I am So you think you won’t Mum?

10 things I thought before I had kids:
1. I shall never shout at my child:  Oh you will you know.  Actually, it’s more a case of shouting at yourself really, because if you are having to shout at all, chances are that you’ve reached that wonderful stage where the little minions have decided to ignore every single fricken word you say, until you are screaming it at the top of your lungs like a mad woman.  And do you know what else? Even THEN, they’ll probably not listen to you.

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2. I shall love my child unconditionally always.  Yes,  indeed.  But that doesn’t mean that you have to LIKE them unconditionally or always.
3. I will never have to deal with a tantrum in a shop:  Oh yes you will.  The 30 seconds of your Minion’s meltdown will feel like an HOUR and even though no one is looking at you, you will feel like the entire shop has stopped specifically to watch your little Hell Demon throw his strop.  You will burn a new shade of crimson that you never even considered possible, and you will discover dexterity and wrestling skills that you didn’t know you possessed as you wrangle the wriggler out the door.  And yes, you will growl through gritted teeth and swear that you’ll NEVER leave the house again.
4. I will only feed them healthy, nutritious, organic home-cooked meals:  For the most part, we all manage this one, most of the time…mostly.  But trust me, Freezer Fridays are a thing and Leftovers are a blessing in disguise. I write my weekly meal planner on the fridge most Sundays.  At the beginning of the week, it makes me feel like I’m the bestest Mammy ever.  By Friday, it reminds me of just how hilarious I can be sometimes.😂 But hey!  They get fed don’t they?         Most days.
5. I will never be manipulated by a toddler: Yes, yes you will.  And even when you are using the bribery and blackmail (that you swore you’d never resort to), you’re still being manipulated by the minion.  And this is not reserved for toddlers.  Signs of parental manipulation can appear as early as Day 3 of your baby’s life, when they learn that if they make a certain noise, you’ll react.  And it never ends.  Our kids manipulate us forever… My Daddy loves me most you know. 😉😉

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6. I will bath them every night:  Ok, some parents DO manage this one.  If you are a Daily bathermum, I salute you and am in awe.  I NEVER got into this habit.  There are 3 reasons that mine get bathed.

A) It’s the weekend

B) They’re so rotten that I have no choice but to wash them if I want to keep up the facade that I have my shit together.

C) In the event of a Poonami or a Pukenado.
7. I will never swear in front of my children:  Yeah, good luck with that one. 😂 Try not to swear AT your children.  That should be reserved for special occasions, but swear in front of them, you shall. And do you know when you’ll realise it?  When they repeat what you’ve said at full volume in front of the WRONG person, you know, like the local priest or the PHN, or the School Principal, or…a Sanctimammy.  And sometimes, as mortified as you are, you’ll be slightly proud that they have used the expletive in the correct context.
8.No other child is as special as mine:  This one is true.  My children are the most special in the world…to me. 💖💖

 

9.Being a parent can’t be that hard. Everyone does it:  hahahahahahhahahahhahahahhahahah.  Yes, everyone does it. And most of those everyones at SOME point wonder WHY they did!
10. I will never turn into THAT Mammy:  Oh my Darling.  Yes.  Yes you  will.  Every one of us has an inbuilt ability to be THAT Mammy.  You’ll surprise yourself.
I’m sure you could add your own Ladybelles xxx

 

 

 

I am Spelling Mum

Phonetics…

Gone are the days of learning the good old alphabet and putting together the words, just because.

Now, it’s all different. And obviously, it’s much more effective. Of course it is. Who am I to question it?

I’m used to it now, but initially when Mini-Me came home calling letters by their sounds, I couldn’t deal with it at all.

Suddenly, dog was not spelled Deee-oooh-Geeee. Apparently now it is Di – oh – Ga. And C-a-t is Ki-aaaaah- Teh.

