I may not the blogger you are looking for!

See also “Why I’m a shit blogger”.

I love writing – but blogging – I’m not very good. I can’t play the game.

I don’t schedule posts.

I don’t write about current events.

I don’t know what a no follow link is.

I don’t read other blogs unless a title really shouts out to me.

I don’t work hard on getting views, likes or numbers (which is why they’re so low).

I don’t look at my stats. Unless something goes a bit crazy!

I can’t do SEO – I can’t be bothered and I don’t understand it.

I did try – I did reviews (never was I paid for one). I didn’t realise I could ask for money to be honest. Writing them was just not very nice. I didn’t lie – but trying to think of 100 words on nipple balm was a stretch for me.

I would make a terrible sales woman.

It’s a shame as only this week I was offered the chance to review a shoe shop and get free shoes for my FOUR children. Whoa Nelly! Where did the other two come from?

 

I am hoping that brands will be able to put stats to the side… choose quality – and my blogging failings won’t affect my ability to one day make a bit of money from my words.

Smelly Poos

mummy's writing darling

Smelly Poos

Don’t whinge about your husband
some people don’t have a husband
or a boyfriend for that matter
or friends even – to have a coffee with, and a natter
some people are lonely and despair
if he won’t fill the dishwasher, do you really care?
You could be widowed, or too ugly for a man
hold on to him Ducky, for as long as you can.

Don’t go on and on about how much you loathe your job
don’t you know some people have to thieve and rob?
some people can’t get an interview or type a CV
some can’t get their head around a bloody PC.

Don’t moan about your dinner, praying to Venus
oh if you could just. be. thinner
Some people don’t have meals, or food while we’re on it
ditch the calorific wine and have a Gin and tonic.

And don’t moan about your children.

Don’t cry about your baby, never sleeping through the night
his smelly poos
how much milk he gets through
how bloody expensive was that Jumperoo?
how he wrote on your wall with your eyeliner pen
I swear to God boy, don’t make me count to ten
how sometimes his crying drives you crazy

Some people can’t have a baby.

The mum I’ll never be and the wasp

mummy's writing darling

Yesterday I took my youngest son to the park. This for me is an achievement in itself. The fact that we were both washed, dressed and actually out of the house with the three dimensional people – I felt pretty pleased with myself. The sun was shining and I suspected it was the last day of sun in 2016 so I had no choice but to throw us both out of the door and face the world.

I wear gym gear now – everywhere. If you live in gym gear no one wonders why you’ve no make up on and your hair looks like shit – little mum tip for you there. We went to the park, did the swings routine and then went to the outdoor cafe for a snack.

The park cafe; That’s where I saw her. The mum I will never be. She looked groomed, calm and collected. The first thing that struck me was that after she put her young daughter into the highchair she took out a special top for her to wear (like a towel texture top with no back but long sleeves – like a very elaborate bib). THEN she took out a second bib. The plastic type that catches food in the bottom. She basically had two forms of defence for the daughter’s lunch. Already I was in awe.

THEN the food she had ordered appeared and the daughter had A SALAD and a sandwich. I saw the gorgeous girl feeding herself peppers, lettuce, tomato, cucumber, fist fulls of sweetcorn and bloody carrot. I think my jaw was hanging open at this point.

Meanwhile over at team Siviter we had a chubby lad straddling a highchair with no bib at all. Not one. He was stuffing a grated cheese sandwich into his face with both fists in between eating ready salted Walkers crisps (wonderfully nutritious for a one year old). Grated cheese was in his ears, in his hair. There were crisps strewn around the floor area where he sat. I looked at him to her, then from me to the mum.

I will never ever be that mum. That mum who just looked like she was winning at mothering. Like she was born to be a mum. Her long curly hair flowing in the wind. Her massive breast feeding breasts swaying there, unsupported, her clean child sitting in the sun with a cute bonnet on eating God damn vine tomatoes.

I will never ever be that mum. I felt a bit sorry for my children in that moment. Sitting in the shade of the perfect mummy near me knowing that I certainly was not made to be a mum. That I just about get through each day and that’s all I can manage. A trip to the park and a cheese sandwich probably being the highlight of my poor sod’s week.

