I am Spin & Rinse Them Mum

How often do you do your washing then?

And by washing, I mean your kids?

Are you one of those Mammies I envy who can manage to wash their Minions every night? With a peaceful and practiced routine which includes fluffy towels, Pink skin amd Smiling cherubs?

Or are you like me?

The shameful excuse for a Mammy who gives them a deep clean once a week and sometimes throws them in for a rinse and spin midweek if there’s a chance that social services might be called as a result of the spud-growing levels of soil which could be ploughed under their Nails…

For whom the thought of wrestling the two skinnyarses out of the bath, (getting them INTO it is never a challenge!), Screams at the hairdrying regardless of how much conditioner is used and the general BOMBSITE into which the house descends, are enough to make Mammy consider grapes at 5pm…

The Mammy of the kids who are the OPPOSITE of the angels who get tired by a bath at bedtime? The kids who absorb the energy of the feckin water through their pores and end up BOUNCING for 45 minutes after being exorcised… sorry extracted, from the bubbles. (Yes even the lullaby-ing lavender-y Spensive bubbles).

Regardless of which of these you are, as long as they’re happy, does it REALLY matter how dirty they are?

And really, a dirty child is a healthy child yeah?
And the smell of a clean minion is short-lived anyway isn’t it?

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And really, how often we do our washing is the same amount of other people’s business as how many times a day we fart, is it not? 

 

Have you found me on Bookface and Instagranny yet?

 

I am Sleepover Club Mum – a Review

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The Sleepover Club is a new company set up by Letterkenny Mammy, Stevie Kleine. She brought her beautiful sleepover service to my girls recently and what a fablis service it is.

 

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How beautiful!?

Stevie arrives at your home and creates a stunning sleepover set-up; Handmade teepees, personalised with the names of the kids who are staying, trays, fairy lights and goodie bags for each child.

Everything is thought about and then she returns the next day to take everything away again.

The teepees are beautiful. Cath Kitsonesque patchwork with beautiful material and detailed stitching. They come with mattresses, pillows, sheets and little cushions. The teepees are joined with pretty bunting and fairy lights and each teepee has a little chalk board with names on.

Stevie has thought of everything. Trays, lanterns, LED candles, bottles and straws for their drinks, little colouring books with stickers and pencils, sweeties, a face cloth, a toothbrush and gorgeous eye masks. She even includes little boxes of cereal with a pink spoon tied to them for next morning.

 

 

 

On a serious note, the admin of The Sleepover Club is so professional. She arrives with a detailed legal contract for the hirer to read and sign. And her Child Safety guidelines and social media permissions are thorough and up to date. It’s clear where both parties stand before Stevie leaves the home. And obviously, it is up to the Hirer to inform the company about special requirements and to return the equipment in perfect condition.

 

 

Is it worth it? Well it’s not free obviously, but the magic that your little ones will experience is hard to explain. The Teepees are exquisite and there is a lot of work put into making your experience as perfect as it can be.  However, she can’t guarantee that the kids will sleep, but she can guarantee that they’ll feel like the most special princesses in the world.

My two LOVED the whole experience. Princess is still very little but she was beyond excited when they discovered the teepees set up. She’s been looking for them since Stevie collected them!

 

 

 

For a group of kids, aged 5 or 6 and up, this is a special and memorable way to celebrate a birthday, or even create memories. I would have had her cousins down for the night but it didn’t suit them, but it’s definitely a service I shall be using in the future.

Mini-Me and Princess had an evening of magic and memories. I’ll never forget their wee faces when they saw them set up… and THESE smiles the next morning are real.

 

 

You can get information on The Sleepover Club their Facebook page. They are also on Instagram and their email is thesleepoverclubdonegal@gmail.com

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My girls enjoyed this experience as a treat from The Sleepover Club, but as always, my reviews are honest and I am under no obligation to promote the service. 

I am Simple Steps to Dressing a Twoublemaker Mum

How to dress a Twoublemaker.

