Wednesday, 22 October 2014

Lady Maintenance. A Pregnant Guide via the Medium of Rhyme...

Here is a poem, all about maintaining,
Your bits and your bobs, while you're growing a baby.
Some let it all hang out, and some keep it neat.
Others couldn't give a shit, while they can't even see their feet.
Some choose a razor, to trim up their pins,
Which can get a bit gory, for the sake of smooth limbs.
From ankle to calf area, the damage is minimal,
But once you reach dangly bits, it's like being attacked by an animal...
Some leave it to the pros, and just opt for waxing,
If you can't see what's going on, it's not really happening.
Somewhere in that lady forest, is your long lost vagina.
With the aid of the sticky stuff, you can once again find her.
Some get the cream out, to frazzle those hairs,
A bit too close for comfort for me, with your labia right there...
Some ask a husband, to go down and give things a snip,
Perhaps some bedtime tweezer-ing, to tidy up those nips.
So however you do it, there's ways of maintaining,
Your bits and bobs, without too much complaining.
But frankly me and my fanny, have got plenty to get through,
Like producing a f@*king human, that's more than enough to do…


#notlongtogin
#ladymaintenance
#gin 

Friday, 17 October 2014

The things I won't do with baby no.2... (But absolutely will)

That's it now folks… I am officially on the 8 week countdown. Which is both terrifying but a massive relief as this pregnancy has been bloody hard work with a ninja-turd-eating-toddler in tow f@*king up my plans to sit or lie down at any point in the past 7 months…

I'm trying very hard *does squinty eye concentration face as proof* to remember exactly what the hell it is you actually do with a newborn… but all my memories are a jaded blur of gin-soaked-cakiness. Which isn't very helpful. So instead I've made a list of all the things I vaguely remember doing which I probably shouldn't do with the next one. As that seems like a good place to start.

Here goes:

I won't use the Jumperoo as a baby-containing-prison.
I won't use the playpen to sit in and eat Hobnobs. Soaked in tequila. And my own tears. While the kids play with plugs. 
I won't become an all-night twitter addict. 
I won't breast-feed whilst drinking wine*
*gin and tonic... hold the tonic. 
I won't impulse buy random crap on eBay at 3am because it makes me feel better about the area formally known as my nipples and/or vagina.
I won't use a hand mirror to look at the area my vagina used to be.
I won't use a mirror.
I won't use muslins that have begun to evolve into their own form of cheese.
I won't leave 'those' nappies for when the husband returns from work.
I won't leave the house without an ample amount of nappies/wipes/spare babygros because it'll 'probably be fine'.
I won't leave the nappy off. EVER.
I won't forget breast pads on a night out. Or get drunk and try to pass off my squirting nipples as a new party trick. 
I won't consider a fortnight an acceptable time frame between legging washes.
I won't allow my house to turn into a squat sponsored by Fisher Price. 
I won't eat food debris I find between the sofa cushions because it's easier than actually moving. (It is true that everything looks like a raisin if it's been there for long enough…)
I won't pretend I didn't notice the small pile of shoulder puke but wear it anyway...
I won't lock myself in the downstairs toilet for a nap. And a twix. 
I won't use the bottom sniff test whilst in civilised company. i.e. when the gas man calls or during a job interview...
I won't insist any guest the baby shits on is responsible for the clean up. AKA 'poo roulette'.
I won't live off of cake alone because I'm breast feeding, and therefore immune to calories of the bottom.
I won't say I'm going to buggy-fit but then just eat another pie instead.
I won't answer the door with part/all of my vagina hanging out of my dressing gown parting.
I won't sometimes just not answer the door/leave the house/turn up. Because I don't f@*king feel like it. (And all the leggings are past the point of no return…)
I won't 'just rub the baby-rice in' to my hair thinking it's unnoticeable.
I WILL NOT BECOME THE PREMIER TWATTY NAPPY PRICE INSPECTOR OF THE WIDER HAMPSHIRE AREA.
But most of all I probably will. Do all of the above. Especially that last one and any involving cake and/or gin. So there.

#twattynappypriceinspector
#gin
#GIN





Thursday, 9 October 2014

The Big-Girl Room and Other Ways You Know Your Baby Has GrownUp… *Sniff*

How can this have happened?

How can it possibly be possible for my baby to be growing up this fast…

*wails a bit and eats a chocolate orange... (Like an apple)*

Yes, the day has come that the baby-room is no more and the toddler has officially got her own 'Big-Girl Bedroom'… Next it'll be school, make-up, hot-pants, Kavos Uncovered… It's just like that scene out of ToyStory2 that makes me sob like a twat, where Jessie gets found under the bed and dumped by a tree… I AM JESSIE AND SHE IS ABANDONING ME.

