Plastic sweetcorn tastes sooo good

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Before you have children you can hand the little angels (little shits only appear for parents) back and go out to get rat-arsed knowing the only thing to get you out of bed the next morning is the urge to vomit or eat salty, crappy food.     Continue reading

….and shake it all about….

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I thought this week would be emotional because I’m going back to work tomorrow (how time flies when you spend your days singing wind the fucking* bobbin up and trying to get a baby wipe out when your hand is covered in shite (lactose intolerance = runny poo after yoghurt btw)).  But then Brexit happened and Continue reading

That’s not my….

IMG_3349I thought I’d recount this last couple of weeks’ events in the style of one of those “That’s not my [donkey🐴, penguin🐧, tractor🚜, Robot 🤖 armadillo 🐢(?)…..] usborne books that we all know so well:

That’s not my child he’s too embarrassing  [shouting “doom on you” (From Ice Age, Hector informs me) at innocent strangers in the supermarket]

That’s not my child he’s too sneaky [scraping the icing off the pastries in Waitrose then licking his fingers and going back for more]*

That’s not my child he’s too aggressive [rugby tackling (after attempt to snatch failed) another child because their football looks better than his (they are the same)]

That’s not my child he’s too crazy [ jumping up and down in delight and refusing to leave a house viewing because he can see his dinosaur trainers (which he’s had for weeks) flashing in the vendor’s mirror “look mummy look mummy”]

That’s not my child he’s too irrational [having a mega head banging meltdown because his crumpet was cut into 3 rather than 2 pieces (despite not being at all troubled by this with the previous two bloody crumpets he demolished – wtf?!)]

That’s not my child he’s too complimentary [about his mummy’s food and has started saying “I love it” after the first mouthful of any food cooked by his mummy (except crumpet above of course – yes toasting a packet crumpet is cooking!?) – bless]

That’s not my child they are too bloody hyper [running around upstairs – (mummy & daddy gave up returning child to bed after 10 attempts) for 9pm at night after being up since f’in 5.25am]

That’s not my child he’s too much of a complete naughty bugger [having flown (thrown) a toy aeroplane at lightening McQueen speed into his baby sister’s head (closely missing the eye!) “for landing”]

Of fuck…..that is my child

Next time….. That’s not my fanny or maybe That’s not my boobies

Ps. That’s not my child their mummy has managed to get both babies to sleep AT THE SAME TIME and get her arse outside for a relax in the sun whoopie woodah when her neighbour’s rat (don’t know breed but they are rat size) dogs start having a fucking barking competition (arrrrrggggghhhhh)

*That actually was not my child but a very good friend’s child.  I found it so hilarious that I mentioned to her I might include it -you know who you are! 😘x

 

Stubbornness – Bish bash bosh

I am not afraid to admit that I’m a little bit stubborn, in fact, I’m really bloody stubborn. It’s no surprise that after marrying a stubborn man (yes we bicker(& yep, we sometimes full blown row), but who wants a boring yes man?! Not me, thank you please), we seem to have created something beyond stubborn. Something called Barry. I know everyone says two year olds are stubborn but, I’m sure, if there was a stubborn-off, Barry would win hands down. Unlike reaching milestones, I’m not sure an outstanding level of stubbornness is something to feel secretly (or overtly, if you are one of those bloody braggy annoying mums) proud about.

I’ve read a lot about two year old behaviour (articles, blogs, books) in the hope of overcoming the stubbornness, not for an easy life or anything, I’m not that naive, but just to bloody get out the house in less than 3 f’in hours (for example) would be a Brucey bonus. Anyway, I have reached the following conclusion from my research which, I think you’ll agree, is pretty ground-breaking and will hopefully change a lot of people’s lives:

NO-ONE HAS A FUCKING CLUE

I thought I’d share a few of the things I’ve tried, feel free to try them, then you can share the fun times. You never know, it might work for you, after all I have the stubbornness champion (not that I’m bragging).

One book says (I won’t name it but the title includes a word that rhymes with lame and that you’d associate with a lion not a human), not to argue or fight with your toddler, it takes two to tango. Fine, this requires minimum effort, I’ll give this a go, I thought. Needless to say it had reached 12pm, Barry was running around starkus, having not cleaned his teeth, had a wash, eaten any breakfast or made a play date but instead he’d ripped two of his books whilst throwing them all off his bookshelf, played “bish bash bosh” with his baby sister (where do they even learn those words let alone violent actions – it’s not on ice age is it? Peppa pig? Must be some unnamed naughty shit from nursery that gets blamed for all not nice behaviour that is obviously not the result of any parenting of mine, no sirry Bob) and made his mummy fail miserably in her act of being completely okay with the whole ‘no fight’ situation. Thanks lion man, this ain’t fucking working for me unless I want to raise feral brute children who never leave the house and smell of shite.

