Tag Archives: tantrum

I am Seasons Fecking Greetings Mum

Posted in Being Mammy by

“Hello my two minions. How are we at 5.30pm on this Friday evening after a full week of school and routine and mayhem? Shall we go to town and watch the Christmas lights being switched on? It is after all the season of glitter and Santa and smiles and joy. Let us go among the throngs of people and celebrate the official start of the festivities. Oh Joy! Oh Rapture! Let us not consider bedtime and the fact that Daddy is working. Let us girlies go anyway, to make memories and be blessed and potter around the atmospheric street. Mammy is a strong and adventurous Mammy, more than capable of taking you, my little cherubs, in to experience the joyous atmosphere and twinkling lights and seasonal songing from other local children. Let us go-ho-ho!”🎅

Mammy is the biggest Christmas Fairy walking and so my children must have obviously inherited my enthusiasm for all things Santaful… 🎅🎅
Mammy is also a Twat. 🙄

Having allowed one “OOOOOOOH!” at the lights outside the Voodon’t, and permitted me to find a “perfect spot” where we could all see Mr MC and the amazing snow, with a bench for them to stand on and room for Mammy to move, they decided that 3 minutes of chilltime was more than enough for Me.

“I’s cold”
“I can’t see!”
“Where IS Santa?”
“I don’t see any lights!”
“Stop singing Mammy!”
“I don’t wike it.”
“It’s too loud!”
“I need a peeeee”
(I had never intended to have my daughters in a pub toilet. Funnily enough, I never noticed how small the cubicles were. Probably because I haven’t ever had another person clinging to my knees and screaming “My Bum is soaking” in there. Well… if you don’t count that…never mind!)😂😜

Having lost the perfect spot because of the sudden need to peepee, Mammy and her minions struggle through the crowds to find another spot where we can safely stand without Princess being stepped on, or Mini-Me being hit in the face by a flashing fucking glowstick.

Mammy is insistent that we shall smile and grin and be merry and fucking bright, but Mammy forgets that despite the pintsize of the youngest Mini, when she decides she’s DONE with something, she is DONE.

Mammy can smile and grin and be merry and fucking bright all she wants, Mammy is not really in charge.

Mammy makes promises. Mammy makes promises through gritted teeth. Mammy makes threats through same teeth. Mammy allows her laugh to tinkle over the head of the tantruming threenager… Mammy hopes it does not sound as hysterical as it feels.

Princess Demonica takes every ounce of Christmas spirit from Mammy, throws it on the ground and stomps all over it. She then takes her Skye teddy from the handbag…Skye, her most beloved and revered teddy…and FLINGS it onto the ground, so hard I think I hear the teddy cry a little. Perhaps it is my poor self whose cry I hear. She then combusts into hysterics because “Skye is on da gwouuuuuuund!”

The other Doll is channeling her inner teenager, shoulders hunched, hair over her face, bored pout perfected. “Any chance you’d smile?” asks Mammy, desperate for some comeradierie. “I am smiling” she answers, rolling her eyes…

Mammy decides that nothing will ruin our fucking Memory making.

Mammy smiles and dances.
Mammy takes some photos.
Mammy videos the countdown and the faces of her two cherubs, who abandon their crusade to break Mammy for 20 seconds…

Mammy glances around at the other festive fuckers. All the families and children and flashing lights and smilings for the camera and wonders what she did in a past life to have children who are intent on testing the limits of twattery every time Mammy tried to ‘make fucking memories.

And then Mammy sees the other kids who are also protesting at being up past bedtime, or out in the dark, or cold. She sees the other Mammies and Daddies, struggling to carry little people and bags while pushing buggies.

She sees all of the adults who are determined to create a festive atmosphere and make memories for their children, despite the fact that the children give not one shit and would be quite happy at home watching Paw Patrol.

And so Mammy takes a breath, remembers that she is not alone in her deluded notions of festivity, that very few families are actually “pottering” happily around the street, or singing the carols in unison, or being Hallmark worthy… and then Mammy does something incredibly clever.

Mammy bribes the children with promises of Happy Meals and does the side-shoe-shuffle down the street to the car, just before the Santa arrives to add anymore drama to the Llamas.

And so we are in the car, through the Drive-Thru and back in Chez Rushe by the time the other knackered parents and their little Darlings have even thought about moving.

While the rest of the town are sitting in traffic, Mammy is jingling all the way home to do the Bedtime dance with two feral wagons. But despite the stress and #fml moments of the evening, Mammy is glad she insisted. Because thankfully, the only person who remembers any of those, is Mammy.

All they remembered as Mammy tucked them in were the lights and the songs. And really, it’s not MY #memories that are important. It’s theirs.

Because, now I come to think of it, Mammy doesn’t remember anything other than fun and festivities when I think of things MY parents brought me to. I must ask Mum how SHE remembers them! 🤣😂😘

Say Hello to Fricken Freaky Fridays!

Posted in parenting, Uncategorized by
Oh joy, oh rapture!
 
It is Friday; the Friday where the significance of Fridays becomes significantly more significant to those of us who have been #soblessed to have the summer off with our minions. And whether it has been a summer of #pottering and #makingmemories and all of that other instaperfect frankittywank that some love to spout over news feeds, or indeed a summer of #fml and #aretheschoolsopenagain, it is now all but over.
 
And so the significance of routine must be acknowledged and what better way to begin, that to return to Freezerful-Friday dinners and Fricken-shut-up-and-pours.
 
My cleaning and organising was disrupted on too many occasions by demands for jigsaws and poos and general “GivemeattentionNOWs” and so while the washing is done, there was no bleaching and even less cleaning done.
My favourite interruption however, was this one. I had foolishly said no to an icepop before her healthy and nutritious dinner of svelty flattened organical sourdoughed bread, adorned with sunkissed blushing tomatoes, elderflower cheese with emmenthol (great for flus) and thinly sliced prosciutto, gilded with the glitter of a fairy’s dandruff… yes. Pizza.
 