I AM BEING ABANDONED.

But at least I'm not being melodramatic and overreacting or anything… *coughs* *considers another chocolate orange* 

It just feels like this is start of her really beginning to grow up. I'm merely a facilitator for her snack demands and helping her put tights on. She seems to think my skills begin and end with separating play-doh, buying her stuff, and producing raisins from about my person at any time no matter the situation. (I'm kinda proud of that last one to be fair.)

She picks her own dinners, dresses herself, poos independently, puts herself into her own bed and listens intently as I read her bedtime stories mainly so she can highlight when I try to skip over the bit in The Little Mermaid where Ariel meets the eels… it's shit and tedious and frankly adds nothing to the story.

So the Big-Girl-Room is one big fat guilt-ridden metaphor… In every one of those vinyl wall stickers is a little piece of my soul… crying… withering… and slowly being picked to death by tiny nutella-stained toddler fingers of doom…

Not to mention that almost single-handedly decorating a toddler's bedroom whilst seven months pregnant was so exhausting I nearly popped a human out on several occasions whilst glossing the curtain rail… My blood, sweat and a number of slightly questionable bodily fluids are firmly engrained in the fabric of that IKEA flat pack furniture, and I like to think no-one can position an owl wall-sticker quite like I can. *smug face* 

Plus. The toddler bastard well loves it. And has actually slept through the night the past four days in a row so I think it might have actual magical powers… like Gandalf. Or Wine.

In other news, Pocoyo just followed me on twitter so it's not all bad right…

Anyhow - here's some before and afters for you to look at, and me to feel smug about while eating a tub of cocktail sausages.

Enjoy x









Tuesday, 30 September 2014

Toddlers are Liars

Toddlers are liars,
I'm speaking the truth.
They lie about everything,
And blame it on youth.
They decieve quite instinctively,
Out of the house or at home.
No I didn't do my hair today
Using your lipstick as a comb.
I didn't eat the cat treats,
And I didn't just fart.
I didn't use all the colouring pens
To mural my entire arm.
I didn't put a banana
in the washing machine just to see…
If my pants would come out yellow,
And make my poos all 'Narna-y'.
I'm not bastard hungry,
I don't need a nap.
No I didn't stamp on that baby,
And give that Labrador a slap.
I didn't hide the car keys,
The wall's always had those markings.
I peed on the floor, but I don't need a wee!
So just stop bloody-well asking.
Yes, toddlers are liars,
It can't be denied.
They don't even hide it,
They're proud of their lies.
Whether fibs or big whoppers,
Don't be taken in…
You can't trust a toddler,
But you can always trust gin.


#toddlersareliars
#ginspeaksthetruth
#gin




Thursday, 25 September 2014

It’s Not Your Vagina... An angry toddler-mummy’s guide to second pregnancy

This post (or at least a slightly less naughty version of this post… *sniggers*) originally appeared as a guest post on Mumsnet, and you can read that version here... The slightly juicier version is below… I know you cheeky minxes won't be able to resist… *winks* 

--------------------------------


That’s right.

You read the title correctly.

At almost seven months into my second pregnancy, I have now become oh too aware that no part of my body is actually my own anymore…

Physically speaking, the toddler has taken full ownership of any accessible area of skin and/or hair she can do mild damage to, including the removal of several small yet concerning chunks of nipple and leaving my vagina like a badly assembled hammock… My husband seems fairly content with my ever-expanding general breast area… And clearly every other human person, including those in front of me at the checkout queue in Waitrose, has ‘bump-rubbing’ rights… which is nice.

Metaphorically speaking, your womb becomes public property the moment you announce your first uterus-tenant. Now you’re onto the second it’s far worse… the advice, the questions, the assumptions, the patronising glances from those women able to manage lipgloss even when it’s not their birthday… Yes, I’m sure it’s not twins… but that joke is so hilarious and original I nearly gave birth RIGHT HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SHITTING STREET… and do you know, it hadn’t occurred to me that two children might be slightly more work than one but thank you so much for highlighting that, are you free for weddings and Bah Mitzvahs too because you are A F@*KING BLAST. 

Yes.

Get used to it.

The joys, the unknowing, and the blind optimism of your first pregnancy are a long and distant memory now… this time around it’s just restless leg syndrome and a big fat dose of reality ALL the way.