Then a wasp appeared. It swarmed around my baby a few times and I hoped it would leave as I’m absolutely terrified of them. I watched it intently and it landed on my boy’s face right next to his ear – I knew it was a matter of seconds before he reached for it to see what was on his face and he might get stung. I leapt up from my seat and swatted that bastard wasp away with one aggressive swipe with my bare mother fucking hand.

Which is when it struck me that we are all different in how we parent – how we get through this thing we call ‘mothering’. We might be born to do it and we might just be getting through each day as well as we can but one thing is for sure – however we parent – we would all swat away a twat wasp with our bare hand to protect our babies.

And respect to that mum. I’ll never be you but you are killing it; This mothering thing.

We then had to leave because I am pretty sure she thought I jumped up and slapped my child’s face for no reason.

 

I’ve been nominated for best comic writer!

comic writer leeds

Cue sad X Factor music …

Ever since I was an odd looking little girl, all freckles, a lazy eye, an underbite and a gap in my front teeth large enough to fit a sherbet dip dab, I have dreamed about winning the Best Comic Writer category at the Mumsnet Blogging Awards.

Ok… well I dreamed about making people laugh. It was either that or being Ginger spice. As a stay at home mum, 98% of my day is spent trying not to weep into a jar of Biscoff spread. The other 2% is spent laughing. Laughing is all you’ve got sometimes to get through. The thought that I might help other parents laugh is just wonderful.

But who am I? And why should you vote for me?

comic writer
Best Comic Writer – Mummy’s Writing Darling

I am the woman who spoke the truth about soft play – a satanic cess pit of despair:

It’s completely un-policed. The staff don’t give a shit. All around are redundant signs and rules: No shoes; But Pocohontis over there is wearing thigh high platform boots. Please wear socks; Crusty mum and dad toes all around me shredding like confetti. Babies only; bloody Jessamy over there has got a nicotine patch on is reading The Spectator. Toddlers only; Zeus has got a fucking NUS card.

I am the woman who revealed ‘baby’s first Christmas’ is complete bullshit:

Your new baby is still at the stage where they look like a misshapen butternut squash weebling in their door bouncer – and let’s face it – though you’d like to imagine otherwise, they don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on and won’t do for probably another year. They’re not much fun on the day. They’ll sit there like an undercooked stuffing ball in their Christmas tree outfit looking at you with the same disdain a dachshund would if you dressed them up as little bo peep on Halloween.

I am the woman who told Chicco their advert was shite:

I don’t worry for myself – I am a mother of two. I’m experienced. I am worried about the new parents to be – they might stumble across your advert after some love making and a lie in. Over their eggs Benedict and bucks fizz they might say “oh look sweetheart, doesn’t that look great?” “Yes pumpkin” he will reply, “let’s buy that!” and they will look forward to the day they will resemble the folks in your ad. Over nine months later they might come knocking on your door asking for a full refund because daddy’s new nickname is ‘useless tit’, they haven’t slept in thirty six hours, and he’s spent the last four hours Googling “why is my baby crying” and “flights to Peru” on his iPad.

I am the woman with the greatest revenge plan known to man: 

Once dinner is served your dad will refuse to sit at the table and announce he hates lasagne. He will cry and continually request chocolate milk and a bread roll. I will eat your lasagne … If the stars are aligned, but be warned, if I get so much as a whiff of a vegetable I will straight up regurgitate it into your open hand. Half way through the lasagne I may decide it’s no longer my favourite – I think it was a different shade last time I had it – and I’ll demand dessert. Your father will eat the custard, and the crumble topping but then he will discover there’s apple in the bowl and simultaneously shit himself and realise he’s only wearing one shoe which will devastate him.

