The Kindness Of Strangers

Being a parent is a tough gig, we all know it. Being a lone wolf parent is even tougher. Sometimes, like this weekend, it’s literally just you & them with no other proper adult interaction and trust me, it’s fucking hard work. Little things can make a difference though - the kindness of strangers I guess - and this weekend I’ve had it in abundance.

On Saturday morning, we went to Morrisons. I never do a proper shop in the supermarket normally, I do it online. I forgot to do the online shop though so at 8am on Saturday morning, given we had no milk, no bread and no bacon, we found ourselves in Morrisons. My two are now too big for the trolley seat, so I have to let them roam free and hope they’ll do what I tell them to. They sort of did (mostly) but it was bloody exhausting (especially given I had no voice) and by the time I got to the checkout I was done in. The checkout is the danger zone: they have to keep still, there’s nothing to entertain them and in their eyes, it takes forever. Ten seconds in to me unloading the trolley full of food they were being a pair of little twats and trying to head butt each other. I was attempting to threaten them with my non-existent voice when the security guard strolled over, started chatting to them, played high fives with them, pretended not to understand what their names were and generally entertained them while I packed the shopping up. Mr security guard at #Morrisons Strood you’re a legend. Thank you for helping me keep my Saturday morning sanity.

On Sunday, we went to Trosley Country Park. I was not feeling it. It was cold, I felt like shit and I really just wanted to be inside, cosied up on the sofa. When you’re a lone wolf to a pair of feral loons though, that’s not a choice, so out and about we were. We’d already had a disastrous trip to another park and I was pretty grumpy so I insisted we had lunch in the lovely cafe there first. I asked if anyone needed the toilet first, and both my little charges confidently declared no need for the loo. We ordered, we sat down, and Dais informed me she needed a wee. FFS. I gathered the two of them, grabbed my bag and scanned the area. My eyes fell on an elderly couple who’d ordered just before me. ‘Excuse me,’ I rasped in my weird fucking Marge Simpson voice I currently have going on. ‘My daughter needs the loo, could you listen out for order no 28 and point them in the direction of my table if it comes while we’re gone?’ They happily agreed, and we all skipped off to the loo (which isn’t in the actual cafe, conveniently.) Dais weed, I made Z wee and we went back to the table. The couple cheerfully informed me our food hadn’t arrived and I croaked my thanks at them. We sat down, Z started twatting the table with the wooden sooon bearing our order no, I wrestled it off him, he bellowed a lot at me and I hissed some threats about no more sweeties ever at him. He beamed at me with his great big baby blues and said ‘I need a poo mummy.’  For. Christ’s. Sake. We all got up, grabbed my bag and headed towards the elderly couple. Again. ‘I’m so sorry, we need another toilet trip, do you mind listening out for our order no again?’ I asked, reluctantly. They laughed and once again kindly agreed. We spent a Very Long Time in the toilet while Zachary talked me through his poo ‘It is coming out my bum mummy. It is out my bum mummy. There is another poo coming mummy. It is a ‘normous poo mummy.’ By the time we’d finished in the loo, our food had actually arrived and was waiting for us, thanks to the lovely couple. Experience has taught me that not everyone is as kind and patient as the Trosley Twosome, so thanks to these two gems who made two stressful toilet trips slightly less stressful and saved the food of a tired and grumpy mama.

The last hero of the weekend was this morning - technically Monday morning, but I don’t work Mondays, so still my weekend. Z has developed a weird and pretty disgusting series of spots on his chest, arms and legs. I’ve hoped for a while they would go of their own accord but it’s become apparent they won’t, so off we trotted to the chemist. As we walked in I hissed warnings at the kids about being Very Well Behaved then asked to see the chemist. He came out, saw me with two wild ones and straightaway printed some stickers for them, told them they were special stickers and was generally so lovely to them that they were both entranced by him and did nothing naughty for five whole minutes. It took him just a minute of time but his extra thoughtfulness again made it so much easier for me. Mr pharmacist at Bryant Road Pharmacy, thank you for being so kind to my kids.

