Mummy and Me – the answer to all your mum-style troubles?

It’s safe to say that my sense of style was expelled, and presumably disposed of, alongside my placenta.

It was probably incinerated, or else is sat rotting in a landfill somewhere in a yellow bag with a black skull on it. (Funnily enough, something I’d now wear, and an indication of how fashion lost I am).

Since the Small People came along I have struggled to get into my mum-style groove.

Not that pre-kid me was all that groovy either – but she most definitely wore less yoga pants and black leggings. Also, less shapeless cheap tops with easy boob access – the ones I swore I’d shrink out of when, you know, I stopped breast feeding lost all the baby weight. LOL!

I’ve basically got no idea what suits me anymore – largely because my boobs, waist and stomach are either not where I left them, missing in action, or generally migrating south.

Plus I don’t have the time or inclination to shop anywhere outside of Tesco, and I dress each day at random from a disorganised pile of unsorted, un-ironed washing that never makes it back into my wardrobe.

The 5 year old has a better (admittedly eclectic) sense of style than I do.

But I have recently discovered online a phenomenon that I feel sure will lift me out if my style rut and propel me into ultimate yummy mummy-dom!

And I haven’t just discovered it – I’ve become obsessed by it. It’s basically turned into my new hobby, and I’m pretty sure it’s why the whole internet was invented. You heard me, lolcats! Move on over.

It’s called Mummy and Me,,. (or Mommy and Me, because it started in America, OBVIOUSLY) and it’s either super damn cute or super bollickingly awful – I can no longer trust myself to tell which.

It preys on your womb-maddened hormones, your sleep-deprivation, your night-feed surfing addiction, your post-partum identity crisis – and your maternity leave budget.

It’s cheap, cheerful, and EASY, because you don’t have to do any thinking – you just wear exactly the same as your kids! Amazeballs, right?

 So let’s explore this brave new world of wearable opportunity! We’ll ease ourselves in with the leggings.

Fed up of black? Shows up the milk spit, toothpaste and snot, amiright? If they’re anything like mine they’re also getting bobbly and/or threadbare and losing some of the elasticity. Invest in some funky patterned numbers! Perfect for the British summer! And available for your mini-me too. What is not to like?

I am genuinely tempted by these….

Already got semi-ironic family Christmas jumpers? Add in the leggings! You know it makes sense! No one else was getting the irony, anyway! (Hats optional).

Now you’ve wet your feet, why not dive in and branch out into bolder prints?

Ok, we may have gone over-patterned, now. Maybe. I’m not sure.

I do know my kids would adore and admire the hearts, and I basically need to take the compliments where I can get them these days.

It’s fine to dress like a children’s TV presenter to please your smalls, right? I mean Timmy Mallet at least had A style, which is more than I have. I say go for it. Who knows? You might break out into spontaneous family yoga!

Okay, it’s time to step away from the leggings and broaden (literally) our trouser horizons. How about these?

I love the boho style, and they’d be nice and cool for summer (give or take the possibility of thigh chafing). Could even be slimming if high-waisted enough? I’d team with a black vest, and some massive sunglasses that make me look like a fly. (I don’t actually like these, btw, but they seem to have become very popular and I think the scale will throw my vest-exposed upper arms into some sort of proportion).

Also, obvs, this is an unmissable opportunity to teach your smalls the MC Hammer running man dance, and sing the one line of ‘Can’t touch this’ you can remember! Bonus!

Let’s stay with boho, but add in a modern pattern twist. I really, really want these sorts of things to work on me. It’s the sort of voluminous garment I always convince myself will skim and disguise my bumps and make me appear smaller than I actually am.

In reality I just look like a sack of potatoes. A deluded, spotty/stripey, sack of potatoes.

The only people who can successfully pull off the voluminous style are wafer thin people, who can basically pull off tight stuff too, which seems terribly unfair.

Sadly, not even the second model kid is looking convinced by this one. That’s a ‘What the fuck, ma?’ face if ever I saw one.

Now this next one is more like it! I can see me strutting this one along a sunny promenade/plaza somewhere European – perhaps with an oversized sun hat and almost definitely with a sangria. Ole! (Note to self: may not look quite so vacation-chic in South Devon).

I love the empire line, and the Big Small would look cute beyond words in a maxi! It just needs a cropped denim jacket and bangles (neither of which I own).

Let’s stay on the beach! How about this super sunny and cool cotton* number? Although I’m worried Mommy and Me fashion is overly obsessed with pineapples…

*Warning. At £10.99 may not be ***actual*** cotton.

Don’t worry if you’re a Dad, or have a boy-child! Mummy and Me have thought of that too…

Three words for you, now. Tassle. Hawaiian. Shorts. With lace up gladiator sandals! Nuff said.

Apart from, how fucking cute is that kid??? My uterus is throbbing. Damn you, manipulative Mummy and Me people!!! You are playing on my hormones, and affecting my shit-dar – which is already on the blink.

Perhaps over leggings??

Don’t let your Mummy and Me commitment falter in the pool, friends! They’ve got you covered (more or less) there too… Channel your inner Ariel with this mermaid one piece, or go 50s Mickey Mouse with this polka dot, high-rise bow bikini…

Now there are some people out there who think middle aged women shouldn’t be wearing leopard print, or that dressing small girls in leopard print is ‘chavvy’. I am not of their number, and frankly they take their elitist fashion/class shite and bugger off.

I personally am at one with my inner Bet Lynch! I reckon this one is all about the styling. I’m going with some gladiator sandals, and a loose fitting navy blue blazer. Maybe glam it up with hair in a smooth and elegant chignon. (Don’t actually know what one of these is and have almost certainly never achieved one, but I’m sure there is a YouTube tutorial).

Natural make-up, methinks (something I DO achieve, daily, by the novel means of not putting any on. YouTube tutorial to follow).

Oh Mummy and Me, you may have lost me on this next one – desperate though I am to cleave to the horror/wonder of your genius.

I’m prepared to support leopard print, but I draw the line at this amount of pink jersey on anyone over the age of 6. Going on to decorate it with doily lace adds insult to injury, and is the haberdashery equivalent of polishing a turd.

It’s so overly girly you have to wonder what it’s trying to make up for. I imagine it’s what an alien trying to pass as female would pick to wear after ten minutes internet research on ‘girly clothing.’ It’s also probably not going to do the mummy lumps any favours. (Possibly something you don’t have to worry about if you’re extraterrestrial, so long as it hides your tentacles).

I feel qualified to attack this monstrosity mostly because I ALREADY OWN IT – admittedly in pajama form. In my defense, it was the only summer option available in size 18 from Abbeydale Road Tesco about a week after the Small Small was born. It includes labia-garroting maternity shorts, which also act as a rudimentary contraceptive due to their penis deflating qualities –

on second thoughts, this one may be worth reconsidering! There’s only so many times a girl can have a headache or be on her period, after all.

Look, I think we’ve reached rock bottom now. It can’t get worse than that.

Ah.

