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? 😘😘😘

It is Feck-it-up FriYay and Mammy has done a wonderful job of fecking ALL of it up today. 😂

Mammy has been asked some very difficult questions today.

In the car, enroute to the paint shop… (because Mammy has realised she is going back to her OTHER full time job in 3 weeks and so doing all of the jobs I have put off for the past 2 years must obviously begin! 😂)

“Mammy, When are you going to die?”
Mammy chokes… “Not for a very long time I hope!”

“Are you going to die before me?”
(Christ alive I do hope so!) Erm, yes Baby, because I’m older, but not for a verrrrrrry long time.

“But who will look after me when you die?”
You’ll be all grown up by then pet. Now let’s talk about something else. What will we have for tea?

“Are Rhinocerouses dinosaurs in real life?”
Erm… No, sure the dinosaurs are all extinct and rhinocerouses are still alive…
“Nocerouses do NOT STINK Mammy. Dat is NOT very nice.”

“Where is Heaven?”
(Feck it.) “Do you not think rhinocerouses stink then?”
“Mammy! Answer me. WHERE is Heaven?”
(Fuckitty fuck fuck fuck…)
“Erm… Some people say it’s above the clouds. Some people say it’s all around us. I’m not really sure…”

“Can I bring my stuff wif me when I go?”
“To Granny’s? Of course!” (Phew!)
“No Silly, to HEAVEN!” (I can feel her rolling her eyes in the backseat.😅)

“So do you just go to sleep and wake up in heaven then?”
Sometimes… Baby these are very hard questions to answer and you really don’t need to be thinking about thisstuff today. Now, what will we have for tea tonight?”
DISTRACT, DISTRACT, DISTRACT… 😂😂

“Mammy?”
(Oh God get me to the paint shop…)

“How do giraffes lie down?”

Alleluia!
I can’t answer THIS obviously. (Is it even a valid question?) But I CAN revert to my favourite answer “I don’t know, but we can look it up when we get home OK?”

And at least if we DID look it up, there’d probably BE an ACTUAL answer! Unlike the other questions.

Who said we should tell our kids the truth?
WTF do you do when you don’t KNOW the answers?

And even if I DID google them, there’s a pretty good chance I still couldn’t give her answers. 😂😂

So yup. Add a “Friday-Fablis-Freezer-dinner” to my USELESS attempts at answering her questions and you’ll see that it wass INDEED a successful Feck-it-up Friday.

Therefore, Mammy feels that it is utterly acceptable and justifiable to pour some grapes… 🍷🍷🍷

How did you Feck-it-up today? 😚😚

Oh and YES I googled it…

http://www.express.co.uk/news/nature/784457/April-the-giraffe-how-do-giraffes-sleep-standing-up-lying-down

I am Stoopid Feckin Waddles Mum

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 Scheme in the Sunshine Mum

Scheming, in the Donegal dictionary, can also mean to intentionally avoid going to school.
Playing truant, mitching, scheming…take your pick.
Last Monday.  I schemed school.
Well, technically, Mini-Me schemed school.

But honestly Teacher, it was my idea.

I didn’t even have to open the curtains at 7am to know that the sun was splitting the rocks in that wonderful way that suggests that today was going to be a scorcher.  It may only be March, but the little weather-predicting farmer in me, just knew that it was going to be fantastic.

I looked at the clock.  I looked at the clothes I’d laid out for her the previous night.  I looked at the blue sky and I knew before I’d even allowed the thought to articulate in my mind, that the blue sky was the only one of the these things that mattered.

My girl was not going to school today.  She was going to scheme.  With me.
We were going on an adventure.

I let her dress herself in whatever the heck she liked.  She chose her favourite dress-up dress; lilac and sparkly and hideously ‘Little Miss’ Pageanty, blue leggings, her gold glittery welly-boots and a multi-coloured hand-knit cardigan that we usually keep for shopping trips.

She added the final touch…a huge pink flower headband and Peppa Pig hat..and announced “Now, I’m perfect!”
And she was indeed perfect.

image

We wrapped the Princess into her pram, sloshed on some suncream and packed a “picmic” of apple juice and Gingernut biscuits.
And off we went on our adventure.

We’re blessed to live in the absolute sticks…  I mean, if you’re looking for our house, you must first find the “back arse of nowhere” and take the third left.  We’re on top of that hill past the house with the fancy stonework.  If you start going down hill again, you’ve gone too far.
Sally SatNav would need three bottles of wine to find us.

It’s Heavenly.  We live on the family farm, a full field away from where I grew up.  So today, I decided it was about time I took my girls on a trip through my childhood haunts.
We wandered only a mile down the road and back, but we went so much further than that.

