Happy New Year my Lovely Ladybelles.
By now, the trees are down and the house looks alarmingly bare. It’s back to uniforms and routine and lunches and gymbags…and after 2 weeks of dreadful flus, no heating and general Cabin Fever, I for one am ready for normality.
I took my tree down on Saturday morning and very quickly realised just how DIRTY my house is.
There is a layer of dust, of handprints and of pawprints and of glitter on every surface in my home and I have decided to give it a new name: it is my “Layer of Love”.
Giving it a nice name like that makes it easier to tolerate. Clever eh? I don’t feel so bad about the dirt now, when I consider that it was my own little munchkins who happily caused it.
In the midst of the New Year’s Resolution BS of January, here are a few precepts or mantras that I intend to try harder to follow this year. I’m not changing anything. I simply try to employ these in order to try to keep my sh*t together.
These would the Rules of Mammying if I were Queen of the World.
- Embrace the Layer of Love. Yes, our houses must be safe and generally clean, but handprints on the glass or dust on the TV aren’t really good reason to stress, are they?
- Let it go. The things that bother you? The people who annoy you? Are they really worth being bothered about? If it’s outside of your own 4 walls, it’s not important.
- What people think of you, is none of your business. If people don’t like you, it’s THEM who has the problem, not you. Work on YOU liking you. Most important.
- Believe that you can. Who says that you can’t? Tell that committee of negative thoughts in your head to sit down and shut up.
- Stop Comparenting. Comparenting is my new word. It’s clever isn’t it? It’s when we compare our parenting to others. And it’s never positive or productive, so stop it!
I’m not going to change in 2018. I’m quite happy with who and how I am already thank you. I manage (just about!) to keep it all between the ditches just fine as I am and I will simply try to keep implementing these ideas in my daily life.
Especially the Comparenting one. I don’t care if Shaniqua’s Mum lets her sit in the front seat. I don’t care if Tarquin’s Mum gives him Football Special in his lunch. I don’t care if Jezzabell’s Dad brings her to every dance class going. Good for them.
Parent for your kids, in your home.
I hope your layer of love is only beautiful after the holidays.
It is Friyay…the FIRST Friyay after a FULL week of school and work and routine. And we have all survived. (albeit just about, but survived we have.😂)
We may be frazzled and fooked Mammies, but still we must find the energy to REJOICE in the Fact that we have made it to the MOST wonderful evening of the week. 😆
This week, after two years of maternity leave, unpaid leave and jobsharing, I have finally dipped my toe back into the world of being a Full-time Mammy with a full-time Job. What have I learned? Nothing. But I have remembered MANY things; Things that I had battered down, suffocated and locked in a tattered old box at the back of the memory part of my subconscious, but which now bounce back to the forefront of my ridiculously tired little mind. 😐
Tired children are cranky.
Tired children like to find a reason, ANY reason, to cry.
Tired children do not KNOW that they are tired.
Tired children refuse to admit that they are tired.😥
Tired children will bite one another.😠
Tired children do not like to go to their beds, regardless of how tired they are.
Tired children like to wake up at 2am and play with their toys, with the light on, noisily enough to waken everyone so that they have someone to tell that they are NOT tired.
Tired children do NOT like to get dressed in the morning.
Tired children do NOT like it when you bounce into their bedrooms at 7am singing “Good Morning, Good Moooooooorning!, opening curtains and declaring that it is time for school. (Especially the not tired children who have been up half the night playing with their fecking toys.😈)
Tired children like to say “No” and “No” and sometimes, “Noooooo!” to absolutely EVERYTHING that Tired Mammy asks or suggests.
And along with tired children, comes the Tired Mammy. But as well as being a tired Mammy, Mammy ALSO has to be SUPER-ORGANISED Mammy.
Mammy needs to keep on top of the fridge situation.
Mammy needs to pack lunchboxes and school bags and afterschool bags.
Mammy needs to remember the fecking HORROR that is HOMEWORK.
Mammy needs to think about dinners sooner than when she opens the fridge at 6pm.
