Tag Archives: children

I am Shopping Stupidity Mum

Posted in children, parenting, toddlers, Uncategorized by

“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

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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? 😂😂

I am Say Hi to “Nobody” Mum

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Mammy has decided to add a new member to our family.

If my minions can have imaginary friends, and The Him can have Him’s Jim, then Mammy can have one too.

My imaginary friend is fecking FABLIS.

I call my imaginary friend “Nobody”. 😂

“Nobody” is perfect.

“Nobody” notices all the EVERYTHING I do around the house.

“Nobody” notices that the laundry is done, that the floor has been mopped, that the toilets have been cleaned.

“Nobody” is grateful when they find clothes folded and in the wardrobe. Nobody” is grateful when they find food in the fridge or dinner on the cooker.

“Nobody” says Thank You each time they notice how much cleaning I have done.

“Nobody” is helpful.

“Nobody” knows how to put dirty clothes in the wash basket. “Nobody” can work the fecking washing machine…

“Nobody” helps Mammy to cook and plan meals and get healthy food into the minions.

“Nobody” sometimes even offers to go do the grocery shopping.

“Nobody” sees when Mammy hasn’t showered in 2 days and offers to mind the minions long enough for her to put too much argon oil in her hair.

“Nobody” does their share WITHOUT being asked.

But most importantly, “Nobody” listens to Mammy. “Nobody” does what I ask the FIRST time she asks. Mammy NEVER has to shout at “Nobody”, because “Nobody” actually HEARS Mammy’s voice BEFORE she raises it.

“Nobody” is fab.

“Nobody” makes Mammy feel great about herself.

“Nobody” makes Mammy feel appreciated and special.

“Nobody” really understands Mammy. “Nobody” looks at Mammy wondering wtf she is shouting about.

“Nobody” makes Mammy happy, but “Nobody” is only a figment of Mammy’s imagination… a shadow.

Mammy knows that “Nobody” is not an actual person, but somedays, Mammy chooses to imagine that “Nobody” is VERY real, (and Mammy prefers to imagine that “Nobody” looks like a cross between Thor, Wolverine and Gaston, just for fun! Sigh…)

But while “Nobody” might be perfect, they can never give Mammy a hug, or a smile, or a slobbery kiss, like my 3 Somebodies can. 💜💖💖

And a “Somebody” is always better than a “Nobody” in real life, aren’t they?

Anyway, who wants to live with someone who does all of these things ☝☝that “Nobody” does anyway?

Sure Mammy would have nothing to grumble and feel self-righteous and under-appreciated about then, would she?

So who would YOUR “Nobody” look like and what would “Nobody” do? 😂😘

I am STOP TOUCHING ME Mum

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This Mammy loves hugs and squeezes and little chubby fingers on her skin.  Mammy loves kisses and Eskinosies and the feel of Mini-Me’s arms crawling around her neck for a hug.  Mammy is aware that when you become a Mammy, you are going to be touched, a LOT.  But Mammy is still, 5 and a half years on, not ready for the CONSTANT touching. 
It’s 24/7.  It’s mostly lovely, but JESUS, there are times when Mammy just wants to NOT be touched, even for a little while. 

LIke, a half an hour.  
Now, there is no harm in the Touching. It is usually quite acceptable and welcome. In fact, if we delve into the minds of the TOUCHERS in the house, it is clear that the touching is a sign (usually) of love and affection and it is important for affirmation of love and all that jazz, but sometimes, Mammy considers pretending to have Scabies, just so that everyone will piss away off for 20 minutes and stop TOUCHING her!

The Wobbler thinks:

Oh! There is Mammy.  I will touch her.  I will swing off her legs while she walks.  I will stand on her feet while she cooks.  I will sit on her head while she snoozes.  I will sit on her knee instead of on my chair.  I will sit on her chair along with her.  I will hold on to her hand so hard that if she tries to sneak away as I fall asleep, I will know.  I will insist on being lifted when I see her standing with nothing to do.  I will make special effort to ensure that if her tellyphoney rings, she will not forget that I am here, because I will tug at her leg until she lifts me and then I will rub her face.  I will stick my finger in her mouth.  I will stick my finger up her nose.  I will shove my finger in her ear.  Oh Lookit. Mammy is on the sofa.  That is my sofa.  I will sit on her head.  I will stick my hand down into Mammy’s bra to find the dodee that I didn’t hide there earlier.  I will touch her every time she walks by.  I likes to touch Mammy.  Mammy is soft and squishee and she smiles when I touches her so that is what I must do.  Always.  Forever. I am the bestest witto wobbler around.