In my last pregnancy, I took baths, read actual ‘books’ and ‘magazines’ (I know… what the f@*k are they…?), did yoga, spent weekends planning nursery colour schemes and generally spent time cooing over the tiny-ness of the tiny clothes and teeny-toys while floating around in kaftans and shit.

This time around, in-between fending off toddler-related spaghetti-GBH, I’m mostly just crying and eating enormous pieces of cake like apples. Giant apples of unrelenting sugary happiness that distract me from the fact I am now officially the size of Russia. In leggings.

I don’t think I’ve actually brushed my hair this month… let alone managed a lengthy soak in the tub. And the idea of any physical exercise after wrestling a potty-training 2-year-old in a mermaid costume round Debenhams for an hour is a joke…

Aside of the removal of any visible carpet raisins and actual human faeces, the nursery will be staying exactly as it is right now. And as far as teeny, tiny cuteness goes…? Well, last week I picked the crusty bits off some slightly yellowing muslins and babygros at the back of the wardrobe and used about twelve packets of baby wipes to get the carseat back to an acceptable standard for human-beings to breath near. A true #win for pro-active parenting I like to think.

Frankly I’m so busy running around after my miniature ninja poo-wizard, (she curls off magical toddler logs which sometimes remain hidden for days… quite a skill…), I barely remember I’m pregnant until I go to stand up to quickly and my womb says ‘Hell No Lady’, and thumps me and my cankles back down to earth. I’m so angry and hormonal I’d happily cut out and auction off a lung on eBay for a large gin and tonic most days… and if you made it a triple I’d chuck in the poo-wizard too…

So far, this pregnancy has mainly consisted of introducing the toddler to the exciting world of DVDs so that I can micro nap whilst eating Snickers Bars on the toilet, and discovering that I am now a ‘two at a time’ sausage-and–egg-McMuffin-lady when it comes to Sunday morning visits to those golden arches…

Yes. I think it’s fair to say that my second baby-growing-journey may have somewhat lost its magic and mystique… and I will be counting down the days until my new baby arrives and I can finally get on with those beautiful first few weeks of projectile shit, sleep deprivation and split nipples again…

So good luck to any second time mums-to-be reading this… As this time around, it really is just you, your slightly saggy hammock vagina and those tutting lipgloss bastards.


#passthegin
#vaginahammock

Monday, 22 September 2014

Everything you need to know about #toddlerbedtime… *shudders*

Putting a toddler to bed is the 'hour' (if you're shitting lucky) that strikes fear into the hearts of parents across the land...

The time you are weakest, emptiest, horizontal-ist and moments away from cracking open that bottle of Pinot in an attempt to wine-away another poo-filled-porridge-flinging-shit-of-a-toddler-day... And *whispers* it's like they know it...

Remember when you imagined calming bathing and dressing your little angel for bed, then enjoying a snugly-wugly story before they gently drifted off into a peaceful, undisturbed night of sleep... Yeah... So do I... Just... *begins crying hysterically until forced to eat an entire pie without breathing to calm down* 


Last night was one of many particularly traumatic bedtime experiences in the WallyHousehold… I was nearly broken and WallyDaddy is still in recovery. Here is a breakdown of the 'real' #toddlerbedtime


6pm. Toddler demands toast... despite having just finished eating an entire plate of Spaghetti Bolognese followed by a yoghurt and some human tears... (Mummy's)
6.15. Toddler feeds toast to the DVD player then becomes hysterical once the cats begin licking the butter from the Pause button.
6.30. Toddler demands Toy Story.
6.35. Toddler hates Toy Story. Takes a protest shit on the sofa and demands Toy Story 2. Obviously. 
6.40. Toddler will only watch Toy Story 2 if Mummy acts out all the scenes via interpretative mime dance while Daddy sings. 
6.45. Toddler punches television and takes Daddy out with a rebound elbow.
6.50. Toddler needs plaster and A LOT of sympathy kisses for unknown elbow injury caused by Daddy's face. Bastard.
6.55. Toddler licks last bits of butter from DVD player.
6.58. Toddler hates butter.
6.59. Toddler demands more toast. Roundhouses a cat.
7pm. OFFICIAL TODDLER BEDTIME. Toddler told to go to bed.
7.05. Toddler dragged upstairs under WallyDaddy's arm taking out sections of wall with her teeth and/or toenails.
7.10. Toddler placed in bath kicking and screaming, and insisting the shampoo is 'yuck' and smells like a bin. Mummy loses some skin. Daddy cries.
7.13. Toddler shits in the bath.
7.15. Toddler rejects first five sets of pyjamas and instead opts for a Buzz Lightyear costume and crown. Mummy decides she doesn't give a f@*k anymore and uses this moment of temporary happiness to brush toddler's hair and teeth.
7.20 WallyDaddy takes a Tangle Teaser to the face.
7.25. Toddler picks Cinderella as bedtime story for the 427th night in a row… Mummy reads own 'interpretive version'… *coughs*, kisses toddler goodnight and leaves room.
7.30. SILENCE.
7.31. (The following will occur in minute-intervals)