Mammy needs to set her alarm to make sure she gets out of bed 30 minutes before everyone else if Mammy wants to pee, shower and have a coffee all by herself.
Mammy needs to be an intelligent and functioning adult.
Mammy needs to rid her brain of references to Peppa Pig and Andy and Bing because they are not relevant to Macbeth and teenagers do NOT respond well to them.
Mammy needs to try to keep the washing basket from puking and Mammy needs to arrange everyone’s clothes before bedtime.
Mammy needs to remain relatively Wifely and interesting enough to hold a brief conversation with Tired Daddy when he comes home from Jim.
And Mammy needs to get used to wearing stupid heels and muckup every single day. (I’ll last until the end of September…)
Mammy needs to cram all of the Mammying and playing and cuddling and scolding and fun into 3 hours in the evening, while being JUST as tired as her beloved Tired Children who are determined to PUNISH her tired ass for abandoning them in school and creche. (Even though they both LOVE where they go and actually CRY when they are collected.)
Mammy can not have grapes or gin during the week… 😛😛
Mammy struggles with balancing the Mammy guilt when she’s away from the girlies, and the urge to sell them on ETSY when she’s spent an hour being screamed at and cried at by her Tired Minions.
Mammy can’t win.
In conclusion. Mammy does INDEED need to rejoice that she has made it to Friday night, has the tired minions in bed, her feet up and the grapes poured. 😂And now Mammy needs all of her Lovely Supermums to say Hello and remind her of what I have been missing while abandoning you all this week while trying to keep 286 plates spinning without falling off her heels and onto her poor, muck-uped, Mammy-guilty face.
Cheers Bitcheepoos. xxx
(Read in the voice of Mr Donal K – him off the radio box.)
The death has taken place of Mr Hot Point and Mrs Dy Son at their home on S-Mumble Hill.
Mr Point died yesterday evening after a long illness. It was thought after 3 months of symptoms and complaining, that he was suffering from Man-flu and that he was indeed immortal. Turns out, not so much.
His wife, Mrs Dyson was so shocked by her husband’s passing that she died suddenly, only a few minutes later, in the arms of her loving housemaid, Mrs RU Fecking-Joking.
The Coroner, a very nice man called Mr Dom Appliances, sadly declared both dead early this morning, despite attempts to resuscitate Mrs Dy Son. They are survived by their aging son, Mr Dumble Drier, who won’t be long behind them by the looks of things.
Removal this evening, courtesy of Irwin’s Removal Lorry for deceased appliances.
No flowers please. Donations in lieu to the Support fund for Pissed off and Broke husbands, ℅ The Him. They say that things break in threes.
After the battering The Him’s bank account took this afternoon, I’d say THAT counts as number 3… And his wee broken heart is number 4, so we’re done!
On the bright side, I’m finally getting one of the fanciful hoovery yoks that stick on the wall. The Him shall have clean clothes and a spotless house, EVERY DAY from now on… well, until the novelty wears off.
RIP my Friends.
So, as you’ll have noticed, I took a week off. I deleted the FB app from my phone and took a long overdue trip with the love of my life, sans kiddies.
This time last week, I was swinging off a lampost in central Park in 30° sunshine, 👇👇 singing “Singing in the rain” at the top of my voice and not giving a continental who heard me. I’m going to spend the next 5 days starting sentences with “This time last week…” 😂😂
We spent 5 glorious days in NYC, just me and The Him. (I’ll post properly about it during the week.) Suffice to say, it was AMAZEBALLS and we really did have the time of our lives.🍏 But today, while it CERTAINLY was NOT 30°, we were back in our FAVOURITE park in the world with our favourite little people. Central Park doesn’t hold a candle to Glenveagh with our wee buddies. 💗💗
Oh how we missed Mini-Me and Princess, and we are so glad to be home safe and sound to them, but taking a few days to be Mammy and Daddy again, (or rather Maria and Emmet), was invaluable. When you’re busy parents, it’s hard to find yourselves in the mayhem. Every conversation tends to be about the kids. Every phonecall or text message revolves around them. Each thought you have has something to do with the act of parenting. Your daily interactions are mostly about or for the kids. Your entire focus in day-to-day life, is the kids…
And so it must be, but to have had 5 full days and nights of just being US, did our little family unit absolutely no harm at all.
