Saturday, 15 November 2014

Dear Vagina...

Dear vagina,
Please don't let me down.
We'll be in it together,
When the baby starts to crown.

I'm relying on you,
To get me through this shit.
To hold yourself together,
And not fall apart or split.

I need you to maintain relationships,
With my pelvic floor and perineum.
So you can swiftly deliver,
My uterus to freedom.

I'll need you in future,
I need you up to the task.
If I ever want to have fun times again,
Without doing it in the… *cough* dark...

So please vagina,
Just get me through this thing.
I promise just one way traffic after this,
Under the calming influence of gin.

#dearvagina
#gin
#4weekstogo 

Monday, 10 November 2014

Toddler Cinema Trips and Other Ways to Ignore Your Child Whilst Eating Chocolate :)

Last weekend a small piece of my soul died as I sat through a sing-a-long version of Frozen at our local cinema with the two-year-old, and *whispers* not only quite enjoyed it and also knew most of the words… (ok all the words.)

It was, in fact, a complete success... Although given my criteria for success is either 'Was it better than childbirth?' or 'Do I get to eat cake while doing that?'... I wouldn't get too excited…

But yes. We survived. Honestly. My husband has the bite marks to prove it...

We're no modern day Von Trapps, but the toddler bloody loved getting her groove on whilst belting out 'Let It Go' at an impressive level to rival the pack of 5-year olds behind us. And it was actually almost… relaxing

Yes.

I did say that word.

I could be hooked. A two hour session of toddler entertainment where I basically sit on my arse, occasionally providing a chocolate button, sort of paying attention and blaming my pregnancy flatulence on the surrounding small people whilst eating Whisper Bites… What's not to like?!

So. For those yet to brave the big screen with a pre-schooler, here's my tips for making the most of it:


  1. Do not arrive early. Instead spend the morning completing a series of toddler-exhausting challenges; playground laps, scooter circuits, badger chasing… arrive as the film starts, then sit back and relax...
  2. NO sugar in the lead up. It's the toddler equivalent of doing crack before you head to the library. Less calories in, equals less skin and hair pulled out. 
  3. Avoid the snack counter. They place the fruit-shoots at toddler eye level deliberately. Because they are c@*ts. 
  4. Have a scale of treats. Begin with fruit flakes/optimistic orange segments for 'sit down' bribery, escalate to Pom-Bears or chocolate buttons for 'please get off my lap and just bloody watch it' encouragement, and keep the holy grail that is Haribo for when they start assaulting other children with their booster seat and heading at speed for the fire-exit…
  5. Containment, containment, containment. Sit either side. Use large bags as containment units to block any visible exits. Be aware, toddlers can climb. And you might not be aware of this yet, but you can't.
  6. Establish a series of elaborate hand gestures which you and your husband can furiously sign at one another in order to ensure all snack demands and containment breaches can be dealt with swiftly. Obviously it will be his fault if the Pom-Bears aren't administered in a speedy enough fashion at any point. Twat. 
  7. Make eye contact with no-one. Ignore everyone around you and focus on keeping the toddler completely engaged. Anything goes in this man-made dimly-lit fortress of parental popcorn-laden guilt… If you need to punch a feral six-year-old in the face with a pic'n'mix bucket for obscuring your view, then that's just what you need to do. 
  8. Remember. This is your chance to weep freely while no-one is watching you… Let it all out whilst eating sour cherries until you can't feel your face.
  9. Gin helps.

#winning
#toddlercinema
#gin

Saturday, 1 November 2014

The Anti-Competitive Mother's Guide to Halloween with a Toddler...

Yep.

Halloween.

That time of year where full grown adults with proper jobs and everything dress themselves up as half-sewn, blood-soaked, scantily-clad twats in the name of commercialisation, and consume ridiculous amounts of alcohol in exotic shades of green and orange in the name of All Hallows Eve…

But to parents…. It's war. With pumpkins.

It may seem innocent and charming... But it's not. Facebook is transformed into a never-ending timeline of identical pint-sized pumpkin-children, and panic begins to set in on local mummy-forums as news of supermarkets selling out of costumes filters out through the ranks… SHIT.