I returned the box of rockets to the freezer and inthe 0.43 seconds I had my back turned, Princess Demonica had turned all 6th Sense on me and opened all the doors in protest.
tantrum
Funny, when I was expecting her, I loved the name Damien for a boy… May have been appropriate enough.
 
The Hellfiend was so speedy in her task that I’m not beyond being convinced that she sprouted 12 other arms or had the help of a few spirits, just to ensure three things:
1. To remind Mammy, with dramatic effect, what new levels of tantrum she is capable of.
2. To convince Mammy to call upon her own spirits tonight. It is a Friday for gin. Grapes shall not cut it.
3. To confirm Mammy’s suspicions that it is probably high time that my dysfunctional little fambam did in fact get back into routine.
 
They do say we learn from our children, don’t they?
 
So Yay to Fricken Fridays and cheers to those of you whose little demons have tried every last significant ounce of your patience today.
Cheers Mammies.
Remember that if you like my Smumblings, you still have an hour or two to vote for me to reach the final of Maternity & Infant Awards for Best Parenting Blogger.

I am STOP that Wobbler Mum!

Posted in parenting, Uncategorized by

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very very good.
And when she was bad…
She threw strops in the shops because Bad Mammy refused to buy her “SVEEEEEEETIES” despite her digging her heels in and having to be dragged out of the shop with Mammy’s not-carrying-shopping-including-eggs hand, past all of the disapproving Sanctimammies who are tutting at the display of Maternal mayhem (TUTTERS!), but who would have been tutting also had Mammy given in and bought the feckin “Sveeties” because THEN Mammy would have been one of THOSE weak Mammies who gives in to every mental whim of her Pintsized Dictator and who is obviously to blame for the whole downfall of the millenial generation, rather than being the strong willed feckin ROCK that Mammy IS by training her minions that sometimes they DON’T GET FECKIN SVEEEEEETIES just because they’re in a shop.

Then when she’s reached the car and is trying to balance tantrum throwing harlot with groceries and eggs, while also ensuring that other child doesn’t get knocked over, the little girl with the fecking curl breaks free and makes a RUN for it….IN the carpark. (Thankfully against the wall of the shop), but nonetheless, fast enough for Mammy to have to fuck the eggs and groceries onto the ground and RUN as fast as her stupid heels would let her… to catch the minibitch who had suddenly developed speed designed only people with the name Bolt to run on circular tracks.

Thankfully Mammy acquired said Mini before she made it into a more dangerous part of the carpark, but not before Mammy had lost her carkeys, which were thankfully returned promptly by the lovely son of a lovely Supermammy who had watched the whole sorry affair started by the Little Girl with the Fecking Curl, without tutting or commenting (because she is nice rather than a tutter) and so Mammy finally got her Princess strapped safely, (if a little more tightly than usual) into the car seat safely and in one piece…

..which is more than can be said for the feckin eggs.

#SweetChristonabikeIneedavalium #Whendidthelittleshitgetsofast
#feckingcarparks
#cutelittlemonster

I am Stoopid Jar Mum

Posted in children, family, parenting, Uncategorized by

Is there anything more frustrating than jars?

You know jars?

With Screw top lids?
“Oh, S-Mum, you are being ridonkulous and melodramaria now.  HOW can you be frustrated by a jam jar, you silly woman?” I hear you scoff.
And usually, I would agree, but tonight, if YOU had witnessed the EPIC meltdown offered by my Princess because S-Mum here couldn’t get a FECKING JAR OPEN, you would not be scoffing.  You would be popping to the shop to buy me grapes.

Yes.

On a Monday.😥

“You want toast Princess of mine?”

“Mmmmhmmmm” she nods.

“Mammy get you toast now.”

“Mmmmmhmmmmmm” she says, wobbling her bum to the fridge, where she stands grunting at it and at me until I open it.

“Will we get out the butter, my cherished cherub?”

“Mmmmmhmmmmmmm” she nods, reacing for the jar of jam from the fridge door.

“You want jam on your toast?”

“BAAAAAAAAM!” she squeals, dancing her happy nappy dance…

“Mammy get you jam surely pet.”
Except she won’t.

NO,

Because this Jam jar has not yet been opened and it seems that its lid has been welded to the jar by trolls, using their extra special concrete mix, which is completely unmoving regardless of how much you twist, or turn, or grunt or swear.
Mammy was certain of ONE thing after a few minutes.
Mammy was NOT getting the lid of the blasted jar. 😭😭
Nope.
Now, let it be known, that I am a stubborn sort of Ladybelle.  I am not beyond smashing a jar (or bottle) with a hammer to get at the contents, but considering that Princess was SCREAMING “BAAAAAAAAAAAM” at me, whilst swinging off my legs, and considering that smashing things would NOT be best parenting practise, I opted to control my temper and distract her.

I was unsuccessful.

She screamed for approximately 13 minutes, before instantly calming herself down when she heard the opening notes of In the Shite Garden and toddling over to chat to Macka Feckin Packa, leaving Mammy a sweaty, traumatised mess in the kitchen.
Did I threaten to hurt the Jam Jar?  Did I promise to smash the fecker off the back step after she’d gone to bed?

Of course not.  That would be mental…
It is sitting on the counter awaiting The Him and his Manliful Muscles to come home.  He’ll pick it up, twist it like a milk bottle and tut at me for being such a girl.

OR.

He too shall struggle with the fecking thing and I will regain a molecule of my sanity, laughing at him.

Fecking BAAAAM…

How was your day?