We thought we had it bad with our first child when he started grappling with the English language. We thought we had it bad when truck became cock, and clock became cock, and socks became fucks, and fox became fucks. Oh how we cringed. But WAIT! Enter second child – or as we call him “If we had him first we wouldn’t have had any more.”
He is three next month and is at the fully fledged stage of “make noises that sort of sound like coherent words but not quite.” We were completely prepared for the embarrassment – here comes the cocks and fucks we thought.
Oh no – this child is a game changer.
He has two words of choice. The first is – The N word.
The actual N word. Now we are pretty sure he hasn’t got Tourettes.
We are pretty sure he hasn’t learned it from us – or grandma – Great grandma could have been an option – but he’s only met her once and she’s not a massive racist.
We also haven’t been letting him listen to NWA – “Fuck the police” and all that.
We can not for the life of us figure out what he is actually saying. For a while I thought it might be “New Car” – but he keeps shouting it whilst looking at his brother. And he doesn’t work at we buy any car.com
It’s pretty much the first thing he says in the morning. He walks out of his room – sees his older brother and shouts the N word at him. (If you have any clue what he might be saying please send your answers on a postcard – before social services get hold of us).
Pretty much the worst thing he could say right?
Well – enter his second word of choice. Which generally immediately follows the N word – THE BLOODY C Word – C#NT!!!
Now it might be that he’s saying “can’t” like this Alan Partridge episode :
But in which case – why is he continually screaming at us “N word C#nt!” what can’t we do? And why are you being racist towards us? NONE OF THIS MAKES SENSE.
I can’t take him in public for God’s sake. It sounds like I’m growing a tiny angry racist Danny Dyer.
If we have a third GOD knows what he’ll be screaming at the top of his lungs in a few years time as they seem to be getting progressively worse. “This is our third son, say hello!”
Cock Fuck C#nt N word twat wanker shit goo goo ga ga BOLLOCKS!!!!
Have you ever tried to tuck into a beautifully crafted Roast Dinner with all the trimmings, with a strange aroma of sweet stools floating across the mint sauce? Then you, my friend, are on to the latest diet craze – the extraordinarily effective appetite suppressant we call having children.
Firstly a newborn will not let you eat. It senses when a meal is near by and will demand your full attention and both hands.
Secondly, the Mac an’ Cheese you’ve prepared does not pair well with baby upchuck.
Another thing that can put you off your fajitas is a baby clamped to your bleeding nipples draining the calcium from you.
Now – when a child starts weaning they have the power to put you off all of your solid family favourites. My friend, once you’ve seen Lasagne, Cottage Pie, and, God forbid, Tuna Pasta Bake go through a human and re-enter the atmosphere an hour later in much the same form – trust me – those meals will not be a part of your weekly food diary again.
You will also be generally full already when your meal arrives because you have been tucking into disgusting leftovers strewn around your house – burnt ends of fish fingers, crusts from toast, peanut butter from the jar, cold beans, lurpack.
Ever had to scrape chilli con carne out of a child’s neck rolls? No more Old el Paso for me ta.
I can honestly say I haven’t fully enjoyed a Christmas Dinner for five years now. Who wants to wolf down a load of stuffing balls when you’ve spent the morning removing your children’s own balls of stuffing from their Pampers and rubbing Sudacream into bum holes?
And meals out? Ha!! Ha!! forget it.
So there you have it – want your appetite suppressed? Forget any Kim Kardashian sponsored lollypop – no, no, just have kids.
I know you may have seen a certain Kardashian’s brilliant post this week ‘How to look thin AF in photos.” I still don’t know what AF stands for – but what if you want to go the other way? Luckily – I have years of experience. Follow my simple tips to look fat AND FOXY in all of your photos!
Firstly, and this is essential. Have fun. Forget that there are any cameras in existence. Don’t worry about it. Dance like no one is watching. Swear like no one is listening. Jiggle like no one is flashing (a camera).
Angle is everything. If you remember one thing – remember this. You want your photographer to take all shots from below – like a seedy paparazzi trying to get a shot of your granny knickers. The lower the better.
Make sure you are eating – or have just finished eating. Something carb heavy – the sort that retains water. Try to have them take a picture just as the nacho is coming in to land – preferably with stringy cheese hanging down your chins.
Talking of chins – a great way to highlight your great chins is a side ways pic. This will accentuate your profile.
If you’re in a group (I never have to worry about this) then make sure you are right at the front (no bending down now – unless you’re in a bikini), or make sure you’re right at one side and have to lean inwards.
Get your dad to take all pics on a night out. He uses a camera from the 80s with no flash and he is an absolute expert in the downwards, sideways, caught off guard shots – which he uses to try to remind you to lose weight.
Now for the mothers like me – don’t use any of your children as shields anymore to hide your stomach. Use them as props to show the massive size difference between them and you.
No pouting. No posing. No breathing in. Breathe out. And relax.
Run or jog.
do not contour.
wear a bobble hat to make your face rounder like an orange.
no editing or filter. certainly no snapchat filters.
wear hair up or hide hair.
Pull a large child or two through the snow on a sledge in the cold with one arm after several months of no cardio.
Become ‘with child’ and don’t give AF because there are more important things in your F in life than appearing thinner than you are – I don’t know – like being a good person, or a great parent – or you know, ANYTHING ELSE.
Take all the photos – be in all the photos! You might not like all of them – that’s life.
Follow all my tips and you can easily look just like me in photos!
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?
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.