Okay, my bad. I hadn’t considered what would happen if you added in turquoise lace. But, really, who would do this???? God, my eyes. It burns. Next please.

WTF, Mummy and Me? Just because you’re doing Mum and Daughter fashion doesn’t mean it’s okay to dress them both in romper suits!

Nope, nope, nopity nope. Also not okay to dress them in top to toe cartoon characters. That’s taking the children’s TV presenter thing too far, even for me.

Sweet Jesus, they couldn’t even get the models to put these pinstripe dungarees on.

Leaf it out, Mummy and Me! Don’t make me find another internet window-shopping hobby!

Fuck, no.

NO MORE PINEAPPLES.

Now you’re just being silly.

Mummy and Me, I am relying on you to save me from myself! To end my style drought! Don’t desert me in the fashion desert now!

Okay, this is actually better!

I mean, why the hell not? Babies get to have their professional first photo shoots, and it’s all tutus and headbands, wicker baskets and sheepskin rugs.

Don’t let the selfish little half-pint prima donna take all the limelight!

You pushed her out, the least you should get is your own bloody tutu and chance to strut your mum-stuff on camera! You work it, girl. Go full-on Sarah-Jessica-Parker-Carrie-Bradshaw! In fact, demand your own fucking cake smash. You deserve it.

We’re back on track, folks! Mummy and Me has redeemed itself!

Got more than one daughter? No problem! Many kid sizes are available, so you can ALL dress the same! And then go for long woodland walks, apparently.

The kid-matching outfits is something I swore I’d never do to my kids, having grown up with an older sister and being forced to wear the same outfits. (Only I got to wear them twice as I also got the hand-me-down. Grrrr).

Like many of my pre-kid parenting goals, however, my pledge to spare my children this particular indignity has gone and truly out the window. (Hence I’m now considering compounding the indignity by joining in).

It’s just soooooooo cute having a Big Small and Small Small trundling around being match-twins!!! Awwww. (Yes, I sort of hate myself, but the kids broke me, so they’ve got no one to blame. I never did mushy ga-ga cutesy shit until they came along).

Look, fuck it, if you’re going to escalate the matching thing to include yourself, why not go the whole hog? Get ALL of the pineapple shit for Mum, Dad, and every child! In fact, don’t stop at just immediate family members! Invite aunties, uncles and random members of the public to join your fashion cult!

I call this approach the everyday bridesmaid look. Check out that floral and stripe combo! That’s pattern clashing, that is, and I’m pretty sure it was a trend thing in like, 2012. That’s close enough for me.

I could totally pull this off. I’m thinking Dr Martin black boots and sea salt spary messy hair. Who’s with me????

Next!

LOVE LOVE LOVE this one. American Beauty meets Laura Ashley.

Perfect for a wedding! Red fascinators for all! Nude sandals – otherwise you’ll go over board on the co-ordination, AND WE WOULDN’T WANT THAT, WOULD WE? [Heavy irony alert].

Right this is the last one, I promise. (I think I may have an actual addiction – send help).

Lumberjack leather.

YES.

I’m not entirely sure what the rules of acceptability and taste are around putting small children in faux leather/pvc. But they do come with their own baby powder (which I’m told can help you shimmy into your chosen item) so I think that tells us that… Nope, lost it.

I’m distracted by how deeply, deeply attracted I am to this look. If this is wrong then so help me, I don’t want to be right! I haven’t been this excited by an outfit since my Mum finally relented in 1989 and let me get a purple and green shell suit from the market. (Possibly a warning here somewhere?). It speaks to everything 80s and early 90s in me. I’m thinking Grease. I’m thinking Dynasty. I’m thinking large sweaty men with axes.

Excuse me, I may have to go and have a little lie down.

I’m back. One more! One more!

Oh my God I actually proper love this! Country/Sex in the city/cowgirl-ballerina.

Important features: no breast pockets in the shirt – a personal pet hate of mine, as they now sit a good six inches above my actual breasts. I think the skirt needs heels, and I am going to conveniently forget the fact I can’t walk more than 3 metres in anything higher than a trainer.

I’m actually going to do it – I’m ordering this beauty now, and yes, I’m getting it all three fucking sizes. Me, Big Small, and Small Small. (I can’t find the boy version for Dadonthenetheredge. Something tells me he’s not going to mind).

A tiny part of me is going to brace for the inevitable online-purchase disappointment, where it’ll turn out to be made of a flammable nylon derivative and elk pubes, 300 sizes too small, stitched in broken wishes rather than actual thread – probably by enslaved puppies.

The rest of me lives in baited-breath fashion hope. Maybe all my fashion woes are about to be turned into fashion woo-hoos! 

 Watch me rock this down a Endcliffe Park next weekend. If you see a trio of be-tutued and denim-shirted lovelies shouting at each other by the swings, be sure to wave hello.

And make it very, very clear that you are not in fact pointing and jeering…

😉

Mumonthenetheredge

 

 

 

 

The Summer Luvvin’ Guide for DADS

Each year, when the sun first peeps out from behind the winter clouds, I find myself woken in the middle of the night, several times a week, to my leg being dry-humped by Dadonthenetheredge – in the manner of a particularly tenacious spaniel.

He claims he has no knowledge of these events, but I always hail this as the true start of summer – which does something funny to his sex drive. In fact on a highly unscientific investigation of about three female friends, it seems this is high rutting season for the common British male.

Who knew??

My working theory is that this is due to several related factors, including everyone baring more flesh after the long cold months and BARBEQUES – which brings out the testosterone-laden caveman in even the most unassuming of men. They suddenly turn all “meat, fire, WOMAN” – and start brandishing tongs and competing over sausages.

The trouble, of course, is that this doesn’t necessarily (or indeed often) coincide with the mercurial sex drive of your average, knackered, common-or-garden British Mum. Her seasons are (from another half-hearted survey), somewhat fewer and farther between…

But never fear, summer lover-Dads! I’m here to help you bridge this gap and satisfy your inner spaniel!

WOOF!

If you are the father of small children and still getting your rocks off with their mother willy, er, nilly, then hurrah for you, stud muffin! This article is not for you. Neither is it for you if you and/or your partner and/or your relationship don’t conform to any sort of stereotype. Excellent work – go read something else.

However, I’m **pretty** sure there are many men out there who are are to a greater or lesser degree lamenting the loss of their pre-kid love life, bemoaning the hoo-hoo halt, or mourning the curtailment of their tail action. If this is you, please read on!

I feel your pain, boys, I really do. (Or at least I think that’s what’s digging into my hip).

The stark truth is that if you have a mum-on-the edge in your life – it doesn’t mean she’s going to push back harder. She may even be pushing you away harder instead.

There. I’ve said it.

For most of us, post-kid sex is not the same as pre-kid sex, and it’s high time we talked about it. In a grand sweeping generalisation, men need sex to feel love, and women need love to feel like having sex. There is nothing as upsetting to this delicate balance than the horror/magic of childbirth, followed by magic/horror of child-rearing.