Another one said, give your toddler options which are all acceptable to you when asking them to do something. Great, sounds good, a toddler does love to be in control particularly a stubbornness champ. Here goes:
“So Barry would you like to clean your teeth in mummy and Daddy’s bathroom or the other bathroom”,
“no neither”. [Ffs, Barry that is not a fucking option…..]

So, in conclusion, put another bottle of sauvignon in the fridge…

The ‘kindness’ of strangers

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I managed to get both babies out of the house and on the way to the park by 10ish yesterday. Well done me. Then they both fell asleep in the pushchair on the way there, expected for Edith but Barry – really, all that effort for fucking nothing. I can’t help feel a little bit of disappointment when they fall asleep unexpectedly so you can’t use the time doing something useful like housework (or actually just sitting on your arse having a hot coffee and some unshared food). Miraculously, I made it to Waitrose and even managed to sit and drink my free coffee and eat a cake without Barry waking up!?! Whoopey de doo dah! Halfway through my pain au chocolat, a couple (I want to say grandparent age but that can be anything over 25 so I’d say they were probably in their sixties) came over:

 “your children are so good, we like quiet children”.

“Thank you” [hiding my wtf face and not saying “you obviously don’t have any, that’s such a bloody deluded thing to say”,

and after responding when they ask how old they are]

“oh no terrible twos for you then”. [sarcastic smile and somehow I manage not to say “he’s asleep you fucking numpties, are you bloody stupid, you should have seen him this morning when he was screaming and kicking me because I tried, god forbid, to clean his teeth and wash his face, now piss off and let me finish my cake – I’m on borrowed time!”]

I’m not from the school of thought that children should be seen and not heard, in fact, as you may have guessed from the rant above, that school of thought royally pisses me off. Isn’t the joy of children the fact that, for the most part, they don’t have the inhibitions that society and age puts on you. I think it’s bloody brilliant that I can skip down the street with my two year old singing (him not me, I’m tone deaf so it’s more like shouting) “skip to the loo, skip to the loo my darling”. If I did this on my own, like we might occasionally have the urge to do (or is that just me?!), people would think I was a right honey nut loop. I’m all for manners but when else can you roar like a t-Rex, run around until you are so dizzy you fall over, sing silly songs really loudly, run around naked or piss your pants without being judged?

Back to reality and nursery (woohoo sorry boohoo)

So we made it back without too much stress and, despite having a lovely time, I think we were definitely ready for home. I’m not sure who was more excited me, about wearing some clothes cleaned in a washing machine (without a slight aroma of sick) rather than in a bath or Hector, about being able to mow the lawn (wtf?!).  I do wonder if his enjoyment from this ‘chore’ is because it’s like man cave time. The noise of the machine means he can legitimately pretend he can’t hear me when I ask him to do something like hold a baby while I butter toast (still struggle to do that one-handed) or wipe a two year old’s bottom (possible whilst holding a baby but easier without).

I think Barry felt the crash back to normality yesterday morning when offered a breakfast of weetabix and honey or hoops/loops (btw, I said I would never give my children sugary cereals but then I had children. I realised a huge bowl of hoopy loopies is better than a violent screaming 2 year old eating no breakfast and I concluded that milk teeth are going to fall out anyway).kelloggs-honeyloops2

I would like to say I’m the kinda mum who’d enjoy nothing more than to replicate his holiday breakfast buff-ett choices by making 6 fresh mini light pancakes drizzled with grecofarm honey, 3 soft and chewy waffles and a succulent exotic fruit arrangement washed down with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice (M&S – I am open to offers to do your voiceovers) but I have got much more important shit to do in a morning ………….. like pick cradle cap flakes out of Edith’s hair (would vacuuming it be unacceptable because it’s takes feckin ages and still looks like she’s fallen in puff pastry?) or sponge toothpaste (or is it snot?) off my shoulder with a wetwipe because I can’t be arsed to change my top again.

[On a  sidenote, if I was trying to be the kinda mum mentioned above I’d be buggered if BBC goes ahead with its plan to delete 11,000 recipes http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-36308976  – I love their recipes – they have absolutely everything you could ever dream of making and with simple instructions – don’t do it BBC – noooooo!  Some people have advised that you take screenshots to save ALL of your favourite recipes before it happens….hmm, I don’t think these “people” have children….and if they do they’re probably the type to be cooking them fresh fucking waffles every morning without needing a bloody recipe anyway. Losers.]

