Thursday, 21 August 2014

I'm No Good With Willies.

I thought I would write a little poem,
about my impending new-baby joy.
And announce that this ever-expanding WallyBump,
will be a beautiful, bouncing Wally-Boy.

Yes, we're joining the squad of the scrotum;
officially members of #teamblue.
We're part of the penis-gang, the brigade of the balls,
I haven't got a bastard clue what to do…

Up to now I've only mastered vaginas,
being a proud owner of one of my own.
With fannies I'm fine, (although I've totally ruined mine…),
this is my first time as a pee-pee chaperon.

We've gently broken the news to WallyBubba,
who said the scan looks like a disgusting frog.
'He's not sharing my bath, my highchair, or my room,
he'll have to sleep outside like a dog.' 

So this is my little poem,
about the arrival of my own WallyMan.
You might think I'm silly, I'll just be no good with a willy,
but I can't wait to have one in the WallyClan.


#nogoodwithwillies
#wallyclan
#didntevensaygin



Wednesday, 13 August 2014

Pants Are Officially Dead To Me.

Yes.

I'm rapidly approaching that stage in pregnancy where underwear serves no useful purpose, whatsoever.

Pants are pointless.

Bras are futile.

Pants and bras together are some like kind of elaborate torture device attacking either end of my ever-expanding uterus. Simultaneously. In cotton-blend.

Pre-preggo WallyMummy would live it up in matching bra and knickers and everything. I know. Just like a real girl... Or one of those ones from telly... Or dreams… Or Narnia.

Frankly, these puppies were well past the 'hoistable' stage once the last milk vampire was finished with them… but following yet another expansion; my areolas are now the size of doughnuts, and the texture of lego… a little beyond the smoothing abilities of a standard M&S t-shirt bra.

My muffin-top has become a full blown cake-plateau. There is no knicker line that flatters spherical. And anyone who thinks their post-pregnancy perineum will so much as let them utter the word 'thong'  has got a nasty surprise awaiting them.

My arms no longer have the strength to reach around my back and unclip anything. It's like I'm channeling a toddler trying to thread a shoelace through a piece of macaroni. It's never gonna happen. We're just wasting time, pasta and fine motor skills...

Things are made even worse by the fact that each time I sit down my thighs now spread out to the circumference of the sun, and my stupid womb-overhang won't allow for any kind of leg crossing. My only available seated position is sumo-squat. And on behalf of pregnant women everywhere I would like to very much thank nature for this flattering and beautiful pose. Almost as dignifying as the birth itself, but with slightly less vagina on show. Hopefully. 

So. Next time you see a pregnant lady waddling her way down the street with her dimply-bangers flapping in the wind… think of this post and have some f@*king sympathy.

And enjoy thongs while you can.

Because soon your vagina will just say no.

And your labia will eat them.


#pantsaredead
#pregnancysucks
#willhappilysellababyforagin



Friday, 8 August 2014

Potty Training Manoeuvres No Human Person Should Ever Have to Endure.Ever.

We have begun the dreaded potty training...

The precision learnings of the 'pot that shall remain nameless'...

The pee-pee-poo-festival of the potty-pot-pot-pot-pot…

Yes.

That glamorous phase of toddler parenting where you once again get up close and personal with your child's bodily fluids and functions, and once again taste the shit of a human... Daily…

It's a phase that strikes fear into the hearts and souls of parents everywhere and carries with it the burden of being responsible for your child. Nappy-less. Able to poo, pee and fiddle freely. In public. Sometimes on pavements. Or other toddlers. Or Alsatians. But mostly you.

There are many things humans shouldn't see with their actual eyes… death, destruction, famine, your toddler's faeces smeared across your new cream carpet and a large section of your pets… but so far here's some of the things I've learnt on my potty-journey, which I now impart to you:

