Five signs you have a C.H.I.L.D who has really started talking

1 / You will start S.P.E.L.L.I.N.G everything out when your child starts really talking. Several words in a sentence may be spelled out depending on the details.

You might be heard saying: “Darling, I’m just popping to the S.H.O.P to get some stuff, I might get some C.A.K.E but he can’t have another P.E.P.P.A.P.I.G.M.A.G.A.Z.I.N.E. and I need him to go to B.E.D by seven tonight because I am F.*.C.K.E.D.

The other half stares at you as though he’s trying to answer a University Challenge maths’ question. You can see his cogs turning “M…A…G… oh yes.”

Sometimes you will forget to spell out the important word and you’ll stare at each other in horror in complete silence listening to toddler footsteps running towards you like people watching the water shake in a cup knowing a T-Rex is on its way.

This is how to spot a parent of a child who has ‘really’ started talking. For what seems like an age now he’s been rocking about saying singular words, perhaps numbers, colours, Iggle Piggle and Daddy Pig. But suddenly he’s graduated to an all listening, all repeating, all talking mini adult with an annoyingly high pitched adorable voice.
Here are some more signs:

2 / You – a champion swearer who usually resembles a sort of tired mum version of Father Jack will start being incredibly self righteous about bad language. All of a sudden it’s not ok anymore – and everyone needs to get on board. Ok?

You might be heard saying: “Er…. darling, I don’t think you should say S.H.I.T in front of him you know. He’s like a sponge darling, and you really are setting a bad example, don’t be a T.W.A…”

And when the child isn’t around you’ll swear 150% more than you used to – just to get it out of your system.

3/ You will think every single thing the child says is the funniest, wittiest and most intelligent thing anyone has ever said. You will post his sentences on facebook and twitter and wonder why you haven’t got any likes. You’ll tell friends and family in person these anecdotes before realising they are not anecdotes.

You might be heard saying: “Oh my God! You will not believe what he just said. He just said ‘mummy, put your Tea on the floor’ can you believe that? He is so, so clever! And last Wednesday he said “it’s too high up mummy’ isn’t that hilarious? Hello…hello…are you still there?”

4/ You will be amazed at how quickly the sound of your child chatting away can get, well, tired. And you’re utterly exhausted with listening and answering questions. It’s only seven in the morning and you’ve already labelled everything in the kitchen, named all of his dinosaurs and talked through the plot of Hoodwinked.

“what’s that mummy?”
“It’s a nutribullet darling”
“what’s that mummy?”
“that’s an avocado darling”
“what’s that mummy?”
“that’s a brioche darling.”
“what’s that mummy?”
“that’s a bag for life darling.” etc.

5/ The kids will be in bed, you will have had a couple of glasses of wine, but you can’t turn off your new parent with a C.H.I.L.D way of communicating. All of these things will combine and collide making you sound like a couple of unhinged maniacs.

“Darling, I’m going to run to L.O.N.D.I.S cause I really fancy a T.W.I.X and mummy needs chocolate. Ok? Knobhead.”

The rules of ill – when you have children

The real problem with not being very well off is that you don’t have the money to separate yourself from the other sick people in your house – or as some like to call them – the family.

It’s all about sharing – sharing without your consent. Sharing germs, sharing beds, sharing air, sharing bathrooms. You’re all sick, exhausted and horrendously unattractive and holed up in a house of shit like the last few humans hiding away during a zombie apocalypse.

The “ill” will more than likely originate from the child in the family – if you have a toddler who has a social life, basically, you’re screwed. He’s a little germ dealer you see. He will spend his time licking floor jigsaw puzzles, door handles and sticking his fingers in other children’s noses. While he’s out he will collect as many different strains of a virus as he can and settle down on your sofa before unleashing them into your household.

I never feel like a ‘mum’ – that title still doesn’t sit well on my shoulders. Until my child is ill. Suddenly a small person is vomiting all over my large textured rug, and over my duvet, and over the cat and I start screaming “it’s ok sweetie, it’s ok sweetie” running from wall to wall frantically looking for help and realising that no one is coming to help me. I’m it. I’m the mum. It’s my job, and mine alone – to mop up this spew and burn the rug and hose him down and throw out the cat.

You find yourself dealing with all manners of horror that you never thought you would be able to do before becoming a parent, and that are, by the way, never any less disgusting.

The next ten hours are a rollercoaster of emotions. You’ll go from assuming it’s just one of those things that children get, to Googling symptoms and terrifying yourself, to calling 111 in tears explaining that you really don’t want to bother anyone.

You’ll sit by their side with a thermometer testing their temperature every twenty minutes absolutely terrified that it’s something more sinister than a cold and wondering if you have any of this ‘mother’s instinct’ everyone bangs on about but you’re sure you don’t possess.

