I am Something that Babywipes Can’t Beat Mum

Mammy loves the Babywipes.

Every parent loves the Babywipes, don’t they?

We really should thank the Inventor of the Babywipes.
Apparently, the first Babywipe was invented in the 1950s and first produced by a company called Nice-Pak… Almost 70 years later, I’m sure that if the inventor of the Babywipes is still alive, he or she is rolling themselves in Babywipes every evening, breathing in the sweet, musky smell of their own genius.
So to them, (or to their ghost who is possibly reading this blog over someone’s shoulder😉), Thank you for the Babywipes.
Thank you from every Mammy in the world.

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When Babywipes were born,😂 Mammies everywhere sighed in relief and danced a little pee-inducing dance with utter joy and thrill that FINALLY, there was a handy, disposable, multi-use Mammy tool.
Indeed I am sure the the inventor of the Babywipe rubbed his or her happy hands together in glee when they realised that the Babywipes were going to become SOsought after, so cherished and so NECESSARY in the lives of parents EVERYWHERE.

Not only EVERYWHERE in the world, but EVERYWHERE in every parent’s world…the changing station, the baby bag, the handbag, the car, the office drawers…

Poo poo, Bum bum, Ching ching. 😂

Another unbelievable use for Babywipes is, believe or not, cleaning grease.  Have a layer of grease on the top of your kitchen cupboards or the mantle above your cooker?  You know that kind that no product can remove?  Get out the bumwipes and watch isdissolve in front of you.  I’m not even joking!

Babywipes can remove practically EVERYTHING!

But let me tell you ONE thing that the Babywipe inventors, and indeed the modern-day Babywipe producer omitted, and CONTINUE to omit, from their research and development.

 The one thing they UNDERESTIMATED…
Weetabix.

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Yes.  Another classic staple in every home.  How the fecking Babywipe makers HAVE NOT yet figured out HOW to remove digested Wheetabix from the peachy bottom of a wriggling Poopmonster is beyond me.

Have they not got edumacated sciency people formulating and developing the Babywipes in big sanitised laboratories somewhere near “Area Fiftybum”?

Do they not do fire tests and Delta force style strength tests  or use sandblasting to ensure that these mammy weapons are teflar-ly durable?

Are there not product testers who tick off the list of “Things the Babywipe can dissolve and remove”, like:

🌈pee pee ✔

🌈 baby spit ✔

🌈 yoghurt  ✔

🌈 mashed potato ✔

🌈 makeup ✔

🌈 ordinary, run of the mill Poonamis ✔

🌈digested blueberries…well…

🌈 Pooped out weetabix… NOOOOOOOOOOO.
How is Pooped out out Weetabix NOT the TOP of the list?
Have the product testers NEVER cleaned the nether-regions of a wobbler who has eaten an average of 2 of the cardboardy biscuits a day?
I wonder if the sciency people would like a “Test bummy” to try to figure out how to fix the babywipes so that they CLEAN AND REMOVE the shards of poo, as opposed to pushing them around the soggy bottom, like little grains of sand that love to simply ROLL over the skin, clinging it like feckin mini-leeches to shiny, smooth glass…
I can offer the services of a Poopmonster.

Do you think if we Mammies offered to help them to develop their technology further, could we call the research “The Big Bum Theory”?

I’m running out of bummy jokes and puns here. I didn’t have my Weetabix this morning, so I’m pretty wiped out…

Boom.  Or should that be Bum?

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I am Stop Asking Silly Questions Mum

“I’m not your best fwend Mammy.  I’m Emily’s best fwend”…

And there it was. In one simple sentence, I’d been categorically dumped by my one of my daughters… AGAIN.  I’ve been through this before and yet, like all things parenty, it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve experienced something, with each child you have, it’s all new again.

When I had my first wee girl, my aunt told me that I’d been blessed with my very own best friend forever.  We see signs and cards and photo-frames everywhere, stating that a daughter is a friend for life etc.  And this is largely true.

In my own case, I’ve been blessed with a wonderful Mum who I can happily call my absolute, all time, unconditional BFF.  We had our moments while I was (am) growing up, but we typify that stereotypical Mother/Daughter relationship and I know how very lucky I am. Friends may come and go.  Let’s be honest, only a handful are reallythere for the long haul, but Mamma Bear is a constant. 🙂

As my girls pass through the baby stages and began to bloom into the pleasant-if-sometimes-terrifying little personalities that they are, I fully appreciate their roles as my besties.  We do everything together; we have fun, we fight and we laugh and we cry. We bake, we go shopping, we play and we are wonderful at doing absolutely nothing together.  We work.  (OK yes, sometimes we work like a chocolate teapot, but hey. No one is perfect are they?)