  1. Don't be tempted to wipe your face with the back of your hand whilst breaking into a sweat half way through a particularly hefty poo disposal… #turdbrow. 
  2. Letting them carry their pee-filled-potty to the toilet themselves is risky… attempting to wrestle to off of them whilst they are carrying it will result in a golden shower for two. (Not the sexy kind.
  3. There are only so many Dettol wipes and kitchen rolls one person should use in their life time. And yep, you just smashed your quota in the last four minutes. 
  4. You've been to buy pants. You've followed all the advice; carefully allowed the toddler to select the ones they want, encouraged them to admire their new bottom-cotton in the mirror, praised and cheered as they've pulled them on in the morning… and now you can only look on as your toddler pisses through them like a f@*king polka-dotted tea strainer. 
  5. If you haven't noticed it… it hasn't happened… until your husband arrives home and it can be both his fault and problem. #toddlerloginthecorner 
  6. Bushes and hedgerows are your new best friend. Respect them, hug them, talk to them even... then pour your toddler's freshly squeezed urine all over them. Beautiful. 
  7. Car journeys aren't. 
  8. Your child-less friends will probably be a little bit taken a back when they pop round for a cup of tea, and your two-year-old curls one off in the living room potty just as they're tucking into a toffee crisp. Apparently they think it's disgusting or something…?! Weirdos. 
  9. You'll never be so bored of the sound of your own voice asking if they need a wee… each time you say it a little bit of your soul actually rots away, and your vagina cries. #truestory
  10. DO NOT (in a desperate attempt to leave the house somewhere near on time and pretend it's all going FINE AWESOME BRILLIANT) tickle them until they start to wee everywhere and hopefully sort of catch some in a bucket and/or glass. 
  11. *whispers* Sometimes… we all just let it dry…

#thankmelater
#withgin
#turdbrow



Tuesday, 5 August 2014

Preggo-insomnia...

Welcome to the land of preggo-insomnia,
Where things are sweatier, 
and hungrier, 
and sometimes extra vomit-ier.
Night times are spent rolling in a stuffy duvet spin;
one leg out...
one leg in...
it won't f@*king matter until you're thin.
The second you get comfortable, 
your bladder decides it's full,
Then your tiny vagina-passenger 
punches the shit out of your uterus-wall.
It seems there's no position 
where your body will let you sleep,
With itching bits, 
humungo-tits, 
leg cramps and tingly feet.
Your easiest option is left hand side
and even that's a chore,
As you sit awake for hours 
watching your bastard husband snore…
So welcome to the joys of preggo-insomnia,
With its nightmares, 
and its panicking, 
and occasional hypochondria.
You may just have to face it; 
you just can't f@*king win,
So suck it up and focus on that first post-natal gin.



#preggosomnia
#postnatalgin
#vaginapassenger
#gin


pssst… for any of you lovely pregnant ladies - Mumsnet is launching Bumpfest on 27th September; it's first annual one-day event for all things birth and baby. Click through for info and ticket details. 

Friday, 1 August 2014

The #ToddlerHoliday Come-down...

So.

You've survived another toddler holiday… *twitches a bit*

And you're expecting your knighthood summons in the post any day now. (Obviously).

And just when you thought holidaying with your toddler couldn't get any worse... You arrive home… Depressed… Exhausted… Sweaty (Pregnancy Glow)... And get punched in the face with the reality that is your tantrum-throwing-icecream-demanding-turd-slinging-shit-storm of a two year old who's been the centre of attention for way toooooooo long.

It's very quickly dawned on my that my 3-week Spain-cation has had a drastic effect on the WallyBubba. She's become completely uncontrollable. A complete diva. And I had fairly little control of her before hand if I'm honest... But scarily she's actually becoming bored of the iPad, the ice-cream promises and the nakedness... In fact she believes this is now the norm and any attempt to NOT follow lunch with nappy-free-Calippo-jazz-hands-time is met with swift headbutt to the throat and/or round house kick to the vagina. (and nappy-free-Calippo-jazz-hands-time…)

She's a shit. A smiling assassin. A wolf in Disney Little Mermaid clothing…

Let me lay-out the key changes for you:


Morning Time:

Pre-holiday - Wake-up, brush teeth, brush hair, get dressed, head for breakfast… sorted.

Post-holiday - Mummy is awoken by the recently familiar sound of the toddler demanding freshly baked croissants and home made apricot jam for her and her troop of airplane toys, brought in on the back of a mountain goat riding a rainbow. She won't be brushing her teeth/hair anymore because that would be f@*king ridiculous. And no. She won't be wearing the simple skirt/t-shirt combo you've selected for her today, she'll instead be fashioning a toga from one of the curtains, and pairing it with one of her Ugg boots, a tiara and your lipgloss. Thanks.

Out & About:

Pre-holiday - Buggy travel, the odd shop-related tantrum, generally appeased by playground trips, iPhone sessions and the odd biscuit…

Post-holiday - I hate Peppa Pig. Your iPhone and your general face bores me. Slides are for wankers. Thanks for bringing me to this shop; I've picked out all the shit I need, handed it to the lady behind the till and told her you'll be over in a minute. Also. I'll be travelling everywhere via the medium of naked, interpretive jazz-flamenco from now on. Just so you know. 