You get a Doctor’s appointment, which is a miracle in itself, because you have a tiny sick person as collateral. The doctor is lovely and you sob again because you’re exhausted from worrying. You feel like being a mother never gets easier – and here you are again dealing with a situation you have no qualifications to deal with.

It’s just a viral infection and it’ll pass in a couple of days.

A couple of days pass and you start to wonder if the little one is starting to milk this as it looks like a pretty nice life lying on the sofa all day, sipping strawberry milk, watching Peppa Pig on repeat.

And then you cough. The bastard has got you.

You feel wretched. You have complete sympathy with the toddler. You just want to crawl into bed and slowly die – but you can’t, because you’re the bloody mum. Who is there to make your chocolate milk and let you watch The Good Wife on repeat? No one.

Wait! I know who will look after me. My parents! They always looked after me when I was sick. So I call them – and prepare myself for the waves of sympathy that are about to wash over me. But – they have none.

They just ask if the children are ok and order me to bleach my surfaces. Not a euphemism.

So I look to my husband for sympathy and I may get a cup of tea and, if the stars align, a nap. Maybe we’ll get through this after all.

And then the husband comes down with the same thing. And once daddy pig gets it – you’re all doomed.

Don’t forget – the particular strain the man of the house gets is much more potent and deadly than yours or the children. You might have all been a little bit sick – but he has version 3.0 which is your minor illness times 987%.

The poor little lamb.

If you can survive this sick time together without clobbering your other half to death with a bottle of junior calpol then you can survive pretty much anything.

Weirdly the baby – the second born – will remain entirely unaffected during the entire sick period. He will bomb about with a grin on his face proving further that he’s not entirely human and has been sent to destroy you all.

Cough, sneeze, splutter.

 

 

 

Why I won’t be piercing my sons’ ears

Firstly, I don’t have a licence to pierce shit. I am presuming you need a licence for that sort of ting – not just one of your mum’s old earrings, a flame and a cork.

Katie Price is ‘under’ metaphorical ‘fire’ for posting a pic of her child with pierced ears (18 months, the child and the ears). Apparently it is like ‘child abuse’ – I am paraphrasing from Newsnight… Sorry, I mean, Loose Women.

Katie can do what she wishes – it’s her life, her daughter, her perogative.

But I won’t be piercing my sons’ ears. And if they were girls I would make the same statement. Why?

1/ It’s personal taste – and in my personal taste – it just looks cheap. There you go! Like big gold hoop earrings, or socks over tracksuit bottoms or speedos – I just don’t like it. But why is my personal taste relevant – especially as many would say I have no taste. Because…

2/ A baby / toddler has no taste. They have no choice in this world. They didn’t choose their parents and they didn’t choose their breakfast – we do. We do what we think is best for them – till they can say Feck you arse holes – I never wanted to be sugar free.  Their current taste is bogies, carpet and cat hair. They are not looking through the Claire’s Accessories catalogue wishing they could pull off a bronze stud.

3/ I want them to choose how they look. I could get deep here – I want them to be themselves, to be who they want to be, to have their own look, to be freeeee to beeeee them. If they want to wear… I don’t know, high heels, they can. But I certainly am not going to wedge high heels on their feet without them expressing their wish to. That sort of thing causes issues, I’m guessing.

If someone made me wear a tracksuit I’d be frickin livid.

I got my ears pierced at sixteen. I’m not sure why – everyone else was doing it – like sex and cigarettes. So I guessed I should do it too.

It was only a fiver to get pierced, whereas smoking made my stomach turn and sex – well, there was absolutely no chance of that. I certainly would have had to spend more than a fiver,

Maybe I thought my pierced ears would draw the men in like magnets… no.

Since then I’ve worn earrings about as often as I’ve had sex.

But I am digressing.

I won’t be piercing my sons’ ears. Unless they keep me up again past two AM. In which case I’m marching them down Claire’s accessories – no anaesthetic. Bastards.

 

 

The Fairy tale of the stay at home mum

Once upon a time two people made a baby. Soon after the pleasurable birth, talk turned to what the mother wanted to be. Did she want to be a stay at home mum or a working mum? These were the only two titles available to her. The decision was quick, easy, without complication or hesitation and like most things in this world – entirely black and white.

The mother made it clear to her partner that the only real reason she had decided to have the baby was so she could loll around the palace all day, every day and scratch her royal arse. And so he agreed.

She saw that there were a plethora of free or cheap childcare options for her baby over the land, I mean, she couldn’t swing a corgi without hitting a nursery for a meagre price of say £10 a day… yet she still stuck to her lazy guns and decided that staying at home would be best for her and her baby (but mostly her).