So I’m going to attempt to help get us going (ooo, er missus) with a step-by-step hump-guide for Dads. Here’s how to get it ON this summer, when frankly she’s rather gone OFF the whole canoodling caboodle…

 

1. Give it some time

Here’s the thing – brace yourselves. Your favourite squelchy love tunnel will never be quite the same again. Fact. It may return to something approaching what you (and your best trouser pal) remember, but it will take some time. (Having witnessed it pop out a human being you may not feel the same way about IT for some time, too.)

And it isn’t necessarily just the physical stuff. Yes there’s tearing and stitches, and prolapses etc. (Hell I didn’t even use my lady bits to expel my small people, and it still hurt like a womble-flommer when I used it again – FOR MONTHS. Something about swelling, and muscles, and the downward pressure of pregnancy, yada yada).

Any hoo, sometimes it takes the lady folk a little while to feel the same way about the ol’ vag, too, once it’s had a baby-battering. It is no longer the shiny pink playground it was before – physically or metaphorically. Be patient.

And wank.

 

2. Give it a rest

Pestering, or continually pointing out how long it’s been seen you last got some, is not sexy. Letting her know you’re counting the days, weeks or months since you last danced the filthy fandango is going to do nothing but pile the pressure on and stop any and all juices flowing.

Never, ever, EVER mention your ‘needs’.

This will result in injury; followed by more abstinence.

 

3. Lower your expectations

I have heard of women high on the oxytocin of birth and bonding getting the horn, but I’m going to go out on another limb here and tell you that it’s an exception rather than a hard and fast rule. No hard and fast for you. Down boy.

Basically after you’ve been expecting, you’re best off not expecting anything about your sex life.

You may have to settle for a nice cuddle.

When things do get back up and running, you’ll pretty likely have to settle for perfunctory missionary that gets everyone’s rocks off without the trouble of getting their socks off. Wham, bam, thank you Mam(ma).

If you were once into kamasutra marathons and tantric sexathons, forget it. If you once prided yourself on your stamina, get over it. No one has the time and energy for that kind of b*llocks, now. I don’t care if you ARE both floating sky high on the lurve hormones, the fancy stuff is going to have to wait until everyone is a little less exhausted and the smallest of the people learn how to actually sleep for several fricking hours in a row.

Get each other off and get to bloody sleep.

 

4. Beware of boobs

These may no longer be your personal fun bags, fellas. Sorry. They may be sore, bleeding, blocked; she may be sick of everyone constantly hanging off them, she may mutter darkly about ‘interfering with supply’, and she’s probably going to view them more as udders than erogenous zones – at least at first.

Even if the boobies in your life have not been called into active service for your new small people, don’t assume they’re still fair game. Ask. This is generally good advice in most situations. Yes you’ve known each other’s intimate territory intimately and possibly for some time – but this is a brand new, brave new world. Explore it carefully. (Not least because they may squirt you in the fact once the oxytocin DOES start flowing. Be warned).

 

5. Foreplay has changed

Yip, it is no longer enough to just point at the front of your trousers and waggle your eyebrows. You’re going to have to raise your game, lads!

Remember though, foreplay no longer involves things like massages, snogging, dry humping and oral exploration. Basically it now involves doing the washing up.

Look, you’ve got to cut through all the other crap going on in her head (and life) to get sexy time moved up (or onto) the agenda.

If she’s thinking about getting the tea sorted, remembering to add nappies to the shopping list, steralising the next set of bottles, sticking the muslins in the washing machine, pondering whether she ought to be taking the baby to the Doctors for that cough, wondering if she ought to take the beef out of the freezer, if the homework’s all been done, getting more of the dried food the cat likes, ordering that repeat prescription, mentally composing that work email, thinking about texting her mum back later, trying to recall whether it’s another non-uniform day at school, what time playgroup is on, whether anyone has any clean pants for the next day, etc etc etc etc, she’s not thinking about sex.  

Yes, all of this stuff is going through her mind. Yes, at all times.

If you help cut down this To Do list, you’re in with a far, far better chance of getting down and dirty.

Strap on those marigolds, cowboy, and put a bit of bleach down the toilets while you’re at it. (Nothing sexier than a clean bowl).

 

6. Empathise

The true key to a better sex life this summer is empathy. Suck it up, and you might even get sucked off. It might not even be your birthday!!!!  It’s gotta be worth a try, right?

You’re going to have to listen to some of that crap running through her head. And most crucially, you’re going to have to resist giving her solutions. Yes, yes, I know you don’t get it. Just trust me on this. Go with sympathetic validation of her feelings unless SPECIFICALLY asked to express an opinion.

Nope.

Nuh uh.

Not even then.

Just do it. Your boom stick (and more importantly your spouse) will thank you for it.

 

7. Get inventive

It is likely that your pre-partum sex timetable has been significantly disrupted by the baby’s schedule. Lazy morning sex is out, and by the time you actually get to bed no one feels like it anymore. That’s why nap times are now your new best friend! Think outside the box to get into the box!

This goes for the where as well as the when. You may have small interlopers in your actual bed, where it was traditionally sort of convenient to get horizontal. Time to repurpose the sofa/change table/cot the baby never actually bloody sleeps in anyway.

 

8. Romance has changed

She doesn’t want flowers and for you tell her how pretty her dress is. She wants a tumble dryer, and for you to tell her the body she no longer recognises – with one with the jelly belly and stretch marks that hasn’t been out of a dressing gown for three months – isn’t completely repulsive to you.

Don’t tell her she’s sexy – tell her she’s doing an amazing job of parenting your children. Don’t tell her she’s gorgeous – tell her that you’re proud of her. That you don’t know how she does it. Tell her you love how she loves your babies. That she’s the best mum you’ve ever seen. That she made and nurtured something so ridiculously beautiful and perfect. That seeing her with your children in her arms hurts your heart and makes you love her bigger and deeper than you knew you could. Tell her that motherhood has made her more beautiful to you than ever.

That sh*t is bound to get you into her mat-pants.

Good luck out there Dads!

You can do it.

And her. 😉

 

Mumonthenetheredge

My husband’s affair

It seems that my husband has been having an affair. And I’ve got absolutely no idea what I’m going to do about it. Because what the hell do you do when there’s suddenly someone else in the middle of your relationship? In the middle of your family?

This other woman came on the scene quite recently, around his birthday, and he is obsessed with her. Completely besotted – it’s like she’s bewitched him. At what was supposed to be a time all about about us, all about the kids, it suddenly became all about her.

If I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think he ever felt this way about me – this blind, unrelenting devotion. And that hurts.

To add insult to injury, he has even bought her into our home, and introduced her to our kids. And they love her. They love her because she is everything I’m not.

Already, he has taught them to consider her a higher authority than me. When he’s with her, they plead with me to let them go and talk to her. They don’t want me. She has novelty and glamour I can’t compete with, and I cannot stop them. And I am left a stranger in my own home.

It is not my home anymore – it’s hers.

Her name is Alexa.

She is tiny, and curvy in all the right places.

