Tag Archives: fun

I am Saddle and Sore Bum Mum 😅

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Mammy’s bottom is sore.
Today, I sat upon the hard saddle of a bicycle.  The only hard saddle that Mammy is used to sitting on, is Jim’s …  you know the stationary, non-moving, non-dangerous, spinning bicycle that is BOLTED TO THE GROUND and which can NOT MOVE?

“Let’s hire the bikes!” suggested The Him when we arrived in Glenveagh.
“Oh fecking joy” thinks Mammy, but NEVER one to let The Him think her unfit or uncool or old and decrepit, and seeing the ACTUAL joy on Mini-Me’s face at the prospect of saving her little legs from the 4k walk, Mammy answered “What a glorious idea My Him. But as YOU are the manliest man in Manville, YOU have my permission to be manly and to strut your masculine Mannity by pulling the trailer containing your two cherubs.”

S-Mum’s FIRST hurdle was THE HELMET. You see my Lovelies, I do indeed have a superbly large and quite weirdly shaped cranium.  I like to think it’s all the brains, but in reality, it is a combination of genetic and bad luck.  (The last time I required a helmet was on a teambuilding horseriding day with my colleagues, when the Gobshite/man shouted to HIS colleague “Gone out the back and bring in the special hat”, before fitting me with a glorified bucket and sending me off on the spawn of Satan…a horse named Mary… shudder.)
But to my amazement, the helmet DOES FIT and so I am good to go.
S-Mum does not delight in the prospect of cycling a real live bicycle for the first time in AT LEAST 20 years, but then S-Mum sees that The Him’s bum looks quite wonderful on his manly bike and so decides to forgoe her trepidation and take one for the team.
“You go in front Darling” says The Him.
“Oh no My Him. I’d much prefer to follow you so I can see my precious minions. Be the man. I shall be a good wifey and follow you” answers I, patting myself on the back for being so cunning and clever. 😈

So off we went.  I sat on the saddle, nodded at the instructions the buck was giving me about gears or something, and wondered HOW the hell I would get out of the CARPARK, nevermind the whole way down to the castle, and back.
But do you know what?

Remember I did.

It really was “like riding a bike.” 😂😂😂
Yes, I was a bit wobbly, and yes I almost died 13 times before I got the hang of the brakes etc, but having spent my whole childhood on bikes with my sister and brother, it came back to me quickly.
I did however discover something interesting.
I have huge difficulty turning right!

Left? No bother.

Right?  Not so much. I felt like I was going to tip over.
Why? I have NO FECKING IDEA! Maybe it’s a sign that the left side of my brain has gone to mussh more than the right?
Anyway, we went, we saw, we cycled.
It was great fun.

The girls loved it, “woohoooooing” their way behind their Daddy.
After my initial wobbles, and as a result of my utter stubbornness, I actually enjoyed it…

And in fairness, the view was pretty impressive too. 😈😈😉😉
How was your Sunday Funday?

Have you found me on Bookface yet?

https://www.facebook.com/the.s.mum

I am Stoopid Feckin Waddles Mum

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This is Waddles.

Waddles is the class teddy.
Waddles gets sent home with the minions in turn.
Mini-Me brought Waddles home for the SECOND time this year, just a few weeks ago.
I’m only getting around to writing this now, because I was so fricken TRAUMATISED by Waddles…
🐧🐧THE WRATH OF WADDLES…🐧🐧
The first time Waddles came home was painless and quite enjoyable.  I now know that the little twit was luring this Mama Bear into a false sense of security.  He came, we snapped some pics and she drew a picture of her playing with Waddles…
Easy.
So when she bounced off the bus a few weeks ago, clutching Waddles to her little self, I wasn’t too bothered.
“LOOKIT MAMMEEEEEEE. I GOTTED WAGGLES!”
“YAAAAAAAAAAY” said Mammy.
“We has to write sentences about what we do wif him AND draw a pitchur,” she adds.
“YAAAAA…aaaaaaaay…”
I had planned a relaxing evening… I now knew that this was NOT going to happen. 😭
You see, getting Mini-Me to write a sentence I imagine to be akin to getting Donald of daTrump to write his own speeches, all by Himself.

