mummy is always tired

The anti-social mum

Who would’ve thought that taking your child to school could be such a social minefield? I know it shouldn’t be hard, but it is – especially if you’re not keen on people at the best of times.

Sometimes, my jaw hurts from the amount of fake smiling I have to do at drop off and pick up, and sometimes I find myself blurting out sentences that make no sense, or are hastily concocted and make me sound moronic.

Some people are naturals at small talk – alas, I am not one of them. I even started cutting my own hair because I didn’t want to have to talk to the hairdresser. I know that makes me sound barking mad and really anti-social, but if I’m honest, my brain just needs a rest.

Some people can be hilariously witty about the trials and tribulations of being a parent and let’s be honest – websites are littered with ‘funny mummy blogs’ that are all well put together and painfully honest about shitty nappies and lumpy vomit.

There’s a kind of communal ‘hurrah’ we’re all in the same boat sort of feeling but it’s confession time for me – I never read any other parenting blogs. Part of it, is because I can’t be bothered and the other part is because I actually really don’t care.

I don’t think it’s because I’m heartless, more just because I find my own experiences enough, thank you very much. I have my own stuff to worry about, without reading someone else’s raucously funny post about being the anti-mum and finding solace at the end of a wine bottle.

But I think most of it, is just because I’m tired. I’m so tired that I nearly fell asleep in my yoga class (I know, how terribly yummy mummy – don’t I have better things to do? At the moment – no). But it’s not nearly so yummy when I tell you the class was full of people who could barely stand on one leg, let alone wrap it around the other and fold over. It was hardly latte sipping, lunch meeting posh totty territory.

Because life is rarely as glamorous, exciting or as hilarious as most people make out – it’s full of pretty mundane stuff and sometimes, that’s OK. I, for one, quite like to plod, I like to stay in, watch TV and sometimes it makes me feel good when I mop the floor. See – exciting, I am not; but I am content (even without a wine bottle and a straw).

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How many adults does it take to change a three year old?

If it is my three year old, then the answer is four. This is the scene that greeted me last week – the sight of four grown ups cajoling a three year old into some leggings. Meanwhile my three year old is doing what she does best – yelling, screaming, kicking and being an all round prima donna.

But let’s rewind for a moment. Why was I seeing this? Well, I received a phone call. Our youngest had a bit of a tizz and wet herself – she didn’t want to go for a wee in the toilets because there were boys in there. Clearly my child is a coy 19th century throwback and decorum is the buzz word du jour. So whilst she didn’t want to be seen ‘going to the toilet’ she decided it was less embarrassing to just piss herself in front of everyone.

And remember what happens when our youngest gets into a tizz? Yes – that’s right, she then throws up. And me being a bad mother had failed to refill her bag with a change of clothes. So, the phone call was a plea for more things because not a stitch was to be found in the whole of the nursery…that she would wear.

When I arrive she is like a cornered animal and any irritation I’d harboured for her diva antics just evaporated, there she was, having a meltdown with one legging leg flapping in the air as she’s trying desperately to kick the other leg off. If that wasn’t ridiculous enough, she’s doing it with no pants on. Pants. I’ve forgotten to bring her clean pants. And we don’t have time to stop off home and get some more as we have to pick up the older one from school. You’ll have to go commando I tell her. She looks at me as if I’m mad, of course she does, she has no idea what going commando means. But she agrees and off we go; pants problem solved.

So back at home I rifle through her bag, if there are no clothes in it why does it always seem so full I think. Ah. I see why. She has stuffed it with paper and stolen objects from nursery, pilfering is another of her favourite past times. The child has ASBO stamped on her somewhere, I just haven’t found it.

I dutifully fill up her bag and vow to myself I won’t be so slack in future.  I cram in four pairs of pants, tops and leggings. There. Wee and vomit your way through those in a day young lady. I dare you.

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The gremlin in our house

Every time I pick up our youngest from nursery, I am confused. I am confused because the behaviour of the child they sign out is not the one I remember signing in.