Now that she has finally started to blend the sounds together, Mammy is excited. I am excited for when she will be able to disappear into worlds unknown, and go on adventures with exciting new friends, all from the comfort of the sofa or her own wee bed. Because to this Mammy, reading is the greatest gift that we can give our children. Without a da-ooh-uh-(silent)ba-ti…

Now, because Mini-Me is learning through Irish, her sounds are slightly different to what I as an English teacher would expect. And never was this more clear that on holidays last week.

“Sah-te-oh-pe….satooopa…stoooopa…STOP!”

“Well done Darling!”

“Oh-pa-eh-nah…ohpehna…OPEN!”

“Yes that’s right! Look at YOU reading all by yourself!”

And then we sat down at a table, on which was screwed a sign. The sign simply said “NO PICNIC”

She got “no”, Noooh bother.
Picnic however?
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“Pii-iiii-ka-niii-iiii-sa”

“No. Try again.”
“Pii-iiii-ka-niii-iiii-ka”

“Almost darling. Try it in two parts”. Clever mammy here covers the first syllable of the word, thinking that if we broke it down, it would be easier for her to decipher.

“Pi – iiii – See… I KNOW I KNOW! It’s PISS!” she screams in exuberance, at the top of her voice, in the middle of the outdoor restaurant.

“Shhhhhhhhhh! No!”

“It IS Mammy look! P-I-C is PISS!” And language barrier or not, every adult in the place, turned to look at the feral Irish child, roaring PISS at the top of her voice, as proud as punch of herself.

Aren’t phonetics phun?
Phuck my Liphe…

I am Sexy Cows Mum

My neighbours are cows. Fooking cows. 🐄🐂🐮

Last night they kept us awake from 4am with their shenanigans.

You see, having been separated for quite a while, the cows 🐄and the Bulls🐃 were reunited yesterday evening.

“Moooooh! New Bulls, New Bulls!” the cows mooed at each other on the arrival of the Boyos. 🐃🐃🐃🐃🐃🐃🐃

“Moooooooh! Udders! Udders everywhere lads. Quick! Chests up and strut!” roared Billy Big Balls and his buddies.🐮🐮🐮

The cows immediately began to measure up the biggest boyo, while the bulls, each certain of their own alpha-moo-ness, 🐃strutted around like feckin Paycocks, shouldering each other out of the way, showing off their Bullsiness and trying to make the other Bulls look less Bullsy. 🐂

The Cows flicked their hair, 🐮chewed their cuds seductively and plumped their udders, some standing aloof, pretending not to be affected by the arrival of the testosterone, but watching every member of their tribe of fake BFFs with suspicion and jealousy.

When the human neighbours went to bed, all of the competitors were well behaved and seemed to have settled in to their new surroundings. But somewhere in the field, under the romantic half light of the stars, they found Viagara or Red Bull, and possibly some Benweed, which they mixed to form a drink like Yaga-Bullmers🍷, leading to an early morning Moo-fest. 🐄🐃🐄🐃🐄🐃🐄

Some time around 3.30am, their sir-loins could take no more and they gave in to temptation…

And by the sounds of things, every bull had a go on every cow and then they had a fecking singsong to celebrate their rumps being pumped. 🐃🐄

This morning, all were calm and knackered, possibly hungover from the mayhem of their party.

Tonight, they’re ready for another session and are already shoulder pumping and stomping.

It’s like they’ve never seen a Moomber of the opposite sex before. And with the heat on, the bets-ies are off.

It’s like an episode of Love Fecking Island here. They’re just not quite as orange. 😂😘

Cows next door? Never a bull moment…

I am She’s a Wagon is Roz Mum

Mammy’s jeep is called “Roz”.

I got her the same day I got the part of Roz in our production of 9 to 5 last winter. And so it seemed apt to name her Roz.   Beats Betsy or the yok, doesn’t it?