  1.  Lay out neatly ironed and folded clothing choice.
  2. Place garments onto child in correct order.  Lift thrown and crumpled garments off floor in random order, as thrown.
  3. Make sure to make “Pop” sounds or other sing-songy nonsense to mark the “Popping” of child’s head through vest/tee/jumper.
  4. Forget to open buttons to loosen head hole on said garment.
  5. Spend 3 minutes apologising for being a Silly Mammy while rocking frantically.
  6. Put child’s socks on their two feet.
  7. Put on trousers.
  8. Remove trousers. You forgot that the trousers have to go on first this morning. Silly wench.
  9. Remove child’s socks.
  10. Put on trousers.
  11. Put on child’s socks.
  12. Let child remove socks.
  13. Lose the will to live as child now tries to put on the socks again on the opposite feet.
  14. Put on child’s shoes.
  15. Note: Do NOT ask child if they want to put their shoes on beforehand. It will not end well.
  16. Put on child’s shoes.  Don’t bother fastening until you hear the compulsory “AOOOOOW!”
  17. Remove shoe and shake out imaginary stone from shoe.
  18. Put shoe back on just as it was 2 minutes ago.
  19. Repeat on other foot.
  20. Try to brush child’s hair into some sort of “I do not neglect my children I actually rather love the little shits” hairstyle. Use too much conditioning spray and threaten to shave it off. (Under your breath of course.)
  21. Put child down in order to get yourself ready.
  22. 3.5 minutes later, return to room fully dressed and ready to leave.
  23. Put on child’s trousers.
  24. Look for child’s left socks.
  25. Give up and grab another pair from drawer.
  26. Repeat steps 14 – 19.
  27. Remind self to buy gin.
  28. Consider googling “IV for Gin” if you ever get to work.
  29. Change child’s nappy…
  30. Get child into car, pretend you’ve forgotten something and silent scream in your kitchen for 15 seconds before returning alá fucking Mary-of-the-poppins to car to deposit Twoublemaker to playschool…
  31. Repeat steps 14 to 19 outside door of playschool…
  32. Repeat steps 1 – 31 EVERY FUCKING DAY for next 2 years.

Then begins the How to dress a Pre-Tween… but that is a whole other post.

Happy Freezer Friyay Bitchepoos.

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Enjoy those Beige dinners! (Almost Grapejuice o’clock…)

I am Some Fried Eggs Mum

Today, we escaped as ChickenpockGate has finally ended and we are freeeeeee from the jaws of the sespit that is our home. While I should indeed be deep cleansing and femegating said sespit, I decided that getting OTF was much more important. (Out tay fook!)
 
And so off we pocked… sorry popped… to Derry.
Mammy hasn’t been in Derry for quite a while and it took me a few minutes to get used to all of the shininess and prettiness of all of the funky and new and in style stuff that was hanging in front of me screaming “You know you want me Mammy!”
And of course I want one of everything,like yesterday… and yet I know I must go through my summer stuff from previous years first, where I will find 17 perfectly appropriate and fine bikinis and kaftans and all sorts of other summery stuff that I shall bring with, but not wear!
 
While browsing through the multicoloured rainbow of the swimwear section in a certain debartmenthams store, Mini-Me picked up one particularly frilly and colourful bra top. It was a 38F and while it was stunning if that is your bra size, for Fried Egg Sally here, it wasn’t suitable.
 
“Isn’t this lovely Mammy? You should try it on!” announced Mini-Me.
“It IS lovely Darling, but that isn’t Mammy’s size. That is for a lady with bigger Boobies than Mammy. Every woman has different sized Boobs you see.”
“Ah OK.” she said, replacing the over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder which was made for some other Goddess.
I continued looking for the more pebble-esque holders and was happily emagining myself lounging by the pool in one of the very sexy, but subtle one-pieces, when I heard it.
 
“Hi MAMMY?”
Where the feck is she?
I turn around and look frantically for her. She’s standing abut 15 yards away beside the mannequins which are covered in the Ted of the Baker stuff that Mammy hints at EVERY fucking Christmas and yet never gets. She’s pulling the front of the silky material down over the plastic diddy of the greeny brown headless one.
“What are you doi…”
 
“Yours are more the size of THIS woman here aren’t they Mammy?”
 
Shoot.
me.
NOW.
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Enter a caption

 
“Get over here Madam.” I hiss, as the 324 bystanders turn to look at me. (Ok, there might have only been 7 or 8, but it felt like many more.)
 
“But yours don’t look like that” she continued, having a good look at the perky perfectness of the plastic one.
 
“Come on until we find Daddy” I muttered as I gathered up my bags and my dignity from the floor. I walked over to her and took her hand off the prettiness on the mannequin.
 
“Let’s go you rascal” I grumbled, but a part of me couldn’t help but think ‘Why thank you Darling!’ at being compared to the boobage on the model. Even the mannequin was probably laughing at the fact that my fried eggs are still only a fraction of the boobahs on her!
 
How was your day?

I am She asks the Best Questions Mum

When a 6 year old asks you a question, sometimes, it makes us think. We begin by explaining it to her in the simplest terms possible, and in doing so, sometimes we realise that what we’re explaining, ISN’T as complicated as we grownups like to think it is...