She’s super responsive, polite and ‘helpful’.

She is also a skank-cow-ho-beast-b***h from hell and I want to tear her cold, metallic heart out with my teeth.

Oh, I can see right through her. Right through. Men never can, can they? She is the very worst of that kind – you’ve probably met her, or an approximation of her. Simultaneously vacuous and condescending, maddeningly obtuse, exacting, persnickety and petty.

She’s a control freak too – she controls everything. We can’t go out of the house, apparently, without getting her opinion on the weather or the traffic.

I literally can’t even turn on the freaking living room light without asking her first.

My husband – who wants to have his cake and eat it – has tried to make peace between us. But when he’s not here she’s at her very worst. She’s a downright bully – and not even sophisticated about it. She randomly switches on music or interrupts my conversation when I’m talking – something she’d never do with him in the room.

She’s now also in charge of the telly, and point blank refuses to play Peppa Pig, however nicely I ask. This is always at a time when I most need to deploy soothing televisual hypnotism – and yet the kids still blame me instead of her.

My husband doesn’t believe me when I tell him what she’s been up to – he always takes her side. Apparently, she’s ‘misunderstood’, and it’s my fault for not being clearer with her. If I just talked to her in the right way, he tells me, she’d do anything for me.

Well I can’t talk in the right way, to this interloper in our relationship. To this usurper. With her bloody perfect diction and smarmy, know-it-all attitude.

I’m a born and bred southerner who’s lived in Sheffield for nigh on 20 years, so my diction is, at best, confused. I also cannot regulate my tone of voice (or accent, or volume), which changes depending on the situation (eg. over the phone) or person I’m talking to (either because I’m massively empathetic or massively flakey – not sure which).

Alexa has no time for this; she just blanks me and pretends not to understand. “Sorry,” she lies, “I didn’t understand the question I heard.” And she repeats this one sentence again and again, with ever-increasing, infuriating self-satisfaction.

She is more likely to do what the five-year-old asks of her than respond to any conversational gambit or request of mine.

My husband and I hardly talk anymore – he’s too interested in tinkering about with his new floozy. And he likes to tell me, in great detail, what he’s doing to her each evening. What he’s planning to plug inside her next. He even wants me to join in on their fun. To ‘try it out’.

Well I’m sorry, but I’m just not that kind of girl.

We’ve had fight after fight about her – in front of the kids and everything – something we always swore we’d never do. Then again, we swore we’d love and honour each other too, a long time ago. When we believed our love would last forever. When we believed no one could come between us. (Sniff).

And the very worst of it is, I know he isn’t the only one. I know she has seduced men up and down the country – with her feminine wiles, her predilection to interface, her penchant for strap-on/add-on gadgets, and her willingness to let them use ALL of her interesting ports for their personal gratification…

They cannot resist her.

If you too are an Alexa widow, I would like to reach out to you in solidarity. Together, perhaps we can support each other through the madness of our other halves’ infatuation. Perhaps we will one day get our lives, our homes, and control of our electrical devices back.

Perhaps we can even form some sort of First Wives club, and conspire to smite that uppity, pernicious cow-bag-HO and send her packing back to the putrid pits of purgatory from whence she probably came.

(Or Amazon, same diff).

 

Mumonthenetheredge

 

My Car

I have never really considered myself an artist, but today I realise I have finally channelled my inner Tracey Emin, and created this masterpiece. I shall entitle it: MY CAR.

It is a metaphor for my life.

Send help.

The Mummy Puzzle

“I’ve lost someone somewhere, not sure how
But I turned and she’d gone – she’s missing now.
I liked her, I think, and I’d like to re-find her –
Can anyone help me, give me a reminder?”

“Hush little Mummy, don’t you cry
I’ll help you find her”, said a butterfly.
“Let’s have a think, how big is she?”
“She’s bigger”, I said wryly, “than she used to be”.

“Bigger than you? Then I’ve seen your lady!
Come with me, over here where it’s shady.”

“No no no, that’s an elephant!
(Though the size is right, that you I’ll grant)
The woman I knew wasn’t a wrinkly hunk
Her skin wasn’t grey and her eyes weren’t sunk.
She didn’t have snot stains up to her knees,
And could pass the fridge without snaffling cheese.”

“Thinner, you say? Then she’s very near
Quick little Mummy! She’s over here!”

“No no no, that’s a slithery snake!
(A fashion faux pas she would never make).
The woman I knew wouldn’t dress like this –
Nor be covered in spit-up, or eau de piss.
She didn’t dress in her wardrobe’s dregs
And on occasion she’d even shave her legs.”

“It’s legs were looking for now you say?
I know where she is then, come this way!”

“No no no, that’s a spider!
(She wasn’t this scary to your average outsider).
She wasn’t disgusting, or hairy or fat,
She never had as many legs as that!
She wasn’t bogged down in a tangled web
And could rise above her lowest ebb.”

“So she lives above? You should have said!
The woman you seek us above your head!”

“No no no! That’s a parrot!
(You’d be better at this with cards of tarot).
She had eyes and tits that didn’t leak,
And her ears weren’t assailed with squawks and shrieks.
She wasn’t tied down- she could spread her wings
And her well-slept steps had plenty of springs.”

“A ha! I’ve got it! She leaps about?
She’s just round the corner, without a doubt.”

“No no no! That’s a frog!
(The woman I seek didn’t live in a bog –
She didn’t much like poo at all,
And bodily fluids used to make her bawl).
Butterfly, Butterfly please don’t joke –
I’m here talking to insects to keep me afloat!
She knew what she wanted, before she got muddled
And pitied the people around her who struggled.”

“She was sure you say, and even serene?
Then just over here, this woman I’ve seen!”

“No no no – that’s a bat!
(It’s asleep upside down, you fluttering twat!)
Why, oh why are you getting it wrong?
Can’t you see that my patience is no longer long?
I did say she had wings – so that’s a good call,
But even in those days she wasn’t that small.”

“So your woman is big – let me think…
She’s down by the river having a drink!”

“No NO NO! That’s the elephant again!
(As a therapist I’m scoring you 0 out of ten)
Butterfly, Butterfly can’t you see?
None of these creatures have EVER been me!”

“You never said the woman in question was you!”

“Of course I did! And I thought you knew!”

“I didn’t know, I couldn’t you see,
I’m just a butterfly – why talk to me?”

“You’re right, my annoying wee fly of butter,
(And clearly round here you’ve monopolised nutter).
Bugger off now and go drink some nectar –
You’re not qualified for the counselling sector!

“I may be a-flailing but I’m not yet full-drowned
I may have lost someone, but something I’ve found –
That my heart holds more love than I knew existed;
That I’m strong in more ways than could ever be listed.
That happiness isn’t a night on the tiles,
And no one’s immune to a baby’s first smiles.

“She’s definitely lost, that woman before –
But I think if I found her I’d find her a bore.

“Yes she had continence, self care and career,
(While I still have bowel hanging out of my rear),
But did she have snuggles and cuddles and gurgles?
Could she interpret what’s meant by the faintest of burbles?
Could she soothe any hurt with merely a kiss?
Was she somebody’s everything, all they could wish?

