Daddy's LEGO Day Out

Daddy was very well behaved this year so Mummy and I decided to let him come to Legoland with us as a treat for Daddy's Day.

Obviously, we couldn't let him go on all the rides, we had to say no to too many sweeties, and let him have a nap for an hour or so during the day, but overall we managed to make it through the day without too many tears and tantrums... And as a special reward for being so well behaved, I even let him buy a Duplo farm set as a memento of the day. Bless him.

Here's our day in photos:

Daddy arranged a giant foam lion for me upon arrival.
Very thoughtful.
I'd have preferred a unicorn and some wotsits though...

The boat ride: they said not to stand up while we were moving
but I'm quite the rebel...
I also farted at one of the three pigs and gave snow-white the finger.
Just how I roll...

This was just after a tussle for slide territory with a 20 month old...
Mummy had to remove me. It could have got very nasty...
In this photo it was still too raw. Couldn't even muster a smile... 

Hell yeah I drove the shit out of that wooden fire engine. 

Yes. I wore the wings. It was a low point for me...
Until I got water cannoned in the face by a giant lego elephant.
Then things perked up.

The moment things perked up...

It not really clear if this is mine or Daddy's
but it kept him nice and quiet before bed...

Thanks to all the people at The MadBlogAwards for arranging my VIP access and stuff. Definitely helped when keeping Daddy calm in the queues and making sure he didn't get too over-excited. 

Next year if he's really good I think I'll let him take me to Disney Land. 

Lucky bastard.

I. ONLY. EAT. YOGHURT. My 18-month-iversary post.

Dear Mummy*,

(*if that is in fact your real name... since you told me carrots were yummy I've frankly begun to doubt every word you say...)

Tomorrow I turn 18 months old, and to date you've managed to not to kill or seriously damage either of us, which is both admirable and fairly surprising... So well done. I'm making you a medal out of raw pasta, toothpaste and Calpol syringes later which I'll have delivered to you in bed via one of the cats.

Anyway, I digress. To mark the momentous occasion of my one and a half years on this earth, I thought firstly I'd allow you to buy me stuff. And secondly write down some pointers to make the journey to my second birthday a little smoother for us all. So here goes:

• I think we've clearly established we don't really need Daddy. He's pretty good at tummy tickling and shoulder rides, but I've been doubting his commitment lately. Ever since this 'new job', whatever that is, he's been slacking... so I think it's time to cut the dead wood. 
• I've said this before, but I don't think you took me seriously so once again... I. ONLY. EAT. YOGHURT. And anything you're eating. 
• And if you try hiding peas in my omelettes again I'll have your skin removed and made into a coat.
• I shan't be needing my highchair any longer. I'll take my refreshments on Colin the Rocking Snail thank you. 
• I should like to move around the house via the medium of dance from now on. Or riding a cat. 
• I'll be needing all the iPhones and remotes.
• I'd like to remain naked until October.
• Except for my shoes. I'll wear my shoes. And your shoes too. All the shoes are mine now. 
• From now on I shall only be pushing the buggy. Not sitting in it. 
• And while we're at it you know my reins... well, you'll be wearing them from now on. Let's see how you enjoy being led around like a monkey on a lead... NOW DANCE FOR ME MONKEY. DANCE. And fetch me a yoghurt. 
• Next time we go to soft play. We won't be leaving. EVER. Try to remove me, and I'll lick the giant lego. And none of us want that to happen... again. 
• You know that arranging into different boxes thing you did with all my toys? Well - don't do that again. It made me angry. And when I'm angry, I shit on your toothbrush. 
• Oh, and you won't be taking toilet breaks any longer...
• Or eating anything which I haven't first tasted to decide whether I should have it instead... 
• In fact you won't be going ANYWHERE without me again. EVER. Remember, I have all your shoes.
• Oh and while I think of it: when I die I wish to be buried with Charlie, Lola, the cats, some yoghurt, my toothbrush and your car keys.

Any questions BBM me, yeah.

Much love,

WallyBubba
xxx

Job... or Mob...?

Recently, thoughts of returning to work keep filling my head.