“What is a Bully Mammy?”

“Erm…A bully is someone who needs to make others feel bad to feel good.”

“That’s not very nice Mammy.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Are bullies not very nice?”

“Well some bullies are nice but they’re just a wee bit sad.”

“Why are they sad?”

“I don’t know pet. Some Bullies don’t even know that they’re sad or angry. But they are and so if you are happy or excited, they don’t like it because it makes them feel more angry and sad. And so they think they should stop you from being happy so that they can feel happy.”

“That sounds silly Mammy.”

“Yes. Yes it does.” (Actually Darling. It sounds utterly ridiculous…)

“Why can’t they just be nice?”

“I don’t know Honey. Sometimes they can be nice, they can even pretend to be nice when they’re not really.” (And they’re the ones you need to watch…)

“Why?”

“Because it makes them feel better about themselves.”

“That’s just stupid.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“What’s their problem like?”

“I don’t know pet. But remember that if someone doesn’t like you or is being mean to you, it’s not your problem. It’s their problem…”

And there, just like that, I have turned into my father.

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“Remember who has the problem Darling” he has always said. And do you know what? As usual, he was and is right.

Whether you’re 5 years old in a playground, or 16 years old in a locker room, or 23 years old in a flat-share, or 32 years old in a staffroom, or 43 years old in an office, or 56 years old in a committee meeting, or 67 years old in a group or club… or 87 years old at the bingo, other people will sometimes have issues with you.

Other people will always have problems. You won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. You don’t have to be.

But remembering that the issue or problem is THEIRS, not yours, helps.

I hate that I can’t protect her or her sister from Bullies. I hate that I won’t be beside her everywhere to show her the false smiles or to point out the ulterior motives of some people. It makes me sick that she might ever feel how I did for many many years in secondary school.

But while I can’t be there and she will of course have to deal with other people’s “problems”, I CAN and I will arm her with the understanding that she is in control of one thing.

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She is in control of HER. Of HER feelings and HER self-worth and HER behaviour. And while she will make mistakes and poor judgement and absolute feck-ups, by God I hope that she will always be kind to others.

She will applaud them for their achievements rather than resent them for her failures.

She will congratulate her teammates even if she lost the game.

She will not put people down for being different.

She will not allow others to put someone else down in her company.

She will recognise that if someone else’s success annoys her, that it’s HER who has the problem, not them and by being bitter, she is gaining nothing but her own downfall.

Other people hold up a big mirror to us.

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The person who gets to go on 3 holidays a year, reminds us that we don’t.

The person who wins, reminds us that we haven’t.

The person who has lost weight/bought a car/gotten married/been promoted/changed jobs etc., often highlights to us that we want something and haven’t yet got it.

Rather than belittling them for it or being angry at them, try realising that if you really wanted it, you would have it. If you really want to make something happen, who’s stopping you? Because surprisingly enough, it isn’t THEM who has the problem is it?

Bullies are to be pitied. Many don’t even realize that they do it. Many would be broke to the bone to think that their behaviour or comments have upset you.

But then, there are others who wouldn’t give a shit. And they are not worth your energy.

Remember who has the problem. If it’s you, that’s your problem. If it’s not you, why are you wasting your energy worrying about it?

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I am Singing the Alphabet Mum

A – Z of Mammyhood

There aren’t enough letters in the alphabet for the crap we need to know to parent.

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A – AIM. Think of the Aims you have for the perfect rearing of your little cherub, and then lower them. considerably.

B – BABIES – Babies are class. Little chubby, fuzzy cherubs of talcy snuggles. They’re wee love bombs. And the fact that you can suddenly love this little person to infinity having only just set eyes on them, is phenomenal. And then when they arrive, we wonder if they’ll ever do anything other than sleep, eat and poo. Yup. That’s it. Boring little buggers really. But just wait and enjoy this stage, because you’ll soon have the smiles. And the smiles are fab… and then begins the EVERYTHING ELSE and you’ll soon be wishing that they were tiny and boring again.

C – C-SECTION – Not the easy way out that so many Sanctimammies like to paint it. Sections are adding fullblown surgery to the birth of your baby. You can read what I really think about that here.