We briefly considered not sending Barry to nursery yesterday. When I say “briefly” I mean the length of time it took my brain to compute my Dad saying “you’re not going to send him tomorrow are you, he’ll be really tired” and me replying “we’ll see how he is”.  In other words, yes we bloody are, we’ve had him for two weeks 24/7 and although he’s awesome and has been well behaved (apart from the times when he’s been a complete little shit), I need a bloody break, oh and it’s good for him to get back into his routine, socialise (ie. not throw sand in people’s faces like on holiday) blah de blah…& the other more socially acceptable reasons for him still going to nursery while I’m on Mat leave.

Of course it has been strange not having Barry around over the last two days after the holiday and I have really missed him.  I’m looking forward to spending the next couple of days trying to entertain him, I wonder if I can avoid softplay despite the forecasted rain…hmmm.

 

Poo, wee and a jet ski

image.jpegWell I’m weeing out of my bottom again, I should probably have a day of eating plain food – bread, pasta etc but that would be a bloody stupid thing to do during two weeks of an all you can eat buff-ett.

Last night my family had the rascals so that we could have a child free night (but not so that we could be those grumpy shits frowning at other people’s rascals – obvs!). What a treat. We agreed to no talking about the children and then looked at each other with genuine concern – “wtf are we going to talk about?”. We needn’t have worried there was plenty to talk about with a “dinning menu” including “a shank of lamp”, a training/incompetent waiter who left an aroma of beau when he poured your wine and a honeymoon couple outside having a “romantic” photoshoot (gosh we’re so in love and having such a wonderful honeymoon I’m just struggling to look like it as I stand on a fucking wall with the sun in my eyes, sand blowing in my face and a hairy beer bellied weirdo following us around with a camera like a dirty pervert).

We had a lovely meal then looked at each other at 8.40pm (having agreed at 7 to go for a drink when we’d eaten before going to see the babies), “pick them up and straight to bed?” – “yep”. And this was not for naughtiness but because being in bed by 9.30pm to sleep since having children is actually bloody lovely.

Glad we had an early night because today involved:
-B being taught to do a sea wee by his Aunty (one of life’s essential skills I think you’ll agree!) and him still insisting on taking his swim trunks off first then realising the sea’s too cold on his willy winky without them. So resorting to the usual “outside stand up” wee but not in a hidden spot, oh no, right on the edge of the water facing the whole bloody beach.

-Husband taking B for a jet ski ride and getting it stuck wobbling precariously on rocks, forcing me to stop watching because I felt so fucking sick with fear. Only you – you bloody plonker! The two of them buzzing, non-plussed after.
-E full on vomiting 3 times, one of which we ended up actually putting the hotel highchair in the shower (we’ve been giving her tea at 5 in the room so she’s asleep in pushchair (ha fucking ha!) when we go to dinner). Don’t worry we did take her out of the highchair first – not sure why though.
-B wetting himself in his best holiday outfit (I loved it) while watching a film on his bed just before we left for dinner – “Daddy the film has finished”

“and what’s that B?” [pointing]

“[looking down after being reminded he’d been sitting in his own piss for a while] Oh yeah and I’ve had a wee wee, can I watch cars now?”. Love a 2 year old’s priorities.

This was after not quite making the toilet when getting out of the bath and shitting in it! It was a shock for both of us because he’d had such a fuck off huge poo before his bath that it could have come from a T-Rex. Thought he’d be done for at least another day…
-Finally, throw into the mix, heat, mind numbing, sweaty, 31 fucking degree heat!

We’re going on a roadtrip tomorrow, to Spinalonga (former leper colony) that the book “The Island” was based on, apparently. I haven’t read the book never mind I’m sure we’ll enjoy the boat trip to get there 😊.

Don’t read if you are eating!

I’ve not decided yet how many times a week to post. I know you are meant to be consistent but I’m going to go with: when I feel I have something to say or when I’m sat on the toilet weeing out of my bottom and need to pass the time.

After a few lovely hours on the beach on Friday, I now have my usual uneven redness. This time it’s sections of my right side, half of my left calf, and there’s also a white bit looking like Japan (/a banana) on my right shoulder. What is it with my complete fucking inability to apply suncream evenly?! Every holiday I do it, it’s now a predictable source of amusement for my husband (that and my “toe fingers” (I have long toes) which come out in summer) – great!

Anyway, patchy redness aside, the first week of our holiday has not quite been the relaxing fun break we imagined with us all taking it in turns to be poorly. E was the last, she was really sick when she was asleep in the pushchair while we were in the bar having nice times.  By nice times, I obviously mean me standing in the middle of the bar (thanks B, so wanted to show off my sexy tan) drinking prosecco while he ran in circles around me until he got dizzy and fell over (not too different to my days at Uni in Bobbi Browns nightclub actually). He kept knocking into a particular couple’s table.  They’d used the babysitting service to have a romantic child free evening so weren’t finding it quite as hilarious as he was – grumpy shits – “run faster B, run faster, do your aeroplane!”.

