Tag Archives: humour

I am Some Real Mums on the Tellybox Please Mum

Posted in blog, children, family, parenting, Uncategorized by

Real Mammies lose it sometimes.
Real Mammies do NOT behave like the Mammies on the TellyBox…
Fact. 😶
Real Mammies, while we do indeed have our Mary of the Poppins moments, do not spend our days answering our minions in edumacated and enthusiastic, sing songy voices.  😅
So why do the TV shows aimed at our minions portray only Mammies who would give the authors of the Positive Parenting books the same satisfaction that one gets from polishing off a box of maltesers all by oneself?
Sickeningly sweet, always smiling, perky and positive and always saying the right thing, these Mammies dress head to toe in Marks of the Spensive, have Stepford Mammyesque hair doooos, and would put the most prim and perky primary school teacher to shame, with their well laid out everything and their general competency in all things Mammy.
But riddle me this Ladybelles?
If these shows, (which MUST be applauded for their educational and developmental content and tones), can  portray the world of a wobbler or a toddler or a minion so well, WHY do they lie to them about what parents should be?
“It’s OK (insert character name here). It’s normal to feel sad/confused/excited.”  the furry, talking animals tell their owners on our screens, before talking them through their emotions and making the world a wonderful place again.
But WHERE is the Mammy, or Daddy, who is tired? Where is the Mammy who explains firmly that NO, you can’t hit your sister or NO, It’s NOT OK to throw toys?  Where is the teenage sister who is throwing “shade” at the Mum?  Where is the Mum wiping yesterday’s yoghurt off the school uniform with a Babywipe as the child goes out the door? Where is the 4 year old crying that they can’t find the shoes that are RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM? 😡😡
Just once, I would LOVE to see Topsy and Tim’s Mum lose her shit. I’d love to see her looking like crap, with bags under her eyes and toast stuck to her arse.  Just once, I would love to see one of the delightful, BFF twins throwing a complete strop because their beautiful Mammy puts beans too close to the fishfingers.
The Kiddy Channels should do a post watershed episode of Bing where “What would Flopsy do?” is answered by Flopsy “Flopsy will drink 3 glasses of wine when you go to bed Bing…you little prick,” and where we get to SEE Topsy and TIm’s Dad eating the remains of their uneaten dinners before he scrapes them in the bin, while Mammy cries at the table because she’s failing at EVERYTHING and huffing that “NO ONE EVER LISTENS TO MEEEEEEEE!” 😥😥
THEN, I MIGHT take them seriously, because at least I would possibly get some understanding about MY emotions and MY struggles and I might feel a bit more NORMAL!

 

Now, where is the remote?  I really should turn the channel over from the “Has gone to bed. We’ll be back in the morning screen!” 😂😂

How was your day?

I am Stoopid Jar Mum

Posted in children, family, parenting, Uncategorized by

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.

Yes.

On a Monday.😥

“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.

NO,

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. 😭😭
Nope.
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.

OR.

He too shall struggle with the fecking thing and I will regain a molecule of my sanity, laughing at him.

Fecking BAAAAM…

How was your day?

I am Sunshine and Suncream Mum

Posted in blog, parenting, temperature, Uncategorized, wine by

Oh it is sunshiny and fablis. 😎😎
Oh how wonderful.😎
Let us drive home with Stepford Mammy notions of pottering in the garden, topping up our Vitamin D, naming flowers and passing on our memories of nature walks and such. Let us have a light, sunnyful,  salady dinner and let the children run free while we watch and adore them from the poofy lounger. And then, let them be so exhausted from their frolicking and pottering, that they snuggle down for a long sleep, full of the joys of summer and sunkissed and freckled, smelling of the great outdoors…
Good Mammy.
Now let us be realistic. 😅
Yes, we may drive home full of these notions, but notions they are, and only notions.
In reality, let’s collect the minions, tired and cranky from the heat at play/school, let us put them in a car of approximately 31° even with the windows down, for them to get MORE cranky and sweaty on the way home. Let us have a complete fecking meltdown when you offer icecream but end up with ice-POPS because the cone machine has had fecking heart attack at its sudden overuse. Let us try to get the homework done, because Clever Mammy knows that whatever chance we have of getting it done NOW, there is precisely feck all chance of it being done once the pottering commences.
Let us wrestle more suncream onto the two wrigglers, before having a quiet and peaceful 😂😂standoff with the Mini-Me about putting ON her hat,  while the Princess insists on removing HER hat to EAT IT at 3 minute intervals.
 Let is not even think about sitting one’s Stepford Mummy posterier on a lounger, poofy or not, because “Pottering” with a wobbler ACTUALLY means following the little turdler, 3 steps behind, lifting her away from the dog’s bowl and racing her to the gate 16 times in 6 minutes, wondering how her fat little legs are so fast?  😥
Then, let us realise that unless you have a fecking COOK residing in your home, having a light summery etc dinner, STILL requires Mammy to go inside to COOK IT. And going for pizza would require gettinto the car again… nope! 😭
And so begins the END of the “pottering”, and the beginning of ARMAGETTIN…which is where you forcibly remove the suncream clad, slippery, sun stricken, cranky, exhausted and very fecking happy wobbler from the sunshine, by grabbing her in your ARMS and (trying to) GET IN!  

