I am “Sit on my knee” Mum

On my Knee.”
Today you are poorly,

My precious wee lamb.

Today you need Mammy

And right here I am.
I’ll sit right beside you

I’ll rub your wee toes

I’ll clean up your mess and

I’ll wipe your wee nose.
I’ll kiss all your fingers and

rub your wee face

I’ll not give a damn about

the state of this place.
I’ll cuddle and snuggle you,

I’ll let you complain

You don’t understand

this feeling of pain.

To see you feel poorly

It breaks Mammy’s heart.

I’d take every ounce of it,

every last part,

To make you feel better,

To make you feel fine,

I wish with my essence that

the sickness was mine.

And whether you’re sniffly,

or puking or hot,

You’ll sleep right on top of me,

not in the cot.

And yes this is minor

and yes you’ll be fine

But I am your Mammy

And your pain is mine.

So today, there are so many

things I should do,

But none of those things,

as important as you.

The world won’t stop turning

if I stay here with you,

Some days I’m just “Mammy”

Cos only Mammy will do.

So cuddle your Mammy,

Just sit on my knee,

When you need your Mammy,

right here I will be.
xxx Mammy xxx

I am “She told the truf” Mum

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!) πŸ˜‰

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?” πŸ˜‘πŸ˜‘
Case closed.

She was right. πŸ˜‚

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? 😘😘😘

I am “Stop it with ‘the joys’ please” Mum

“Oh the joys,”  they say.
“That’s the joys,” they say…
“The joys”… just the joys. Nothing else needed except raised eyebrows and knowing nods.
The joys.
Let me tell YOU about “the joys”.
There is nothing JOYFUL about “the joys”. 

There is nothing JOYEOUS about “the joys”.
THE JOYS are an absolute pain in the feckin posterier and should actually be renamed “The Shites.”
Today, while Mini-Me frolocked like a lamb in the sunshiny garden, myself and the feral one remained on the sofa. πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡πŸ‘‡

She screamed. She cried. She writhed in pain. She clawed my face if I moved. She lost her fricken mind if I breathed wrong. 😭😭😭

Why?
Because she’s teething, cutting a nasty big tooth.
The joys…
Baby has colick… “That’s the joys”

Baby won’t sleep… “The joys”

Toddler throws tantrum… “Them’s the joys”.

Wobbler knocks Sister off her seat”… “the joys”.
All the shite parts of being a parent get labeled as “the joys”.  As usual, parents for generations have been unable to call them what they are.  God forbid you might actually admit that some parts of mammyhood are SHITE.
Christ alive.  Call Childline!  Mammy is not full of the joys and smiling manically and counting her blessings and smug on her Mammy perch, instagrannying the crap out of all her fecking “joys” #soblessed #takethosechildrenawayquick 
No. 

 Instead, when we see another parent type dealing with something horrid, like a screaming baby or a teething toddler, we indirectly remind them that they should be happy and smiling and grateful for “the joys.” 
And yes, OF COURSE these things are part of being a Mammy, but sometimes, we need to stop the facade and call a spade a spade. 
Some days, (especially those where your 18 month old is in so much pain that you seriously consider raiding Granda’s cow meds because you’d honestly pull out  your own teeth to make her feel better)…THOSE days are not Joys.
Those days are Shite.
Pure, absolute and unadulterated SHITE.
“The JOYS” come only after the Calpol has kicked in and the screaming has stopped and you know she’s not in pain for the next wee while anyway.

THEM’S the ACTUAL joys.

Quiet is Joyful.

Sleep is Joyeous.
How was your day? 

Did you enjoy the sunshine?
Don’t think me a wench if I say that I DO hope you all got your arses burnt… I’m not. But if you were out frolicking in it, Them’s the joys. Suck it up. πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‰
#thejoys #fml #badtoofs

Have you caught my Facebook page yet? There’s great banter most evenings on it. @the.s.mum 

I’m on Instagranny too. @the.s.mum 

I am “So the MAIN the the Baby Books forgot to mention” Mum

For my final instalment of β€œI am Some Things the Baby Books Forget to Mention Mum”, I shall impart THE most important truths that any Mammy will EVER need to read.  πŸ’‹
Thousands upon Thousands of Baby and Parenting Books have been written, all offering varying information and facts to expecting parents.   I don’t dismiss them all. Most are afterall, written by experts. 

 

An expert in parenting I am not.
Of course I bought them when I was expecting Mini-Me.   What benefit did I get from them? 

Honestly?

 I loved reading about the development of my little Bubba each week, looking at pics of what she looked like and imagining my own little alien growing in my belly.  I read every last word of β€œWhat to Expect” and drank up all the information…
Forewarned is forearmed isn’t that what they say?πŸ˜…
But what was the main lesson I learned?  
Well, from the minute you walk in the door of the hospital, anything you have read or researched goes straight out the window, faster than any drug kicks in.  

You are not in control. 
Even the most informed and prepared Mama Bear is not fully in control of the birth. Anything can happen. And more shockingly, the second your Baby arrives, any idea that you had about being in charge or in control, disappears instantly.
All the plans and informed decisions about routine, feeding, changing, habits, EVERYTHING, become memories as your little one takes you on a journey.  
THEY are driving.  They are in charge.  What they need, you give them. Where you are going, is on an adventure, blind as feck and having no idea where you’re heading.  And on this adventure, there is no room for BS Bibles.  
So while maternity books and guides are necessary (first time anyway!), it’s the parenting books that I have issue with.  Why?  Because they often create unachievable goals and, like everything, they suggest that if you are not doing things they way the book outlines, that you are failing.
So what are the only things that EVERY PARENT needs to know?

