I am Space Leggings in Jim Mum

Two words.
NEVER AGAIN!

“Oooooooooh Lookit!” thinks Mammy in local chainstore for disposable clothing which shall remain nameless.

“Look at the spacey, funky, pinkly-purply gym bottoms that are fablis and reduced! Oh my! Down to €5? What a bargain. Oh indeed Mammy shall have to have these. Mammy is indeed still uber-cool and chic and young enough to carry these off. Mammy SHALL be fablis and fearless in Jim in these bad boys. What a bargain!”

Silly Mammy.
Silly Silly Mammy.

Off Mammy trots to Jim, rather excited about the wearing of the rocket-fuel bottoms. Mammy is so excited in fact, that it never crosses her silly mind to try them on at home first.

“Should you not try these on first Mammy?” says Mammy’s inside voice.
“Pahah! DESIST, you annoying wench! I know what size my arse is and these leggins shall look spectacular on it” answers poor, deluded Mammy.

When Mammy gets to Jim, she pulls on the bottoms. They go up to her knees before the bottom of the legs on the leggings decide that they shall not move. In fact, they will not budge above Mammy’s ankles. And any hope Mammy has of getting the material to cover her calves, is left wittering on the changing room floor, beside Mammy’s dignity and confidence.

When Mammy does get the top part of the bottoms to go over her arse, she is suddenly aware that while yes, her legs and nether regions may in fact be covered, she still has two problems.
1. The bottoms are so beautifully stuck to her calves, that the crotch part of them is NEVER going to make the journey to HER crotch.
2. When Mammy moves, the fablis pinky purply space pattern DISAPPEARS, being replaced by wonderful see-through white!

FAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! thinks Mammy as she continues to bounce the bottoms up, trying and failing to get the crotches to align.

“FAAAAAAAACK!” shouts Mammy aloud as it dawns on her that this is as high as they will go. Thankfully, there is a drawstring on the top of the bottoms, (which were OBVIOUSLY designed for a giraffe with no ankles or calves and the leg circumference of a fricken table leg), and so Mammy ties it tight around her belly in the hope that at least the trousers will NOT fall off.

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And so off Mammy toddles into Jim, where OF COURSE, Mr Fucking Motivator has a lovely circuit of Squats, lunges and Bear Crawls lined up for us. YES. I said BEAR CRAWLS… where Mammy and her Jimbuddies have to channel their inner Bear Cub and crawl like fecking MOWGLI through Jim, arses in the air!

“Ooooooooh, cool leggings Mrs R” coos one of the lovely proper-legging-wearing wenches.
“Oooooooooh nooooooooo!” answers Me. “I apologise in advance for the certain showing of my Hoohaa at some point during the next hour Ladies” announces Mammy. (Better to pre-empt the disaster eh? At least then, I can look like I MEANT for my table-leg/giraffe leggings to split along the pathetic seam on my unfortunate arse and offer heart failure to my training buddy half way through my squat jump.)

“3,2,1… Go!

I swear to God Ladybelles, I honestly thought that with every lunge I would hear the rip. When we were stretching, I could HEAR the material screaming. I could see the colour disappearing from every part of my legs that were moving. I could only IMAGINE what see-through catastrophe was happening on my arse. My calves were crying by the end of the session as the fecking material was trying so hard to merge into my skin that I truly feared that I might live the rest of my life with the awful, suddenly not so cool pattern, embedded onto my corned-beef skin.

Surprisingly, the bastarding Leggings DID survive the wrath of Jim.
Not so surprisingly, they did NOT survive Mammy REMOVING them from her poor suffocated legs. In fact, they had to be scissored off when she got home. Yes. I had to cut them off my calves.

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Yes. I had to cut them off.

Lesson?

When you see leggings on sale seeming too good to be true, walk on by Mammy. They are indeed too good to be true.
And the next time I’m feeling guilty for spending money on proper gym bottoms, I shall remember that I am doing so for the good of my fellow Jimgoers, my nerves and my dignity.
And leave the funky, spacey, pinky purply leggings for the giraffes.