Toddler needs a wee.
Toddler needs a nappy.
TODDLER HATES NAPPIES.
Toddler needs Daddy to take her for a wee.
Toddler needs a hug.
Toddler needs a drink.
Toddler hates drinks.
Toddler hates Mummy's face.
Toddler noticed Cinderella had an alternative ending… (Shit).
Toddler can't find Baby Bunny.
Mummy points out Baby Bunny is next to toddler...
Toddler hates Baby Bunny.
Toddler needs a kiss.
Toddler's sock has slightly twisted.
Toddler's pillow has moved.
Toddler's blanket isn't straight.
Toddler needs toast.
WHERE THE F@*K IS BABY BUNNY.
Toddler needs another wee.
Toddler doesn't like her pants.
Toddler hates Buzz Lightyear.
Toddler has just remembered what Daddy did to her elbow.
Toddler needs a hug.
Toddler needs more kisses.
Toddler needs Granny.
Toddler is a general all-round twat.
Toddler has just worked out the formula for Cold Fusion and could really do with jotting it down in her Fairy Princess colouring pad.
Toddler hates her bedroom.
Toddler wants a Pony.

A few minutes past the hour of desperation/8pm-AKA-wine-time…

Mummy and Daddy decide toddler can f@*king well cry it out. Naked. Pissing freely. With Baby Bunny's head stuck up Piglet's arse for all they care.

Approx three minutes later…

Toddler passes out.

The End. Goodnight. F@*k Off.


#winetime
#toddlerbedtime 

Thursday, 18 September 2014

WallyMummy's Top Tips for Travelling Whilst #Pregnant (and Probably Angry)


  1. Don't.
  2. If you do, take cake... I mean care… (I don't, I mean cake.)  
  3. Pastel colours are not your friend. Because neither are #preggosweatpatches 
  4. Pregnancy is your excuse for being late / early / at the wrong venue / not turning up at all and / or not in a fit state to mix with other humans when you arrive… if you manage pants it's a very good day... If you manage pants AND mascara it's probably your birthday.
  5. Avoid patronising advice from fellow travellers by avoiding eye contact… 'oh you can tell it's a boy just by looking at my bump...? Well. I can tell you're a c@*t just by looking at your face.'
  6. When using public transport, cough loudly near a seat you'd like to occupy, then fart once seated to clear the seats around you too… and relax.
  7. No coffee. Nothing to do with the caffeine… it's just not worth the 73 additional toilet breaks you'll need to compensate...
  8. You'll probably be feeling a bit uneasy behind the wheel of a car by now. Drive like a total twat to compensate. Yes you CAN use that lane to turn left, because you are GROWING A F@*KING HUMAN.
  9. If you can't park close enough to your end venue, you are well within your rights to simply give up and go home. Because you are GROWING A F@*KING HUMAN. 
  10. Basically you can do whatever you bastard well like, because you are GROWING A F@*KING HUMAN.

#WallyMummysPreggoTravellingTips



Saturday, 13 September 2014

#ToddlerRage... The truth, the signs, and what happened to my hair-straighteners...

We've all experienced the #ToddlerRage,
The violence, the wailing, the biting…
The super human strength of a tiny-tantrumming-two-year-old, 
Is a truly impressive sighting.

We all know the warning signs of #ToddlerRage,
The sobbing, the whining, the pleading.
Then Mummy takes a left hook to the fanny or the face,
And either way, someone ends up bleeding…

You've said NO to the TV, and NO to the sweets,
You know this is going to cost ya'…
The park was a disaster, the journey was worse,
And a badly-timed-toddler-poo just got you barred from Costa.

So we should all be wary of the #ToddlerRage,
With its screaming, and scratching, and floor-flops.
It can happen to the best of us - anytime, anywhere;
At the playground, the supermarket, and bus-stops…

So heed my words about the #ToddlerRage,
Protect your dignity, your eyes and vagina.
Soft-play, ice-cream and Frozen on DVD...
And you too can be a #ToddlerRage-Survivor.