D – DADDIES – Daddies are great. Now granted, many will disagree with me on this. And each circumstance is different. But many Daddies are just as excited and wonderful and hands on as Mammies. They don’t carry the baby. They don’t give birth. THEY DON’T UNDERSTAAAAAND! But Mammy, guess what? THAT’S NOT THEIR FAULT. If they are with you and willing to do what they should be doing, let them. And don’t let people refer to them as “babysitting”. Do YOU babysit your kids? No? Well why would Dad? They’re his kids too. (And if you and Dad, for whatever reason, aren’t together and hate each other, just remember that the kids are still his kids and that he still has a right to be their Dad.) And if you ARE together and very happy, just remember that wanting to kill him in the middle of the night because he doesn’t hear the babylink again, is perfectly acceptable.

E – EVERYONE – Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has advice for you. Everyone has their way of doing things. But remember, opinions are not facts. And everyone else can sometimes piss off. Go with your gut. Do what’s right for YOU and your family. And forget about EVERYONE else. If they’re not within your four walls, feck them.

F – FEEDING – Ooooooh… Is she going to go there? Eh yes. I am. I have already. I’m clear about this. You feed YOUR baby HOWEVER THE HELL YOU WANT! Breastfeeding is of course wonderful and natural, but it isn’t for everyone. And if, for whatever reason, you can’t (or don’t want to) breastfeed, that IS YOUR BUSINESS and no one else’s. And before anyone starts lecturing me on this, let me save your energy and tell you that once again, YOUR opinion is none of my business, so take it somewhere else. As long as Baby is getting fed, that is all that really matters.

G – GRANDPARENTS – Grandparents are WICKED. If your kids are lucky enough to be able to spend time with Grandparents, let them. But let me give you the heads up. Your children’s behaviour with you, and your children’s behaviour with Granny or Granda are COMPLETELY DIFFERENT! Usually, they turn into starved, unloved, neglected and abused little feckers the second a Grandparent is within sniffing distance. But that’s not Granny’s fault. It’s nature. It’s just not written in the baby books, but trust me. It’s like a baby law or something… They all know it and they all abide by it. Until they’re approximately 37 years old I’m told!

H – HOUSEWORK – Yeah. Who has time for that craic? Your house will forever more amen be clattered with crap. Yes, we should try to keep it clean. Yes, finding a routine that works for you is great. (Mine is my Thursday night blitz. Works for me!) But no, your house will never again be the picture perfect show home that it might once have been. Think of the dirt and smudges and handprints as your “layer of love”. I’m not saying to let your home fall apart, but bring your standards down a bit and life will become easier. No one cares if your skirting boards haven’t been dusted since 2014.

I – IGNORED – You shall be ignored. You shall feel ignored. Children love to ignore their parents. Again, this usually lasts until they’re about 25 when they realise that ACTUALLY, you were right about most things.

J – JUMBO KNICKERS – Oh the JOY of the jumbo knickers. Those of you who are packing hospital bags and reading the shitlists of what you NEED to bring, should know that where it says “Disposable underwear”, it SHOULD say “BUY THE BIGGEST BLACKEST CHEAPEST KNICKERS YOU CAN FIND AND DUMP THEM AS YOU CHANGE THEM”. Your ladybits have been through enough Mammy. Paper knickers are pushing it.

K – KICKS – Aaaaaaah the kicks. What all pregnant Mammies long for and enjoy. The cause of excitement and smiles. The cause of heartburn and rib pain! But ultimately, how our little bean communicates with us in our bellies. Don’t worry however, these kicks don’t end after pregnancy. NOOOO! They continue well into their childhood. Don’t believe me, try changing the nappy of a wobbler who is throwing a wobbler. And tell me how much you miss those kicks after spending a night with a 3 year old in your bed.

L – LIQUID POO – Self explanatory really. My technical term for this is POONAMI. As the name suggests, this poo comes in a tidal wave which destroys everything in its reach. Nothing can be saved. Vests, socks, clothes… most shall be dumped. Don’t even try to salvage them. And liquid poos are the slimiest, stinkiest and most sudden of them all. The disguise themselves as farts and can swamp an entire car seat in .46 seconds. Sometimes, it takes many grown ups to deal with the aftermath of a poonami. Enjoy!

M – MAM-ME TIME – The most underestimated necessity of the Mammy. Sometimes referred to as Selfishness or Terrible by the Sanctimammious of society. Ignore them. Mam-me time is vital and can be acquired easier than you think. In a world where let’s face it, we can’t pee on our own for approximately 6 years, we soon learn the importance of getting some time to ourselves. It can be a simple chat on the phone when the kids are in bed. Go for a walk. Go to Aldi on your own. Make time for a yoga or gym class, or just get up an hour earlier than the kids to enjoy that cuppa or read or stretch. Sometimes however, more dramatic Mam-me time is required… a spa trip. An evening out. The Cinema. That hen party you’ve been invited on that you couldn’t POSSIBLY go on. An overnight date night. Whatever it is, take it. You can’t pour from an empty cup Mammy. And you get no medals for trying.