The 5 year old thinks:

 I will ignore Mammy until I notice little sister sitting on her, and then I too will sit on her.  I will make sure she doesn’t feel lonely while she pees.  I will look after her while she showers. I will remember to ask her EVERYTHING when she is trying to talk to Granny on the phone.  I will ignore her in the coffee shop until her friend sits down to talk to her.  Oh Look! Mammy has sat at the the table. I must sit on her knee to make sure she doesn’t drink all of the coffee.  It is bad for her.

I will hug Mammy’s armpit.  I will stick my fingers in her armpit.  For some reason, I like armpits.  I must keep touching Mammy so that she doesn’t forget my existence for 3 minutes.  She must be touched as often as possible.

Mammy’s minions go to bed and Mammy wonders what feels so strange.  Is it the silence? Is it the calm? Is it the peace?

NO.  It’s the lack of touching.
Daddy comes home.  

Daddy thinks:
  Oh look.  There is my beautiful wife. She looks extra sexiful in those baggy PJ bottoms and my teeshirt.  I’m glad she hasn’t brushed her hair or washed her face today.  I like the smell of Bolognese on her face.  I have missed her so much that I must touch her everytime she walks past.  I will touch her.  I will slap her bum every time I pass her..  I will huggle her.  Mammy looks lonely there without the girls hanging off of her.  I will make her feel better.  I will hang off of her.  Maybe Mammy would like some hanky panky.  She has been here on her own with the kids all day after all.  I wonder did the baby hide her dodees in Mammy’s bra today..  Maybe I will check…
Oh.
Mammy is looking at me with sexy eyes…or maybe those are her I shall hurt you eyes… I can never tell.
“Don’t FUCKING TOUCH MEEEEEEEEEEE” screams Mammy.
‘Ok,’ thinks Daddy, ‘not her sexy eyes’.  Daddy realises. For some reason, Mammy doesn’t like being touched tonight.  She must be hormental.  
 Actually no.  Daddy remembers that this is The Touching Hour.    

Mammy needs her Touching Hour every evening.  It is like the Witching Hour, only more dark and dangerous.  And the chances of further touching depend on the success of the Touching Hour.
‘Where is the chocolate?’ Thinks Daddy.  ‘I should sit in the corner here and throw chocolate at her until she calms down’.  Clever Daddy.  “Will I make you a cup of tea?” asks Daddy.  Mammy snarls at him.  Daddy pours her a glass of wine.  Clever Daddy.  “Here you are Darling” he says, trying not to touch her.  
Mammy sips her wine, remembering a time when she used to pay people to touch her; When it was relaxing to have hands all over her in a smellified dark room in a spa or salon.  She would love to go for a massage, but that would mean someone else touching her and at this moment in time, that might make Mammy hurt someone.  
She looks at Daddy, who used to be the only person who touched her.  He is so lovely, she thinks.  He has a very nice bum.

After a while, Mammy walks past Daddy in the kitchen and slaps his bum.  “Yay!” thinks Daddy.  The Touching hour is over”, but Daddy lets Mammy pour another glass of grapes before he suggests such.  

 Daddy is clever.

Mammy sometimes feels like she lives with a squad of fecking Octopus…octopi?

But they are cute little octopi and by the morning, she will be ready for all the touching, all over again.

I am Start Taking the Compliments Mum

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“Your daughter is beautiful.”   Aw she is, isn’t she? Thank you.

“I love her coat.”  I know, isn’t it gorgeous?

“Your son is so funny.”   Yeah, he cracks me up.

“You look gorgeous.”  Aye right, I haven’t even brushed my hair.