Mealtimes:

Pre-holiday - A solid rotation of pizza, sausages, omelettes and desperation, interspersed with sandwiches and fruit… Bland, boring, but varied enough to keep me from crying into my salad…

Post-holiday - Chips. Melon. Ice-cream. And Attitude… if those melon 'hedgehogs' aren't cut just the way she likes them and brought to her by a spanish waiter who provides her with a continual supply of ice-cream following her expert recitals of the phrase 'Ola', the shit will hit the pink-€1-hand-fan. Every ten minutes she must leave the table to check the sea is still there. Without shoes. Naturally.

Bedtime:

Pre-holiday - Milk, bath, cuddles, storytime… (wine).

Post-holiday - F@*k You. I am Wally-Juanita. The Nappy-Removing-Flamenco-Ninja of the West. Quiver as I fart naked in my bed and laugh in the face of sleep…. Mwahahaha. I don't give a f@*k if it's past 8pm, put me in a pretty f@*king dress and take me out to dinner you hussy.

*Side-note* Think I may have followed through with that fart… Probably all the melon. You should clear that up. Quickly.


So… with some careful reintroduction of routine, structure and order we will slowly get back to 'normal'… or I could go crack open the suitcase-rioja, hide in then unfathomable pile of holiday-washing, stay very still and quiet, and just wait for the pregnancy pixies to come and do all the housework/parenting for me. Yeah. I'll do that. That'll definitely work. Definitely.

The end.

*Passes out*







Wednesday, 23 July 2014

To Bump or Not to Bump...?

What is the big f@*king deal with wearing a bikini whilst preggo?

Flashing some belly…?

Exposing some baby-harnessing exterior uterus flesh…?

I'm not suggesting skimpy swimwear as the attire of choice for all weathers, supermarket trips and the occasional wedding/christening, but whilst on the beach… by the pool… chilling with a alcohol-free ceveza *lets out a small alcohol-free wail* on a sun lounger… what is the big deal?

Seriously.

For the first time since I had stomach muscles (And a functioning pelvic floor. And a sensibly proportioned labia. Oh the memories…) I can don swimwear without having to suck in the stretch-marked bi-product of my first womb invader. I can position myself on a sun-bed without having to first work out the exact trajectory where my rolls of tummy flab will be least offensive and my boobs are at an adequate hoisted level so as not to put my entire torso in shade. Frankly, it's liberating.

I'd be sunbathing bastard-well topless except that a courtesy of a Spanish mosquito my right breast now has what looks like an additional nipple, and I'm fairly sure no-one can handle the sight of my flappy mozzy-bitten preggo-bangers down at the beach bar and enjoy their calamari without wincing. So I'll save them that experience… And believe me when I say anything other than vertical means enough side boob for everybody. Ample armpit breasts for everyone. EVERY. ONE.

So unleash the bump ladies. Don't be shy. Bust that blossoming-baby-bundle out of it's lycra prison and into the open air for all to see… Because next year we'll be back to the support tankini, poking sections of vagina back into our long shorts with a Calippo, in a shit hat and preying for the days of the roll-free preggo-bulge… Do it... DO. IT.

Also. Not in anyway related to this post but if I see one more f@*king loomband minion on Instagram I will be forced to stab out my own eyes. Just so you all know.

#unleashthebump
#preggobangers
#bumpbumpbump



Friday, 18 July 2014

Shit. The Toddler's Got a Tan...

Shit. The toddler's got a tan.
Believe me, this was not my plan...
No matter how much I rub and squirt,
The lotion's just repelled by her perma-dirt.

I put on a t-shirt, she rips it off,
Along with her nappy right down to her crocs.
She's like a naked turdy missile seeking the sun,
The only thing that's white is her little toddler bum.

Hats are a universal toddler conspiracy,
Sent by the Parenting Gods, just to to take the piss out of me.
I've tried caps, velcro straps, even a bastard panama...
She only keeps one on when she's posing for a shitting camera.

I douse her in '50', I don't miss a spot,
But I've still ended up with a teak-coloured tot.
I should be upset, but all I can do is whine...
Now her bloody tan lines are better than mine!

So shit. The toddlers got a tan.
I admit I'm the world's worst SPF-wingman.
'I am the twatty failure of an angry lotion monitor',
And I'd literally tear out a kidney for a large gin and tonica.