Each day I am told our youngest is ‘so helpful’ and ‘delightful’. Clearly something is happening between 4.30 and 5pm that turns this angel child into a monster. Perhaps it’s like the whole Mogwai thing where if you feed them after midnight they turn into gremlins.

I’m not suggesting for a minute that I stop feeding her (although I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or smack someone when I was told how tall our youngest was getting and how she was ‘thinning out’ – are you saying my child is fat? Are you?) But there’s clearly something happening in that half hour that brings out the gremlin in her.

The most annoying thing about the gremlin is the sudden inability to take itself to the toilet – because when you become a gremlin you lose the use of your hands and cannot put the light on/put the toilet seat up/down or get onto the seat by yourself. Bear in mind that this gremlin has been toilet trained for nearly a year and has had no problems up until now.

This has caused us problems – not least because I am stubborn. Sadly our youngest is also stubborn and when two stubborn heads collide, what do you get? In this case – a big puddle of wee.

There was one particularly trying day when after we both dug our heels in she just stood there and let the floodgates (literally) open and emptied the entire contents of her bladder. I’d had enough. I sought sanctuary in the kitchen leaving her in a puddle of pee.

Of course when you are three and you have wet yourself and no one is giving you the attention you think you deserve you get even angrier. And with great anger comes great crying. Crying leads to hysteria, hysteria leads to…vomiting – my favourite.

So not only do I have a urine soaked carpet and little footprints of wee trailing across the house, I now have great pools of sick to sort out. Great – was not the word that sprung to mind. To top it all off and due to a mighty error of judgement by the previous owners our downstairs loo is carpeted – of course – it had to be. So now our downstairs toilet now smells like a neglected public facility of dubious cleanliness.

I have no resolution, no trite little ending other than I don’t need to turn on all the lights and check all the cupboards or under the beds – I know we have a gremlin in our house and it’s monstrous.


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The School Gate

Our eldest has started ‘big school’ as she proudly calls it. To be honest we were dreading it – she is – and I mean this in the kindest possible way – socially awkward. She is the child that will blankly stare at you when you greet her even though you have known her since birth.

But, so far – so good. She bounds into school and has sworn that she will never be ‘on the grey cloud and definitely not the thunder cloud’ which I can only presume is the school equivalent of the naughty step. Every day she smugly announces those unfortunates that have been caught in the act and whose names have ended up on ‘the cloud’. I have mixed feelings about these announcements. On the one hand, I admire her vow to always be good but at the same time, this denouncing of her peers is, well, ever so slightly smug. Three words spring to mind – goody two shoes – and nobody likes a goody two shoes but I guess she is only four and she will learn.

One thing I had not prepared myself for was the playground ‘chat’. Drop off and pick up takes place in the playground and there is usually some hanging around whilst the doors open/close, inevitably this means some form of idle conversation.

Now, part of reaching the grand old age of 35 is that you know your strengths and weaknesses. I am sad to say, idle chatter is not one of my strengths – ask me anything about sworn enemies of Starfleet, warp speed and the Klingons and I could give you a sermon. But chat about the weather, where I’ve been on holiday and what’s for tea, my mind panics and I break out into a sweat.

I never quite know how to time idle chatter – do I jump in and run the risk of interrupting and come across as that shouty woman that never lets anyone finish their sentences or do I wait and then become known as mental mum who just stands and hovers, completely mute. It’s a game of strategy and one that sadly I haven’t yet mastered.

I know it’s really quite ridiculous – after all who cares? Whether I have anything to say or not isn’t going to alter the state of the universe. But it’s that old playground insecurity of being left out or being the odd one or even worse, the weird one that no one wants to stand next to, let alone speak to.