She had also really gone off work – she hadn’t ever really had any ambition. Why would she? If she had had any ambition, then surely she wouldn’t have had the sprog in the first place. And she had been considering being jobless for some time anyway. What a great excuse a baby would be to do just what she wanted – nothing!

She had a vague recollection of working since she was seventeen, two degrees, a post graduate diploma and a thirteen year career – but none of that mattered now she had her new name badge securely fitted on ‘Stay at home mum’. She had heard working would give her children ‘something to aspire to’ and she certainly didn’t want any of that nonsense.

As she was at home she thought she might as well have another child – just to prolong her joyous holiday. And she did.

Upon ‘choosing’ to be a stay at home mum she found she had ample time to ‘hang out all day with her kids’ as she had heard this is what stay at home mums get to do.

Every morning she thanked the Lord she didn’t ‘have’ to go out to work and stared at the same old four walls, heard her baby scream and the toddler shout and thought about how lucky it was that they were barely taken off her hands for 24 hours a day.

She left the home to take care of itself and was never expected to cook or do 95% of the household jobs because she was the lazy stay at home mum. The tiny amount of housework, cleaning and watching Cbeebies she did do made her self esteem sky rocket.

She had worried her days might be full of tantrums, shit and boredom but was elated to discover they were full of home baking, arts and crafts and nursery rhymes.

But nothing gave her self esteem a boost more, than hearing about how highly regarded she was in her role of stay at home mum.

Her mental health soared. She never got lonely. She never found herself trying to talk to lampposts just to have some adult conversation. She never felt guilty. She never felt like a bad mum. She was certain her ‘choice’ was the right one. And she decided this would be her way of life for ever.

Slippers on girlfriend!

Sometimes she stares out of the window, across the land, at the working mum.

The working mum had the exact same black and white decision to make and just went the other way; there’s no accounting for personal taste.

When the working mum sees that over three quarters of her pay cheque has vanished into nursery costs and travel expenses she feels all warm and gooey inside. She’s heard she could get the same amount of left over wages if she stayed at home and got tax credits which really sautés her beans (in a good way).

With all her paperwork and out of office work she sometimes barely gets to spend much time with the children at the weekend too – which doesn’t bother her at all as she counts down the minutes at the weekend till she can palm the little shits off to a bunch of strangers at the Dickensian workhouse (nursery).

When her colleagues ask her how her weekend was she never breaks down in tears because she feels she didn’t spend enough time with her babies. When she sees how close her child is to the key worker at nursery it makes her feel swell.

Put simply she could stay at home if she wanted to – but bottom line is, she loves her career and therefore loathes her offspring.

She hears about how she will never get this time back again and she thinks ‘Thank Christ for that’.

But nothing gives her self esteem a boost more, than hearing about how highly regarded she is in her role of working mum.

Her mental health soars. She never feels guilty. She never feels like a bad mum. She is always certain her ‘choice’ is the right one. And she has decided this will be her way of life for ever.

High heels on.

 

Excuse me, Do these slippers come in black and white?

 

 

 

 

 

Ten signs you’ve lost your mummy marbles

Mummy's Writing Darling

Ten signs you’ve lost your mummy marbles

 

1/ You call the cuddly toys in your house by their correct pronoun and correct yourself if you make a mistake LIKE IT MATTERS TO ANYONE. “Darling…he wants Peppa Pig,  can you bring him, I mean ‘her’ up with some milk?” She’s (I mean it’s) not real woman, have a word with yourself.

2/ You sing a song while you’re emptying the dishwasher – which is fine. But you realise after a couple of minutes you’re not singing the latest Adele tune. You’re singing “Incy wincy spider” and there are no children in the house.

3/ You call your other half ‘Daddy Pig’, in front of his colleagues.

4/ You’ve forgotten your PIN number but thanks to Mr Tumble you can do the sign for cash machine and an interpretive dance for “how am I meant to buy chicken dippers now?”

5/ You’re out on your own with adults, drinking wine – yet you’re bobbing your leg up and down as though you’re soothing a baby and you’ve got “show me, show me” mixed with “I love Woolly and woolly loves me” going round and round inside your head.

6/ You call up your energy supplier to complain and when they apologise you say “it’s ok. it’s not a big thing. It’s a Bing thing.”

7/ You give your friend a hug and can’t help but tap her back several times in case she’s holding a burp in.

8/ You’ve been reading your child a story involving a sheep. You are hamming it up with all the enthusiasm of Jim Carey and are delivering lines like Brian Blessed. You are doing your best ‘she.e.e.ee.ee.eeep’ voice. Your child fell asleep five minutes ago.

9/ Your children’s names are interchangeable and are also apparently the names of your husband, mother, the big issue lady and the check out lad in the co-op.

10/ The bin men / women come. You stand at your front door waving to them all and shouting “Truuuck!!” Both your children are with their grandparents.

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