#ToddlerRage
#gin

My hair straighteners - the victim of #ToddlerRage...

Lady Maintenance. A Pregnant Guide via the Medium of Rhyme...

Here is a poem, all about maintaining,
Your bits and your bobs, while you're growing a baby.
Some let it all hang out, and some keep it neat.
Others couldn't give a shit, while they can't even see their feet.
Some choose a razor, to trim up their pins,
Which can get a bit gory, for the sake of smooth limbs.
From ankle to calf area, the damage is minimal,
But once you reach dangly bits, it's like being attacked by an animal...
Some leave it to the pros, and just opt for waxing,
If you can't see what's going on, it's not really happening.
Somewhere in that lady forest, is your long lost vagina.
With the aid of the sticky stuff, you can once again find her.
Some get the cream out, to frazzle those hairs,
A bit too close for comfort for me, with your labia right there...
Some ask a husband, to go down and give things a snip,
Perhaps some bedtime tweezer-ing, to tidy up those nips.
So however you do it, there's ways of maintaining,
Your bits and bobs, without too much complaining.
But frankly me and my fanny, have got plenty to get through,
Like producing a f@*king human, that's more than enough to do…


#notlongtogin
#ladymaintenance
#gin 

The things I won't do with baby no.2... (But absolutely will)

That's it now folks… I am officially on the 8 week countdown. Which is both terrifying but a massive relief as this pregnancy has been bloody hard work with a ninja-turd-eating-toddler in tow f@*king up my plans to sit or lie down at any point in the past 7 months…

I'm trying very hard *does squinty eye concentration face as proof* to remember exactly what the hell it is you actually do with a newborn… but all my memories are a jaded blur of gin-soaked-cakiness. Which isn't very helpful. So instead I've made a list of all the things I vaguely remember doing which I probably shouldn't do with the next one. As that seems like a good place to start.

Here goes:

I won't use the Jumperoo as a baby-containing-prison.
I won't use the playpen to sit in and eat Hobnobs. Soaked in tequila. And my own tears. While the kids play with plugs. 
I won't become an all-night twitter addict. 
I won't breast-feed whilst drinking wine*
*gin and tonic... hold the tonic. 
I won't impulse buy random crap on eBay at 3am because it makes me feel better about the area formally known as my nipples and/or vagina.
I won't use a hand mirror to look at the area my vagina used to be.
I won't use a mirror.
I won't use muslins that have begun to evolve into their own form of cheese.
I won't leave 'those' nappies for when the husband returns from work.
I won't leave the house without an ample amount of nappies/wipes/spare babygros because it'll 'probably be fine'.
I won't leave the nappy off. EVER.
I won't forget breast pads on a night out. Or get drunk and try to pass off my squirting nipples as a new party trick. 
I won't consider a fortnight an acceptable time frame between legging washes.
I won't allow my house to turn into a squat sponsored by Fisher Price. 
I won't eat food debris I find between the sofa cushions because it's easier than actually moving. (It is true that everything looks like a raisin if it's been there for long enough…)
I won't pretend I didn't notice the small pile of shoulder puke but wear it anyway...
I won't lock myself in the downstairs toilet for a nap. And a twix. 
I won't use the bottom sniff test whilst in civilised company. i.e. when the gas man calls or during a job interview...
I won't insist any guest the baby shits on is responsible for the clean up. AKA 'poo roulette'.
I won't live off of cake alone because I'm breast feeding, and therefore immune to calories of the bottom.
I won't say I'm going to buggy-fit but then just eat another pie instead.
I won't answer the door with part/all of my vagina hanging out of my dressing gown parting.
I won't sometimes just not answer the door/leave the house/turn up. Because I don't f@*king feel like it. (And all the leggings are past the point of no return…)
I won't 'just rub the baby-rice in' to my hair thinking it's unnoticeable.
I WILL NOT BECOME THE PREMIER TWATTY NAPPY PRICE INSPECTOR OF THE WIDER HAMPSHIRE AREA.
But most of all I probably will. Do all of the above. Especially that last one and any involving cake and/or gin. So there.

#twattynappypriceinspector
#gin
#GIN





The Big-Girl Room and Other Ways You Know Your Baby Has GrownUp… *Sniff*

How can this have happened?