When you spend a whole weekend, just you and the kids, these small interactions can make or break you, so thank you to the aforementioned four strangers; your small kindnesses made my weekend.

#thekindnessofstrangers

Reasons Kids Are Great

If you follow my Facebook page, you’ll know that I’ve had a pretty trying couple of days (in short, 4 hours in the car just to get to and from work, in the middle of that a clingy sobbing son and at the end of that two effing jeffing parking tickets.) To try and counter the pure rage that the two parking tickets created in me, I’ve decided to write about why kids are great.  Sure, they can be bloody awful – they piss and shit all over the shop, they refuse to do at least 80% of what they’re asked to and if you’ve got more than one, chances are you spend most of your day refereeing seven bazillion fights about the most ridiculous things*.  But they’re pretty great too, and of course, deep down – sometimes really, really deep down – we all know this; how else would the little turds survive?

Reason 1: They are fearless.  Where we see danger, they see fun.  Whether it’s scaling a cliff face at the beach, or jumping out of a tree from a ludicrous height or wading determinedly out into the sea, kids just see the opportunity that lies ahead of them.  For us, the powerless parent on the sideline, it’s pretty nerve-wracking and I am the first to shriek hysterically if my two get too close to unbarriered water, but what a brilliant way to view the world.  When you’re little, everything is an opportunity and nothing is a risk.

Reason 2:  They are endlessly entertained by the simplest of things.  Z’s favourite game at the moment is making a ball of screwed up foil ‘disappear’.** Other joys my two have recently been entertained for hours by are buckets of shells, buckets of sticks, buckets of leaves, buckets of anything, cutting the grass with scissors, folding loo roll into squares and dancing over and over to the Paw Patrol theme tune. I love that they can see potential in most things to somehow be a fun game.

Reason 3:  They have awesome imaginations.  My two can tell a tale or two.  Sometimes, those tales are true: “Mummy said bollocks earlier.  What are bollocks?” More often than not though, their tales are fantastical voyages, full of twists and turns. “Mummy there was a monster in the bedroom and he was really really enormous and he had a very very big nose and he was cross and he said that he was going to eat up all the toys but it is ok mummy because we did smash him up.” OK, I’m not a fan of the slightly too graphic “smash him up” (and nor do I know where it came from – the bollocks was definitely me, but I’m not guilty of the smash him up!), but how wonderful that going into your bedroom to get your shoes turns into a brave fight with a monster.

Reason 4: They are useful.  So the first couple of years they’re not that useful, but once you’ve survived that, they can totally do stuff for you.  Mine are only 3, but they help me out.  If I’m on the sofa and I can’t reach the remote, they’ll get it for me.  I’ve also taught them how to get the biscuit tin from the side in the kitchen and bring it to mummy (everyone’s a winner with that skill!) They’re still a bit too young to pour me my gin and tonic or run up to the shops for me, but that will come in time.  If you’ve got kids, you’ve got an extra pair (or two) of hands.

Reason 5:  They have no shame.  My two are entirely happy to bare their arses to all and sundry.  Now granted, that’s often not appropriate or convenient, but underlying that is that they are not embarrassed by their bodies, they don’t think their body should look a certain way, they don’t think it isn’t quite right here or there; it’s just their arse and arses are funny so why not flash it at a passer-by?

Reason 6: They are so affectionate.  I know they grow out of this but my two are still cuddly as can be.  Often it’s a sort of hybrid cuddle/wrestling manoeuvre but it’s definitely affectionate. Every night before bedtime, we sit on the sofa and watch an episode of whatever shit is their favourite programme at the moment*** and they snuggle up either side of me.  Z likes to go under my arm and pulls my arm as tight as he can round his chubalub waist and D likes to put her arm around me and stroke my hair.  It’s just magic and I love it.