I'm happy as a stay at home mummy, don't get me wrong... The day-time drinking and pyjama-party-mondays ALONE are enough to let me know my life is AWESOME.

But...

And somehow there always is a 'but'...

...is slurping pinot grigio at midday whilst watching CBeebies in a onesie 'enough' for me...?

Right now - Yes. I like it. Who f@*king wouldn't... It's the future I'm more concerned about. She's starting to talk, become independent, I can already see the signs of her needing me less and less... She feeds herself, asks for what she wants, gets her own toys, punches her own badgers... Soon it'll be nursery, then school, the BIG school, then UNI-shitting-VERSITY... Arrrghh. I know it's going to fly by in an instant and I'm scared I'll suddenly be left wondering where the time went, feeling bitter about the career I pissed away so I could ruin my vagina, taste infant faeces and become a twatty nappy-price expert...

When she gets old enough to start having her own goals and aspirations I don't want her to look at me and think... hmmm... my mum's a slightly wonky, gin-fuelled hobo with no achievements other than an amazon prime account and a broken fanny... No. I know pretty soon I'm going to start needing more. But I also want more children... (Yes, I know. Don't worry. I slapped myself in the face as I typed that and took a Tanqueray to the eye by way of punishment). So do I return to work now and leave producing a WallyBubba #2 until I've started my career up again? Or do I bash another one out quick as I can, finish my pelvic floor off for good and resign myself to the pissy-pukey-poo-fest of motherhood for another few years...?

It's a tough one. There's no right or wrong answer I know. And I'm probably leaning towards the latter.... (Cue another slap and gin-shot to the retina) I'm just worried about my CV after five years of full-time motherhood; I'm not sure my last role as 'chief onesie-wearing wine drinker' along with a cover note that says simply says HIRE ME I'M SHITTING AWESOME, is going to cut it...

Oh well. F@*k it. Perhaps it's time to stop worrying about 'then' and enjoy the 'right now' for a bit longer... after-all once I write my blog into a book, YOU'RE ALL GOING TO BUY IT. AREN'T YOU. YES. THAT'S F@*KING RIGHT. YOU ARE.

Sooooo... Pinot-up my pint glass, Mummy is onesie-ed up and ready for an afternoon of Mega-Bloks, Lola and Crocodile Xylophone solos. And she's going to f@*king love it.

Boom.


#PinotOnesieMondays
#TanqueraytotheEYE
#gin

Where are you going mummy?

Where are you going mummy?

I need you to help stack these bricks.

Oh, you're moving to the sofa,

Well in that case I'll join ya'

And while I'm here I'll have a bite of your twix.

Where are you going mummy?

You can't possibly break for the loo.

I'll scratch at the door,
While Crayola-ing the floor,

I couldn't care less if you're trying to have a poo.

Where are you going mummy?

I didn't sign up for time alone.

Don't bother trying to hide,
I'm permanently by your side,

I don't give a shit if you're tweeting on your phone.

Where are you going mummy?
If you're trying to go solo, you're having a laugh.
When you try to lock me out,
I'll scream and kick and shout,
And later, leave a floating present in the bath...

Where are you going mummy?
Don't think I'm not watching your every move...
I'll clamp around your neck,
Everywhere you trek,
Mummy, I'm not going anywhere without you.

#managedtowritethisintheloo
#withmygin
#gin

I think her first word was f@*k...

Things have been changing around here...

WallyBubba is... evolving...

The constant, chaotic toddler din seems to have been replaced with some worrying silences and some lingering stares from her that could make grown men shit themselves... 

And then... actual words... It's bizarre. I can actually have conversations with her, and that silent stare as I speak is my little person taking in and understanding every word I say... EVERY word. Oh yes. It's happening. I swear every time I say f@*k and pour a myself a pint of Bombay Sapphire she tuts, smiles and rolls her eyes... 

Every morning I am met with a 'Hi, Ma-Ma.' And her then passing me her readily removed nappy and a handful of fresh baby nuggets. 

