I am Some reality Mum

For anyone who complains that Mummy bloggers portray an unrealistic and ideal life… they’re reading the wrong bloggers.


Mini-Me has upped her Bitch-game this evening. Seriously, there are teenagers with less attitude.
Am trying to remind myself that “a strong-willed daughter will be a strong woman, able for anything the world can throw at her.” Whatever…

Tonight, SHE threw EVERYTHING at me before bed. Tantrums, crying, huffing, puffing and death stares. She threw herself onto her bed, arm across her face, sighing and declaring dramatically “I am just FED UP.” (Looks through elbow to see if she’s getting required reaction.)

I had to leave the room; Part of me laughing at how hilarious she is, part of me DYING a little inside that I saw myself in front of my own eyes. 😳😳😳
Bad Mammy.
Bad, not-doing-anything-right, setting-seriously-bad-examples, fucking-my-child’s-emotional-responses, opposite-of-positive-parenting BAAAAAAD MAMMY.

Deep breaths. Compose oneself. Remember who is in charge…
(Little voice… “She is. She’s in charge you Crazy Woman…”) 😈

I eventually got her settled, read “The Dinosaur that Pooped the Bed” and tucked her in.
Then I came up the hall to THIS MESS.👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇👇


I don’t even know where to start, and so I’m ranting to you, my lovely S-Mummies 💖, to avoid it…

And to stop myself from pouring a HUMONGOUS grape-juice. 🍷😂


I almost puked in public today. 😂😂

Week three of #operationskinnyarse began with the most terrifying and dreaded piece of equipment in the gym…
The mat.
I shit you not. It turns out that the most torturous, challenging, hardcore machine in there is my own fricken bodyweight and a mat.
Who knew?

Hope your Monday was equally as wonderful as mine.
Maybe Winnie the Poop was right! 😂


Over and out…

#SMum #Mammyblogger #Mummy #MiniMeAndPrincess #glammymammy #meandmygirls #parentblogger #RealStruggles #reallife

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I am so mortified Mum

This weekend, I met my threenager.  A work colleague kindly gave me this word on Monday when I mentioned by utter exasperation at Mini-Me’s constant whining and tantrums. It’s perfect.  Attitude, huffing, stomping, screaming and absolute defiance; and all quite out of character.  Thankfully, it seems to have passed and so I’ll happily attribute her shenanigans to her Daddy being away on business for the weekend as opposed to the beginning of a long-term hatred of Mammy.

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Thankfully however, even in the midst of her strops and screeches, she still managed to surprise me.  We were in a local supermarket on Sunday.  I’d like to paint a picture of calm and relaxation; you know where I hum happily as I push her around in the trolley and she sweetly impresses other shoppers by asking for oranges and singing at the top of her voice.  But no.

True to the form of the weekend, Madam refused to get into the trolley, insisting that she push the bloody thing even though she can hardly reach the handle.  By the time we got to the fruit aisle, (aisle 2), she had thrown two full blown tantrums; one over the pushing of the trolley, and one because she “neeeeeeeed buns!”

So when we moved into the next aisle and she seemed happier, (probably because she was holding said buns as if they were the last buns in the shop), I breathed a sigh of relief and carried on.  And then it happened.

A young man was stacking shelves.  He was bent forward over the onions, minding his own business, doing his job.  I had started humming, happy that all was calm again.  And then my adorable, innocent, (mostly) pleasant daughter lifted her little hand and slapped him square on the arse, shouting “Woooohoooooo!!” as she did so…


Tell me.  What the hell does one do when their toddler assaults a stranger while they work?  The victim jumped up, dropped his onions and looked around to see a wee toot grinning up at him, proud as punch of her self! He looked at me with shock on his face.

And then he laughed.  Thank the Lord Jesus and the baby donkey, he laughed.

Mammy on the other hand, turned 50 shades of scarlet and made a futile attempt at scolding Mini-Me while apologizing profusely.  “It’s fine!” he said. “I have a wee rascal at home myself.” And with that statement, all was right with the world.