Looking around I also feel slightly inadequate, I mean so many of these mums have three children, all of which have been dressed, fed and some even have their hair beautifully plaited. This is a problem for me because when I got home from the school run (bear in mind I’d had a conversation with the teaching assistant and went on to see the doctor) I realised that I’d forgotten to put in my second earring. Had they been discreet studs it might not have mattered, but I like big, dangly ones and so it was probably pretty obvious I’d woken up and failed miserably to dress myself. I could pretend it was some grand fashion statement but looking at the rest of me, it’d be clear that it wasn’t. Great.

So our fears for our socially awkward eldest have evaporated only to be replaced by fears for her socially awkward mother…I always wondered where she got it from…

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Viva La Diva

No this isn’t about Eurovision classics. It’s a description of our youngest. Aged two and a half her motto is ‘why do something for yourself when someone else can do it for you.’ She is – put quite simply – a demanding little madam.

Yes I agree ‘it’s the parents fault.’ As the youngest she has been indulged but to counter the nature vs nurture debate, can I just say that she does have an innate manipulative streak – and I mean that in the kindest possible way.

She knows when she does wrong but she is a master manipulator. She has a skill which I can only liken to Puss in Boots in Shrek – the cat that makes his eyes as wide as saucers to entrance his enemies before annihilating them. Our little bird, the tiny well behaved, passive baby now rules not only our roost but nursery’s too.

You see, our youngest has not only managed to turn household situations to her advantage but she also has managed to engineer it so that life at nursery is one long joyride – literally. Nursery have what look like deckchairs on wheels and our youngest always manages to convince someone to wheel her around, usually whilst la diva reads a book or admires some shiny new plaything she’s discovered.

She is also a drama queen of epic proportions. She has perfected the art of mimicry and will happily shadow an entire telephone conversation, tilting her head, nodding, uh-huh-ing and ah-ha-ing in all the right places.

She adores being in the limelight, the latest scenario involved much protesting when a thunder fly smaller than tomato seed landed on her leg. There was much hand waving and then the lifting of the skirt with the leg out, tilted forward, toes pointing – the girl is a natural at live performance.

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes it’s hilarious, other times it’s a pain in the backside. Especially at the supermarket when she HAS to hold the same cheese as her sister, or she HAS to help load the conveyor belt or in town when she HAS to have that tantrum in the street, lying face down, hands and feet banging on the ground. Oh yes – that family is us – they aren’t stereotypes for no reason.

But she’s our diva and very entertaining she is to, one day when she’s collecting that Oscar, it’ll all be worth it…won’t it?

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Weapons of not mass destruction

It is 7.45 am and there is screaming from the hallway, the eldest one is distraught. I race over and demand an explanation (calmly and not shouty because I’ve stopped being shouty mum remember).

The response to my question of ‘what’s going on?’ was not what I was expecting: ‘she’s got a weapon and she going to use it against me. Or it could be a sword….I think it’s a sword mummy.’

Ok – so once I’d finished guffawing – ‘weapon?’ I mean seriously, how on earth does ‘weapon’ ease its way into a four year old’s vocabulary? Anyway, back to this weapon, I’m thinking I’ve been careless. Maybe our youngest has been brandishing the metal skewer I use to poke vegetables to check they are cooked, or maybe she’s found a screwdriver in daddy’s box of random, miscellaneous things, or some scissors, perhaps a knife?

No. I turn around and the weapon of much distress is a hollowed out pawn from a Ludo set that she has stuck her index finger in. Clearly this now pointy, blue tipped finger is a real threat so early in the day. All I can think of is how this Ludo set has become a perennial pain. It came with a set of indecipherable instructions and as such I refuse to play it.

The only person who does know how to play it, is Grandma. But because only Grandma knows how to play, it’s played by ‘Grandma’s rules’ which involves a bizarre ritual of aimlessly moving the pawns around the board until you decide to house them wherever you like. It makes no sense. It makes even less sense when your four year old tries to explain it.

And so I tell the youngest whilst restraining my irritation at this ridiculous board game to put away her 1 inch plastic weapon. The boxed pawns and board are now sitting on a shelf…waiting…until I decide on my own weapon for its annihilation.