#tonica
#toddlertan
#tonicatan 
#pregnancysucks 

badmumsclub

Saturday, 12 July 2014

How to totally win at parenting on a #pregnant #toddlerholiday in Spain

It may have escaped your attention that I've been rather quiet over the past week or so… which is mainly down to being in toddler hell, I mean on toddler holiday, in Spain with the entire Wally contingent… and also down to the lack of gin. AKA - my personality.

I am no stranger to the perils of the toddler holiday *shudders in memory of the turdy plane toddler and other ice cream related tales of anger…* , but this one is being carried out with a rather inconvenient uterus tenant and with WallyBubba almost an entire year older. And wiser. And faster. And shittier.

So. Here's my tips to get through without the gin. Let us start from the beginning…



  • Firstly. Forget everything you ever thought you knew about toddler holidays. Without the gin numbing this shit is about to get serious. Last year's 'hat gate' has absolutely nothing on the moment in the check-in queue that your toddler realises they can outrun you*begins twitching* …be afraid… be very afraid… (and bring donuts)
  • Thank the living f@*k lords for airport soft play. Your first opportunity to sit down in a month. With a pasty. 
  • Look as pregnant as possible while looking for a seat/table/place to perch whilst waiting for the plane... Then get paranoid as you board and suck that uterus back in until you are verging on concave.
  • During the flight convince yourself that everyone is enjoying your child's 47-verse rendition of 'wheels on the bus' by not making eye contact with ANYONE. This is a good time for the remainder of those donuts. And Pringles. And sniffing the person in front of you's gin. Which is definitely not creepy or weird at all. 
  • Thank you Jesus of Pregnancy (actual person) for sending us mere mortals the gift of the Trunki. The saviour of toddler owners internationally at baggage carousels across the world. We bow to you. And later will make a little shrine with some leg hair and saliva and a pack of Peppa Pig stickers in your honour. That is all.
  • Your attempts to look floaty and serene once you've arrived at your Spanish end-location will only ever come off as sweaty in too much fabric in need of chips and dry shampoo.
  • You know that one storybook you couldn't be arsed to pack because they never want to read it anyway and it weighs more than the actual sun...? Yeah. You idiot.
  • That moment when the toddler finally gives up the epic 20-hour fight against sleep and climbs into their buggy to pass out... Also known as the 'get in' hour (fist pump/high five optional). Aaaaaannndddddd relax. At this point consider another 'gin sniffing'. 
  • Mildly inappropriate alcohol consumption doesn't actually count on holiday... You said two glasses of wine a week. And you've stuck to that. By replacing the word 'week' with 'dinner and/or lunch'. (Or breakfast.)
  • Shit. Those swimming lessons have not only reversed your 2-year old's fear of water. They've turned her into a kamikaze water ninja. Ready to do battle with a partly chewed swim-nappy at any time…
  • All routine and bed time has gone out of the window. They live only for eating, sun and naked rock pool action. 
  • Yeah. And it can escape its cot now. F@*kballs.
  • If you attempt to sit down and read a 'mag-a-zine' at any point, it's like a red rag to a tiny greased-up crazy-haired bull... They will commence operation pool-side-poo-party and they will defend their area to the death with their zoodle.
  • You can choose shoes or hats. You will never get both on them at the same time. This is Spain. Not f@*king Oz. 
  • Spanish potty training has been going AWESOME (please apply appropriate level of sarcasm here) - our swimming pool is about 11% toddler urine and there are about three restaurants we've permanently left a mark on... Still. Due to the effect of damp Lycra on my ever increasing preggo-ness, I don't swim now. And it's not my bath water so f@*k it. #backtonappies 
  • Also - increasing waistline is absolutely ALL down to preggo-ness and absolutely not in any way connected to early morning donut consumption. Ot midnight churros sessions. 
  • How can one child eat that much melon...? And produce that much shit. I don't know whether to be concerned or impressed...
  • Note to self. Hunt down the person who invented toddler dungarees and have them stabbed to death in the face with blunt toddler cutlery. Same applies for whoever put buttons on the back of this dress.
  • It's lucky I'm already knocked up because today the toddler hurricane hit critical mass out at lunch, and mine and the nearest three tables' ovaries actually sterilised themselves. #truestory 
  • And finally. None of us will ever speak again of the 'Nemo Incident'. Despite repeated attempts to rescue Nemo, there are only so many times that actual human lives can be risked to salvage a 2-euro plastic orange fish from a cliff face. And in our own ways we've all said goodbye and come to terms with the loss. Mostly with donuts. 