In a world where everyone is busy and where as parents, we can often find ourselves a little isolated and out of the social loop for whatever reason, our friendships with our toddlers become more important to us than we can ever give them credit for.

My girls are my wee companions and they will always be 100% on my side (except for when they’re not!).  I know they’ll have my back and I have to admit that this tie, with Princess, I once again fell into the false security that I did indeed have my very own, custom made best friend.

Until again, (three years after the first time I made this mistake), like Snow White’s stepmother I asked the stupid question.

How quickly we forget the lessons taught to us by previous children.  For the past few months,  I had allowed this to become a daily certainty; an ego boost for me even.

Every day, “Who’s Mammy’s best friend?” has been answered with “Meeeeeeeee!” and usually accompanied by a giant cuddle and slobbery kiss…until Friday.

Princess was in her car seat, engrossed in a Paw Patrol book.  We were driving to playschool and I was chattering about what we’d do that afternoon when I collected her.

I may as well have looked in the mirror and chanted “Baby, baby, in the chair, Who’s your bestest friend in the world?”  Without a second’s thought, she announced “I’m not your best fwend Mammy.  I’m Emily’s best fwend”... and with that, the mirrors and illusions of my assumed Disney-perfect Mother and Daughter world, shattered into a thousand pieces.

Initially I laughed.  What else do you do? (For the record, the little girl in question is a wonderfully perfect BFF for my precious one.)

She’s branching out.  She’s socially accepted, popular even.  She’s making her own friends and she’s growing up far too fast.  It’s wonderful and it’s terrifying all at once, because while we parents encourage our little ones to grow and bloom every day, realising that you’re not the only thing your child needs in life, is just horrid.

We might be smiling, but we don’t have to like it.

Instead, we treasure every second, count every milestone, and celebrate every chapter.  We capture special moments in our memories, (or on our phones if we can!) We post on social media with pride.  We entertain others with our cute kiddies and we get through each day as best we can.  But sometimes, we get an inevitable slap in the face from our little angels as they take their own uncertain little stumblings through the big dark forest of the world.

As time goes on, I’m probably going to assume the persona of the Wicked Witch in both of my daughter’s eyes, rather than the perfect loving Queen.  That seems to be inevitable, but what is also inevitable is the certainty that some day, they’ll realise that Mammy IS actually their best friend again.

And until then, I can keep on asking the question and hope that the odd day, I get the answer I like!

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I am Some Things I don’t Like about Christmas Mum

​If I were Queen of the whole world (as opposed to my own little corner), there are a few things I would change about Christmas…

  1.  Christmas jumpers should be permissable for wearing from December 1st.  To all occasions, without eye-brow raising, without judgement…unless you are judging how fucking FABLIS it is is comparison to your NOT Christmassy, everyday, boring Jumper.
  2. Only competent drivers should be allowed on the road from the 11th until the 24th.  Because Christmas Eve is on a Monday, the last minute panic (and for some, ALL their shopping) will have to be done over one long weekend.  This would not be a huge problem if everyone knew how to DRIVE.  The town will inevitably stand still with non-moving cars and the special Dumbasses who the Grinch or some other Gremlin sends down from Dumbass Land, and who ONLY come out to drive on Christmas Eve and who test the patience of EVERYONE else by not using INDICATORS or knowing what a fucking YELLOW BOX is.  They are not even real people.  I think they’re like Matrix people who we can all SEE blocking the roundabout or taking 2 hours to reverse their Corsa into two spaces, diagonally, but they’re not ACTUALLY real… they can’t be.  That level of Dumbass doesn’t exist does it?