“I love your top”   Penney’s best.

“Those are nice jeans.”  Oh I’ve had these old things for years.

“Is that a Hilfiger shirt?”  It was on sale!

Notice anything?

We don’t know how to take a compliment.  Nothing new there.  We all knowthat the Irish don’t take compliments well. We are suspicious of them. We don’t like them.  For some reason, they make us feel very uncomfortable.

But when someone compliments our kids, we are more than happy to agree with them. If someone points out something positive about your little minion, chances are that you will be delighted that they’ve noticed and you will nod in agreement, as proud as punch.

However, if the same person tells you with their next breath that your hair is lovely, you will most likely find yourself disagreeing and parting your hair to show them just how badly your roots need redone.

So what the hell is wrong with us?

If I tell Mini-Me that she looks beautiful or that her hair is pretty, she smiles at me and says “Thanks Mum” or “I know!”  (shock horror!)  She takes the compliment.  She doesn’t NEED it to feel better or to affirm her or any other such nonsense.  She takes it, because at 5 years old, she doesn’t find it strangethat someone would praise her or compliment her.  It is not unusual to her that someone might point out something positive.  She is not suspicious of compliments.  She doesn’t need to be.

So when does that stop?  When will she suddenly begin to apologise for her positive features?  When will she become flushed with embarrassment because someone comments on how well she dances?  What will happen to make her suddenly feel that she should disagree with someone who tells her she is clever, or pretty, or talented or funny?  Will she simply wake up some morning, feeling the need to apologise for being good at something, or for being nice?

Now, of course I know that we must teach them to be humble also.  No one likes a boaster.  But why the hell should we teach them that they should apologise for being good at something?  Why should we teach them to disagree with someone who is genuinely being nice to them?  

When did humility become humiliation?

Because somewhere along the way, we’ve confused the two.   

If someone admires your hair today, reply by saying “I know! It’s sitting nice today isn’t it?”  I dare you.  And watch their reaction. It’s pretty likely that they’ll flinch in surprise.  If someone admires your top, try “Thanks, I like it too.” (Would you have bought it if you didn’t?) If someone points out something that you are good at, thank them and tell them “Yeah, I try hard.”  

If they walk away from you thinking you’re big headed or conceited, then who has the problem?  If they meant the compliment, they won’t mind that you agree with them.  

Does it not make sense that if we were to let our kids see us accepting compliments more comfortably, maybe we’d be helping them?  Our kids learn by watching us, our behaviours, our responses. Someday soon, when Mini-Me hears me answering “Oh God, this old thing?” or “Aw my skin’s a mess” or “God now, I sound dreadful!”, then she’s going to store it in her bank of “Acceptable grown up things to say” isn’t she?  

And therein begins that humiliation.

We all do it.

I do it.  I did it yesterday when a friend praised me.  I automatically told him he was full of nonsense.  Why? If he hadn’t thought I was good, he wouldn’t have bothered to tell me I was, so why did I disagree with him?  

Because we are trained, somewhere along the line, to apologise for ourselves.  Because acknowledging our own strengths and positive characteristics is seen as terribly obnoxious and wrong.  Because one day, without even realising it, we learned that to accept a compliment was wrong.  

We’re hardwired to think the worst about ourselves; to worry about what others think.  Being a parent brings a new level of this.  We are constantly comparing ourselves, berating ourselves, apologising for our decisions, for our behaviour, for our children’s behaviour.  But the sooner we can rewire ourselves to look more closely for our own positives, the more chance we have of teaching our children that it’s OK to say “thank you” when someone compliments us.

Plenty of people will thrive on bringing them down, on highlighting their weaknesses and flaws.  We need to teach them to recognise those people. And we need to teach them that if someone feels the need to comment on them in a negative way, then it’s that person who has the problem, and not them. 

So accept the compliment.  Let your children hear you accepting it.  Let them see that it’s OK to be proud of yourself sometimes and that you don’t need to ever apologise for being good, or kind, or talented or clever.  

And give someone a compliment today too.  You never know whose day you’ve just made.

By the way, you have a lovely smile.