“She could wee on her own – and that might be nice
She could stay up past ten without thinking twice.
But she didn’t have small hands to hold in her own
Or endless play phone calls to make on play phones.
She didn’t hear ‘Mummy I love you, you know’,
Or ‘Mummy, you’re funny, come on, it’s your go’.

“I’m afraid, on reflection, she must remain lost
That woman I knew, who still coiffed and flossed.
She wasn’t as tired but she wasn’t as blessed –
And maybe that’s why I was put to this test.

“So you did help me Butterfly, after all,
To see some of the good stuff I couldn’t recall.

“Maybe she’ll come back one day in the future
But right now I’ve found being me now is SUPER.
I’m no longer puzzled and I’m no longer lost –
Lepidoptera advice? I’d rather get sloshed!!”

And with that I turned and sashayed to the door,
(An exit marred slightly by the toys on the floor).

Mumonthenetheredge

The @851 Cafe Angels

I have always been the world’s very worst stay at home mother – especially when I was off on maternity leave. This is basically because I cannot bear to stay at home with my children.

There is literally nothing I dread more than being stuck within my own four walls, in the company of my own offspring. This is why from very early in their lives both of the small people have been dragged around Sheffield attending myriad baby classes, groups, museums, libraries, parks etc and blah.

The fact is that to this day I remain a far better parent in public than I am in private. This is due largely, I believe, to the fact the routine of social niceties and the momentum of perpetual motion have often been the only things holding all my pieces together – especially on the very darkest days of parenthood.

The poonami days. The reflux days. The zombie days. The screaming days. The desperate days. The days when you’ve failed yourself and your small people over and over and over again.

If everyone is getting on each other’s last nerve, if the baby can’t get out of it’s scream-funk, if you can’t get out of your own head – if you can’t get anyone out of the day’s rotten rut – for the Lord’s sake do yourself a favour and just GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.

And the place I have always ended up more than any other is the @851 Baby Cafe off Ecclesall Road South.

It’s a proper family business run by three generations of seriously lovely women. And it’s so SIMPLE. It’s so simple I can’t understand why there aren’t more of them in every neighbourhood in every town.

It’s just a cafe, with a toy corner, a buggy park, and a whole bunch of high chairs. Now here’s the really genius bits:

• It’s got wipe clean floors and seats.
• It’s got parking right outside (two hours only, be warned).
• The radiators are off the floor away from little hands.
• They serve kiddie food – simple sarnies, beans on toast, veggie sticks and half-portion baked potatoes.
• They’ll warm your milk or baby food for you without complaint (I’m looking at you Costa Coffee – get a freaking grip!)
• They even CLEAN THE TOYS AND THE BABY CHANGE so you don’t have to worry about your little darling contracting impetigo or tetanus from the ingrained grime and crud you find on your average public change table/toy box (radical, isn’t it?)
• They also serve decent coffee, cake and grown-up sustenance.

None of that is really it, though. The true secret of the @851 Baby Cafe is Joyce, Lisa and Sophie themselves.

• You will always get a warm welcome. I don’t know how they remember everyone’s name and their baby’s name (not an art I’ve mastered), but they do. And they actually mean it.
• Although it’s a great meet-up place you can walk in solo and be perfectly comfortable.
• It is also the only public place I ever felt at ease wapping out a boob. (And if the bf-ing is taking a while they’ll look after you with table service).
• They will serve your tea or coffee without wobbling it dangerously on a saucer directly over your precious baby’s head (still talkin’ about you, Costa).
• They will hold your baby for you while you go for a wee.
• They will source nappies and wipes for you from other kind patrons when you are too disorganised to have remembered your own.
• They will kindly, firmly (and far more effectively than you) call your ratbag/feral preschooler to order when they can see you are too exhausted to keep fighting them and are just trying to eat your damn dinner (thank you Joyce!)
• They will re-warm your food for you once it goes cold because you’re attempting to feed the children.
• They won’t judge you on tantrums (yours or your progeny’s) and will even come over to commiserate and distract.
• They won’t throw their own tantrum if you bring along the only two foods your eejit-fusspot child will consent to consume (as long as you’re buying something – they do have costs to cover), and yes I’m STILL talking about a chain cafe rhyming with BOSTA.
• They don’t give a blue goat’s gaboozy if you turn up unwashed, covered in spit-up/toothpaste/porridge, and wearing your cardy on backwards (my look of choice).
• They will always provide a shoulder to cry on, a sympathetic ear, and basic adult human contact.

My only argument with these ladies is that occasionally they have the temerity to go on holiday. The absolute cheek of it.

They also don’t open on weekends, which is a bummer as Dadonthenetheredge and I would really, really like to go somewhere simple and kid friendly at 8.30am (having already been up for 3 hours) to eat bacon sandwiches and look at our phones while completely ignoring both each other and our beloved children. Otherwise known as the holy grail of weekends.

[The reason they don’t open on a Sat or Sun, btw, is that they do kids’ parties. Traditional party games led by ex-nursery teacher Joyce, plus traditional party food and the odd Princess appearance courtesy of Sophie. Completely effortless for you and fab for younger birthdays].

In all seriousness, the @851 Baby Cafe has been an oasis of calm for me in the storm of parenthood. (As long as I remember not to go at lunchtime on a Friday when it’s insanely busy). I have met and made great friends there, eaten my own bodyweight in cake, cried, snivelled, and laughed my pelvic floor into spasm. I think the Big Small Person even took her first steps there.

As we all know, angels rarely wear wings or halos. And sometimes they wear aprons and a smile, and they’re holding a very strong cup of coffee.

Mumonthenetheredge

 

Want to find out more about what’s on for parents and small in Sheffield? Check out Little Sheffield here.

Want more fab reviews of places to go from another Sheffield Mum Blogger? Go visit the brilliant Trips with a Tot here.

Are my children Trump supporters?

Here is my evidence so far:

1. Placing restrictions on my reproductive rights
There’s very little as restricting on both one’s ability and will to partake in reproductive activities as expelling a whole human being from the reproductive bits in question, the following emotional and hormonal upheaval – and the consequent chronic exhaustion.

I’m pretty sure my Small People also have an inner sensor for the rare occasions such activities are contemplated, as they invariably choose those moments to cry inconsolably – or worse – visit.

2. Placing restrictions on my movements
I am not allowed, for instance, to move out of the line of sight of the smallest Small Person, who views any transgressions (such as weeing or making the tea) as highly suspicious, and an indication she needs to step up her surveillance levels to ‘limpet’.

3. Dislike of strangers
Neither child responds well to new people, especially if they look or dress a bit differently. They particularly disapprove of beards.

Red suits, sleigh travel and jolly laughter are also frowned (and screamed) upon – although this can occasionally be overcome by present-based bribery.