How can it possibly be possible for my baby to be growing up this fast…

*wails a bit and eats a chocolate orange... (Like an apple)*

Yes, the day has come that the baby-room is no more and the toddler has officially got her own 'Big-Girl Bedroom'… Next it'll be school, make-up, hot-pants, Kavos Uncovered… It's just like that scene out of ToyStory2 that makes me sob like a twat, where Jessie gets found under the bed and dumped by a tree… I AM JESSIE AND SHE IS ABANDONING ME.

I AM BEING ABANDONED.

But at least I'm not being melodramatic and overreacting or anything… *coughs* *considers another chocolate orange* 

It just feels like this is start of her really beginning to grow up. I'm merely a facilitator for her snack demands and helping her put tights on. She seems to think my skills begin and end with separating play-doh, buying her stuff, and producing raisins from about my person at any time no matter the situation. (I'm kinda proud of that last one to be fair.)

She picks her own dinners, dresses herself, poos independently, puts herself into her own bed and listens intently as I read her bedtime stories mainly so she can highlight when I try to skip over the bit in The Little Mermaid where Ariel meets the eels… it's shit and tedious and frankly adds nothing to the story.

So the Big-Girl-Room is one big fat guilt-ridden metaphor… In every one of those vinyl wall stickers is a little piece of my soul… crying… withering… and slowly being picked to death by tiny nutella-stained toddler fingers of doom…

Not to mention that almost single-handedly decorating a toddler's bedroom whilst seven months pregnant was so exhausting I nearly popped a human out on several occasions whilst glossing the curtain rail… My blood, sweat and a number of slightly questionable bodily fluids are firmly engrained in the fabric of that IKEA flat pack furniture, and I like to think no-one can position an owl wall-sticker quite like I can. *smug face* 

Plus. The toddler bastard well loves it. And has actually slept through the night the past four days in a row so I think it might have actual magical powers… like Gandalf. Or Wine.

In other news, Pocoyo just followed me on twitter so it's not all bad right…

Anyhow - here's some before and afters for you to look at, and me to feel smug about while eating a tub of cocktail sausages.

Enjoy x









Toddlers are Liars

Toddlers are liars,
I'm speaking the truth.
They lie about everything,
And blame it on youth.
They decieve quite instinctively,
Out of the house or at home.
No I didn't do my hair today
Using your lipstick as a comb.
I didn't eat the cat treats,
And I didn't just fart.
I didn't use all the colouring pens
To mural my entire arm.
I didn't put a banana
in the washing machine just to see…
If my pants would come out yellow,
And make my poos all 'Narna-y'.
I'm not bastard hungry,
I don't need a nap.
No I didn't stamp on that baby,
And give that Labrador a slap.
I didn't hide the car keys,
The wall's always had those markings.
I peed on the floor, but I don't need a wee!
So just stop bloody-well asking.
Yes, toddlers are liars,
It can't be denied.
They don't even hide it,
They're proud of their lies.
Whether fibs or big whoppers,
Don't be taken in…
You can't trust a toddler,
But you can always trust gin.


#toddlersareliars
#ginspeaksthetruth
#gin




It’s Not Your Vagina... An angry toddler-mummy’s guide to second pregnancy

This post (or at least a slightly less naughty version of this post… *sniggers*) originally appeared as a guest post on Mumsnet, and you can read that version here... The slightly juicier version is below… I know you cheeky minxes won't be able to resist… *winks* 

--------------------------------


That’s right.

You read the title correctly.

At almost seven months into my second pregnancy, I have now become oh too aware that no part of my body is actually my own anymore…

Physically speaking, the toddler has taken full ownership of any accessible area of skin and/or hair she can do mild damage to, including the removal of several small yet concerning chunks of nipple and leaving my vagina like a badly assembled hammock… My husband seems fairly content with my ever-expanding general breast area… And clearly every other human person, including those in front of me at the checkout queue in Waitrose, has ‘bump-rubbing’ rights… which is nice.

Metaphorically speaking, your womb becomes public property the moment you announce your first uterus-tenant. Now you’re onto the second it’s far worse… the advice, the questions, the assumptions, the patronising glances from those women able to manage lipgloss even when it’s not their birthday… Yes, I’m sure it’s not twins… but that joke is so hilarious and original I nearly gave birth RIGHT HERE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SHITTING STREET… and do you know, it hadn’t occurred to me that two children might be slightly more work than one but thank you so much for highlighting that, are you free for weddings and Bah Mitzvahs too because you are A F@*KING BLAST. 

Yes.

Get used to it.

The joys, the unknowing, and the blind optimism of your first pregnancy are a long and distant memory now… this time around it’s just restless leg syndrome and a big fat dose of reality ALL the way.