Traumatised I tell you.

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I am She’s Tossing Nappies Mum

Princess is a tyrant.

Her tantrums and strops are making anything that Mini-Me ever threw, seem perfectly angelic.  Madam P is terrifying.  Think 11 from Stranger Things when she stares at someone she dislikes? Yup.  Princess.

Her latest acts of retaliation and protest include slapping, biting, growling (nope, not joking), and getting undressed.

She pulls off her clothes for no apparent reason other than to annoy the grown up in her charge.  And over the past few nights, this has escalated to full removal of the poocatcher too.

Wednesday night,  Daddy and I checked her before we went to bed.  “What’s on the pillow beside her head?” whispers Daddy.

“I don’t know” I answered, mentally checking my memory for what was there when I put her down; Moana, George Pig and Jessie… And yet here was a white teddy of some sort.

I picked it up.

It was in fact a soggy nappy. A quick feel confirmed that yes indeed, Princess had removed the nappy.  However, she had managed to put her Jammie bottoms back on.

A quick dry nappy on her stubborn wee bum and off we went to bed, laughing at the wee fart.

Thursday night.  Same thing.  However, the nappy was not on the pillow this time.  No, she had fecked this nappy out of the cot, along with her pillow, quilt, teddies and dodees.  In fact all that was in the cot was her bare bum and the vest she hadn’t gotten off.

Yesterday morning.  I got her dressed and ran to my room to pull on my own clothes.  I returned approximately 3 minutes later, only to find Bare-arsed Betsy running around the kitchen cackling at me.

So there you go.  It seems we have a little naturalist on our hands.  Either that, or she’s ready for potty training a WHOLE lot earlier than Mammy is ready for it.

I hope it’s a phase she’ll grow out of quickly.  If not, let me apologise in advance for any fat little peaches you may see running behind me in Dunnes or Aldi-everything.

peaches

 

I am She DON’T WIKE it Mum!

Yesterday morning I dressed Princess.
I wanted to put on her Christmas skirt and Christmas jumper as they were filming the Christmas DVD in creche. 

I got the skirt on…

This is the same Christmas skirt that she wore so proudly on Saturday… the same Christmas skirt that she danced around in, swishing and swooshing with a sparkling smile at her Daddy, as happy as can be, announcing “Aaash nice pippy” (pretty) 
I dressed her, left the room for 23 seconds, and returned to a bare bummed #wobbler who had removed said Christmas skirt while declaring at the TOP of her voice, 
 “I. No. WIKE. it!”

Cue Mammy’s frantic finding of a NOT Christmas skirt and urgent attempts to remember the names of the other kids in her room to try to get the Christmas jumper on her.

I tried 4 names to no avail, before FINALLY hitting the jackpot with 

“Shay will be wearing HIS Christmas jumper” .
That worked. 🤣
Noooooo idea who this little man is, but I OFFICIALLY owe him one and apparently he’s more influential than Mammy! 😛😛

I am Slight Toy Story Moment

The Trauma…

On Thursday last, I sent The Him into Mini-Me’s school with a box of toys to donate to the Bring and Buy Sale.  You know the Bring and Buy Sale?  Where Mammies can offload a pile of redundant crap for a good cause, but where you know your minions are going to arrive home with someone else’s offloaded redundant crap, but it’s for a good cause… so everyone wins really?

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Yeah.

My first mistake?

In my Sudafed inhibited state, I placed one of her “favourite” (apparently) dolls on top of the box.  Now, I don’t recall seeing her play with this doll for quite some time, but as she informed me in HYSTERIA on seeing Daddy place the box in the car, “It’s my FAYAAAYVWIT Dolleeee!”

Initially, I shrugged in off and tried the whole, “we have to make space for Santa to bring new toys melarky”… and then I envisioned her sitting in her class the next day, watching one of her classmates playing with their new Dolly, which she still sees as her Dolly and I imagined how utterly dreadful that would be for a not quite 6 year old, and so the heartless wench in me subsided.  I couldn’t do it to her.  I just couldn’t.

