I am She’s a Stay at Home Working Mum

“Your Mammy doesn’t work.” or “Your Mammy doesn’t have a real job”

I remember hearing this a few times as a child and as a teenager.
I remember not thinking much of it. I didn’t see it as an insult or a scathing comment until I was about 16 and my Mum had had Baby Number 6, and I overheard a visitor “jokingly” dismissing my Mum with “Oh at least you don’t have a job to go back to. You should try having a career on top of it….hardeeharrhar.”

And I remember that moment because it was probably the first time I lost the plot with an ACTUAL adult. Let’s just say, there were metaphoric stitches required for the new posterier that might have been ripped. She didn’t visit again.

It was a line delivered with one of those fake “hardeehar” Mary of the Poppins laughs, which people of the bitch variety add to their insults to mask them as “Only jokes” or not meaning any harm. At 17, I was old enough to recognise that the visitor was in fact being a grade a Sanctimammy. And I was old enough to defend my Mum. Because my Mum might not have put on her face and heels every morning and gone to an office or a school or a hospital or a shop or wherever to do a JOB, but BY CHRIST did she work. She worked harder than any other person I know. She still does. She was there, and is there, for us every step of the way, and I’ll never know how she did it.

Being the eldest in a house full of Babies, I learned VERY young that being a Mum is a full time job. There is no rest. There is no relaxation. There are no coffee breaks. There is no “Clocking in” or “Clocking out”. No one cares if you’ve had your lunch hour. Hell, most days, you don’t get lunch! (unless you count their leftovers as lunch, which somedays, we all do. 😅) You don’t have a team to thrash ideas over. You don’t have a Boss to ask for advice. You don’t have a Supervisor to show you the way.

When we were kids in the Donegal sticks in the 80’s, our Mums had a VERY different life. Many of them were at home, all day, without communication, without conversation, without cars, until the Daddy came home (for an hour before hitting the farm.). There were no Forums to ask questions about teething, or wind, or puke. There were no online nurses to contact if a rash appeared. There were 3 TV stations FFS! So there were no digital babysitters. (and no Peppa in fairness.) There were few telephones and even if there was a phone in the house, you didn’t call up your mate for a 20 minute chat unless you were able to pay for it. There were no Mother and Baby groups, no baby massage, no Mammy meet ups… Being a Mammy TODAY is lonely. I can’t get my head around what it must have been like for our Mums. And remember too, that then, you DARE not admit that you were struggling with your emotions or your “nerves” as they used to say in hushed, loaded tones.

Being a Mammy is 24/7. It’s the hardest job in the world whether you’re a SAHM(Stay at home Mum) or a CM (Career Mum). If you don’t leave the house to work, you don’t get to say things like “Sorry, I’m finished for the day” or “That’s not my problem. Talk to JohnJoe” or “I’ll leave that until tomorrow.” You work all day, every day (and all fecking night sometimes) and there is no pay-cheque at the end of it. There is no sick pay. There is no annual leave. Running a home and organising a family is hard. It is full on. It is stressful. It is exhausting. You might not a get a playslip or wages at the end of the month, but boy, do you work.

Now, Before anyone starts their “Try doing all that AND working an ACTUAL job”, let me stop you right there. I AM a working Mum. I have a very busy, demanding and stressful job. I am fully aware that when I go back to work next week, I will have 3 times more crap in my head to think about than I do today. I know too well how fecking EXHAUSTING it is to trying to juggle being professional and organised in your JOB, keeping your family on top of all the EVERYTHING and trying not to lose your shit completely.

It’s a whirlwind and it’s madness, but do you know what? Just because I have a career AND kids, doesn’t make me better or superior to a Mum who stays at home to work. I envy Mums who can stay at home. I’m blessed that I was able to work part-time last year and that I get so much time off to spend with the girls. I know that. But it’s time for me to go back full time and I’m terrified. I love being at home with my girls, but do you know what? I love my job too. So that’s what is right for ME.

Today, I’m looking forward to dressing in my school clothes and having an uninterrupted conversation and a hot coffee in the staffroom next week. Next week, I’ll be breaking my heart that I’m not snuggled up in my PJs on the sofa, watching Peppa Pork.

But let’s get this straight. The mums who stay at home ARE working. They work full time. They just aren’t on a payroll. (Working Mums get the Children’s Allowance too so don’t even TRY that BS).
I envy the Mums who stay at home through choice, but remember that so many are SAHMs because the RIDICULOUS cost of Childcare doesn’t give them any feckin choice. Many would love to be back in the workplace. Many of them look forward to it. But, the shoe fits both feet. To the Mammies who tut at Career Mums for leaving their children to go to work, remember that you’re not a better Mammy than a Career mammy because you stay at home with your kids.

We all do what we have to do.

I go back to my usual mantra… Don’t be a Sanctimammy.