Roz is very fablis, but mostly, she is fablis because she can talk to me. Roz is like a real life person. If I am in the car on my own, I don’t have to feel lonely.  I just have to press a wee button and say something and I am guaranteed that Rozzie will answer me. She is my friend. She does what she’s told and unlike my minions doesn’t answer me back. Now granted, 80% of the time Roz says things like “Phone not detected” or “I’m sorry. Can you repeat please?”  And because she has an American accent, sometimes she misunderstands my ineloquent Donegalisms and will dial random numbers of people I haven’t spoken to in years.  In fact, one of the first nights I was driving her, I decided to show off to my sister.

“Call Lorr-aine” I ordered, slowly and in my “How-now-brown-cow” voice.  “Calling Laura Aynder…”

“FAAAAAAACK”  Mammy was screaming, frantically hitting the lever to end the call before it began.  The only reason the number Roz was dialling is still on my phone, is to make sure I don’t answer that wagon if she ever rings me. (Name changed obviously! I do not know any wagonish Lauras.)

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And so, I learned to be verrrrrrrrry clear and precise in my instructions to her.

One of the other fablis tricks Roz has is to read messages if they come in while I’m driving.  And so, on Saturday, half way up the dual carriageway, the radio is interrupted by “New Message”.  I get quite excited as I haven’t heard that in a while, and reply “Read Message”.  I don’t often be getting the oul messages anymore, as everyone now uses Snaptwat and Instagranny to communicate. I miss the ould messages so I do.

Message from 087…I don’t know the number. Oooooh the excitement.

“Hi Maaaaar-eeeaaaa.  Japonica* would like toooooo INVITE your Mini-Meeee TO HER Birthday Partay fullstop on Sat next at 3pim in Partywaaruld. I dooooo hope sheeeee can make it.  ex ex Exclamation mark”.

Mammy is instantly regretting hitting play. Not because of the text, but because Mini-Me has now HEARD the message. Let me explain. If she is able to attend a birthday party, I tend to NOT tell her about it until the day before. Because you see if anything were to come up and our plans had to change, I can not be dealing with the apoplectic melt-down that Mini-Me likes to have. Also, it is good parenting practice to have some blackmail/bait for behaviour rectification up one’s sleeve, is it not?

Shit shit shit shit, how shall Mammy get out of this one.

Mini-Me has not responded.  She is sitting quietly.  I’m about to engage with the idea that she hasn’t actually heard the message until I glance in the rear-view mirror and see that her jaw is actually on the floor.

“Oh My GOD Mammy! Did you HEAR that?”

“Hear what pet?” (shit)

“Roz has just invited me to my own birthday party on Saturday!”

“Huh?” (fookity fook…)

“Your friend Roz has just told you that I have to go to my birthday party on Saturday!”

“WHY would you be having a birthday party on Saturday?  It’s not your birthday!”

“But she said “HER” birthday. Maybe I’m having a party for my 6 and 3/4 birthday!” (WTF?)

“You are not 6 and 3/4 and you are not having a birthday party on Saturday.”

“But if it isn’t MY birthday, why are we having a party?”

“We’re NOT having a party…”

“Oh my Pancake Mammy!” (Yes, this is something we say apparently…)  “Is Roz having a party?”

“Roz is a car”

“Yeah, but she’s real.  Sure how would she know about my party if she wasn’t?”

“We aren’t having a party.  Japonica is having a party. Roz is just reading the message from Japonica’s mummy.”

“DOh my GOSH!? Is Roz friends with Japonica’s Mammy too?”

What does Mammy even say to that? And what exactly does she think Roz is? Does she think I carry a little Gollumesque little American woman around under the bonnet?

I don’t by the way, but I also am trusting Roz less and less.  I’m foreseeing some I-robot shit going down some evening, where I decide I’m going one place, and Roz decides I’m not.

Now, to delete some numbers off my phone!

I am Seriously Tested Mum

There are days when things happen to test us.

Yesterday, it was not just Mammy who was tested by events.  No.  Mammy AND Daddy and our marriage in general were tested. By what? By who?

By our Princess Poonami.