I am the woman who revealed the truth about how fucking horrendous caravan holiday park holidays are with your children in a four part extravaganza: 

There is a ratio of 1 parent to every 6 children in the swimming pool and a God awful amount of babies. Every single baby is screaming blue murder at being placed in the cold water. They are not enjoying themselves – at all. The parents don’t seem to care about this – probably thinking the newborns will climatise to the sudden drop in temperature … eventually. I hover 1mm away from toddler who can’t swim a jot and try to protect him from flailing legs, arms and errant floats. The noise of the place is deafening – a mixture of screams, cries, shrieks and people shouting “Yeeee-Haaaaa!!! Oi!! Pass me the Frisby Tanya!” Ever so often there is a waft of turd that one can only assume is from several of the new borns shitting themselves as part of a dirty protest against this sort of torture.  

I am the mum who knows exactly why you’re talking like that: 

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.”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…”

I am the lady who gets what it’s like when your child is sick: 

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.

I am the woman who understands mornings as a parent are Hell on earth: 

Last Monday morning, at around five, as I sat, semi naked on the toilet with the door wide open, my eleven month old clinging to my right leg smacking a maraca on my knee, green snot pouring from his nostril, his full nappy bulging at the seams, all the while making a siren type noise, and my three year old clung to my left leg, asking me if I was doing a wee or a poo and congratulating me on weeing “all by myself,” before demanding chocolate biscuits for breakfast, I had an epiphany.

I am the woman who told you that mummy hangovers are the WORST:

It’s three o’clock in the morning and a man whispers into your ear the most erotic phrase known to a mum: “You promised you’d get up with them.” What? What the F… Where am I? What is that noise? Is that a recorder? and….and… a tambourine? Who gave them those? I will find them and I will kill them. Why can I taste gherkins? and salt? What day is it? Is that a tattoo… Percy & Thomas BFF? Whose shoes are those? When did you get a fillet of fish? Why don’t we have painkillers in this house? What’s that smell? Oh…the…indignity!

and I am the mum who understands the struggle of one sibling waking up the other bastard: 

Within seconds, through the wall, I hear the following: Some sort of train based sports day is taking place, with races, hurdles and an awards ceremony. Lots of cheering, clapping and reading out of train names. Wailing and sobbing intermittently each time his track becomes detached. An entire Shakespeare tragedy is being played out starring twatting Thomas and fucking Ferdinand. Singing of entirely made up, and significantly long songs. Stamping of feet which could give a herd of wildebeest a run for their money. “MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY?” “DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY, DADDY?” I want pink milk! I want cwiisssps! A top class impression of Elmo on acid having an intense conversation with someone in space with no hearing aid and no phone.

 

So as you can see – I deserve your vote! Please?

Then I can officially say I have won two things in my life, the second one being a five pound gift voucher for drawing a picture of wind in the willows at primary school.

To place your vote just follow this link and select MUMMY’S WRITING, DARLING – you know you want to….

Much love

Stephanie x

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The Mum Next Door

brands worked with

There is a mum next door

you’ve caught sight of at dawn

dragging the bins out at night

dragging the kids out in the morn

mostly you hear her

and the little terrors she bred

screaming, crying, cbeebies on incessantly

the Gruffalo exhaustedly read

and I can bet my tax credits

on the fact that she’s lonely and sad

and that 38 times today the toddler has driven her mad

she worries so much about what her neighbours must think

she avoids their eyes as she stands sobbing at the kitchen sink

Lord oh Lord, what next door must hear

will she get reported for the children’s noisy tears?

You’ve seen her offspring in the garden

wearing only their nappies

you’ve seen her shouting at them not to eat worms

and with her husband in the morning all snappy

you’ve seen her put out the washing

covered in baked beans, looking grim

you’ve seen her blowing up the paddling pool

and sipping what looked like Tonic and Gin

you’ve not spoken to her yet

you assume she’s not got time

but she’d snap off your leg

for a neighbourly glass of wine

a chat, a smile, a cup of tea

all she needs is a bit of adult company

she wants you to tell her the kids are alright

and that she’s doing fine

that you don’t mind hearing the fights

every night at bed time

that you were her once

though it’s so long ago you’ve forgotten

that you don’t know how she does it

spending days cleaning and wiping bottoms

that you don’t judge her one bit

that sometimes kids, well, they can be little gits

I know this mum next door

and how hard she tries to be

(but fails at being) the perfect mummy

because the mum next door

well the mum next door is me.