#theNemoIncident
#gin
#toddlerholiday

I'm No Good With Willies.

I thought I would write a little poem,
about my impending new-baby joy.
And announce that this ever-expanding WallyBump,
will be a beautiful, bouncing Wally-Boy.

Yes, we're joining the squad of the scrotum;
officially members of #teamblue.
We're part of the penis-gang, the brigade of the balls,
I haven't got a bastard clue what to do…

Up to now I've only mastered vaginas,
being a proud owner of one of my own.
With fannies I'm fine, (although I've totally ruined mine…),
this is my first time as a pee-pee chaperon.

We've gently broken the news to WallyBubba,
who said the scan looks like a disgusting frog.
'He's not sharing my bath, my highchair, or my room,
he'll have to sleep outside like a dog.' 

So this is my little poem,
about the arrival of my own WallyMan.
You might think I'm silly, I'll just be no good with a willy,
but I can't wait to have one in the WallyClan.


#nogoodwithwillies
#wallyclan
#didntevensaygin



Pants Are Officially Dead To Me.

Yes.

I'm rapidly approaching that stage in pregnancy where underwear serves no useful purpose, whatsoever.

Pants are pointless.

Bras are futile.

Pants and bras together are some like kind of elaborate torture device attacking either end of my ever-expanding uterus. Simultaneously. In cotton-blend.

Pre-preggo WallyMummy would live it up in matching bra and knickers and everything. I know. Just like a real girl... Or one of those ones from telly... Or dreams… Or Narnia.

Frankly, these puppies were well past the 'hoistable' stage once the last milk vampire was finished with them… but following yet another expansion; my areolas are now the size of doughnuts, and the texture of lego… a little beyond the smoothing abilities of a standard M&S t-shirt bra.

My muffin-top has become a full blown cake-plateau. There is no knicker line that flatters spherical. And anyone who thinks their post-pregnancy perineum will so much as let them utter the word 'thong'  has got a nasty surprise awaiting them.

My arms no longer have the strength to reach around my back and unclip anything. It's like I'm channeling a toddler trying to thread a shoelace through a piece of macaroni. It's never gonna happen. We're just wasting time, pasta and fine motor skills...

Things are made even worse by the fact that each time I sit down my thighs now spread out to the circumference of the sun, and my stupid womb-overhang won't allow for any kind of leg crossing. My only available seated position is sumo-squat. And on behalf of pregnant women everywhere I would like to very much thank nature for this flattering and beautiful pose. Almost as dignifying as the birth itself, but with slightly less vagina on show. Hopefully. 

So. Next time you see a pregnant lady waddling her way down the street with her dimply-bangers flapping in the wind… think of this post and have some f@*king sympathy.

And enjoy thongs while you can.

Because soon your vagina will just say no.

And your labia will eat them.


#pantsaredead
#pregnancysucks
#willhappilysellababyforagin



Potty Training Manoeuvres No Human Person Should Ever Have to Endure.Ever.

We have begun the dreaded potty training...

The precision learnings of the 'pot that shall remain nameless'...

The pee-pee-poo-festival of the potty-pot-pot-pot-pot…

Yes.

That glamorous phase of toddler parenting where you once again get up close and personal with your child's bodily fluids and functions, and once again taste the shit of a human... Daily…

It's a phase that strikes fear into the hearts and souls of parents everywhere and carries with it the burden of being responsible for your child. Nappy-less. Able to poo, pee and fiddle freely. In public. Sometimes on pavements. Or other toddlers. Or Alsatians. But mostly you.

There are many things humans shouldn't see with their actual eyes… death, destruction, famine, your toddler's faeces smeared across your new cream carpet and a large section of your pets… but so far here's some of the things I've learnt on my potty-journey, which I now impart to you:

