on his seat and reached for his fork… or as she saw it in HER world… HER fork.

“Hi Wee Woman!” exclaims The Him, interrupting her cutting of the omelette with her finger. “That’s Daddy’s.”

It’s like a slow motion NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO scene from a movie where he has the words out before I can warn him…

She stops.
She stares at the omelette.
She looks up at Him.
She looks over at me. (I’m holding my breath at this point.)
She looks back at the omelette and then slowly puts down the fork…
(I swear to God, a MAFIA boss would have been less sinister in his calmness. I almost expected “Get rid of him Donny” to be the next words out of her mouth and for Bugsy style shooters to jump out from behind the sofa, dressed in 1940’s gear and DESTROY him!)

The Him by this point is realising that he MIGHT have made a mistake…

He looks at her.
He looks at me.
He looks terrified…

And just as the poor cretur is about to appease the situation by handing over ALL the food, Princess takes a breath, quivers her lip, climbs down from the chair and runs towards me, her little cheeks and thighs wobbling in the wind, and launches into THE SADDEST, most Genuine and heartbroken WAIL I have EVER heard.

Poor Princess.
Poor Daddy. He doesn’t quite know what to do.

“Cut off a piece for her and put it on her plate” I whisper. The Him briskly does what he’s told. He puts the plate on the table and says “Princess want some omelette?”

“YEAH!” she shouts, mid sob, before jumping off my knee and making it onto her seat in less than 4 seconds, where she happily munched on the omelette piece, firing dirty looks at her Daddy between bites.

You see, what Daddy didn’t realise, (or forgot, feck knows), is that there are rules about eating in the same room as a wobbler, especially OUR wobbler:

If I see it, it’s mines.
If you make it, it’s mines.
If I smell it, it’s mines.
If it’s edible, it’s mines.
If you cook it, it’s mines.
If you put food on a plate, it’s mines.
If I think it’s yours, it makes it more tasty and more mines.
etc., etc., etc…

How Daddy didn’t know these rules, I’ll never know.
But he knows them now and somehow, I can’t see him making the same mistake twice.

When you break an egg, there’s no going back, is there?!

How was your Bank Holiday Ladybelle?

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?”

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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 Shiny Window Mum

Today, I cleaned the glass on the doors in my kitchen.

I have been looking at the fingerprints and handprints and food smudges and what-the-feck-else-I-do-not-know-smudges since the LAST time I washed them. 😣😣

“The last time I washed them” is a bit vague. It varies depending on who I am talking to: If I know you well, I won’t even excuse them, because you won’t even notice them, but you know yourself, there will always be those people who arrive or pop in or visit, to whom you feel compelled to lie about your cleaning.

“Would you BELIEVE I only washed those windows LAST weekend? Can’t keep them clean with these two rascals… hardeehardeehar”, you quaffle with extra hugh pitch in your voice, while you ignore the Him’s raised eyebrows because he knows that they POSSIBLY haven’t been WIPED in 3 months, never mind cleaned! 😂😂

It’s like confessions…”Bless me Mrs for I have sinned. It’s been 3 months since my last confession.” (Cue fires in hell sizzling in excitement that you’ve just LIED to the Priest, IN CONFESSION. 😂)

So yes, today.

I DID clean the fecking glass AND THEN, I left my two minions eating their frozen frubes in front of Upsy Crazy and Macka Facka and scooted to my bedroom to leave a basket of clothes on the floor (where they shall rest and mature for up to 3 weeks…it’s the only way you know?) 😄😄

Approximately 36 seconds later, I returned to this little shitster👇👇, caught white handed clattering the fecking glass with the end of her Frube… I’m going to go ahead and think positively that she OBVIOUSLY saw me cleaning them earlier and so was imitating her Mary-of-the-poppins-esque Mammy Bear.

This theory has been further verified by the fact that she had ALREADY “cleaned” the Tellybox too… So here we are now, with the glass having not been cleaned in months, and now suddenly cleaned 3 times in one fecking day!

Wee monster this doll… 😇😇

How was your day? 😂😂