Sometimes, a Mammy and Daddy need to find each other in the midst of all the madness, may it be simply for a dinner date or a movie night, or a trip away. Yes, we spent much of our time talking about and missing the girls, but we also had fun together, laughed together, drank beer at 2pm, ate our bodyweight, and enjoyed being tourists in a ridiculously fun place.
We finished conversations without being interrupted 167 times. We did what WE wanted to do when it suited us, just like we used to. We were spontaneous, not thinking about anything but us, and we remembered all the things we actually like about being The Him and The Her. 💗💙
So while the biggest challenge for me was to STOP referring to him as “Daddy” (and no it is NOT kinky! WTF like? 😂😂), we managed to have the holiday of our lives.
In fact the only thing that made us look forward to getting home, was the thought of getting squeezes and snuggles from the two Dollies. Their reactions were priceless when we got back.
Mini-Me has announced that we are “never going on holidays again, ever!” and Princess seems to have doubled in size and has learned to use “Noooooooo” quite impressively. They were spoiled rotten by Ganny and Gwanda. Of course they were!
I must admit that I did miss the daily craic here with you all,💗 but I think the week off from writing did me the world of good.
And how is Jim I hear you ask? Poor Jim, was abandoned by The Him for the Her, for the 1st time in 3 years. Poor Jim my arse. Jim is probably rocking in the corner waiting for Him’s Daddy back at 6am tomorrow.
But did we miss him? Not one feckin bit! 😂😂😂
Is there anything more frustrating than jars?
You know jars?
With Screw top lids?
“Oh, S-Mum, you are being ridonkulous and melodramaria now. HOW can you be frustrated by a jam jar, you silly woman?” I hear you scoff.
And usually, I would agree, but tonight, if YOU had witnessed the EPIC meltdown offered by my Princess because S-Mum here couldn’t get a FECKING JAR OPEN, you would not be scoffing. You would be popping to the shop to buy me grapes.
“You want toast Princess of mine?”
“Mmmmhmmmm” she nods.
“Mammy get you toast now.”
“Mmmmmhmmmmmm” she says, wobbling her bum to the fridge, where she stands grunting at it and at me until I open it.
“Will we get out the butter, my cherished cherub?”
“Mmmmmhmmmmmmm” she nods, reacing for the jar of jam from the fridge door.
“You want jam on your toast?”
“BAAAAAAAAM!” she squeals, dancing her happy nappy dance…
“Mammy get you jam surely pet.”
Except she won’t.
Because this Jam jar has not yet been opened and it seems that its lid has been welded to the jar by trolls, using their extra special concrete mix, which is completely unmoving regardless of how much you twist, or turn, or grunt or swear.
Mammy was certain of ONE thing after a few minutes.
Mammy was NOT getting the lid of the blasted jar. 😭😭
Now, let it be known, that I am a stubborn sort of Ladybelle. I am not beyond smashing a jar (or bottle) with a hammer to get at the contents, but considering that Princess was SCREAMING “BAAAAAAAAAAAM” at me, whilst swinging off my legs, and considering that smashing things would NOT be best parenting practise, I opted to control my temper and distract her.
I was unsuccessful.
She screamed for approximately 13 minutes, before instantly calming herself down when she heard the opening notes of In the Shite Garden and toddling over to chat to Macka Feckin Packa, leaving Mammy a sweaty, traumatised mess in the kitchen.
Did I threaten to hurt the Jam Jar? Did I promise to smash the fecker off the back step after she’d gone to bed?
Of course not. That would be mental…
It is sitting on the counter awaiting The Him and his Manliful Muscles to come home. He’ll pick it up, twist it like a milk bottle and tut at me for being such a girl.
How was your day?