If she had moaned a bit, fine.  She usually complains once, just to be complaining, but quickly forgets about things.  This time however, the tears were real.  They were silent and genuine and she was trying so hard to control her wee sobs in the back of the car, that I HAD to take note.  I know I come across sometimes as being hard on her.  Hard yes, but not heartless.

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And so suddenly, we had a problem.

It was like being plunged into Toy Story… How the HELL was I going to get the Doll back before some other unsuspecting and innocent child bought it in front of her?  I had visions of her attacking said new owner and the Doll being ripped in two in the playground.  But worse, I had visions of her breaking her little heart as her “favourite” Dolly got hugged and loved by someone else, right in front of her eyes.

A message to the school FB account and all was sorted.  When I got the “Is this her?” message with the picture of the rescued Doll, I almost danced with joy.

I blamed The Him of course.

The Doll shouldn’t have been on the pile, but I’ll not admit that it might have been my fault.

Nope.

All his.

And so thanks to Mammy’s quick thinking and the secretary’s quick response, home she skipped on Friday evening, her favourite Dolly under her arm.

My second mistake?

And this is one that TRUST ME, I shall NEVER make again.

I gave her €5.

Five. Fecking. Yoyo.

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When I said this in the staffroom at work, the other Mammies gasped and snaughled at my stupidity. Pity none of them thought to warn me eh?! (Note to self, my first book shall be entitled “Mammying: the unwritten rules that Mammies should be told rather than having to learn for themselves.” Too long? I’d buy it!)

In my defense, I did tell her that she had to spend €2 on a gift for Princess.  Have to teach her to share you know? #twatmum

She arrived home with SO much crap, sorry, “stuff”, that she needed an extra bag and 4 more arms to carry it.  A teddy, a broken game “Poo face”? “Pie Face?” or some such eyebrow-raise-inducing “Nevergonnahappen face” from Mammy, Cards of something I’ve never seen before…AND the best one?  A toilet for a doll.  That flushes.

toilet

I shit you not!

And was there anything in this loot for Princess?  Was there feck? (Although the Dolly loo may come in handy for the potty training journey that lurks ahead in 2018.)

 

“She can share wif me Mammy.  It’s for BOTH of us!”

Yeah right.

So lessons learned.

Don’t assume that she doesn’t play with particular toys anymore.

And for Bring and Buy sales?  50c will do from now on.

Someday, Mammy will learn.  Until then? We’ll gin it and wing it.

(Are you following me on Bookface?  I’m on Instagranny too!  Oh and sometimes, I twit as well as Twat!)

What’s the most ridiculous thing that has arrived home in your Minion’s schoolbag?

I am Slipper Sock Symptoms Mum

Mammy was sick last week.

Not sure if I mentioned that.

It wasn’t quite as bad as ManFlu.  (Thank the Lord and the Little Donkey…)

But it did leave me festering in the same clothes for three days.  Trackies and fluffy socks and serious coziness at all opportunites.

So much so, that when I turned up to collect Mini-Me from “afterschool” on Thursday, she eyed me suspiciously.

“Are you better Mammy?” she asked as I strapped her into the carseat.

“I’m feeling much better Darling.” I answered, shocked and chuffed in equal measure that she even knew I was sick. (At least somebody noticed…is that a violin I hear?)

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.  Mammy will be all better by the morning.”

“You’re NOT better Mammy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’re still wearing your slipper socks under your runners, aren’t you Mammy?”

WTF?

“Dat’s how I knows you’re not better yet.”

There you go then!  Nothing to do with symptoms or temperature or medication… just look at my feet apparently.  THAT’s how you know when I’m reeeeeally not well.  😂😂😂

I am She’d SO win D’apprentice Mum

THOROUGHLY MODERN MAMMY – CHILDISH TRAITS OR LIFE SKILLS?

I watched The Apprentice this week and was reminded of this piece from last year. 👇👇

Turns out that one year on, not only is Mini-Me still the same, but Princess is equally as strong a candidate.