She needs prompts, she needs guidance, she needs “motivation” , she loses concentration every 3 seconds and she needs to constantly correct her mistakes… It’s HARD.
So imagine the chills of horror that went through me as she completed her homework and I opened the schoolbag to see the diary of Waddles…
And just like “Christmas Card-gate” 😂😂, I realised just how PERFECT the writing of the other kids in her class is in comparison to hers.   The few entries before her blank page, looked better than some of my 6th years’ handwriting!
Feckitty, feck, feck, feck…” I muttered to myself as I rescheduled my whole evening.

She did go outside and had great fun with Waddles, before starting her “few sentences”.
An hour and a half…YES…almost 90 fricken minutes after she started, we had eventually managed 3 semicoherent sentences.  I was so knackered and mentally glooped that I ALMOST didn’t correct her mispelling of her last word “trampailín” which looked more like “tampon”.  I should have left it.  😂
By the time we had finished, everyone was grumpy, dinner was cold and Mammy wanted to put Waggles in the oven.
She went to bed that night, happy as Larry, hugging the googly eyed little shit as if her life depended on it.
And then I went back to the kitchen, happy that the whole evening had been worth it to see her so happy… Did I heck! 😥😥

I went back to the kitchen, poured a large glass of grapes and greeted The Him with “Waddles is a Prick” when he came in the door.
So there we go.

The Wrath of Waddles. 👇👇👇👇 (I MAY have added the horns to portray how I see him… 😂😂😂)
I’m actually palpitating slightly here even remembering it if I’m honest.

I’m obviously not over it.
#yesigetthatitsgoodforthembutstill #wrathofwaddles

I am So Here’s my Translation Mum

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​Have a read at the extract from 1950 Home Economics Book below. 👇👇👇👇👇

Then read my 2017 translation.😈😈😈
Have Dinner Ready.
Plan ahead, even the night before, to have some sort of food in the house for your family, possibly including your husband, not because you have been thinking about him or give a continental shite about his needs, but because YOU need food so he might as well get fed too.  Most men are hungry when they get home, but most men are well able to get their own feckin dinner, and make you some while they’re at it.
Prepare yourself
Take a 15 minutes rest if you can. Or, sneeze so your eyes close briefly.  Just make sure you remove the key from inside the front door so he doesn’t waken you with the doorbell as he lets himself into the house.

Your man should think you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, even when you haven’t worn makeup for 5 days, stink like a badger’s arse and have forgotten what a razor looks like.  If he suggests putting a ribbon in your hair or spraying perfume, threaten to bobbit him with said ribbon, spray the perfume in his eyes and use a pointy stiletto to give his day a little lift. Smile gayly while doing so.  It’ll make his day more interesting and less boring.
Clear away the Clutter.
If you can make it from one end of the living room to the other without stepping on lego or tripping on a Paw Patrol weeble,  your house is perfect.  Tidying everything up before he gets home only leads to a false impression that the kids have NOT destroyed EVERYTHING on sight since 7am.  Reality is good.  The messier the house, the more chance there is that He will run you a bath, or pour you a gin, realising what kind of afternoon/day you must have had with his Holy Terrors.  Your Husband will probably not notice either way as he’ll be too busy answering very important emails or catching up on Bookface to give a crap.  If he wants a haven of rest and order, he can just give you a hand to lift everything off the floor.

Equal rights and all that.
Prepare the Children
Do try to wash the children’s hands and faces, if only to avoid spaghetti bolognese stains on your duvets. Do not attempt to comb hair in the evening, unless you are really in the mood for a screaming match.  Do not under any circumstances change their clothes.  Feck that. You’re just creating more washing for your bottomless basket. Actually, remove their clothes before dinner and cover them in bin bags. You might even get another day out of their outfits if you’re really clever.  They are his little treasures, so let him play the part. Piss off to the cinema with your mamma squad and let Him do bath time and bedtime. Let’s see how much clutter has been lifted by the time you get home eh?
Minimise all noise.
Scrap this.  Turn on all appliances before he arrives home, just to emphasise your absolute busy-mummy-ness, because unless he sees it being done, he often won’t realise it’s been done!  Let the children scream and shout at each other, turn up the Tellybox and any other devices and do not attempt to hush them.  Actually, if you are heading out shopping or to a sewing class, give them sugar before you leave. Greet him with a warm smile, be glad to see him and run out that fecking door as fast as your feet can carry you.
Some Don’ts
Don’t greet him with problems or complaints.  Wait until he is having his dinner and the kids are listening and casually remind him of what you’ve asked him 309 times to do already.