Just because you do things differently, doesn’t make you better.
Just because you work AND have kids, doesn’t make you better than the Mum who is working her ass off at home.
Just because you’re able to stay at home with your Puking minion, doesn’t make you a better Mum than the Mum who had no choice but to leave hers with Granny.
Every Mum does what SHE has to do for HER family. ANd the only person who knows what is right for your family is YOU.
You don’t know another Mum’s circumstance. You don’t know her. You don’t know if she’s happy, or watching you getting into your car to go to work, longing to be you. You don’t know if she’s driving to work in tears because her Baby cried as she was dropping her off. You don’t know how many times a day the Mammy in the office feels a gutwrenching guilt at being away. You don’t know how the Mum in her kitchen is longing for a conversation.

And if you EVER hear yourself dismissing another Mammy because she’s doing it differently to you, lift your hand, grab that redundant wooden spoon and hit yourself a good hard slap on the arse with it. 😂

Then get over yourself. 😘

Have a Fablis Friday night my Lovelies.
And keep up the good work.😘

I am She’s in Charge Mum

It looks like he’s leading her through the woods doesn’t it? 👇👇

Well. What’s REALLY happening here is that this little Wobbler is leading HIM right up the garden path. Princess has morphed into a Demon.

On Sunday she threw her first FULL BLOWN tantrum. We were out for dinner. She lost the bap. We sat looking at each other like two teenagers, neither of whom had a CLUE what to do or how to react. She was screaming and kicking. I held on tight while Daddy pulled Peppa Feckin Pork up on the phone. #needsmust 😢 She stopped screaming once the music started. I swear to God, she was like a deflating balloon and then peace was restored and the other diners stopped glaring at us…

Granda didn’t believe a word of it. Nooooooo. HIS little Princess wouldn’t do that. Not his wee angel…Nope. Granda got his eyes open today however 😂when we went out for tea to celebrate my little sis’s little brown envelope. Once again, DemonDoll threw a strop in the restaurant. Granda declared her a feral tyrant and declared HIMSELF officially retired from all tantrum duties, now that his own youngest is all grown up. I do believe that after 36 years of parenting MAYHEM, it has taken a Curley haired cherub to finally break him. 😂😂

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl”… and when she was bad, she was TERRIFYING! ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING. 😈😈😈

So as innocent as she might look here👇, dandering up a laneway with her Daddy, from behind, you can’t see the glint in her eye that tells him “I own you Daddy. I own you.”

(In fairness, he’s well used to it. Note what he’s carrying in the other hand… because the OTHER Dollyanna insisted on bringing her scooter and lasted approximately 3 minutes. #rascals #daddy)

Still. I wouldn’t change them for the world. How was your day? I do hope all of the brown envelope Mums are having a large grape tonight and that the Minions have fun and safe celebrations 😚😚😚

I am Some Knickertwisting Fiction Mum

Once upon a time, in an imaginary faraway land, (NOWHERE near Mammy’s house), a COMPLETELY fictional little 5 (and a half) year old girl went for a sleepover to her Hypothetical Granny’s house.

As she was getting dressed the next morning, she showed Granny her new “Big Girl” pants which her very lovely Mammy had bought her, just that week. 😲 She proceeded to put them on and then turned to grab her jeans, giving Granny quite the eyeful.

“Fictional little girl, why have you pulled your pants up between your bumcheeks?” asked a bewildered and bemused hypothetical Granny. “Because they are my Big Girl Pants and Big girls wear their pants up high like this, the same way Mammy wears dem,” answered the fictional little girl, quite matter-of-factly, as if Granny was the silliest hypothetical Granny in the world.😂

The fictional little girl’s fictional Mammy was slightly mortified by the fictional daughter’s “revelations” and only thanked her lucky stars that fictional Granda had been spared the episode, as he was at mass, praying for his good and moral children and their offspring.

*All characters and events are completely fabricated and fictional. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is utterly coincidental and accidental.

(And No, The fictional Mother DID NOT buy thongs for her fictional Daughter. They were perfectly acceptable and respectable undergarments, quite suitable for a fictional 5 (and a half) year old.) 😂😂

I am Song Lyrics Mum

Anyone else not really pay attention to song lyrics?

I like to make up my own.
Whatever words I sing the FIRST time I sing along to a song, tends to BECOME the lyrics forever more.
You should hear my version of Desposita…FAAAAAAR superior to Justin Dweeber. 😂

But it seems that Mini-Me has adopted my poetic lyrical license habit…as I found out IN THE MIDDLE OF A SHOP today when Uptown Funk came on.

We were giving it welly for the “Girls singit alleluia OOOOOH! Girls singit alleluia OOOOOH! Girls singit alleluia OOOOOH… ” , even stopping to raise our hands for the OOOOH! much to the delight of Princess in the trolley.
People were watching.