Once I've actually said the word 'breakfast' out loud I had better get her morning meal on her highchair tray in 30 seconds flat else she starts high-fiving the television and eyeing up her miniature pink piano... trust me, no-one can take WallyBubba's keyboard skills before 9am in the morning... I would pick being burnt alive over death by that shitting yamaha samba-riff any day.

Once the banana arrives, to shouts of 'Narna, Narna, Narna', it is engulfed, whole, sideways, with the skin still on in places. Following which demands of 'Tssst, Tssst' flood the dining room, which to those of you who don't speak fluent WallyBubba, means 'get my toast now mother, and ensure it's nutella-ed up else I'll have you covered in honey and fed to the wasps.'

Every request is followed with an 'Eeeeeeze' and her raising her hand to her mouth to sign please. I'm pretty proud of this one. I call it the big guns and pull it out in front of the mother-in-law, restaurant staff and most importantly any twattish tiger mums at playgroups. What's that? Little sophia speaks fluent Japanese at 11 months old? Well, my toddler punches foxes and says thank you afterwards so f@*k you. 

She's so direct with her orders: Up, Down, Drink, Finished, Release the Hounds... She fetches the Sky remote and bombards me with a chorus of 'Lola, Lola, Lola', tells herself off when she drops something with an 'Oh no', asks for Omelettes, screams for chips, wails for raisins, sits in the hall saying 'shoos, shoooos, SHOOOOOS' with a Clark's flashy in each hand... I say dancing and she pulls out some impressively well-timed Macarena moves, ends on a fist-pump and gives herself a round of applause when the music stops... 

I can't keep up with it. She might be almost 18 months old, but it's as if I'm living with a four year old some days... And I'm painfully aware that if I don't want her first full sentence to be 'Thank f@*k it's gin o'clock, don't worry about the glass I'll take the bottle...' It's time I reigned in the F-bombs and moved onto soft drinks. Like wine and beer. 

#punchingfoxes

#wineisasoftdrinkright?

#gin

The Toy Minefield...

A guest post for Toy News I thought you guys might like to have a peek at... ;)


As a first time mum, toys are a daunting prospect.

Whilst contending with a tiny, shrieking, nipple-destroying turd-ninja your attention isn't really on stacking cups and crocodile xylophones... you're more focused on managing mascara on both eyes and finding a pair of leggings that aren't too 'crispy' to wear that day...

Toy-shops are terrifying places for new mums... a plethora of moo-ing, gyrating, motion-sensing anti-matter where small children will literally tear out their own kidneys to get their hands on a Peppa Pig scooter... I need a massage and a litre of gin just to recover...

No toys should ever be allowed to come in white. EVER. Or should come with a warning that advises giving anything neutral-coloured to a toddler is very bad for your health. And alcohol consumption levels. And will most likely result in tears (yours - obviously), anger, and violence (theirs - of course)... along with making them even more determined to colour in your sofa with lasagne.

Boy/Girl toys also seem to mean nothing to a toddler... my daughter uses her doll buggy to play 'chicken' with my cats and won't go to sleep without a yellow plastic dump-truck and a calculator...

I haven't a clue if she has too much, too little, would be happier playing with her own faeces... I mean, there is always a mum that turns up to play group with their one year old driving a motorised, miniature pink Mini, carrying a talking handbag reaching for a rice cake from their personalised musical cookie jar... and always another whose child is wearing their trousers as a hat, chewing on their nappy, clutching a partly-digested receipt... *whispers* ok, the second example is my child - shhhh...

In the vague attempt to not allow my lounge to metamorphosize into the ENTIRE pre-schooler section of the Argos catalogue, I now divide all toys into four boxes:

1. Plastic/Plush
2. Books/Puzzles
3. Wooden (Makes us feel middle class and come out when we have visitors. We also use our posh indoor voices.)
4. Never. (AKA Musical)

As long as there's enough in rotation my sofa stays relatively lasagne-free on an average day...

So what am I saying? Well - not much due to the baby-brain/toddler-delirium and all the gin... but I think if she's having fun and I can still hide in my bathroom with Tanqueray and a Toblerone while she destroys my living room, that'll do for now.

#ToysTanquerayandToblerones