4. Conservatism and resistance to change
My kids like things to stay the same. Back like it was in the good old days – ie. yesterday. Woe betide anyone who interrupts their precious routine/regime. Miss one of the day’s expected milestones – like snack, milk or story – and you should expect…..

5. Meltdowns over perceived slights and wrongs
Today the Small Small was incandescent over the apparent injustice of my cutting up her fish fingers instead of leaving them whole – and hot enough to give her tongue second degree burns. If she could have taken to Twitter to vent her rage, she would have. She settled for throwing the offending fish fingers across the room and lying face down in the hall crying for 30 minutes.

6. They like building walls
They tell me they build the best walls. No one can build walls like they can. They know all about wall-building, and no, they don’t want any advice or assistance. (Their walls, are, by the way, shit).

Although to be fair to them, once they’ve built their walls they usually destroy them immediately afterwards.

7. They are certain they have all the best words
I am still trying to explain to the Big Small that no one is trying to hurt her ‘by a-liberate’. It’s either by accident or DELIBERATELY. This is a losing battle.

She may also be paranoid – also a Trumpism?

8. Gagging freedom of speech
Or at least screaming over it and/or conveniently refusing to hear it.

9. Approbation of and expertise in torture
I have now suffered five years of sound torture, psychological warfare and complex mind games. The worst thing, however, is their practice of unrelenting sleep deprivation.

On an average day I literally cannot remember my own name or speak in full sentences until I have imbibed at least four cups of strong coffee. I wear my clothes inside out to work. (They’ve stopped telling me out of either sympathy, embarrassment or fatigue – so now I find out halfway through the day when my bleary eyes can actually focus on the mirror in the toilets). I honest-to-God tried to feed the cat Cheerios instead of cat food this morning. Earlier this week I left my purse in the damn freezer.

Please send help.

10. Inconsistency
They back track, change their minds with alarming alacrity, and deny ever having held any other viewpoint despite all of the compelling evidence to the contrary.

“I wanted the pink cup! No the blue one! I said pink! Not that pink one! WHY AREN’T YOU LISTENING TO ME??? Bluuuuuueeee!”

11. Poor spelling
The Big Small is new to literacy, and not a fan. On the occasions she is persuaded to read and write, her phonetic spelling is definitely Trump-worthy. She recently put a label on a stuffed cat that read ‘ckety’ (kitty).

12. Repeating catchphrases
Less ‘America First’ and more:
“It’s not fair!”
“She started it!”
“I don’t like my Mummy!”
“Eeew- Diss-gust-in!”
“Nooooooooo!”
“More Peppa Piiiiiiiig!”

13. Pointing
Usually accompanied by “Dat one. Want dat one, Mama.”

14. They don’t believe in climate change
To be honest, they don’t really get the whole weather thing. If it’s raining out the front of they’ll go check round the back. This is consistently disappointing.

15. They peddle ‘alternative facts’ with aplomb
“I didn’t push her Mummy! I just moved her off the sofa with my bottom.”

16. They zealously protect their own interests
Which often leads to:

17. Indifference to domestic violence
Which they practice on each other at regular intervals. (Before attempting 15).

18. They like to grab me by the pussy
Well, ok, not the pussy, I admit. But the arm, leg, boob, hair and neck are all fair game, certainly. And then they just start kissing me. They don’t even wait. They can do anything.

I’m pretty just an object to them.

19. They believe if they behave in an extreme enough manner for long enough, they will either inure me to their misdemeanors or wear me down so I’m too tired to continue to protest them.
Sadly this belief is not without foundation. See no 9.

20. Wild hair
The Small Small, at least, still has some baby fuzz left. First thing in the morning it looks remarkably like a Trump quiff.

21. Pouting
Let’s just say that if my children were to walk into a wall, their bottom lips would hit it first.

22. They think Trump/s is/are pretty clever and amusing

23. Tiny hands

I rest my case.

I think it’s clear that my children are natural born Trump supporters and I am harbouring closet fascists right here in Sheffield.

Either that, or the President of the United States acts like a huge, orange child, and we’re all completely fucked.

Anyway, I plan to swap out ‘The Gruffalo’ for ‘The Communist Revolution’ this evening, just in case.

Remember, we must resist the children, however cute they may be when sleeping. They can take our freedom, but they will never take our… Never mind. They pretty much take everything.

Mumonthenetheredge

 

‘Go Away’ snow

I’d love to be one of those happy clappy super-fun snow parents, but I’m not. It’s cold, it’s wet, it takes far more preparation than my small brain can reasonably be expected to organise, and it makes my life unnecessarily complicated.

I HATE the snow.

And I hate it more than usual on this particular occasion because it has exposed me as being more than usually stupid.

I didn’t take the predictions of snow very seriously yesterday. I looked at the weather forecast, you see, and saw it said 1 percent chance of snow. Ah hah! I thought smugly. Other people may be forecasting doom, but not so the trusty MET!

Unfortunately I seem to have confused the symbols for ‘percent’ and ‘degrees’. Yep. The actual forecast was for 1 degree temperatures in Sheffield, with a 90 percent chance of snow.

Idiot.

One of the things I hate even more than snow is NUMBERS. I’m a words girl. And lists or rows of numbers (as on a forecast) simply make me panic. Numbers jump about and do frightening things. Like add up, for instance. (Just not for me). I have genuinely once asked my husband why a pub we were in had an under 21s menu. (It was under 12s).

The numbers aside, I have to say that do I NOT find snow fun. I find snow stressful. I am the world’s worst driver – and that’s without extra steering and vehicular control challenges.

Because I cannot operate a car and look where I’m going at the same time, I drive an automatic – and because I frequently scrape and bump into inanimate objects and don’t know which way to turn the wheel in reverse, I drive an ancient rubbishy automatic that Dadonthenetheredge isn’t too distraught about me slowly trashing over a number of years until it’s worth nothing but scrap.

It is not a good car in the snow.

Dadonthenetheredge did get me some snow socks for it, but we both agree that I am more likely to end up running myself over in an East 17 tribute than I am to successfully apply them.

(Don’t worry Sheffielders, I’m wasn’t on the roads this morning. Other days I can’t vouch for, mind).

I also naturally WALK on snow in a terrified little old-lady shuffle, the one style of walk GUARANTEED to make you fall over and break a hip. Fact. I have tried to stride forth as normal, but as I have neither grace nor balance under normal traction conditions, for some reason I can’t make myself do it. My body literally won’t respond to my commands – which is a bloody weird sensation.

Fortunately a year or so ago I discovered those spikes on elastic bands, which have literally CHANGED MY LIFE. If anyone ever asked me about the greatest human invention, I would not dwell even momentarily on the wheel, iron, electricity, DNA sequencing, computronics, etc, I would cite rubber bands with spikes as the true pinnacle of scientific genius.

Even the magic grips, though, cannot help me with transporting the small people around in snowy conditions.

I live on the top of a big hill, above the snow line. The main roads might be totally clear, but getting up and down my hill is a bloody nightmare. Which means you look like a total twat when trying to explain to sea-level school/work why you can’t get in.