We didn’t care… we were having fun and getting our funky donkey on to a WICKED tune, until I heard Mini-Me GO FOR IT with the next line…

“COZ FUCK TOWN UP GONNA GIBITAYA,
COZ FUCK TOWN UP GONNA GIBITAYA,
SATIDY NIGHT ANAMINDA ZAW
DON’T BELIEVE ME JUST WATCH!”

…At the top of her voice, before finishing up with a Michael Jacksonesque pose…

I didn’t know whether to applaud or DIE! Usually I don’t correct her cuteyisms, but I reckon this one MIGHT be better rectified, don’t you? 😂😂😂

In other news, it’s The Him’s birthday.

FB_IMG_1502394855481.jpg
The girlies had a lovely evening with their Daddy and now, it’s Bubbles o’clock.

20170810_200338.jpg
He does get quite the battering on here, the poor thing, 😂😂so hit him with some Birthday lurve Ladies. 👇😅😙

Oh and feel free to share YOUR favourite lyrical faux pas with me. 😘

 

I am She’s whistling Mum

Today, Mammy feels a bit like Peppa Pork.

Mini-Me discovered at 6.45am that she can FINALLY whistle. And whistle she did, persistently and consistently, until 7.30pm. It was quite impressive. The only time she stopped whistling was when she was talking, which was quite a bit LESS than most days, as obviously, talking now comes SECOND to whistling.

Now, remember please, that as today is the FIRST DAY of the whistling, for every ACTUAL, succesful, WHISTLY whistle, there were 23 muted, spitty, soundless blows… It was cute until 7.10am. For the rest of the day, it was feckin IRRITATING. She whistled/SPAT at EVERYONE today: shop assistants, friends I bumped into, my buddy who visited, the Grandparents, the aunty, the postman, the guy filling up the petrol… EVERYBODY.

And she’s getting better already. I’m being all Super-soccer-mum, encouraging her and reminding her 36 times an hour in my sing-songy Mammy-of-the-Poppins voice, that “See how good you can get at things when you keep practicing!?” Partially because I’m slightly impressed by her determination ajd partly because Mini-Me suffers from that syndrome I like to call “Why-am-I-not-good-enough-to-be-in-the-Lympics-after-one-lesson syndrome.

But all the while, I’m feeling slightly pissed off and Peppa-ish. See, here’s the thing. Mammy can’t whistle. Never could, never can, never will. And while Peppa could hang up the phone on that bitch Suzie Sheep, Mammy here has to cheer the little spitter along, like her own private fucking cheerleader and pretend to be ecstatic everytime she blows out a feckin NOTE rather than a salivated facefart.

So yes. For the ONLY time in my life, I can empathise with the Pig Prat.

😣😣 But I’m luckier than Peppa Pork, because Mammy is old enough to have a glass of grapes to try to remove the whistling from her ears now that Mini-Me has gone to sleep. 🍷😅

(On another note however, look at what ELSE happened today, 👇👇👇👇 4 x eggs with double yolks!

Apparently it’s good luck? Apparently it means twins? Let’s go with good luck eh? )

How was your Wednesday? 😘😘😘

I am So not ready for Back-to-School Mum

Mammy is super-organised…

Mammy has started her Christmas Shopping.

Mammy has started thinking about next year’s summer holidays.

Mammy has started making plans for 2 or 3 significant birthdays in the family next year.

Mammy has thought so far ahead, that she has hotels AND Babysitters booked for the 2018 weddings she KNOWS she will be attending.

This is how THIS Super-organised-Mum rolls.

What Mammy HAS NOT started however, is thinking about the dreaded HELL that is “Back-to-school shite”.

Mammy HATES this time of year more than you can ever imagine. The Back-to-school Shite now starts in the middle of MAY… Before ANY school finishes up for summer break. May… As in MAY, the 5th month of the year and 4 whole months BEFORE Septemeber? Wtf?

When we were kids, the grey and navy skirts and shirts and lunchboxes and tin mathematic sets with the map of Ireland didn’t appear in the shops until the end of July. And by then, we’d had our weeks of sunshine, siblings, Zig & Zag and nothingness, and we probably didn’t MIND starting to think about the S word.

But now? NOW, Mammy wants to find the store managers who have signed off on putting Back-to-school shite on the shelves in mid-MAY. I want to find them and I want to HURT them. 😠 I want to poke them in the eyeballs with the metal tools in the tin mathematics case… (they’ll be more useful to me now and they were in 1989.) I want to beat them over the head with a cheap plastic-lasts-until-halloween-lunchbox, Snap their noses with elastic neckties and then lock them in a container with nothing but copies of Ann & Barry and Sugradh…but NO PENCIL. 😈😈

But Mammy is a sane and calm lady who would never entertain such thoughts. Since June 1st, I have been increasingly flummoxed by the status updates appearing on my timeline from other ACTUAL Mums who have the Back-to-school shite done and dusted already. I have hovered my finger over the “unfriend” button in some cases, wondering if Bookface would entertain my proposal for an “unfollow until September 1st” button. 😛

Now, if YOU have all the stuffs for all the minions sorted already, good for you. I’m not feeling jealous, or inferior or intimidated by your organisation skills AT ALL. 😂 (There is a slight chance that a psychologisty person MIGHT argue that my anger towards the aforementioned shop owners, and my annoyance at the Super-organised-Mums, stems from my own insecurities and weaknesses being highlighted to me by the clever forward thinking Back-to-school Experts.)