N – NAPPIES – sometimes do not do what they say on the tin. Babies like to wait for a nice clean on before they work their poonami. Also, you NEVER have enough in the house and you should NEVER leave the house without at least 2 in your bag or boot.

O – Oh no you did not... – You did not just eat a cold fishfinger off the plate you are scraping. You did not say “Stop licking the fridge.” You did not just sing the theme tune of Peter Rabbit in the shower. You did not just say “Good boy” to your husband as he handed you the remote. If you want to read more things that you WILL do, here ya go!

P – POO – Big, small, sheepballs, slimy, black, green, gray, brown, sneaky, silent, violent, sticky, honking… sniff that bum. Not sure? Swipe your finger in… Yup. Poo in the nappy. Poo in the bath. Poo on the floor. Conversations about poo. “Good nappies” Being a parent = poo! Lot of it!

Q – QUIET – The quiet and calm that descend on a home as the last child drifts off to sleep is like nothing else on earth. Busy homes and noisy homes. And noise is fab, but you’ll learn to appreciate quiet on a whole new level once you have babies. Enjoy it however, because once they hit the twoublemaker years, quiet becomes suspicious. If they’re not asleep and they’re quiet, be afraid, be very afraid!

R – READING – Nursery rhymes, songs, stories. Get used to them and get your children used to them. Rhymes are everywhere. They go from being soothing and fun to being really quite useful with toddlers. “Clean up, Clean up, everybody everywhere?” (works 78% of the time!) Read to your babies. And yes, that’s the English teacher in me coming out, but I’m right. Make a bedtime story part of your daily routine from day dot. And you should read too. Not just internet forums and blogs, try something grown up and funny. Even a few pages a day helps.

ALPHABET

S – SEX – Yes so that’s what got you here in the first place, but it doesn’t go away. We all have different ways of viewing sex. For some, they never want to think about it again. For others, they can’t wait to get back to business. It’s personal. If you’ve had a section, or a particularly traumatic birth, you might need to wait a while before getting back on the job. And it is new. It’s like the first time all over again, because things down there have changed and you might not be in as much control as you used to be of your body parts. But take your time. The first few times after birth, you might feel like you’ll never get back to the way it was. You will. It just takes time.

T – TEETHING – Labour is not the ultimate hell on earth. Teething is. It starts as early as 8 weeks and continues until feck knows when. I have a Princess who is cutting all four eye teeth at once… Try everything. Herbal remedies, gels, frozen teethers, chew toys, cold face cloths… It’s a bitch. But it is a phase and it WILL end.

U – U-turns – Be prepared. You think you’re going one way, you’re not. You are determined to do something, you don’t. “I will only feed my children organic food” becomes “Who wants waffles and fishfingers? “My child shall never have sugar” becomes “JUST GIVE HER THE FUCKING SMARTIES” “I could never leave my child for a night” becomes “Can you keep her for two?” You might have great intentions and if you can stick to them, good for you, but most of us end up doing massive U-Turns and making no apologies for them!

V – VIOLENCE – in many forms. 1. Violent mood swings. One minute, you’re beaming with joy, then a pampers ad has you in hysterics. 2. Violent thoughts as your partner snores beside you as you feed or burp for the 46th time that night. 3. Violent protection – the reaction in you when you think that someone has hurt or upset your child. It’s OK for YOU to scold and shout at them, but someone else does it, and you turn into a Lioness and are planning their slow and painful demise.

Also for VAGINAS – The most magical things in the world. Like Mammies, they can be stretched to the limit and yet spring back practically unscathed.

V is also for VASECTOMY, funnily enough…

W – WASHING – Let the games begin and may the odds be ever in your favour. Actually, the odds are that you shall never again see the bottom of your laundry basket. And you WILL wonder if there are 7 invisible people living in your house that you haven’t met. And you will find things in piles that you forgot you had. And you will wonder if you spend more time with your washing machine than with your partner. (The answer is possibly yes!) And yet, aren’t we #soblessed to have messy litte rascals to wash for?

W is also for Wine.

X – XXX. Babies also bring an endless supply of kisses. From the slabbery ones, to the snottery ones, to the stolen ones. And kisses and hugs and all internet love that I can send to you, one Mammy to another. Because you ARE wonderful. And you ARE doing a great job. If you’re worried about being a good Mammy, you already are one.