1. Follow your instincts

And 

2. You’re ALREADY doing a great job.
“Sleep when the baby sleeps”…Yeah right.

“Baby should eat at x hour intervals”… Newsflash. Baby will eat when it’s hungry.  He’ll let you know.

“Bath your baby every night”; feck off

“Don’t start them on solids until”… yeah, whatever. 

“Your Baby should be…”  Let me finish this sentence off for you…
Your Baby should be fed and loved.  THAT is all. 
And whether you breast-feed or bottle-feed, wear your baby or push him, co-sleep or cot, in your room or nursery, use pampers or mamia, Baby led wean or…just wean, dodee or not,  IT DOESN’T MATTER.
How you care for your minion is YOUR business.  
If you need help or advice, ask for it.

If you feel that something is wrong, follow your gut and don’t be dismissed by anyone.

If you look at other parents and think they’re better than you, stop comparing yourself.

If you look at other parents and think you’re better than them? Get the fuck over yourself.

 

SO there.
Follow your instincts, Do what’s right for you, and most importantly, even covered in puke, stinking like a chicken coup because you haven’t showered in 3 days, jibbering from lack of sleep and riding the hormonal rollercoaster, You’re already doing a great job.
You’re brilliant and your minions wouldn’t have you any other way.
You’re THEIR world.  You’re all that they know.  You are all that they need.  You are enough…
They don’t need a book to tell them that… neither should you.πŸ’™
Some days will be chaos on a plate.  Others will be jigsaws and giggles.πŸ’–πŸ’–


Whichever it is in your house today, Keep ‘er lit Mama Bear.

 You’re fablis xxxxxx

I am She goes, He Goes Mum

Β  “OH DU TOILETTE…”

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The Throne…

Becoming a Mum brings with it many wonderful and exciting changes for parents. The “books” will tell you how new babies will test even the strongest relationship. Β They do not tell you that one of the biggest bones of contention between parents is the process of the poo.
Let me explain…

(Read alΓ‘ David of the Attenborough on a wildlife show…)
The female of the species becomes quickly skilled at excretion. After childbirth, despite possible Β complications and difficulties with the bladder, she will quickly evolve into a bladder controlling machine. Caring for her young is always a priority. Even with a full bladder, the female can retain control under duress and highly stressful conditions, often balancing her offspring on her abdominal area. She is strong however, and will wait for the perfect moment to pounce on the elusive porcelain. Β When the opportunity presents itself, the Mama will swiftly and skillfully do what she needs to do.
The female can relieve a full bladder in 8.5 seconds and it has been said that faecal excretion can take only 5 seconds. (Evidence of this has not yet been acquired as the female is so skilled and speedy that scientific equipment is not fast enough to measure the act.) Β The female performs the essential and necessary act of excretion faster than any other species, and often with up to 4 of her young hovering around, or indeed ON, her. Β Cleanliness is swift and onehanded in many cases. Other species have yet to evolve at the speed of the human Mammy.

The male of the species is entirely different.
The male is special. He makes quite the production of the animal act of excretion. The bathroom must be empty of all young. The atmosphere should be peaceful and relaxed in order for the full joy and relaxation of the event. Full concentration is required. Β Men have evolved to require the help of a handheld device for the excretion process. Tablets are acceptable but the clever male prefers the mobile phone, as it can be sneaked into the room, past the female, more easily. Β The male may require anything up to 45 minutes for the process.
It is very difficult and he ensures that the importance of and difficulty of his excretion is heard by his female if she dares to question the length of time he has been in his throne room. “I’m IN THE F$#€** Toilet” may he roared in a manly way, by the manly man, during his manly process, if he perceives disapproval or tutting from the female outside the door. Β The delicate procedure is prolonged and made easier for the male by perusal of Bookface or Instagranny for the duration. This device aids in the relaxation required for the faeces to remove itself from the manly male posterier.

Sometimes, for reasons as yet unknown to scientists, the male will remain on the porcelain seat for much time after the act of relieving himself. It has been suggested that this is an avoidance of the reality of the children who are not allowed to bother him while in the special pooping room. This is not yet proven, but breakthroughs are expected in the near future as female scientists are working on remote controls to switch off the prolonging devices. Other exciting developments are self flushing timed toilets, although there are fears that such a device might be mistaken for self cleaning.)
The male reappears into the homestead calm and relaxed, thoroughly relieved and oblivious to how long he has been in the bathroom. The bathroom and the rest of the world have different time rules when the male excretes… what he feels to be 5 minutes, is often 37 minutes by the female’s observant and obsessive count…

The male excretion ends with a ceremonial greeting by the female which can be high-pitched and erratic.

This process remains as such until the female completely loses her mind and screams so much that the children become afraid to interrupt her, or they finally reach the age where watching Mammy poo is no longer interesting or exciting…

The Male checks his phone and wonders what all the fuss is about.
#takeashitalready #soblessed #peeinprivate