I apologized again, grabbed the bun-free hand and dragged her off.  She was absolutely oblivious to my mortification and sang her way around the rest of the shop.

By the time I got the frozen food, I had resumed my normal pallor.  And then I started to laugh.  It wasn’t just the slap.  It was the “Wooohooo”.  I don’t even know where or how or why she thought to do it.  I explained to her that we don’t slap people and all I can do is hope that it doesn’t happen again.

“I like buns” she replied to me.


I am So mortified Mum


I am Swearing-Mum

Last night, my Mini-Me said her first proper swear word.

Jeeeeeesus anyway,” she announced as she sat on the toilet.

Now, I know that children will copy what they hear, and I’m quite able to admit that I am no stranger to the odd expletive, but as a family, we do try not to use bad language in front of the kiddies.

Obviously, at some point, we’ve failed.

swearing kid

Not only did she pronounce “Jesus” quite beautifully; She used it in the same context that a grown up might.  She was frustrated (still no poopoo!). She was trying hard and getting nowhere.  She was exasperated and she knew exactly how to express it!

She also knew that it wouldn’t be acceptable, because those pretty blue eyes immediately darted to my face to see how I would react.  She was challenging Mammy.

We’ve been here before.  The first time she ventured into Bad-word-land was with “Shup-up”.  My reaction to that was an automatic scold.  “No!  We do not say Shut-up to Mammy.  That is not nice!”

The result? “Shuppy-up” is what she now reverts to if she wants to push Mummy’s patience.

This time, I was armed and ready. I did what any clever parent would do. I did the opposite of last time. I pretended it hadn’t happened and continued talking about Mr. Poopoo needing to go for a swim.

Not getting the reaction she wanted, she said it again…this time, more slowly and dramatic. (A born actress I tell you.)


This time, I decided to take the bait, but on my terms.

Yes Honey! You saw Baby Jesus in the crib at Christmas! Aren’t you a clever girl?

This wasn’t what she’d anticipated in her brilliant toddler mind, but it seemed to work.  She began to talk about Christmas and Santa and her pretty dress and her Christmas Tree.  And so, I thought I’d won.


I thought that I’d done well.  I thought I was clever. I thought I’d distracted her and had taught her how to use the word properly. I’d turned the word back into what it is, rather than allowing it the status of swear-word.

That ‘Supernanny‘ doll should move into my house to see how it’s done.  I have it.  I’m in charge.

Smug and quite delighted with myself, I carried on with my evening. Husband would be so proud of how I dealt with the situation.  I’d be admired by friends with toddlers when I told them how to deal with their little Darling’s attempts to use bad words.  I might even win a prize of some sort.  I’d start giving lectures to parents on “Expletives and Toddlers: how to survive.”

Then I woke up.

Princess was throwing a strop.  She pulled off her Elsa dress and was screaming about her Tinkerbell Dress.  Whatever she wanted, I obviously wasn’t doing it.  It was one of those tantrums that began over virtually nothing and resulted in fire-alarm pitch screaming and stomping. She stormed into the hall…and suddenly, all of my smugness dissappeared…


So, not only had I NOT dealt with this situation properly, I had given the little genius a way out.  A safe pass.  A golden ticket.  At only three years old, she had manipulated me and my words. What I’d actually done, was teach her how to use it, without getting into trouble.

I was gunked.  My jaw actually hit the floor.  I listened to hear if she’d say anything else.  She didn’t. She was waiting to hear my reaction.  She’s still waiting, because although I actually snorted with laughter, she didn’t hear me.  A few minutes later, she popped her pretty head around the corner. I carried on as if nothing had happened.

I know some people will be disgusted.  I know I shouldn’t have laughed.  I know it’s terrible that a child is able to use language like this.  But I also know, that sometimes, laughing is all we can do.

I’m not a psychologist.  I’m not a child specialist.  I’m not a genius.