3. The shops should all close at 1pm on Christmas Eve.  Why? So that the creturs working in them get to GO HOME to their families of course! Be nice to retailers Ladybelles.  You might be stressed, but they’re still working. When I am queen, the whole world shall shut down early and Christmas shall be forced to begin at a decent hour.
4. Anyone who parks in a disabled spot or a parent spot without good reason or genuine need, should be zapped by a glitterfying lazer and beamed to a 1980s Tellybox set like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, where they shall have to stay until Boxing Day, being continuously whipped by a mansized Bosco.  Better still, their CAR should be zapped away from them as they lock it so they can see just how fucking difficult it is to suddenly have an unnecessarily long distance to navigate a wheelchair or crutches or 3 screaming kids and 10 bags, just because they think they’re more special than the rest of the world.  Pricks. (Note…this applies all year round. 🤐)
5. Children and Hims should not be allowed to get sick before or during Christmas.  It’s hugely unfair on the Mamma Bears who are already trying to fit ALL THE EVERYTHING into their lunchbreaks and do the full grocery shopping in 8 minutes flat enroute to the school gate.  It is highly inconvenient and terribly upsetting when your minions suddenly feel poopy at this time.  Of course it could always be worse… especially if your Him decides to do his annual Nutcracker rendition and act out the part of the useless and slightly tragic wooden soldier who needs something fucking magical to instil life and joy into his bones again.  Of course I’m not referring to my own Him here.  😇He is a Braveheartesque soldier at all times😲😲 and never succumbs to manflu or calls for his Mammy when his Her tells him to “man the fuck up.”
6. Cars will have a secret “other” boot.  This will stop the drama of “How the feck will I get the stuff that isn’t really there and can never be seen by little eyes into the house before they decide to open the boot to throw their schoolbags in?” Such a debachle!
7. All Mammies will be allowed to drink tea or grapes or gin as early as they like from the 20th.  Sorry…the 19th 😂😂until at LEAST January 3rd.  This shall be law.

8.  Baby it’s Cold Outside and Fairy Tale of New York should be played on repeat in every shop from now until Christmas Eve, especially for all of the OFFENDED people who like to be OFFENDED so much that EVERYTHING OFFENDS them.  Yeah, that’s a whole other post…

Oh and everyone shall smile always, and wear big hats (which will ALL be made XL to fit humongously craniumed wenches like S-Mum) and we shall all be lovely to each other and sparkle like glittery unicorns because ’tis the fucking season and all that.
How was your day?

Are we there yet? 🎄🎅🦄🎄🍷🎅🎄🦄🍷🎅🎄❄⛄🎄🎅🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷🍷

I am Scolding the Bitchee Mum

A few weeks ago, Mini-Me had a melt down because “Granda called me a Bitcheeeee!”

I was in one room, changing a savage nappy and hadn’t heard Granda talking to her, or indeed to anyone.

She arrived into me, eyes wide and ready to tell me ALL the tales.  He did!  He called me a bad wod.”

He did not call you a bad word Darling.

He did!  He said “you wee bitchyee. I hurd him!” eyebrow raised for maximum effect.

So Mammy goes into the kitchen, just in time to see Granda tripping over the dog. (Well. They say she’s a dog. She’s not a real dog.  She’s a toy dog; a little, sharp faced, shrill barked,white hairy snowball who I do indeed love even though I’d never admit it….)

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How THEY see her…

“Damnitanywayyaweebitchyeeee!” he gnarls at the toy-dog as she scutters away from under his feet.

“What are you scowling about?” I ask him.

“That’s the second time I’ve tripped over that dog. Put her in the hall!” he growls. The toy dog is jumping on her hindlegs at my knees, looking for a treat that even after 12 years the dumbass hasn’t realised I do NOT HAVE to give her.

I open the door to let the toy dog into her fluffy bed and laugh as I hear Mini-Me announce “Ganda dat was NOT vewy nice!”

“What wasn’t nice?”

“You called me a bitcheee!” she accuses.

Poor Granda looks genuinely confused. “I did not!” he defends himself.

“Granda called the DOG a wee Bitchee Darling. Not you.” I intervene.

I await her “Ah OK Granda”, but instead, her face clouds over with even more tempered indignation and as she inhales, I know that poor Ganda is about to feel the wrath of a 6 year old whose favourite ball of fur has just been insulted.

Suddenly, her own feelings are irrelevant. But is he going to get it for calling the toy dog exactly what she is?
You bet your life he is.

I leave them to it and go to the hall where the little “Bitchee” is lying, curled up and oblivious to the absolute bolloking poor Granda is undergoing on her behalf in the kitchen…
or is she?

She may be cute and fluffy.
But there’s a streak of Gremlin in her. And I don’t mean Gizmo.

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How MAMMY sees her…

The wee Bitchee…

I am Still Laughing at these Leggings 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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