Y – YOU. Don’t lose you. It’s easy for me to write that with my baby now 2 and a half. But seriously. You are Mammy, but you are still you. You still have your needs and you still have your skills. And even if you aren’t able to look after them or use them right now, because you are doing the most important job in the world, you must keep them in sight as you will use them again soon. So keep up the hobby. Go back to the art class. Keep writing or making or baking or singing. Whatever it is that makes you you, show your babies and let them see you doing it.

Z – ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZS – SLEEP – The Holy fecking grail. For some it is fine. For others it seems to disappear for 7 years. There is no secret or answer. And I have NO idea about it. But I can tell you that a bedtime routine from the start helps. And I must also share with you the poewr of CBeebies. Since Mini-Me was a few weeks old, CBeebies bedtime hour was on in the background. Iggle Piggle and his multicoloured pals sing and dance and then there is a bedtime story and a nice lullaby, before the screen goes blue. To this day, it is how my girls know that it is bedtime. Supper, Jammies, storybook, teeth, bed. Sometimes it works, other times, it doesn’t. Bathtime before bed doesn’t work for me. (They get too wired up.) We also had a side of the bed system. Whoever slept beside the door was on Baby duty during the night. It did help, because we both got some sleep, some nights.

So there! Chripes that was longer than I’d planned, but considering that I could write (and have probably written) posts on all of the above already, I’ve done well I think to keep it to this length!

Have a great weekend !

I am She’s a Wagon is Roz Mum

Mammy’s jeep is called “Roz”.

I got her the same day I got the part of Roz in our production of 9 to 5 last winter. And so it seemed apt to name her Roz.   Beats Betsy or the yok, doesn’t it?

Roz is very fablis, but mostly, she is fablis because she can talk to me. Roz is like a real life person. If I am in the car on my own, I don’t have to feel lonely.  I just have to press a wee button and say something and I am guaranteed that Rozzie will answer me. She is my friend. She does what she’s told and unlike my minions doesn’t answer me back. Now granted, 80% of the time Roz says things like “Phone not detected” or “I’m sorry. Can you repeat please?”  And because she has an American accent, sometimes she misunderstands my ineloquent Donegalisms and will dial random numbers of people I haven’t spoken to in years.  In fact, one of the first nights I was driving her, I decided to show off to my sister.

“Call Lorr-aine” I ordered, slowly and in my “How-now-brown-cow” voice.  “Calling Laura Aynder…”

“FAAAAAAACK”  Mammy was screaming, frantically hitting the lever to end the call before it began.  The only reason the number Roz was dialling is still on my phone, is to make sure I don’t answer that wagon if she ever rings me. (Name changed obviously! I do not know any wagonish Lauras.)

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And so, I learned to be verrrrrrrrry clear and precise in my instructions to her.

One of the other fablis tricks Roz has is to read messages if they come in while I’m driving.  And so, on Saturday, half way up the dual carriageway, the radio is interrupted by “New Message”.  I get quite excited as I haven’t heard that in a while, and reply “Read Message”.  I don’t often be getting the oul messages anymore, as everyone now uses Snaptwat and Instagranny to communicate. I miss the ould messages so I do.

Message from 087…I don’t know the number. Oooooh the excitement.

“Hi Maaaaar-eeeaaaa.  Japonica* would like toooooo INVITE your Mini-Meeee TO HER Birthday Partay fullstop on Sat next at 3pim in Partywaaruld. I dooooo hope sheeeee can make it.  ex ex Exclamation mark”.

Mammy is instantly regretting hitting play. Not because of the text, but because Mini-Me has now HEARD the message. Let me explain. If she is able to attend a birthday party, I tend to NOT tell her about it until the day before. Because you see if anything were to come up and our plans had to change, I can not be dealing with the apoplectic melt-down that Mini-Me likes to have. Also, it is good parenting practice to have some blackmail/bait for behaviour rectification up one’s sleeve, is it not?

Shit shit shit shit, how shall Mammy get out of this one.

Mini-Me has not responded.  She is sitting quietly.  I’m about to engage with the idea that she hasn’t actually heard the message until I glance in the rear-view mirror and see that her jaw is actually on the floor.

“Oh My GOD Mammy! Did you HEAR that?”

“Hear what pet?” (shit)

“Roz has just invited me to my own birthday party on Saturday!”

“Huh?” (fookity fook…)

“Your friend Roz has just told you that I have to go to my birthday party on Saturday!”

“WHY would you be having a birthday party on Saturday?  It’s not your birthday!”

“But she said “HER” birthday. Maybe I’m having a party for my 6 and 3/4 birthday!” (WTF?)

“You are not 6 and 3/4 and you are not having a birthday party on Saturday.”