Lord Alan-of-the-Sugar wouldn’t last 5 minutes in MY boardroom!

And I’ll bet you Mammies can see your own Minis in this Letter of Application?
********************************
Dear Sir Alan-of-the-Sugar,

I attach the CV of my Daughter, Miss Mini-Me of the S-Mum, who I feel must be brought to your attention.

Having watched the opening episode of your FABLIS show “Dapprentice”, I feel that IF you were to fly Mini-Me  (and her Mum obviously) to London to meet you, you would hire her IMMEDIATELY and put an end to the tedious, although highly entertaining, process of ” Dapprentice”.

For her 5 (and a half and 3/4) years, she is VERY accomplished.  I will outline just a few of the qualities she possesses which make her an obvious addition to your team.

She would certainly impress you, Her-of-the-fablis-straight-face-and-shiny-hair and Him-of-the-bald-head-and-eloquent-speaking.

In fact, I do believe that she could be your Mentor if I’m honest:

■ She is highly intelligent. Beyond her years really.

■ She is ruthless and assertive.

■ Her communication skills are superb. She speaks English, Irish and French  (Buideal means “Hi” no?). She also speaks Mini-Me which even YOU can’t speak.)

■ She is loud and can be obnoxious if the situation requires her to be so.

■ She will manipulate the knickers off an elephant.

■ If she doesn’t get her way, she will revert to tears if necessary.

■ She is loud.  She WILL be heard. There will be NO ONE in the boardroom who will be louder than her.

■ She is hugely adept at the talking AT the handset as opposed to INTO the phone like a normal, non-dapprentice person does.

■ She can change Best Friends at the drop of a hat, so really, you could fire ANYONE and she wouldn’t care.

■ She will blame EVERYBODY else in the room, even if the project has failed SOLELY because of her.

■ She believes in herself and her abilities 100%. (And so she should. She’s awesome.)

■ She can stare wistfully out a car window, seemingly ignoring everyone, but listening to EVERY SINGLE WORD and storing it as evidence for the boardroom.

■ The doll who thinks she has the “energy of an atomic bomb” would look like a fart in the wind beside Mini-Me.

■ Her negotiation skills are world class.

■ She is SUPERB at listening to instruction from her Team leader, before COMPLETELY IGNORING said instruction and doing her own thing. I call this INITIATIVE. Others would call it insolence…

■She is not beyond Blackmail or Bribery.

Mini-Me is determined and diligent.  In fact, she can be like a dog with a fricken bone if she decides she wants something.

Feel free to contact her references:

Granny of the Hill, Granny of the Liffer, Santa Claus.

(No point in asking me or her Daddy. Even SHE doesn’t listen to us.)

Good luck in your search, but honestly you won’t find a more suitable candidate than the aforementioned.
Kind regards,

The S-Mum
Secretary and PA to Mini-of-the-Me and Princess-of-the-world 😗

I am Saving the Day Mum

Mini-Me began to BAWL on the way home this evening.

“What’s the matter Darling?”

“I have vewy bad nooooos Mammy”

“Oh no? What happened?”
(Sobbing…)

“Michael Jackson has DIED!”


(WAAAAAAILS for at least 2 minutes, thankfully so grief-stricken that she doesn’t realise I am in fits of laughter in the front seat. In fairness, with my shoulders dancing as they are, she possibly thinks I am sharing in her devestation.)

What should I say? How do I deal with her grief? When did she begin caring about Michael Jackson?

What does a sensitive, open and emotionally supportive Mammy say to their child in such a situation?

“Cheesy pasta for tea?”

“Oooooh yes please!”

#mammywin #sorted

I am Sixth Sense Mum

“Mammy. Tell him to STOP!”

“Tell who to stop what?”

“He’s staring at meeeee. Tell him to stop”.

These are not words you want to hear from your 5 and a half and three quarter year old at 7am when there is no one else in the kitchen.