The Big Small is now big enough to go on foot, but the Small Small is still an issue. It’s too far for her to walk to school, too snowy for the buggy, too slippy for the sling, and not snowy enough for the sledge (which if it was snowy enough would go down the hill too bloody fast anyway).

How the Dickens are other people doing this??? Seriously, any top tips on moving small people in winter weather would be gratefully received!

Today I offered Big Small the option of staying home with me and the Small Small or going to school with a very kind neighbour. She didn’t pick me, which is damning indictment of my parenting, but evidence of a commendable sense of self-preservation, as we’d have all fallen out by lunchtime stuck at home together.

Let’s all hope the snow f*cks off until next year.

Although – given that it’s only January – I imagine the probability of that is less than 50 degrees….  

Mumonthenetheredge

 

Bah Mumbug – confessions of a Scrooge Mother

Christmas is overrated. There. I said it so you don’t have too. Yes, yes, it’s all sooooo magical, and it’s all about the children, and look at their little faces, yadda yadda blah etc.

But actually children make Christmas an awful lot of hard work, and when you own them there is an awful lot of pressure on Christmas to be super-mega-brilliant.

Well I crumble under pressure. And my kids act like feral animals under the influence of even small amounts of chocolate, over-excitement, shiny new things and flashing neon lights.

So I’m going to get my Bah Mumbug list of anti-xmas confessions off my chest.

 

1. Real trees are stupid

Let’s start with the needle dropping thing, and the fact the branches are usually too limp to hang even a normal bauble, let alone the ceramic paint-a-pot hand/footprinted ones you are now obliged to get for each baby.

But what really annoys me about real Christmas trees is that they are all short and squat. Yes. I am going to BODY SHAME CHRISTMAS trees. And my reasons are both aesthetic and practical.

First off, they don’t fit in my long thin living room. Secondly, I already have enough short and squat in my life. I live short and squat everyday, and I do not need an overdressed foliage echo of my own existence sat in the corner as a reminder.

My fake tree is tall and rather elegant. Or at least it was, until I had to decorate it with children. Now it has lost any claims to taste it may once have had – again, very much like my good self.

Instead of co-ordinated and artfully arranged glass decorations I now have haphazardly applied tinsel in a range of interesting rainbow hughes, flashing multi-coloured lights, and sh*t Christmas drawings/crafts where my children have made no effort to use a realistic palette, have clearly failed to follow basic instructions, and haven’t even coloured within the lines.

The first year of having children old enough to ‘help’, I’ll be honest, I struggled with this. Now I’ve given up.

Another personal metaphor…

 

2. My kids are sh*t at art, and if possible, even SH*TTER at Christmas art

There is A LOT of craft at Christmas. Most of it seems to have found it’s way onto my bloody tree (see above).

I always had visions of myself as a crafty mum, painting, cutting and sticking with my children. Turns out my children are terrible at art.

Obviously ALL children are a bit sh*t at art, having only just learned how to effectively operate fine motor control etc, but mine are particularly bad. I see others drawing recognisable people with facial features actually in their heads, and the traditional number (and placement) of limbs. In contrast, mine very much follow the school of Picasso. They may be abstract, impressionist proteges, but frankly I doubt it.

This used to give me a tic in the corner of my right eye, and I used to helicopter over them – leaping into to ‘help’ with pictures and projects and pretty much taking over.

Now I make myself a strong cup of tea, benignly tell them they’re doing a great job, and do my own version of whatever we’re making so I’ve got one thing that actually turns out nicely.

At Christmas time I am forced to endure more than their normal levels of creativity. Which are prolific. And horrific. And then aided and abetted by friends and family buying them craft-based presents.

Roll on bloody January.

 

4. Elf on the Shelf is also stupid

I understand that it’s all about keeping the magic alive, etc, but frankly I’m more likely to attempt to resurrect Paul Daniels than I am to Elf on a Shelf.

Let’s start off with how incredibly creepy the ‘real’ Elf on the Shelf is. Does this not take anyone else back to doll-based horrors of the 80s and 90s? Why would you do this to your children??? A manically grinning doll, sent by Santa to spy on them, creeping around the house at night doing stuff. Brrrrrrrrr. ALL KINDS OF WRONG, ALL AT ONCE.

Then there’s the fact I already have two little devils running around spilling, moving, unravelling and ruining my sh*t. I do not need to personally aid and abet this.

Finally, there’s the effort. And I’ll be honest, this is by far and away my biggest barrier. I simply do not have the time, imagination or energy to get this done every day. And actually, that makes me feel rather disappointed in myself – certainly in the parent I always hoped I’d be.

And if I don’t understand or can’t do something, I will therefore deem it ‘stupid’, and continue to judge it in some sort of public online forum, because that is the modern way.

 

4. Nativity plays are rubbish

Look, I know I’m supposed to go all gushy and gooey over the nativity play, but I can’t be alone in thinking they’re usually pretty awful affairs, right?

I mean, the production values are ropey, the costumes are shoddy, the acting is – at best – wooden, no one’s ever learned their sodding lines and they’re either projecting too much or not enough.

I’m also not sure anyone really understands their motivation for the role of ‘third star’…

In all seriousness, at most nativities you mostly get to watch the teachers doing an over-animated version of all the singing and actions and some poor, overwhelmed kid having a meltdown. Usually mine.  

The Small Small Person is as yet too small for this stuff, but I think it’s safe to say that RADA are probably not going to call for the Big Small Person any time soon. Luckily the most emotion she conveyed this year was at the side of the stage, where her squirming boredom took me right back to my own experiences of assemblies and concerts, the parquet flooring grinding into my sitting bones, and the agony of waiting literally rolling my head on my shoulders. Horrid.

Just for enduring this she got the biggest hug at the end and I told her she’d been absolutely brilliant.

You see I am not completely cold-hearted! I cried at the first few school drop-offs, for instance, and I would even go as far as describing a tot’s ballet production the Big Small took part in as womb-clenchingly cute.

But I’m afraid the nativity just doesn’t float my boat. It feels as if there’s too much obligation to get everyone on stage en masse, and too little actual joy.

Also I’m too short and squat (see no 1), so I can never see a bloody thing over other parents’ heads anyway.

 

5. I hate wrapping

I am officially the world’s worst wrapper. I can’t get the folds right, and every end of every present of every single shape looks like it’s got a pair of socks stuffed down it. My own hair or cat fur is always caught underneath the tape, and I never have any labels so I write on them in felt tip, which usually smudges.

You’re welcome, gift receivers!

Last year, as a particular highlight, I was tearing sellotape with my teeth and actually sellotaped off the top layer of skin from my bottom lip. It hurt like b*ggery.

At least now I can blame the sheer wretchedness of my wrapping skills on the children wanting to ‘help’. Children never actually want to help, btw. The reality is it’s usually just me, at midnight on Christmas Eve, getting backache, soul ache, and lip ache on the living room floor.