“But if it isn’t MY birthday, why are we having a party?”

“We’re NOT having a party…”

“Oh my Pancake Mammy!” (Yes, this is something we say apparently…)  “Is Roz having a party?”

“Roz is a car”

“Yeah, but she’s real.  Sure how would she know about my party if she wasn’t?”

“We aren’t having a party.  Japonica is having a party. Roz is just reading the message from Japonica’s mummy.”

“DOh my GOSH!? Is Roz friends with Japonica’s Mammy too?”

What does Mammy even say to that? And what exactly does she think Roz is? Does she think I carry a little Gollumesque little American woman around under the bonnet?

I don’t by the way, but I also am trusting Roz less and less.  I’m foreseeing some I-robot shit going down some evening, where I decide I’m going one place, and Roz decides I’m not.

Now, to delete some numbers off my phone!

I am Still Counting Cows

cowsMammy loves cows.
“Mammy Mammy Mammy Mammy Mammy Mammy Mammy Mammy Mammy Mammy Mammy” sings Princess, swinging off my legs as I try to cook her tea.
Try as I might, nothing is distracting her. I try my cross voice. I am about to resort to the naughty step as it her hanging off of me is nothing short of dangerous when pots are bubbling, when low and behold, my life and sanity are saved by cows.
Last night see, Granda put his lovely cows and their baby calves into the paddock beside us. Princess hadn’t paid much attention.
Mammy remembers back a few years to our first summer in the house, when in order to get Mini-Me to give me 5 minutes peace, Mammy had suggested that she go count Granda’s cows. It had worked and Mammy had enjoyed a cuppa on the doorstep while she’d stood counting “one, tooooo, freeeeee, seveeeeen, ten…” Mammy had of course felt like a terrible Mammy and sworn that she’d never do such a thing to her again. #badmammy
And Mammy has stuck to that promise. Because you see Mini-Me is not Princess, so it doesn’t count! But she does, so guess what happened next.
“OOOOOOH Look at Granda’s cows!”
Yeah whatever Mammy…Nope Not taking me on.
“Princess would you go over and count Granda’s cows for him please?”
“Ok Mammy!” and off she wobbled, before spending almost 9 minutes repeating “Wan, toooo, freeeee, fwiiiiive, seven, niiiine, ten,,, four….toooo”.
Oh the memories! Oh the cuteness! Oh the joy!
Yes indeed, Mammy loves the cows.

I am So It’s a New Baby Mum

Mammy does love the news of a new babby.

Mammy doesn’t particularly fancy the prospect of having another one herself now, but Mammy still does be smiling when the news of another wrinkly little Squisheeface is announced.

Mammy does be particularly excited when the new babby belongs to someone she knows and cares about. 

And while Mammy couldn’t give a continental contraction about the Family Royale in the Brexit state, Mammy couldn’t help but think “Ah nice” when she saw the news on the Twit-feed this morning.

Mammy is glad that Katie and Billy Boy have welcomed another little prince to their family. Lovely. Honestly.

What Mammy doesn’t get however, is where the Media managers of the family Royale are and what they are drinking? Mammy would like to know why the fook they think that the poor woman needs to be paraded around only 4 hours after the birth, dressed to the nines and made up perfectly?

God but she looks stunning in fairness and no, Mammy is not bitter as Mammy is very aware that that is one of “the joys” that Katie signed up to when she sold her soul to the life of the eternal celebrity. And as long as she is happy, good for her.

(Also, Mammy is quite certain that I too probably looked EXACTLY like that 4 hours after the birth of her girls… Because Mammy was so drugged and knackered that she would have believed ANYTHING at that particular moment. I may have reached that level of bloat free and prettiful again by 5 months postpartum!)

Mammy would love to have seen lovely Kate (for she is indeed beautiful) walking out of the Lindybob wing looking happy but knackered, with her hair scraped back from her face and a comfy tracksuit. And flat shoes, for I am sure her Ladybits are crying with every step.

Because then, while I still would have wondered and awed at the fact that she was, you know, STANDING, I would have seen what she is behind the royal BS… A warrior woman who has just brought life into the world and who should be left the feck alone with her lovely wee babby, rather than having to not only parade around outside the wing looking like she was at a Ladies’ Day, but to look perfect while doing it.

I do hope that there are no Mammies looking at her today feeling lesser or inferior to what they are because they weren’t smiling to the world with a blow dry. I hope that no Mammy feels that she was doing something wrong because 4 hours after the birth she was wrestling with sanitary nappies and crying because she was crying and didn’t know why she was crying.