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The Bath Poo

Our youngest decided to potty train herself a few weeks ago. No doubt she was fed up of hiding in corners or behind curtains to secretly squeeze one out and then deny it despite the trail of smell quite literally following her around.

I proudly announced to a fellow mummy how our youngest had the wees sorted in just a couple of days. Clearly that was a mistake because less than three hours later, the God of anti smugness struck and the result was nothing short of a pint of wee over the dining room chair – a wooden chair no less. Who knew aged pine chairs would be so absorbent – like a sponge to water. As such I am not saying which chair it was because what house guests don’t know won’t hurt them.

So…apart from that, there have been few other liquid accidents. However, she’s been reluctant to extend her potty abilities to include solid packages. She’s been leaving it and leaving it, only to get to day three absolutely bursting – quite literally and no amount of raisins or dried dates could flush through the blockage.

No. Silly me. Clearly what was needed was a lovely, relaxing bath. Preferably when your sister is in it as well and when it’s only mummy on bath duty. And so here we were, both girls splashing around when our youngest suddenly jumps up clutching her bottom screaming ‘I need a poo!’

Quick! I’m panicking now, the thought of it scooping up out the bath doesn’t appeal. My hands? No judging by what’s rapidly making an appearance they won’t be big enough. Ok what’s next, the toy boat? No, too many nooks and crannies to clean out after. I’ve got it – one of the stacking cups, number one, the largest of them all thank goodness – shame it wasn’t the number two, but that would have been too perfect.

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An attempt at ‘doing exercises’

I’ve discovered I’m a really slow swimmer. I know this because for every one lap I do, everyone around me manages two. I’ve made this discovery because of my new fitness regime which has been devised in an attempt to resolve ‘mummy’s wobbly tummy’ issue.

You see, not only does mummy have two children to thank for her wobbly tummy, mummy is lucky enough to have two children who have yet to discover the art of tact. Mummy’s tummy (also fondly known as ‘jelly belly’ which is quite obviously a hilarious phrase my eldest and her sidekick have learnt from daddy) has had much bashing – literally. The children have enjoyed slapping it – no doubt to hear and see the reverberations ripple across it.

So, enough was enough and I joined a gym, where I was dutifully weighed and measured and told I was 22% fat. Which apparently is the upper most tier of fatness for my height. I politely thanked the gym instructor for that motivating fact whilst inwardly cursing that gold Lindt bunny I had consumed over Easter.

But I am not the only one ‘doing exercises’ as my eldest calls it. She has also started to do PE at preschool. From what I can gather, PE is mainly made up of star jumps, balancing things on heads and a vague attempt at juggling cups (although I suspect she made that one last one up).

However, one exercise clearly stood out as ‘the one to do’. I caught her doing a bizarre contortion of downward dog with her arms then criss crossing followed by that peculiar sideways roll action that ham actors do when escaping something life threatening in a bad movie. This, she announced was a roly poly. “Well don’t do that, you’ll break your neck” I said to which she replied “if I break my neck mummy, I’ll just be a head”.

Hmmm, I didn’t have an answer for that retort, but I guess at least she’s trying however cack-handed the attempt. A bit like my swimming – I’m trying and I’ll get there – just maybe a little slower.

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The night before Christmas……

‘It’ll get easier’. That’s what people say to me all the time about having small children. I know it will – after all it can’t get any harder surely, because that would just be unfair. Although, I’m not sure if ‘easier’ is really true. It’s just a different set of issues. The issues become less of the soiled and stained variety and more of the type of thing you actually have to do something about. One of the things that has developed is my eldest’s understanding of actions and their consequences.

So, just before Christmas my eldest came home from nursery having proudly made ‘reindeer food’ (a concoction of porridge oats and glitter) to leave out with instructions to: “sprinkle on the lawn at night so the reindeer have a path in sight” or words to that effect. The food was carefully placed to one side in preparation for Christmas Eve. That day she had also met Father Christmas who gave her a gift. This was placed under the tree.