  1. Don't be tempted to wipe your face with the back of your hand whilst breaking into a sweat half way through a particularly hefty poo disposal… #turdbrow. 
  2. Letting them carry their pee-filled-potty to the toilet themselves is risky… attempting to wrestle to off of them whilst they are carrying it will result in a golden shower for two. (Not the sexy kind.
  3. There are only so many Dettol wipes and kitchen rolls one person should use in their life time. And yep, you just smashed your quota in the last four minutes. 
  4. You've been to buy pants. You've followed all the advice; carefully allowed the toddler to select the ones they want, encouraged them to admire their new bottom-cotton in the mirror, praised and cheered as they've pulled them on in the morning… and now you can only look on as your toddler pisses through them like a f@*king polka-dotted tea strainer. 
  5. If you haven't noticed it… it hasn't happened… until your husband arrives home and it can be both his fault and problem. #toddlerloginthecorner 
  6. Bushes and hedgerows are your new best friend. Respect them, hug them, talk to them even... then pour your toddler's freshly squeezed urine all over them. Beautiful. 
  7. Car journeys aren't. 
  8. Your child-less friends will probably be a little bit taken a back when they pop round for a cup of tea, and your two-year-old curls one off in the living room potty just as they're tucking into a toffee crisp. Apparently they think it's disgusting or something…?! Weirdos. 
  9. You'll never be so bored of the sound of your own voice asking if they need a wee… each time you say it a little bit of your soul actually rots away, and your vagina cries. #truestory
  10. DO NOT (in a desperate attempt to leave the house somewhere near on time and pretend it's all going FINE AWESOME BRILLIANT) tickle them until they start to wee everywhere and hopefully sort of catch some in a bucket and/or glass. 
  11. *whispers* Sometimes… we all just let it dry…

#thankmelater
#withgin
#turdbrow



Preggo-insomnia...

Welcome to the land of preggo-insomnia,
Where things are sweatier, 
and hungrier, 
and sometimes extra vomit-ier.
Night times are spent rolling in a stuffy duvet spin;
one leg out...
one leg in...
it won't f@*king matter until you're thin.
The second you get comfortable, 
your bladder decides it's full,
Then your tiny vagina-passenger 
punches the shit out of your uterus-wall.
It seems there's no position 
where your body will let you sleep,
With itching bits, 
humungo-tits, 
leg cramps and tingly feet.
Your easiest option is left hand side
and even that's a chore,
As you sit awake for hours 
watching your bastard husband snore…
So welcome to the joys of preggo-insomnia,
With its nightmares, 
and its panicking, 
and occasional hypochondria.
You may just have to face it; 
you just can't f@*king win,
So suck it up and focus on that first post-natal gin.



#preggosomnia
#postnatalgin
#vaginapassenger
#gin


pssst… for any of you lovely pregnant ladies - Mumsnet is launching Bumpfest on 27th September; it's first annual one-day event for all things birth and baby. Click through for info and ticket details. 

The #ToddlerHoliday Come-down...

So.

You've survived another toddler holiday… *twitches a bit*

And you're expecting your knighthood summons in the post any day now. (Obviously).

And just when you thought holidaying with your toddler couldn't get any worse... You arrive home… Depressed… Exhausted… Sweaty (Pregnancy Glow)... And get punched in the face with the reality that is your tantrum-throwing-icecream-demanding-turd-slinging-shit-storm of a two year old who's been the centre of attention for way toooooooo long.

It's very quickly dawned on my that my 3-week Spain-cation has had a drastic effect on the WallyBubba. She's become completely uncontrollable. A complete diva. And I had fairly little control of her before hand if I'm honest... But scarily she's actually becoming bored of the iPad, the ice-cream promises and the nakedness... In fact she believes this is now the norm and any attempt to NOT follow lunch with nappy-free-Calippo-jazz-hands-time is met with swift headbutt to the throat and/or round house kick to the vagina. (and nappy-free-Calippo-jazz-hands-time…)

She's a shit. A smiling assassin. A wolf in Disney Little Mermaid clothing…

Let me lay-out the key changes for you:


Morning Time:

Pre-holiday - Wake-up, brush teeth, brush hair, get dressed, head for breakfast… sorted.

Post-holiday - Mummy is awoken by the recently familiar sound of the toddler demanding freshly baked croissants and home made apricot jam for her and her troop of airplane toys, brought in on the back of a mountain goat riding a rainbow. She won't be brushing her teeth/hair anymore because that would be f@*king ridiculous. And no. She won't be wearing the simple skirt/t-shirt combo you've selected for her today, she'll instead be fashioning a toga from one of the curtains, and pairing it with one of her Ugg boots, a tiara and your lipgloss. Thanks.

Out & About:

Pre-holiday - Buggy travel, the odd shop-related tantrum, generally appeased by playground trips, iPhone sessions and the odd biscuit…

Post-holiday - I hate Peppa Pig. Your iPhone and your general face bores me. Slides are for wankers. Thanks for bringing me to this shop; I've picked out all the shit I need, handed it to the lady behind the till and told her you'll be over in a minute. Also. I'll be travelling everywhere via the medium of naked, interpretive jazz-flamenco from now on. Just so you know. 

