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 “Say What Mummy Pig?” Mum

Now. You all know how much I love/hate Peppa Pork.

Most days, it doesn’t even register with my brain that it’s on, apart from when Princess screams “Paaapaaaaa!” at the top of her voice at the Tellybox. As much as I despise the nasal whining of Peppa as she bitches about everything her life throws at her, bosses George around, ignores Mammy and humiliates her Daddy for being fat, this squeal of delight from my youngest also indicates to ME that I have 3 minutes to pee, or shower, or breathe.

See? Love/hate. 😂

Usually their little Piggy voices wash over my head. I pay little attention to the spoilt little piggy and her mono-wordallic brother or her poor, underappreciated Mammy Pig (who quite frankly HAS to be mixing her happy pills with gin and valium under the stairs in order to maintain such a chirpy disposition amidst this level of feckin stupidity), but today, TODAY, Mammy Pig said something SO utterly RIDICULOUS and SO obviously STUPID, that my ears had to prick up.

😐 “Naughty Daddy” quipped Mummy Pork. “Look at how dirty your car is!”

Right. Back up there Bacon-arse.

Let’s rewind a second here…😡

In what world, on what planet, in which TIME ZONE, would the Mammy have to chastise the DADDY for having a messy car? Because in the REAL world, the parent who has the children 90% of the time, has the car which is messy. EVERYONE knows that.

Actually, the second the car seat goes into the family car, it transforms magically into a bin on wheels. The floor becomes invisible under mountains of crap, never to be seen again until your youngest is approximately 11 years old. Things get sticky. Things become unsettlingly dirty. Things begin to grow on upholstery…No matter how OCD you are about tidy and clean, any chance you have of keeping a tidy car, go out the window at the same time as your “Eminem” CD or “Book of Mormon” Soundtrack.

Even when you attempt to organise the back seat, you know with wee boxes and containers, all you are REALLY doing, is adding MORE CRAP to the mess; adding MORE STUFF for them to chuck around when you’re driving… So considering that Daddy Pig said that he’d take the family on a car run for “a treat”, thereby suggesting that he is in the car ALL BY HIMSELF 99% of the fecking time, FORGIVE ME for wondering why the fook his car would be messy!?

Because in MY experience, it’s Mammy Pig’s car that is disgusting and dirty and messy, while Daddy’s still looks like it did the day he drove it out of Daddy Dog’s garage and the little Piggies aren’t ALLOWED to eat in Daddy Pig’s car, because they’re never IN IT long enough to BREAK Daddy’s soul or drive him to screaming “Just EAT IT THEN!”

So well done Peppa Pork writers. So much for providing realistic and relevant subject matter in your multicoloured portrayal of the life of piggies. See if it had been Daddy opening Mammy Pig’s car and shouting “WTF is going on with your car woman? It’s fecking MINGING!” I’d probably have sat down with them to watch it.

Fecking Peppa.

Bacon for dinner anyone? 😂

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