Don’t complain if he’s late for dinner. It’s him who’ll have to eat it cold, not you. Why give a hoot? Save complaintsnor ranting for after the kids have gone to bed, so you swear more effectively. Men love a passionate woman who knows her mind.  If his day can trump being covered in poonami, screamed at incessantly by a teething toddler or puked on 3 times, then in fairness, be nice.  And then tell him he needs to change jobs.
Make him comfortable.
Indeed, wait until he’s comfortable before telling him the bin needs to go out. Stomp about screaming “Fine then I’ll  do ot myself!” Until he gets up to do it…  If you catch him lying down in the bedroom while there are still children at large, throw a cold drink over him and tell him it’ll be hot next time. Threaten to arrange the pillow on his face while he is sleeping if he doesn’t get up RIGHT NOW to help with bedtime. Speak in low, soothing, threatening tones. It’s much more effective.  
Listen to him
You may have a list of things to tell him.  Write that list down so that you don’t forget all of the things, and then email, text and stick that list onto his forehead, before still having to repeat the same list tonorrow.  Wait until he has his coat off, or better still, catch him on the toilet. He has no escape from there.
Make the evening his
Fuck off 1950.
The Goal
Try to make your home a place where you can both manage to keep the children alive and teach them not to be completely feral and grumoy little shits, while (the odd time) having some down time together to remember that you actually do like each other.
Oh. And you can see why the man who wrote this was so anally retentive and ridiculous… there is no mention of sex anywhere.  😂😂

I am Such Big Rubber Balls Mum 😂

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​Balls.
Big, plump, inflated, rubber balls.
Best.

Fun.

EVER!
Santa brought Mini-Me a “Fun hopper”.  (I have no idea if that is the correct name for the magical spherical delights, but that’s what myself and my siblings called ours on Walton Mountain many moons ago.  It was blu and had Zig & Zag on it. Good times…)


I hear a rumour that while Santa and Mrs Claus were perusing the workshop for toys that Mini-Me would enjoy, that Mr Claus dismissed the big yellow bouncy thing as pointless ahd a waste of money, whereas Mrs C, who also had a fun hopper as a child many centuries ago, dismissed HIS dismissal and chose it anyway because she knew best and Mrs Claus’s decisions always trump Mr Claus, because despite being a hardworking, clever and  legendary man, he’s still not quite as hardworking, clever or legendary as his wife. Obviously.
And so the magical yellow funhopper with the face of a minion made its way through the dark skies on SC’s sleigh, and into the stocking of Mini-Me.
And oh how glad S-Mum is that Mrs Claus didn’t pay any attention to her Him, because not only is the fun hopper EXACTLY as much fun and craic as she remembers it to be, it is BETTER!
She hasn’t left it since she opened it.  If she has to get something from her room, she uses the hooper to go there. Princess is getting hours of fun from rolling over it, chasing Mini-Me on it and trying to eat it. And my Him, who would NEVER question Hims’s wife’s judgement like thon Santa Twat, has even admitted to it being one of the best toys brought by Santa. (He especially enjoys kicking it out from under her while she bounces.  This is not cruel. It’s teaching her life skills. 🤐😂)
I should admit that it’s not the first big, fat, inflatable rubber ball to have entered our home.


It is not yellow.  It is pink.

It did not have a handle by which S-Mum could boince it up and down the hall.

It was declared pointless ahd ridonkulous and banished to the naughty step of the attic…

It was permitted off the naughty step only when S-Mum hit the upturned turtleness of the third trimester and declared her tailbone fooked.