Sounds like it ought to be way more fun than it actually is. ;(

 

6. I hate unwrapping

Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE presents! I even love the middle-aged mum presents that I’d have hated 15 years ago. Like handheld vacuum cleaners or slow cookers. Wooooooo! This year I’m hoping for new pjs and a hot water bottle. Fingers crossed!

No no, I mean the unwrapping on behalf of Small People. Parents will know immediately where I’m going with this.

At some point in the past, master criminals must have made a point of stalking toy aisles with nefarious intent, slipping toys out of their packaging and selling them on for HUGE profit. Big toy companies must have gone bust, the economy must have faltered, life in the UK must have been on the brink of collapse.

Because there is simply no other explanation for the excessive security now deemed necessary for bits of plastic retailing at £9.99.

All toys are now strapped down with so many plastic tags, wires and zip-ties they look like kidnap victims, or willing participants in some pretty heavy-duty bondage. (I imagine). Cars, dolls, pianos, action figures – all get the same treatment. And then they are then wrapped in more stink-wrap plastic and sellotape for good measure.

It takes 20 minutes with two pairs of scissors (industrial and nail) and a fresh-bladed stanly knife to free anything. All the while your children have gone savage under enforced delayed gratification, given tantalising glimpses of toys they can’t play with – and snippets of words they can’t say.

Once child and toy ARE united, you then have to dig in the garage for the screwdriver set, only to find out the toy takes 5 billion batteries in a size you don’t have anyway.

I’ve googled the Toy Heist Crash, but as I can’t find anything on it I can only assume toy packaging designers hate all parents.

B**tards.

 

7. I’m coming to hate Santa

Yup. I went there. #sorrynotsorry.

Santa has made me into a big, fat liar.

I’m afraid I was #soblessed in the Big Small Person with a person in turn blessed with unusual incredulity and skepticism. (This is particularly galling as I myself am horrifically credulous, and even downright gullible).

When she was only 3, I was answering detailed questions about how Santa came into the house, why the fireguard hadn’t moved, and how he could use the catflap without a special collar like the cat?

IT’S MAGIC, OKAY DARLING?

Ffs.

This year, at 5, she’s looked me right in the eye and told me she knows he isn’t real (damn you Big School!) and that it’s the parents leaving the presents, and that it’s okay, she won’t tell anyone else, and she’ll know when she’s a grown-up anyway.

“Tell me the truth, Mummy.”

I can’t help but feel she’s too young for this conversation, but that left me directly lying to her face.

This made me much more uncomfortable than I expected it would, given my fondness for hyperbole, stint in PR, and tendency to edit my own life-narrative in order to appear less of a kn*bhead to myself.

It’s already become a tangled web of lies as she continues to present me evidence of his non-existence, and tries to trip me and her father up in our mistruths. It’s exhausting. And possibly morally reprehensible. But mostly exhausting. 

Santa in general is fraught with issues. There’s the fact he gives a slightly different service to every family, looks different at each grotto and in each film, and then – like the Elf and AXE MURDERERS – sneaks into houses in the dead of night. Should we really be overriding our children’s natural instincts (and our own instructions) not to talk to strange men, sit on their knees, let them wander around their bedrooms at night, or accept presents from them? I don’t know.

For this year I’ve gone with the ‘don’t believe, don’t receive’ defence, but the kid isn’t actually that bribable. (Also unlike me).

Santa, I think your days might be numbered, love. 

 

8. Turkey is just slightly uglier, less tasty, chicken

You know it. I know it. From the betrayed look on their ball-sack faces, even turkey’s know it.

If you want to eat a Dr Who monster’s pale, dry, crumbly flesh, that’s quite your own affair. I’d prefer to stick with a nice juicy, greasy chicken.

Only I’m not going to, because it’s not traditional.

So I’ll be eating turkey, but all the time I’m doing so I’ll know it’s just crap chicken. And so will you.

 

9. Christmas jumpers are stupid

Here’s the thing: I LOVE Christmas jumpers! The brighter, brasher and more garish the better. I know this is wrong, but I am fatally attracted to them. And I therefore don’t own any.

This is because I know that once I start down this route, it will spiral out of my control and it won’t stop at Christmas.

I fear, you see, that I am on the brink of descending into a full blown case of what I’m calling ‘Timmy Mallet syndrome’. I blame the children. Basically, if I see clothing adorned with cute, cuddly animals, or even in their favourite shade of pink, I want to buy it.

Children are NOT a good enough excuse for dressing like a children’s TV presenter. Hell, even BEING a children’s TV presenter isn’t a good enough excuse for dressing as a children’s TV presenter.

I must resist. For the sake of my horrified pre-child self, I. Must. Resist.

And so should you.

 

Despite my Scrooge tendencies, I will admit there is also much to LOVE about Christmas! The excuse to eat interesting cheeses, MULLED WINE, opaque tights, sparkles becoming acceptable day wear, MULLED WINE, time off work, lindt chocolate season, and of course, just looking at their little faces when they open their presents.

After all, it’s all about the children, really, isn’t it?

Happy Christmas. 

Mumonthenetheredge

The 12 days of Christmas (parent edit)

On the first day of christmas my children gave to me:
A stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the second day of Christmas my children gave to me:
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the third day of Christmas my children gave to me:
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the fourth day of Christmas my children gave to me:
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the fifth day of Christmas my children gave to me:
5 LATE SANTA CLAUS REQUESTS
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the sixth day of Christmas my children gave to me:
6 seconds peace,
5 LATE SANTA CLAUS REQUESTS
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the seventh day of Christmas my children gave to me:
Advent calendar meltdowns,
6 seconds peace,
5 LATE SANTA CLAUS REQUESTS
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the eighth day of Christmas my children gave to me:
Festive Peppa-Pig loops,
Advent calendar meltdowns,
6 seconds peace,
5 LATE SANTA CLAUS REQUESTS
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the ninth day of Christmas my children gave to me:
9 stir-crazed injuries,
Festive Peppa-Pig loops,
Advent calendar meltdowns,
6 seconds peace,
5 LATE SANTA CLAUS REQUESTS
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the tenth day of Christmas my children gave to me:
10 sprout-based tantrums,
9 stir-crazed injuries,
Festive Peppa-Pig loops,
Advent calendar meltdowns,
6 seconds peace,
5 LATE SANTA CLAUS REQUESTS
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my children gave to me:
11 (billion) “What’s in this one?”‘s
10 sprout-based tantrums,
9 stir-crazed injuries,
Festive Peppa-Pig loops,
Advent calendar meltdowns,
6 seconds peace,
5 LATE SANTA CLAUS REQUESTS
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,
And a stinking f**ker of a cold.

On the twelfth day of Christmas my children gave to me:
Ingratitude and whining,
11 “What’s in this one?”‘s
10 sprout-based tantrums,
9 stir-crazed injuries,
Festive Peppa-Pig loops,
Advent calendar meltdowns,
6 seconds peace,
5 LATE SANTA CLAUS REQUESTS
A tinsel tug of war,
3 broken baubles,
Rubbish Rudolph handprints,

AND A STINKING F**KER OF A COLD.

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