Mealtimes:

Pre-holiday - A solid rotation of pizza, sausages, omelettes and desperation, interspersed with sandwiches and fruit… Bland, boring, but varied enough to keep me from crying into my salad…

Post-holiday - Chips. Melon. Ice-cream. And Attitude… if those melon 'hedgehogs' aren't cut just the way she likes them and brought to her by a spanish waiter who provides her with a continual supply of ice-cream following her expert recitals of the phrase 'Ola', the shit will hit the pink-€1-hand-fan. Every ten minutes she must leave the table to check the sea is still there. Without shoes. Naturally.

Bedtime:

Pre-holiday - Milk, bath, cuddles, storytime… (wine).

Post-holiday - F@*k You. I am Wally-Juanita. The Nappy-Removing-Flamenco-Ninja of the West. Quiver as I fart naked in my bed and laugh in the face of sleep…. Mwahahaha. I don't give a f@*k if it's past 8pm, put me in a pretty f@*king dress and take me out to dinner you hussy.

*Side-note* Think I may have followed through with that fart… Probably all the melon. You should clear that up. Quickly.


So… with some careful reintroduction of routine, structure and order we will slowly get back to 'normal'… or I could go crack open the suitcase-rioja, hide in then unfathomable pile of holiday-washing, stay very still and quiet, and just wait for the pregnancy pixies to come and do all the housework/parenting for me. Yeah. I'll do that. That'll definitely work. Definitely.

The end.

*Passes out*







To Bump or Not to Bump...?

What is the big f@*king deal with wearing a bikini whilst preggo?

Flashing some belly…?

Exposing some baby-harnessing exterior uterus flesh…?

I'm not suggesting skimpy swimwear as the attire of choice for all weathers, supermarket trips and the occasional wedding/christening, but whilst on the beach… by the pool… chilling with a alcohol-free ceveza *lets out a small alcohol-free wail* on a sun lounger… what is the big deal?

Seriously.

For the first time since I had stomach muscles (And a functioning pelvic floor. And a sensibly proportioned labia. Oh the memories…) I can don swimwear without having to suck in the stretch-marked bi-product of my first womb invader. I can position myself on a sun-bed without having to first work out the exact trajectory where my rolls of tummy flab will be least offensive and my boobs are at an adequate hoisted level so as not to put my entire torso in shade. Frankly, it's liberating.

I'd be sunbathing bastard-well topless except that a courtesy of a Spanish mosquito my right breast now has what looks like an additional nipple, and I'm fairly sure no-one can handle the sight of my flappy mozzy-bitten preggo-bangers down at the beach bar and enjoy their calamari without wincing. So I'll save them that experience… And believe me when I say anything other than vertical means enough side boob for everybody. Ample armpit breasts for everyone. EVERY. ONE.

So unleash the bump ladies. Don't be shy. Bust that blossoming-baby-bundle out of it's lycra prison and into the open air for all to see… Because next year we'll be back to the support tankini, poking sections of vagina back into our long shorts with a Calippo, in a shit hat and preying for the days of the roll-free preggo-bulge… Do it... DO. IT.

Also. Not in anyway related to this post but if I see one more f@*king loomband minion on Instagram I will be forced to stab out my own eyes. Just so you all know.

#unleashthebump
#preggobangers
#bumpbumpbump



Shit. The Toddler's Got a Tan...

Shit. The toddler's got a tan.
Believe me, this was not my plan...
No matter how much I rub and squirt,
The lotion's just repelled by her perma-dirt.

I put on a t-shirt, she rips it off,
Along with her nappy right down to her crocs.
She's like a naked turdy missile seeking the sun,
The only thing that's white is her little toddler bum.

Hats are a universal toddler conspiracy,
Sent by the Parenting Gods, just to to take the piss out of me.
I've tried caps, velcro straps, even a bastard panama...
She only keeps one on when she's posing for a shitting camera.

I douse her in '50', I don't miss a spot,
But I've still ended up with a teak-coloured tot.
I should be upset, but all I can do is whine...
Now her bloody tan lines are better than mine!

So shit. The toddlers got a tan.
I admit I'm the world's worst SPF-wingman.
'I am the twatty failure of an angry lotion monitor',
And I'd literally tear out a kidney for a large gin and tonica.