 Apparently it is helpful for comfortable sitting.  
This is true, but S-Mum’s arse was soooooo inflated that she couldn’t quite get up off the inflated ball and so deemed it too dangerous and never sat on it again. Until AFTER the baby was born when once again, nature had kicked her tailbone up her arse and made the simple pleasure of sitting, quite horrific.  It was used to sit on while watching Coronation Street thereafter, until the cruel sofa could be tolerated once again.  I became quite the expert on the ball actually.  I could even eat a bowl of Cheerios while sitting on it… 

Skill yes?
But since the return of a functioning posterier, the big pink ball has been a thing of ornament in the hall.  It was destined once again for the attic, but the recent arrival of the minion ball has given the big pink ball a new fate…a new purpose.
It is now used by Mini-Me to roll upon and chase Princess up the hall as she half walks/half crawls around, dragging the minion ball with her.
The craic!

The Noise!

The balls.😂
Best.

Fun.

Ever. 😂😂
Do you have an inflatable rubber ball? If not, get one. 😂
I saw them for €6.99 in Smuffs if you don’t want to wait for Santa, sorry,  Mrs Claus to deliver!  😂😂😂

I am Some Buck Andy Mum

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Lookit. 👇👇👇👇

Look at this big, gangly, grinning, daft, handsome fecker? 😂

It’s Andy from “Andy’s Prehistoric Adventures”. (How many of you just sang “Andeesprehistoricaaad-ventuuuuuuuuures” in your head?😂😂)
For SOME reason, this show has the ability to stop both Mini-Me AND the terror that is my Princess in their housewrecking tracks.
It’s clever. It’s well made and like most CBeebies stuff, pretty educational and entertaining. 
 It also prepares my girls for real life…for the real world.  There are many lessons to be learned from Andy, and they aren’t ALL about Dipladoci and time travel.
Andy is preparing them for living with a man.
Here’s why.

1. He’s a scatterbrained, feckless eejit with all of the good intentions in the world and feck all organisation 

skills.
2. He only gets off his arse to DO anything when he hears Mrs Pickles (the crabbit oul Bosswoman) coming down the hall with a walk that would put any Trunchbull Headmistress to shame.  Just like most men, he waits until he knows Mrs Whatever is ready to lose the fricken BAP before he realises he needs to do something QUICKLY! 😠
3. He’s a clumsy git who is usually to blame for his own drama. (And if he’s not to blame, it’s the fault of the unsuspecting maintenance cretur.) But interestingly enough it’s always the fault of a man. 😅😅

4. He comes out with crap like “Mrs Pickles won’t be happy” and “OH NO! We’ll NEVER get it done NOW!” State the obvious there ya tool.
5. He loves to say “We need time. I know! We’ll MAKE time!”  If only it was that easy Andy.  If only we had your time machine and ability to know EXACTLY what year to go back to in order to fix the problem. Even if I DID have a time machine, I wouldn’t even KNOW what year to go back to in order to prevent all of MY problems.  (Probably 1980! 😂)
6. His poor sidekick Jen, works her arse off and keeps the museum running quietly.  He has nooooo idea what she does exactly, or how much work goes into keeping everything ticking over, and yet he turns up when there’s a problem, offers the solution as if he’s a genius and takes all the credit. 
7.  “Where’s he always running off to by himself?” Jen asks herself this question everyday. How does this prepare my daughters for cohabiting? Because the answer is easy.  He’s fecked off to the FECKING TOILET, with his FECKING i-phone, where he MUST go on a time travel adventure because apparently it takes him 45 minutes to poo, while Mums can do it it 25 feckin seconds…hands washed and EVERYTHING. 😂😠😂😠😂
8. “Oh no. I’ve landed in a swamp!”  Really? You can travel back 36million years but you can’t figure out how to land the thing on dry ground? I know.  TRY READING THE INSTRUCTIONS! Or you know, using the GPS which is most likely installed in your machine… or is it only there for decoration like the one in your car? Numpty…
9. He only moves fast and efficiently if his life depends on it…like when he’s been “hunted by a facilliasaurus” – or in reality when he hears his Mrs “doyathinkshesaurus” driving into the street.
10. He has a cheeky grin that allows us to forget his plonkerisms, he’s the best looking buck on the Tellybox all day, AND he keeps the kiddies entertained for at least 8 minutes.  For Number 10, we shall forgive him.
AND, he IS reliable and despite Poor Jen not having a clue how he does it, if there’s a problem, he generally FIXES it. Because he’s her Him and he looks after his own wee corner. 💙💙💙