Armagettin. 😅😅
Let us then rejoice in the fact that Iggle Piggle is working his blue bottomed magic in the corner and let us spend the next hour feeding the kids who are two fecking HOT to eat anyway and looking longingly at the sunshine that you can’t get out to, and watching the clock, wishing it to be bedtime so that we can steal the last 30 minutes of sunshine for ourselves.
Let us love this weather, but let is not fool ourselves.  

Stepford Mammies we are not.
It’s not all pottering and gleefully finding bugs in the “gawden Dahling”.  Sometimes it’s a suncreamy, slippery, cranky sesspit of overheated mayhem, that will ultimately lead to 2 sticky, smelly and happily knackered minions CRASHING from a combination of sunshine and heat, and the need for all the bedsheets to be washed in the morning. 

(Trust me, THAT is easier than trying to bath these two tonight! 

Feral I tell you…😍😍😂😂)
And THEN, let us sup on cold grapes and enjoy the not so sunshiny, but still quite lovely evening, in the suncream free company of my boychild. 👇👇👇

Have a good one Lovelies. 😂😂😂

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 “She told the truf” Mum

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I don’t “hate” many things, but I can not STAND liars.
I’ve been bitten by enough serial liars in my life to know that liars are septic and that my girlies will:

1. Know that it is bad to lie (eventually!…like by the time they’re 12?)

2.  Know that liars ALWAYS get caught out (eventually!) 😉

3. Be able to spot a serial liar at 100 paces. 

But riddle me this Bitcheepooooos.
How and when are we supposed to teach them that lying is wrong, when we so regularly ask it of them? 
Weekend.

Public facilities.

Me: “Oh God there’s no toilet roll. God these toilets are pretty rotten. They could do with a rub.” (Pulls tissues from bag)

Her: 

Me: “We’ll tell the nice man outside that there’s no toilet paper in these toilets.”

Her: 

“Ok. Pull up your shorts now and we’ll wash our hands.”

Her: ” Is it time for icecream yet?”
Step outside to find Daddy in carpark.  Meet nice steward/staff member.
Me: “Hi. There’s no toilet roll in any of the ladies toilets…”

Her: “Them toilets are JUST ROTTEN!”

Me: (squeezing her hand and hissing Sssssssh!) 

Him: (not hearing her) “No bother love. I’ll get that sorted…”

Her: (louder) Scuse me Muster.  Them toilets needs a good wub. They’re honkin…”
Him? No idea. I actually dragged her sanctimonious little bum across the carpark as quickly as I could go, calling “Thanks a million” cheerily over my shoulder.
And of course, I scolded her for speaking to the man and started on my “You don’t speak to adults like that” tirade.
And she of course, looked up at me with her big blue innocent eyes and said “But sure I was telling the truf Mammy. Look my tongue isn’t black or nuffin?” 😑😑
Case closed.

She was right. 😂

So yes, riddle me this…

How the hell do we expect them to learn how to tell the truth, but only when it doesn’t involve being rude?
It’s not easy is it?
But I’m sure that by the time she is old enough to “know better”, she’ll be able to tell the difference in the little white lies which have only positive effects on people, and the big fat septic ones.
And the toilets WERE pretty rotten in fairness! 😭😭
How was your Monday? 😘😘😘