So, back to E’s sick 😝. It was that sick that comes out so bloody fast and in such an amount you actually don’t know what to do with yourself – secretly wanting to just run and take cover but instead having to pick your dripping baby up (thinking yet another load of bloody clean clothes ruined – ffs). Well it was too much for Dr Beck to handle that’s for sure and despite hours of scrubbing the pushchair (with hotel shampoo, Dr Beck ran out) it still bloody stinks of sick – lovely aroma next to your table at dinner. And you know the worst of it – we had to leave a half drunk bottle of prosecco in the bar to run back to the room. 😩

Things are looking up though, it’s another sunny day and today my brother, sister, mum and dad arrive (I used to think people going on holiday with parents post-16 were weird!). Halle fucking lujah, whoop woo, yahoo, booyah bring on the 6 adults (child entertainers) to 2 children ratio and more importantly cocktails, finished bottles of prosecco and nights not spent showering, rinsing and scrubbing a bath full of sick covered clothes (I refuse to pay €5 euros for the hotel to wash a pair of children’s socks – €5 feckin euros – do they not realise that’s twice maybe more than I bought them for in La George or l’Alday?!). Jokers!

No prizes for guessing our room..making the place look scruffy – the pikeys that we are.

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Yay it’s sunny

Sun is shining, head still pounding but more like being hit by a Nissan micra than a double decker bus.

Breakfast was uneventful apart from another explosive vest staining poo  – thanks E, Dr Becks travel wash does love your poo. So much, in fact, that s/he thinks it should stay…forever.

With the wind feeling less like a gale force (apart from my bloody arse – one drawback of breakfast buffet fresh fruit), I decide we should brave the beach.  With as many plastic beach toys as we can carry, we walk with a very excited 2 year old (he does love to dig dig dig) to the end of the beach.  This is where the luxurious looking tents with the comfy sun beds that are reminiscent of my honeymoon (what a world away).  Hmm there are quite a few empty so we ponder which one to choose…

“Kalimera”, a hunky tanned man in a white polo shirt approaches. “Kalimera”, I reply, proud that, after almost a week, I now know a Greek word. I am hoping he’s going to hand me the bar menu so I can have my fourth coffee of the day (it’s 10am but truffle pig was out in force last night).  Unfortunately, he wanted to check what our room number was to inform us that this area is exclusively for use of the villas (which we are not in) and we needed to go to the less luxurious end of the beach. “Let me help you”.  Despite saying it was fine we could push the buggy there, he insisted on “helping” us by bloody frogmarching us off the exclusive luxury bit to the, well not so luxurious, end. Thanks for the humiliation, tithead.

We probably would have been frogmarched off after a bit anyway when B insisted he wanted “an outside wee” and thought it acceptable to throw stoney wet sand on other people’s sunbeds.

Yep, we are more at home here.  Less tanned toned bodies and I don’t feel so bloody stupid wearing my 2 year old’s minions cap (I never thought I’d find a benefit of having a ridiculously small head!) because I haven’t got a wide rimmed sexy straw sun hat like some sophisticated mumma.

So:

+Husband (he’s not a sun worshiper – will add to the many reasons why I married him) is digging with B;

+B is happy and covered in sand that’s stuck to him after a slathering of suncream. [Said]  “Yes you can squeeze the tube, here you go – stop stop” [not said] “oh ffs – I’m now going to have to cover us all in an inch of factor fucking 50 so as not to waste it.” So no chance of a slightly less translucent skinned mummy returning from holiday then, great.

+ E is refusing a morning nap but is chilled in pushchair watching them.

Happy days – Do I tempt fate by getting my kindle out and lying back on the sunbed. Sod it…..

Oh E, sorry did you see me get a distraction from motherhood and some inkling of my former life out. I do apologise.  Here let me make it up to you by moving my suncream smothered stripped (to bikini – brave I know) into the bloody shade to entertain you and hold you up (not quite mastered the sitting up yet – working on it – when I remove her from my hip where she has spent the first 7 months of her life, oh and tummy time – we’ll get to that too!).

Enter super daddy -to take E for a walk up the beach with B to collect stones.  And despite the time and freedom to sit in the sun and read my kindle, I choose to watch my beautiful family laughing in the sun and feel happy that an inkling of my former life is enough to make me realise my present one is so much better 😊 and who wants to lie on a beach in some fancy fucking tent anyway!