In my last pregnancy, I took baths, read actual ‘books’ and ‘magazines’ (I know… what the f@*k are they…?), did yoga, spent weekends planning nursery colour schemes and generally spent time cooing over the tiny-ness of the tiny clothes and teeny-toys while floating around in kaftans and shit.

This time around, in-between fending off toddler-related spaghetti-GBH, I’m mostly just crying and eating enormous pieces of cake like apples. Giant apples of unrelenting sugary happiness that distract me from the fact I am now officially the size of Russia. In leggings.

I don’t think I’ve actually brushed my hair this month… let alone managed a lengthy soak in the tub. And the idea of any physical exercise after wrestling a potty-training 2-year-old in a mermaid costume round Debenhams for an hour is a joke…

Aside of the removal of any visible carpet raisins and actual human faeces, the nursery will be staying exactly as it is right now. And as far as teeny, tiny cuteness goes…? Well, last week I picked the crusty bits off some slightly yellowing muslins and babygros at the back of the wardrobe and used about twelve packets of baby wipes to get the carseat back to an acceptable standard for human-beings to breath near. A true #win for pro-active parenting I like to think.

Frankly I’m so busy running around after my miniature ninja poo-wizard, (she curls off magical toddler logs which sometimes remain hidden for days… quite a skill…), I barely remember I’m pregnant until I go to stand up to quickly and my womb says ‘Hell No Lady’, and thumps me and my cankles back down to earth. I’m so angry and hormonal I’d happily cut out and auction off a lung on eBay for a large gin and tonic most days… and if you made it a triple I’d chuck in the poo-wizard too…

So far, this pregnancy has mainly consisted of introducing the toddler to the exciting world of DVDs so that I can micro nap whilst eating Snickers Bars on the toilet, and discovering that I am now a ‘two at a time’ sausage-and–egg-McMuffin-lady when it comes to Sunday morning visits to those golden arches…

Yes. I think it’s fair to say that my second baby-growing-journey may have somewhat lost its magic and mystique… and I will be counting down the days until my new baby arrives and I can finally get on with those beautiful first few weeks of projectile shit, sleep deprivation and split nipples again…

So good luck to any second time mums-to-be reading this… As this time around, it really is just you, your slightly saggy hammock vagina and those tutting lipgloss bastards.


#passthegin
#vaginahammock

Everything you need to know about #toddlerbedtime… *shudders*

Putting a toddler to bed is the 'hour' (if you're shitting lucky) that strikes fear into the hearts of parents across the land...

The time you are weakest, emptiest, horizontal-ist and moments away from cracking open that bottle of Pinot in an attempt to wine-away another poo-filled-porridge-flinging-shit-of-a-toddler-day... And *whispers* it's like they know it...

Remember when you imagined calming bathing and dressing your little angel for bed, then enjoying a snugly-wugly story before they gently drifted off into a peaceful, undisturbed night of sleep... Yeah... So do I... Just... *begins crying hysterically until forced to eat an entire pie without breathing to calm down* 


Last night was one of many particularly traumatic bedtime experiences in the WallyHousehold… I was nearly broken and WallyDaddy is still in recovery. Here is a breakdown of the 'real' #toddlerbedtime


6pm. Toddler demands toast... despite having just finished eating an entire plate of Spaghetti Bolognese followed by a yoghurt and some human tears... (Mummy's)
6.15. Toddler feeds toast to the DVD player then becomes hysterical once the cats begin licking the butter from the Pause button.
6.30. Toddler demands Toy Story.
6.35. Toddler hates Toy Story. Takes a protest shit on the sofa and demands Toy Story 2. Obviously. 
6.40. Toddler will only watch Toy Story 2 if Mummy acts out all the scenes via interpretative mime dance while Daddy sings. 
6.45. Toddler punches television and takes Daddy out with a rebound elbow.
6.50. Toddler needs plaster and A LOT of sympathy kisses for unknown elbow injury caused by Daddy's face. Bastard.
6.55. Toddler licks last bits of butter from DVD player.
6.58. Toddler hates butter.
6.59. Toddler demands more toast. Roundhouses a cat.
7pm. OFFICIAL TODDLER BEDTIME. Toddler told to go to bed.
7.05. Toddler dragged upstairs under WallyDaddy's arm taking out sections of wall with her teeth and/or toenails.
7.10. Toddler placed in bath kicking and screaming, and insisting the shampoo is 'yuck' and smells like a bin. Mummy loses some skin. Daddy cries.
7.13. Toddler shits in the bath.
7.15. Toddler rejects first five sets of pyjamas and instead opts for a Buzz Lightyear costume and crown. Mummy decides she doesn't give a f@*k anymore and uses this moment of temporary happiness to brush toddler's hair and teeth.
7.20 WallyDaddy takes a Tangle Teaser to the face.
7.25. Toddler picks Cinderella as bedtime story for the 427th night in a row… Mummy reads own 'interpretive version'… *coughs*, kisses toddler goodnight and leaves room.
7.30. SILENCE.
7.31. (The following will occur in minute-intervals)