I’m a mum.   I’m a mum who, once upon a time, thought smugly that my little girl would NEVER behave like that.  I’m a mum who is learning every single day. I’m a mum who will sometimes just laugh, because really, what other option do I have?

On a positive note, she’s learning. She’s testing boundaries.  She’s experimenting with language.  She’s establishing her little self in the grand scheme of things. And every day, I “Thank Jesus” that she can!

I am Swearing-Mum x




I did a poo tomorrow!” she screams at me. In the mind of 3 year old Mini Me, this makes perfect sense and should be sufficient in getting mummy to leave her alone and stop asking her to “pleeeeeeeeeeeease do a poo in the toilet”.

If only.

We’re potty training.  Actually, no.  She’s been potty trained since Christmas. And I’m a very proud Mum as it really only took a fortnight and 3 wee accidents to get to no nappies/no pull-ups territory.  It’s wonderful.  We can leave the house without a suitcase of paraphernalia.  A spare pair of Peppa Pig pants and a pair of leggings are now popped into my handbag, and off we go!

While I am of course, enjoying the utter joy of carrying my grown up handbags again, (in place of her baby bag/Minnie Mouse backpacks which have served as Mummy’s handbag for the past 3 years), I’m still terrified.

What if she forgets to tell me she needs to pee?  The ball-pool is after all, just too much fun to think of such banal bodily functions

What if she announces that she has to pee while we’re in that bloody retail park in town that doesn’t have a public toilet?

What if she pees herself when she’s away from me, and someone scolds her for not telling them she needed to go?

What if she poops?

Because, my little darling, while “potty trained” for the number 1s, is refusing, point blank, to poo in the toilet.  She promises me every day that she’ll “do my poooooos in da toiiiiilet cos I’ms a big gurl” She proudly announces to Daddy at bedtime that she “dood a poo in the toilet yesterday.” (Her lack of time awareness is quite cute and utterly comical really!)


The reality is that she holds it in for days on end, resulting in a sore tummy, spotty blemishes on her porcelain skin and huge tennis-ball-esque poops protruding from her little toochie as she comes out from her playhouse or from behind the sofa.

She announces innocently that she needs the toilet, then, when she hears the plop of said tennis-ball hitting the water, she beams her sparkly smile, gasps and announces “I dooood it!  I pooed in the toiiiiilet!!”  (usually followed by “I need a Kinder egg” – thanks Granny!)

How do I tell her proud little self that actually, no. You did a poop that an adult would struggle to produce, in your pants, and the toilet/my hands/your little legs are now covered in it. In fact, sometimes, the offending poop looks ironically like a bloody kinder egg! (or in her own words…”It’s only Playdough Granny!”)

I’m living in a playdough nightmare.

I am quite literally. in. the. shit.  And I don’t have a clue what to do.

Everyone is offering advice.  I am taking it all gratefully and have tried everything from blowing bubbles while on the toilet, having whistling competitions to encourage the muscles to move, scolding, blackmailing and crying.  (me, not her!)


I explain to her patiently that Mummy put the poopoo into the toilet, after she did it in her pants, and that she’s a big girl and should tell Mammy next time.  I’ve turned the poos into little crocodiles who want to go for a swim in the toilet with the peepees.  I’ve tried the “You can show Baby Cousin how to do poops in the toilet“… I’ve tried everything.

So, tell me.  What have I not done? And more importantly, what can I do?  Because I know that “it’s just a phase”, “that they all go through it,” and “that she’ll be grand”, but as Mummy, I need to know how to avoid scarring her for life and leaving her afraid of the toilet! And yes, I know I’ll look back on this and laugh.  Yes, I’ll be well prepared for next time and it’ll be a breeeeeeze.

Yes, maybe she’ll just decide suddenly that the fear she has is gone.  Maybe, I’ll have another 3 months of poops in the pants.  Maybe one of my aunties or friends will untap the secret for me.  Maybe I’ll find something that works for us.  Or maybe she’s actually a psychic child and she will “did a poo tomorrow!”

Whatever.  While we wait, I am indeed “Still-no-poopoo-Mum.