I am She Goes, He Goes Mum

 

“OH DU TOILETTE…”

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The Throne…

Becoming a Mum brings with it many wonderful and exciting changes for parents. The “books” will tell you how new babies will test even the strongest relationship.  They do not tell you that one of the biggest bones of contention between parents is the process of the poo.
Let me explain…

(Read alá David of the Attenborough on a wildlife show…)
The female of the species becomes quickly skilled at excretion. After childbirth, despite possible  complications and difficulties with the bladder, she will quickly evolve into a bladder controlling machine. Caring for her young is always a priority. Even with a full bladder, the female can retain control under duress and highly stressful conditions, often balancing her offspring on her abdominal area. She is strong however, and will wait for the perfect moment to pounce on the elusive porcelain.  When the opportunity presents itself, the Mama will swiftly and skillfully do what she needs to do.
The female can relieve a full bladder in 8.5 seconds and it has been said that faecal excretion can take only 5 seconds. (Evidence of this has not yet been acquired as the female is so skilled and speedy that scientific equipment is not fast enough to measure the act.)  The female performs the essential and necessary act of excretion faster than any other species, and often with up to 4 of her young hovering around, or indeed ON, her.  Cleanliness is swift and onehanded in many cases. Other species have yet to evolve at the speed of the human Mammy.

The male of the species is entirely different.
The male is special. He makes quite the production of the animal act of excretion. The bathroom must be empty of all young. The atmosphere should be peaceful and relaxed in order for the full joy and relaxation of the event. Full concentration is required.  Men have evolved to require the help of a handheld device for the excretion process. Tablets are acceptable but the clever male prefers the mobile phone, as it can be sneaked into the room, past the female, more easily.  The male may require anything up to 45 minutes for the process.
It is very difficult and he ensures that the importance of and difficulty of his excretion is heard by his female if she dares to question the length of time he has been in his throne room. “I’m IN THE F$#€** Toilet” may he roared in a manly way, by the manly man, during his manly process, if he perceives disapproval or tutting from the female outside the door.  The delicate procedure is prolonged and made easier for the male by perusal of Bookface or Instagranny for the duration. This device aids in the relaxation required for the faeces to remove itself from the manly male posterier.

Sometimes, for reasons as yet unknown to scientists, the male will remain on the porcelain seat for much time after the act of relieving himself. It has been suggested that this is an avoidance of the reality of the children who are not allowed to bother him while in the special pooping room. This is not yet proven, but breakthroughs are expected in the near future as female scientists are working on remote controls to switch off the prolonging devices. Other exciting developments are self flushing timed toilets, although there are fears that such a device might be mistaken for self cleaning.)
The male reappears into the homestead calm and relaxed, thoroughly relieved and oblivious to how long he has been in the bathroom. The bathroom and the rest of the world have different time rules when the male excretes… what he feels to be 5 minutes, is often 37 minutes by the female’s observant and obsessive count…

The male excretion ends with a ceremonial greeting by the female which can be high-pitched and erratic.

This process remains as such until the female completely loses her mind and screams so much that the children become afraid to interrupt her, or they finally reach the age where watching Mammy poo is no longer interesting or exciting…

The Male checks his phone and wonders what all the fuss is about.
#takeashitalready #soblessed #peeinprivate

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.

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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.

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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?