In the 3 seconds it takes me to walk from the utility room, my imagination has delivered me to Destination WCS (Worse case scenrio). I have images of all of my kitchen cupboards having been flung open like in The 6th Sense.  Holy Christ, I think, She’s seeing Dead people…   There is no one else in the room so I know that there is no one to BE staring at her! I take the ten steps to the kitchen, already planning the conversation I’m going to have to have with the priest when I call him to come do an exorcism.

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“Stop iiiiiit!” she screams.

“Mammy’s here Darling. Who’s staring at you?”

“That cow.”

“What cow?” (WT-actual-F?)

She’s now pointing her little finger accusingly out the window at the cows in the field.

 “Him!  He’s STARING at meeeee. Tell him to stop staring at me.  I can’t eat my Pancakes when he’s watching me.”

The unsuspecting bovine is indeed looking in the window, happily chewing its cud, probably wondering why the little human is screaming at him.

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It moos, probably telling its own Mammy cow “Mammy. Tell her to STOP! She’s staring at me and I can’t eat my regurgitated food wif her watching meeeee!”

Mini-Me is now banging on the window at the cow.

“Maybe you’re scaring the poor cow? Eat your pancakes and stop your nonsense” I laugh, glad I don’t actually have to ring the priest after all.

I’ll save the exorcism for another time, not that I can ever see any poltergeist brave enough or stupid enough to take her on!

How was your day?

I am She’s Comiiiiiiiing Mammy Mum!

Mini-Me and Princess are completely ignoring each other, or as I likes to call it, “independent play where Mammy gets 3 minutes of peace”…

Mini-Me is building blocks in the hall.
Princess is tucking George in under a tea towel, saying “shush Jawj. Go shleep! Naaaaght” over and over again.
All is right with the world, and then…

“Mammy look what I built!”

“Well done you! That’s really tall”
(Princess stops mid sentence. Jawj is suddenly forgotten.)

“Will you send Daddy a picture?”
“Of course I wi…”
Mammy reaches for camera, knowing that I now have 0.34 seconds to snap the tower before the wobbler wrecks the tower, her sister’s head and the general peace that Mammy was enjoying. 😥

“QUICK MAMMY, She’s COMIIIIIIIIING!”😣😣
“Princess Nooooooooooooo!”

How can something so small move so fast? She’s just teleported herself 18 feet before I could even take 2 steps. 😂

“YOU do it!” I scream, and Mini-Me quickly knocks the tower down HERSELF, before the Terror child can swing her dodee-cow at it.

“Yeeeees! I DID it. Take THAT Princess!” Sings Mini-Me, more aggressively than I would like, as she dances a victory dance. (She gets that from her Daddy… 😈😂)

I should scold her.
But feck it, I’ll give her this one.

😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

I am Stop the Clocks Mum

It’s that weekend that all parents really wish they’d appreciated more B.C.

Remember when this weekend ACTUALLY meant an extra hour in the leaba?
Remember? No?

Well me neither, but this year, I have a PLAN. 😆🤗

I have cracked it.
I am a Superclever Mum.

Here it is…

Last night, I let the girls stay up 10 minutes later than usual. (7.20pm)
Tonight, I let them stay up 15 minutes later again. (7.35pm)
Tomorrow night, they shall be made, sorry allowed, to stay up until 8pm.
So by Saturday night, going to bed at 8.10pm will feel normal and they should both sleep until 8am, or the new 7am!

In my head, this is genius.
It is fool proof.
I am feckin awesome.
Bow down Bitches.

(In REALITY, they are bigger crankyarses than usual and will most likely STILL be awake at 6am on Saturday morning and the ONLY extra hour MammyTwat here shall ACTUALLY have, is an extra hour of Peppa Feckin Pig on Sunday morning…

But hey! Can’t hurt to try can it? 😂

(The only other feasible option is that Saturday night might be a great night for them to go for a sleepover somewhere… anywhere! 😂😂 )

How do you deal with the clocks changing Ladies?
PS. Happy Thirstay. 😙😙