And mostly, I hope that right now, Kate is snuggled up in her baggies, on her sofa, hair up, bra off, cozy with her Hubby, enjoying tea and toast and smiling at her new wee Baby and glad that all of that circus is done with!

Congrats to them. And congrats to all the Mammies who didn’t have a live feed of their hospital wall running on Twitter as her little Prince was getting his crown on!

I am Seriously Tested Mum

There are days when things happen to test us.

Yesterday, it was not just Mammy who was tested by events.  No.  Mammy AND Daddy and our marriage in general were tested. By what? By who?

By our Princess Poonami.

“She’s a great age now.  We can go anywhere and it’s so much easier than when she was tiny” scoffed Mammy to her cousin-with-older-kids at approximately 5.10pm.  We were standing watching our minions playing in the garden at Granny-Mary-Queen-Mother-of-the-whole-wide-world’s birthday party.

“All I need now is to throw a nappy in my handbag and go! No need to be lugging half the house around anymore!” Mammy was so sure of herself.  Cousin with older kids agreed.  How smug and fablis Mammy is about how clutter free Mammying is when out and about now that my wobbler is 2. Smug mammy.  Silly Mammy.

“Mammy.  We have a poonami!” I hear The Him call.

“Sorry what? We do not have poonamis anymore.  Silly Daddy.  Don’t you know that our mini is now of the post-poonami age? You have made a mistake.  Check that you have lifted the correct child from the garden.  You must be mistaken.”

Mammy is past the point of the Poonami.  I am no longer THAT Mammy. I no longer have to carry a changing bag.  I no longer have to remove brown sticky vests from the back of my child. I have past this stage.  I am Poonami free..,

Except that I am not.  And when I look up, the child in The Him’s arms is indeed mine.  He is pretending that she is an aeroplane, so as not to have to touch the bum region.  Of course, this WOULD be the first day she is wearing a dress and is bare legged and so I can already see the rivulet which SHOULD have been held inside leggins, trickling down the crevaces of her fat little legs. And the unmistakeable smell wafting from her arse can only be one thing.  Yup. Poonami.

And all that I have in my handbag is a single nappy.

Who’s smug now?

My sister calls out “My baby bag is in the hall. GO GO GO!!” and GO GO GO we GO.

There are approximately 120 people in Granny-Mary-Queen-Mother-of-the-whole-wide-world’s house, through which we have to manouvre the leaking posterier of the aeroplane baby.  She is “WEEEE”ing with glee as Daddy flies her through the crowd.

Scuse us.  Poonami alert, poonami alert.  We rush to the spare room and throw a towel onto the bed.  Princes Poonami is having a great oul laugh as we rummage through the sister’s baby bag for nappies and wipes.

I’m about to start changing her and I look at the Him.  He looks at me.  And we know that we are both thinking the same thing… HOW the fuck do we do this?

You know how they say that a parent forgets all the bad stuff…the labour pains, the pain pain, the recovery, the exhaustion…well it seems that we also block out the cleaning up of the bum explosions too.  Because for a few seconds, neither of us had a clue where to start!

Right.  We can do this.  And for the next 10 minutes. (Yes, it took 10 minutes, such was the extent and reach of the exposion.) we were a tag team.  Back in the throes of early parenthood. Working together. A team with one purpose.  Our marriage being strengthened, tested and verified by a shitty nappy.

“Nappies…nappies.”  “Wipe…wipe.”  “Hold that.” “Wait wait wait!”  “Watch her hair.” “Mind the bed” “You missed that bit on her neck”  “Fuck fuck fuck!” “Is that it?” “WTF? HOW did it get in THERE?” “Where will I put this?” “Go get a plastic bag.  NO a Bin bag!”  “Christ the smell…” “Get your HANDS out of THERE!”

The bumbag went into the binbag.  The clothes and towel went into another one.  The Wobbler was dressed in a spare outfit that my sister-who-will-always-be-prepared-for-all-eventualities-and-is-not-a-smug-relaxed-twat-like-Mammy-here had packed for her girl.  And at the end, Mammy and Daddy hi-fived. Yes.  We did. That’s how proud of ourselves we were.

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GRRRRRRRR!

“Still got it Daddy” says Mammy.

“Hell yeah!” says Daddy.

“I dood a pooooooo” said Princess.

No Shit Sherlock!

Lesson learned.  Mammy needs to go back to keeping a changing bag in the boot of the car.  Be prepared for all seasons…and remember that when she is on an antibiotic, there is a high chance of poonami, whatever age she is.

And together, there is no shitstorm that Mammy and Daddy can’t handle together.