#tonica
#toddlertan
#tonicatan 
#pregnancysucks 

badmumsclub

How to totally win at parenting on a #pregnant #toddlerholiday in Spain

It may have escaped your attention that I've been rather quiet over the past week or so… which is mainly down to being in toddler hell, I mean on toddler holiday, in Spain with the entire Wally contingent… and also down to the lack of gin. AKA - my personality.

I am no stranger to the perils of the toddler holiday *shudders in memory of the turdy plane toddler and other ice cream related tales of anger…* , but this one is being carried out with a rather inconvenient uterus tenant and with WallyBubba almost an entire year older. And wiser. And faster. And shittier.

So. Here's my tips to get through without the gin. Let us start from the beginning…



  • Firstly. Forget everything you ever thought you knew about toddler holidays. Without the gin numbing this shit is about to get serious. Last year's 'hat gate' has absolutely nothing on the moment in the check-in queue that your toddler realises they can outrun you*begins twitching* …be afraid… be very afraid… (and bring donuts)
  • Thank the living f@*k lords for airport soft play. Your first opportunity to sit down in a month. With a pasty. 
  • Look as pregnant as possible while looking for a seat/table/place to perch whilst waiting for the plane... Then get paranoid as you board and suck that uterus back in until you are verging on concave.
  • During the flight convince yourself that everyone is enjoying your child's 47-verse rendition of 'wheels on the bus' by not making eye contact with ANYONE. This is a good time for the remainder of those donuts. And Pringles. And sniffing the person in front of you's gin. Which is definitely not creepy or weird at all. 
  • Thank you Jesus of Pregnancy (actual person) for sending us mere mortals the gift of the Trunki. The saviour of toddler owners internationally at baggage carousels across the world. We bow to you. And later will make a little shrine with some leg hair and saliva and a pack of Peppa Pig stickers in your honour. That is all.
  • Your attempts to look floaty and serene once you've arrived at your Spanish end-location will only ever come off as sweaty in too much fabric in need of chips and dry shampoo.
  • You know that one storybook you couldn't be arsed to pack because they never want to read it anyway and it weighs more than the actual sun...? Yeah. You idiot.
  • That moment when the toddler finally gives up the epic 20-hour fight against sleep and climbs into their buggy to pass out... Also known as the 'get in' hour (fist pump/high five optional). Aaaaaannndddddd relax. At this point consider another 'gin sniffing'. 
  • Mildly inappropriate alcohol consumption doesn't actually count on holiday... You said two glasses of wine a week. And you've stuck to that. By replacing the word 'week' with 'dinner and/or lunch'. (Or breakfast.)
  • Shit. Those swimming lessons have not only reversed your 2-year old's fear of water. They've turned her into a kamikaze water ninja. Ready to do battle with a partly chewed swim-nappy at any time…
  • All routine and bed time has gone out of the window. They live only for eating, sun and naked rock pool action. 
  • Yeah. And it can escape its cot now. F@*kballs.
  • If you attempt to sit down and read a 'mag-a-zine' at any point, it's like a red rag to a tiny greased-up crazy-haired bull... They will commence operation pool-side-poo-party and they will defend their area to the death with their zoodle.
  • You can choose shoes or hats. You will never get both on them at the same time. This is Spain. Not f@*king Oz. 
  • Spanish potty training has been going AWESOME (please apply appropriate level of sarcasm here) - our swimming pool is about 11% toddler urine and there are about three restaurants we've permanently left a mark on... Still. Due to the effect of damp Lycra on my ever increasing preggo-ness, I don't swim now. And it's not my bath water so f@*k it. #backtonappies 
  • Also - increasing waistline is absolutely ALL down to preggo-ness and absolutely not in any way connected to early morning donut consumption. Ot midnight churros sessions. 
  • How can one child eat that much melon...? And produce that much shit. I don't know whether to be concerned or impressed...
  • Note to self. Hunt down the person who invented toddler dungarees and have them stabbed to death in the face with blunt toddler cutlery. Same applies for whoever put buttons on the back of this dress.
  • It's lucky I'm already knocked up because today the toddler hurricane hit critical mass out at lunch, and mine and the nearest three tables' ovaries actually sterilised themselves. #truestory 
  • And finally. None of us will ever speak again of the 'Nemo Incident'. Despite repeated attempts to rescue Nemo, there are only so many times that actual human lives can be risked to salvage a 2-euro plastic orange fish from a cliff face. And in our own ways we've all said goodbye and come to terms with the loss. Mostly with donuts. 



#theNemoIncident
#gin
#toddlerholiday