I would argue that NOPE, my anger and flumoxing are perfectly justified. Maybe it’s because I have had to do the Back-to-school shite for 32 CONSECUTIVE years. Since starting teaching, I have managed to avoid thinking about it until the ACTUAL night before school starts, when I sob into my grapes, knowing that summer is over and I have to now dress in something other than my gymgear and that makeup will have to be used every day.

But now, as a Mammy, I DO need to get everyone else organised a few days earlier than when it was just ME going back to school… But, I MEAN a FEW days earlier. I refuse point blank to go near the dark, bleak section of the store until AT LEAST the final week of her holidays. I convince myself that I am more clever than the Early-Back-to-school-organisers, and I browse through what is left over on the shelves of synthetic smelling geansaí and pleated skirts, because at least there is no chance of Mini-Me taking a growth spurt between the Back-to-school shite being bought and her putting them on. 😅 #lazymammywin

See. Clever Mammy. (And pleated skirts? The Gobshite who invented those little bitches needs to be locked into the container WITH the shop owners along with 2000 of those skirts, an iron and an ironing board…)

So go on. Sicken me… Hands up who’s all organised already? 😙

I am “Silly Daddy” Mum

Mammy is usually very good at giving The Him the credit of being a very wonderful Daddy Bear. Usually…

But sometimes, he comes out with something, or DOES something, SO FECKIN DOUCHEBAG, that my brain starts singing Mary Magdalene’s “He’s a Maaaaaan, he’s JUST a man” at full volume and I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at him and put on my “Are you fecking KIDDING me?” face.

Today, The Him returned from Jim and decided to make himself an omelette.

 

20667993_1528192560537179_1429221532_n

Now. given that the minions had JUST eaten their lunches, one might be forgiven for thinking that they would not require more sustenance for a few hours.

But knowing them, especially the Princess, like we do, one would also assume that The Him would have automatically made extra for The Bin that is our youngest daughter.

Nope.

He makes himself a lovely omelette and sets it down on the table. As he turns to get his coffee, The Fudgemonster has already climbed up on his seat and reached for his fork… or as she saw it in HER world… HER fork.

“Hi Wee Woman!” exclaims The Him, interrupting her cutting of the omelette with her finger. “That’s Daddy’s.”

It’s like a slow motion NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO scene from a movie where he has the words out before I can warn him…

She stops.
She stares at the omelette.
She looks up at Him.
She looks over at me. (I’m holding my breath at this point.)
She looks back at the omelette and then slowly puts down the fork…
(I swear to God, a MAFIA boss would have been less sinister in his calmness. I almost expected “Get rid of him Donny” to be the next words out of her mouth and for Bugsy style shooters to jump out from behind the sofa, dressed in 1940’s gear and DESTROY him!)

The Him by this point is realising that he MIGHT have made a mistake…

He looks at her.
He looks at me.
He looks terrified…

And just as the poor cretur is about to appease the situation by handing over ALL the food, Princess takes a breath, quivers her lip, climbs down from the chair and runs towards me, her little cheeks and thighs wobbling in the wind, and launches into THE SADDEST, most Genuine and heartbroken WAIL I have EVER heard.

Poor Princess.
Poor Daddy. He doesn’t quite know what to do.

“Cut off a piece for her and put it on her plate” I whisper. The Him briskly does what he’s told. He puts the plate on the table and says “Princess want some omelette?”

“YEAH!” she shouts, mid sob, before jumping off my knee and making it onto her seat in less than 4 seconds, where she happily munched on the omelette piece, firing dirty looks at her Daddy between bites.

You see, what Daddy didn’t realise, (or forgot, feck knows), is that there are rules about eating in the same room as a wobbler, especially OUR wobbler:

If I see it, it’s mines.
If you make it, it’s mines.
If I smell it, it’s mines.
If it’s edible, it’s mines.
If you cook it, it’s mines.
If you put food on a plate, it’s mines.
If I think it’s yours, it makes it more tasty and more mines.
etc., etc., etc…

How Daddy didn’t know these rules, I’ll never know.
But he knows them now and somehow, I can’t see him making the same mistake twice.

When you break an egg, there’s no going back, is there?!

How was your Bank Holiday Ladybelle?