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We went back to the 1980’s.
Mini-Me saw the tree in the hedgerow that Mammy used to climb with my best friend Roald Dahl, which no longer has the full covering of foliage that used to hide me from my sister and brother.  (A Neighbour broke my heart when I was 14 by getting too happy with the hedge cutter.  It was never the same and my hidden reading den was destroyed.  For the record, I haven’t forgiven him yet.  I’m looking at you Mr. Bellybutton.)

We stood in the deep mud at the gate to the potato field where we used to spend a fortnight “scheming” each Harvest. (“Slave labour” some might say, but what memories we have.  I swear that there is no better taste than jam and clay sandwiches with tea in a plastic flask cup.)

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We looked at the fields where we used to tie the long grass together and run through it, playing ‘Trippies’.

We found a magic stream… a newly dug drain, but humongously exciting.  it required the immediate throwing in of twigs.

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I showed her the gate the the Fairy Kingdom which lies at the border between Dad’s farm and the next.  The old gate has been lying in that spot, above a busy babbling stream, for over 30 years.  It’s rusted, ruined and utterly convincing as an enchanted gate.  It only opens for Fairies in the moonlight…of course.

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We saw the enchanted tree in the middle of the neighbour’s field.  That’s where Pixie Hollow is…obviously.

We saw the “Jungles”; the messy, overgrown batch of whin bushes where my siblings and cousins and I had the most spectacular adventures as children.

And to top it off, as we munched our bickies and drank our juice, Mini-me realised that we were surrounded by glimmering fairies! (Midges…but hey!)
Oh the excitement.

When we returned home, she was buzzing from the fresh air and the fun.  I was buzzing from the nostalgia and from the realisation that while it may not be quite as safe as it was when we were children, my girls will have the same opportunities for imagination and explorations as I did.
They’ll play in fields.  They’ll get wellies stuck in mud.  They’ll have adventures in jungles of whin bushes and they’ll hide up trees with their favourite books.
And where my Mum used to sound the car horn as our signal to haul our behinds back to reality for bedtime, I’ll probably just text them to come home.  Because times have changed.

But what hasn’t changed is the fact that sometimes, you have to simply turn away from routine and convention and go have fun.
And you can’t measure, grade or assess how much a child can learn from simply going on a walk outside with Mum or Dad.

So for one day only, I was Scheme in the Sunshine Mum. (and it was awesome!) 🙂

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I am Sick Baby Mum

SickChildHow do I know when my Mini-Me is sick?  Because I take her temperature?  Because I know the symptoms? Because the doctor says so? Because I just know?

No. (Well OK, Yes.)

But, I know that my particular Mini Me is particularly out of sorts because she presses pause on her life’s mission of convincing me that she hates me, and for just a short time she won’t let me out of her sight!

As the mummy of a Threenager, I am now becoming used to the fact that to her, I am Public Enemy Number 1.  When Mammy says no, she runs to her “wee Daddy Bear” or Granny, or Uncle, or indeed the Dog.  I have caught her sitting beside the beast that is our 6 year old puppy, filling him in on how bold Mammy is.

She uses Mammy to test her boundaries, to learn to use her voice, to establish her tone and to practice all of her communication skills.  Yesterday, she moved on to giving me my full title to denote her discontentment…”Mammy Ria Wushe!” It was quite impressive actually.

I’m often reminded of one of my favourite poems by Sylvia Plath, “Morning song”.  For years, I’ve been teaching the lines

“I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.”

…And while I have always understood the lines, until I became a Mammy, I never really understood them.

I understand them now: I’m nothing but a big puddle into which she sticks her chubby little toe to test the waters of life.

dipping-toe-in-pool-of-possibility

She uses me to learn how to assert herself, and she does it so well that Hubby even admitted this afternoon that she’s a little bit scary!  She uses me to develop her social skills, to suss out how relationships work.  I am her metaphoric punch bag: her dress rehearsal.

So when Mini Me spends two whole days on the sofa, refusing to let me out of her sight; when she says the words “Mammy I neeeeeeed you.” at least a dozen times a day; when I can’t even leave the room long enough to pee without her calling for me…that’s when I know she’s not herself.  That’s how I know that she’s ailing for something or just not feeling her best.

It might come before the temperature or the sniffles or the trip to the doctor.  It might last the whole length of whatever nasty little bug she’s picked up this time.  It might be exhausting, especially at 3am.  But it’s how I’m reminded that despite being her arch nemesis most of the time, I am indeed her Mammy and she loves me.

And I’ll happily admit that while I obviously enjoy hugs and snuggles without the bugs and sniffles, I’ll sit on that sofa in my PJs watching re-runs of RTE Junior until my little Peppa Piggy is better and wants to go splashing in those muddy puddles again.

I am Sick Baby Mum. 🙂peppa