Yes. It's yet another occasion that shows up my complete lack of craft skills, redundancy of energy and complete inability to NOT leave abso-f@*king-lutely everything to the last minute… I consider it a practice run for Christmas when even more effort will be made by mass consumerism to make me feel completely inadequate and a total turd of a lazy excuse for a parent… Ho, ho, ho.

Although I am quite good at face paints… #winning

So, for everyone joining me on the last-minute-Halloween-shitness-train (yes a thing), here is a run down of what we all know really happened yesterday…


What you thought you'd do:
Spend weeks researching and sourcing a fabulous original costume, adding your own personal details and hat stabilisation, matching accessories, hair styling and expert face paint… Frankly Jim Henson will be knocking the shitting door down once that's spotted on twitter. 
What you did...
Went to Tescos that morning and fought off a seven year old with your teeth for the last remaining, slightly-wonky witches hat. Sent the toddler to nursery in last year's tights, slightly sweaty, with a badly drawn spider painted between her eyes. #win

What you thought you'd do:
Transform your home into a Ghostly Grotto of Halloween Awesomeness, one which the snotty nursery mums would be left speechless by, recreating a scene from a cult, early-90's horror movie with your amazing overnight crafty-skills and sheer awesomeness. 
What you did…
Went on Pinterest. Felt shit about yourself. Bought a pumpkin and realised it's actually quite hard. Gave up and bought a packet of ghost shapes Haribo. The end. 

What you thought you'd do:
Lovingly prepare a feast of hand crafted ghastly goodies which you could take smug wanky photos of to put all over Instagram.
What you did...
Ordered Dominos. (The Halloween special)

What you thought you'd do:
Host a sensational spooky party that MTV would be lucky to televise, inviting friends and family from across the land to be entertained by your sheer fabulousness. (and face painting)
What you did...
Watched Freddie Vs Jason in your pants. While the toddler foraged for spare pizza crusts and sofa raisins… 

What you thought you'd do:
Pimp up your doorstep like a shitting pumpking-laden runway, ready to receive trick or treaters in style.
What you did...
Turned the lights out and pretended to be out. While eating secret Haribo in bed... Crying a bit...


Same time next year guys. Same time...

#gin



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

Dear Vagina...

Dear vagina,
Please don't let me down.
We'll be in it together,
When the baby starts to crown.

I'm relying on you,
To get me through this shit.
To hold yourself together,
And not fall apart or split.

I need you to maintain relationships,
With my pelvic floor and perineum.
So you can swiftly deliver,
My uterus to freedom.

I'll need you in future,
I need you up to the task.
If I ever want to have fun times again,
Without doing it in the… *cough* dark...

So please vagina,
Just get me through this thing.
I promise just one way traffic after this,
Under the calming influence of gin.

#dearvagina
#gin
#4weekstogo 

Toddler Cinema Trips and Other Ways to Ignore Your Child Whilst Eating Chocolate :)

Last weekend a small piece of my soul died as I sat through a sing-a-long version of Frozen at our local cinema with the two-year-old, and *whispers* not only quite enjoyed it and also knew most of the words… (ok all the words.)

It was, in fact, a complete success... Although given my criteria for success is either 'Was it better than childbirth?' or 'Do I get to eat cake while doing that?'... I wouldn't get too excited…

But yes. We survived. Honestly. My husband has the bite marks to prove it...

We're no modern day Von Trapps, but the toddler bloody loved getting her groove on whilst belting out 'Let It Go' at an impressive level to rival the pack of 5-year olds behind us. And it was actually almost… relaxing

Yes.

I did say that word.

I could be hooked. A two hour session of toddler entertainment where I basically sit on my arse, occasionally providing a chocolate button, sort of paying attention and blaming my pregnancy flatulence on the surrounding small people whilst eating Whisper Bites… What's not to like?!