“She’s a great age now.  We can go anywhere and it’s so much easier than when she was tiny” scoffed Mammy to her cousin-with-older-kids at approximately 5.10pm.  We were standing watching our minions playing in the garden at Granny-Mary-Queen-Mother-of-the-whole-wide-world’s birthday party.

“All I need now is to throw a nappy in my handbag and go! No need to be lugging half the house around anymore!” Mammy was so sure of herself.  Cousin with older kids agreed.  How smug and fablis Mammy is about how clutter free Mammying is when out and about now that my wobbler is 2. Smug mammy.  Silly Mammy.

“Mammy.  We have a poonami!” I hear The Him call.

“Sorry what? We do not have poonamis anymore.  Silly Daddy.  Don’t you know that our mini is now of the post-poonami age? You have made a mistake.  Check that you have lifted the correct child from the garden.  You must be mistaken.”

Mammy is past the point of the Poonami.  I am no longer THAT Mammy. I no longer have to carry a changing bag.  I no longer have to remove brown sticky vests from the back of my child. I have past this stage.  I am Poonami free..,

Except that I am not.  And when I look up, the child in The Him’s arms is indeed mine.  He is pretending that she is an aeroplane, so as not to have to touch the bum region.  Of course, this WOULD be the first day she is wearing a dress and is bare legged and so I can already see the rivulet which SHOULD have been held inside leggins, trickling down the crevaces of her fat little legs. And the unmistakeable smell wafting from her arse can only be one thing.  Yup. Poonami.

And all that I have in my handbag is a single nappy.

Who’s smug now?

My sister calls out “My baby bag is in the hall. GO GO GO!!” and GO GO GO we GO.

There are approximately 120 people in Granny-Mary-Queen-Mother-of-the-whole-wide-world’s house, through which we have to manouvre the leaking posterier of the aeroplane baby.  She is “WEEEE”ing with glee as Daddy flies her through the crowd.

Scuse us.  Poonami alert, poonami alert.  We rush to the spare room and throw a towel onto the bed.  Princes Poonami is having a great oul laugh as we rummage through the sister’s baby bag for nappies and wipes.

I’m about to start changing her and I look at the Him.  He looks at me.  And we know that we are both thinking the same thing… HOW the fuck do we do this?

You know how they say that a parent forgets all the bad stuff…the labour pains, the pain pain, the recovery, the exhaustion…well it seems that we also block out the cleaning up of the bum explosions too.  Because for a few seconds, neither of us had a clue where to start!

Right.  We can do this.  And for the next 10 minutes. (Yes, it took 10 minutes, such was the extent and reach of the exposion.) we were a tag team.  Back in the throes of early parenthood. Working together. A team with one purpose.  Our marriage being strengthened, tested and verified by a shitty nappy.

“Nappies…nappies.”  “Wipe…wipe.”  “Hold that.” “Wait wait wait!”  “Watch her hair.” “Mind the bed” “You missed that bit on her neck”  “Fuck fuck fuck!” “Is that it?” “WTF? HOW did it get in THERE?” “Where will I put this?” “Go get a plastic bag.  NO a Bin bag!”  “Christ the smell…” “Get your HANDS out of THERE!”

The bumbag went into the binbag.  The clothes and towel went into another one.  The Wobbler was dressed in a spare outfit that my sister-who-will-always-be-prepared-for-all-eventualities-and-is-not-a-smug-relaxed-twat-like-Mammy-here had packed for her girl.  And at the end, Mammy and Daddy hi-fived. Yes.  We did. That’s how proud of ourselves we were.

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GRRRRRRRR!

“Still got it Daddy” says Mammy.

“Hell yeah!” says Daddy.

“I dood a pooooooo” said Princess.

No Shit Sherlock!

Lesson learned.  Mammy needs to go back to keeping a changing bag in the boot of the car.  Be prepared for all seasons…and remember that when she is on an antibiotic, there is a high chance of poonami, whatever age she is.

And together, there is no shitstorm that Mammy and Daddy can’t handle together.