Sadly, porridge oats delight not only reindeer. It seems dogs are partial to them too. Especially it seems when they are mixed with glitter and wrapped in cellophane with a bow. I came home from work early the following day to a scene of utter destruction. The reindeer food had gone. The cellophane ripped open and just a few lonely grains of oats lay scattered on the floor. I had one thought: the dog.

The dog was in his bed, looking as innocent as he possibly good, slowly wagging his tail. Just a little bow jauntily discarded, giving away his dreadful deed.

Now, if it were just the issue of the reindeer food that would be one thing. But no. Part of the crime scene involved nursery Father Christmas’ present. This too lay ripped open, but clearly of no edible value this lay (thankfully) intact and rather forlornly on the floor.

What do I do?! Shout at the dog, wrap up the present or re make the reindeer food? Too many options, I decided to just collect the children and break the news to my eldest.

The reaction was exactly as I expected. Otis, I explained, had found the reindeer food and decided to eat it and then open the present from Father Christmas. The reaction was instant. Tears. Lots of them and wailing. Wailing of such epic proportions it was like the world had ended.

Now, I’m not heartless but the sheer ridiculousness of it suddenly hit me and I could feel that dreadful rumble of laughter wanting to erupt out of me. I tried, I really tried but I couldn’t hold it in. I started laughing. Laughing so hard tears were rolling down my face.

The effect was instantaneous. My eldest stopped wailing and looked at me, confused. Was I laughing or crying at the shared upset of the dog having consumed the reindeer food and opening her present? With tears still making their way down my cheek I explained that the consequence of leaving the reindeer food and present at dog height was simply too irresistible an offer for a greedy Labrador.

Otis has since been regarded with deep suspicion, with all food and favourite toys being safely tucked away. I also found an interesting consequence of Otis’ consumption of the reindeer food – a very colourful, glitter laced dog poo shimmering on the lawn. A reminder that every action has a consequence and to always be prepared.

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No one likes a cry baby

So, just read an article about a mother who received a letter through her door saying: ‘You may be able to ignore your baby crying but we are tired of listening to him crying non-stop all day’. My gut instinct was to sympathise with this mother and as I read the comments of other readers on the page, my sympathy only grew.

Babies cry. It is a fact of life, all I can say is thank god we only have one neighbour and that we don’t like them very much. If everyone close to where we live posted us letters about children crying we probably wouldn’t be able to find the front door again.

Our eldest cried for what felt like ten months straight, 24 hours a day. I learnt how to peel potatoes, load laundry and pee with a baby strapped to my chest – it was the only way to peace.

In the fog of what was new parenthood I was amazed at how an otherwise, helpless being could also calculate when I was sitting as opposed to standing. Standing was good. Standing meant happiness and quiet. Sitting meant screaming and hysteria (inevitably mine). I would spend ages shimmying in front of MTV in a bid for quiet.

Our second was totally different. She slept for hours and hours only waking to feed then falling asleep, drunk on milk. It was bliss. Slightly unnerving, but we weren’t going to complain, there’s only 21 months between them and we were grateful for the rest.

Now, however our second is showing signs of definite prima Donna-isms. She wails at every – what she perceives – injustice. Namely, if she’s not allowed ‘more gwapes’ (grapes) or ‘more cheese’ or ‘more cakker’ (crackers)….you get the idea.

She cries when she’s not allowed to play tiddly winks with the cat food, she cries when she told off for cleaning the 12 ft trampoline with wet wipes. She likes to get her own way. Sadly, she has parents who like to get their own way too and so for a lot of things she gets told ‘no’ and cries.

So, I sympathise with the ‘mum who lets her child cry all day’ (which I’m sure it’s not, there must be meal breaks after all). Sometimes being a parent is about making unpopular decisions. My advice to those neighbours? Buy some ear plugs.

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