Toddler needs a wee.
Toddler needs a nappy.
TODDLER HATES NAPPIES.
Toddler needs Daddy to take her for a wee.
Toddler needs a hug.
Toddler needs a drink.
Toddler hates drinks.
Toddler hates Mummy's face.
Toddler noticed Cinderella had an alternative ending… (Shit).
Toddler can't find Baby Bunny.
Mummy points out Baby Bunny is next to toddler...
Toddler hates Baby Bunny.
Toddler needs a kiss.
Toddler's sock has slightly twisted.
Toddler's pillow has moved.
Toddler's blanket isn't straight.
Toddler needs toast.
WHERE THE F@*K IS BABY BUNNY.
Toddler needs another wee.
Toddler doesn't like her pants.
Toddler hates Buzz Lightyear.
Toddler has just remembered what Daddy did to her elbow.
Toddler needs a hug.
Toddler needs more kisses.
Toddler needs Granny.
Toddler is a general all-round twat.
Toddler has just worked out the formula for Cold Fusion and could really do with jotting it down in her Fairy Princess colouring pad.
Toddler hates her bedroom.
Toddler wants a Pony.

A few minutes past the hour of desperation/8pm-AKA-wine-time…

Mummy and Daddy decide toddler can f@*king well cry it out. Naked. Pissing freely. With Baby Bunny's head stuck up Piglet's arse for all they care.

Approx three minutes later…

Toddler passes out.

The End. Goodnight. F@*k Off.


#winetime
#toddlerbedtime 

WallyMummy's Top Tips for Travelling Whilst #Pregnant (and Probably Angry)


  1. Don't.
  2. If you do, take cake... I mean care… (I don't, I mean cake.)  
  3. Pastel colours are not your friend. Because neither are #preggosweatpatches 
  4. Pregnancy is your excuse for being late / early / at the wrong venue / not turning up at all and / or not in a fit state to mix with other humans when you arrive… if you manage pants it's a very good day... If you manage pants AND mascara it's probably your birthday.
  5. Avoid patronising advice from fellow travellers by avoiding eye contact… 'oh you can tell it's a boy just by looking at my bump...? Well. I can tell you're a c@*t just by looking at your face.'
  6. When using public transport, cough loudly near a seat you'd like to occupy, then fart once seated to clear the seats around you too… and relax.
  7. No coffee. Nothing to do with the caffeine… it's just not worth the 73 additional toilet breaks you'll need to compensate...
  8. You'll probably be feeling a bit uneasy behind the wheel of a car by now. Drive like a total twat to compensate. Yes you CAN use that lane to turn left, because you are GROWING A F@*KING HUMAN.
  9. If you can't park close enough to your end venue, you are well within your rights to simply give up and go home. Because you are GROWING A F@*KING HUMAN. 
  10. Basically you can do whatever you bastard well like, because you are GROWING A F@*KING HUMAN.

#WallyMummysPreggoTravellingTips



#ToddlerRage... The truth, the signs, and what happened to my hair-straighteners...

We've all experienced the #ToddlerRage,
The violence, the wailing, the biting…
The super human strength of a tiny-tantrumming-two-year-old, 
Is a truly impressive sighting.

We all know the warning signs of #ToddlerRage,
The sobbing, the whining, the pleading.
Then Mummy takes a left hook to the fanny or the face,
And either way, someone ends up bleeding…

You've said NO to the TV, and NO to the sweets,
You know this is going to cost ya'…
The park was a disaster, the journey was worse,
And a badly-timed-toddler-poo just got you barred from Costa.

So we should all be wary of the #ToddlerRage,
With its screaming, and scratching, and floor-flops.
It can happen to the best of us - anytime, anywhere;
At the playground, the supermarket, and bus-stops…

So heed my words about the #ToddlerRage,
Protect your dignity, your eyes and vagina.
Soft-play, ice-cream and Frozen on DVD...
And you too can be a #ToddlerRage-Survivor.

#ToddlerRage
#gin

My hair straighteners - the victim of #ToddlerRage...