So. For those yet to brave the big screen with a pre-schooler, here's my tips for making the most of it:


  1. Do not arrive early. Instead spend the morning completing a series of toddler-exhausting challenges; playground laps, scooter circuits, badger chasing… arrive as the film starts, then sit back and relax...
  2. NO sugar in the lead up. It's the toddler equivalent of doing crack before you head to the library. Less calories in, equals less skin and hair pulled out. 
  3. Avoid the snack counter. They place the fruit-shoots at toddler eye level deliberately. Because they are c@*ts. 
  4. Have a scale of treats. Begin with fruit flakes/optimistic orange segments for 'sit down' bribery, escalate to Pom-Bears or chocolate buttons for 'please get off my lap and just bloody watch it' encouragement, and keep the holy grail that is Haribo for when they start assaulting other children with their booster seat and heading at speed for the fire-exit…
  5. Containment, containment, containment. Sit either side. Use large bags as containment units to block any visible exits. Be aware, toddlers can climb. And you might not be aware of this yet, but you can't.
  6. Establish a series of elaborate hand gestures which you and your husband can furiously sign at one another in order to ensure all snack demands and containment breaches can be dealt with swiftly. Obviously it will be his fault if the Pom-Bears aren't administered in a speedy enough fashion at any point. Twat. 
  7. Make eye contact with no-one. Ignore everyone around you and focus on keeping the toddler completely engaged. Anything goes in this man-made dimly-lit fortress of parental popcorn-laden guilt… If you need to punch a feral six-year-old in the face with a pic'n'mix bucket for obscuring your view, then that's just what you need to do. 
  8. Remember. This is your chance to weep freely while no-one is watching you… Let it all out whilst eating sour cherries until you can't feel your face.
  9. Gin helps.

#winning
#toddlercinema
#gin

The Anti-Competitive Mother's Guide to Halloween with a Toddler...

Yep.

Halloween.

That time of year where full grown adults with proper jobs and everything dress themselves up as half-sewn, blood-soaked, scantily-clad twats in the name of commercialisation, and consume ridiculous amounts of alcohol in exotic shades of green and orange in the name of All Hallows Eve…

But to parents…. It's war. With pumpkins.

It may seem innocent and charming... But it's not. Facebook is transformed into a never-ending timeline of identical pint-sized pumpkin-children, and panic begins to set in on local mummy-forums as news of supermarkets selling out of costumes filters out through the ranks… SHIT.

Yes. It's yet another occasion that shows up my complete lack of craft skills, redundancy of energy and complete inability to NOT leave abso-f@*king-lutely everything to the last minute… I consider it a practice run for Christmas when even more effort will be made by mass consumerism to make me feel completely inadequate and a total turd of a lazy excuse for a parent… Ho, ho, ho.

Although I am quite good at face paints… #winning

So, for everyone joining me on the last-minute-Halloween-shitness-train (yes a thing), here is a run down of what we all know really happened yesterday…


What you thought you'd do:
Spend weeks researching and sourcing a fabulous original costume, adding your own personal details and hat stabilisation, matching accessories, hair styling and expert face paint… Frankly Jim Henson will be knocking the shitting door down once that's spotted on twitter. 
What you did...
Went to Tescos that morning and fought off a seven year old with your teeth for the last remaining, slightly-wonky witches hat. Sent the toddler to nursery in last year's tights, slightly sweaty, with a badly drawn spider painted between her eyes. #win

What you thought you'd do:
Transform your home into a Ghostly Grotto of Halloween Awesomeness, one which the snotty nursery mums would be left speechless by, recreating a scene from a cult, early-90's horror movie with your amazing overnight crafty-skills and sheer awesomeness. 
What you did…
Went on Pinterest. Felt shit about yourself. Bought a pumpkin and realised it's actually quite hard. Gave up and bought a packet of ghost shapes Haribo. The end. 

What you thought you'd do:
Lovingly prepare a feast of hand crafted ghastly goodies which you could take smug wanky photos of to put all over Instagram.
What you did...
Ordered Dominos. (The Halloween special)

What you thought you'd do:
Host a sensational spooky party that MTV would be lucky to televise, inviting friends and family from across the land to be entertained by your sheer fabulousness. (and face painting)
What you did...
Watched Freddie Vs Jason in your pants. While the toddler foraged for spare pizza crusts and sofa raisins… 

What you thought you'd do:
Pimp up your doorstep like a shitting pumpking-laden runway, ready to receive trick or treaters in style.
What you did...
Turned the lights out and pretended to be out. While eating secret Haribo in bed... Crying a bit...


Same time next year guys. Same time...

#gin



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