Reason 7: They know when to get their shit together.  I was on the brink this morning, after parking ticket number two.  I started crying and then couldn’t stop.  I was in the kitchen, trying to get myself together when D walked in.   While I’d been bawling about the ticket, my diva daughter – who often does not do as she’s asked and who can be a right royal pain in the arse – had gone and got her own clothes, taken her pjs off and put all of her clothes on herself, including her shoes.  She’d got her knickers on sideways, so the gusset was on her hip, she’d chosen an outfit that made her look totally batshit and her shoes were on the wrong feet, but bless her little heart. What an absolute little champ.  She totally pulled me back from the brink – I told her I was ever so proud she’d got dressed all by herself and she was so chuffed and we had a little cuddle.  It went from being a really miserable moment to a really lovely one. 

The world might be full of twattish traffic wardens, and unending traffic jams and the bollocks of everyday life, and some days are unbearably hard, but these little dudes, when the chips are down, they’ve got our backs. When they do the things that drive us in-fucking-sane, they don’t mean to do them to wind us up; when they do the things that make us melt a little bit inside though, they do mean to make us happy.  And what could be greater than that? 

*”He is talking, I don’t like him talking,” “She is looking at me,” “He has taken my necklace,” “She has touched my foot.” – Oh it goes on and on and on and on until your ears are bleeding from listening to it.

** He blows on it then puts it in his other hand and looks astonished.  It is fucking hilarious. He’s a shit magician my son, but man he’s funny!

***Ben & Holly right now – weird shit but Nanny Plum is fucking brilliant.

A Day Out At Dungeness And An Important Parenting Lesson

As a parent, I’m not particularly guided by any method or fad in parenting my two – I largely go with the ‘surviving any which way we can’ method, also known as the ‘muddling through’ method.  There are a few things though that I try my best to stick to, and one of those things is not letting my fear of something stop the kids from doing stuff; in short, I try my very hardest to be brave in front of the kids about stuff that scares the bejesus out of me.  One of my favourite things about kids is that they are fearless.  I don’t want to take that away from them (although if Z could start showing an awareness of CARS and ROADS, and that these two things could KILL HIM, that would be swell).

Today we went to Dungeness.  I’ve been before and I love it.  It’s weird but that’s part of its charm. We drove to New Romney and the kids were a pair of unremitting shit bags the entire way there.  The lowest point was when I had to try and wrestle Z’s beaker out of his hand, whilst driving down the M20, because he was alternately pouring his water onto the back seat, and then pouring it on me.  Oh, and also when they had a fight over D’s cardigan which led to me momentarily having the cardigan over my face.  This mama shouted A Lot about that.

Having narrowly survived the car journey there, we bought our tickets and jumped onto the train.  Last time we went on the train it was shitting awful, not least because they were terrified of it.  This time they loved it and we happily pootled along the Kentish coast, gleefully shouting ‘horse!’, ‘boat!’ and ‘I have a wedgie mummy!’ (Daisy – poor girl always has a wedgie.) We arrived in Dungeness and straightaway they clocked the lighthouse.  They both love lighthouses (although I have no idea where that’s come from) and were obviously desperate to go up it.  I was less keen, because I am shitting terrified of heights.  Not good with them at all.

The Bloody Lighthouse.  We made it up to just past the second window!!

I managed to delay the lighthouse climbing awhile, by offering up some picnic/beach/stone throwing action, but the time came when we could beach no more (largely because it was only a matter of time before one of them took out a passer-by with their wildly unpredictable stone throwing) and we headed back in the direction of the lighthouse.

‘Please mummy!’ they begged, all the way up  the boardwalk. ‘Please can we go up the lighthouse? I just love lighthouses in the whole world.’ Eventually I agreed that if the people inside the lighthouse said it was suitable for them, then we could go up.

Manning the lighthouse were two very lovely women.  I hopefully asked if D&Z were too little to go up and they cheerfully assured me that they would be absolutely fine, it wasn’t a problem for them to go up.  I girded my loins, told myself I was being a good mummy by hiding my fear, issued the children with several Very Stern Warnings about doing what mummy says and we started our ascent.

Before I describe what happened next, I need to try and paint for you the lighthouse.  It is huge, much bigger than you’d imagine. The steps up it curve around the inside of the wall and the only thing stopping you from plunging to your death are some very flimsy* balustrades. Finally, the lighthouse gets narrower obviously as you go up which makes you feel like the stairs above are closing in on you.  In short, for a woman who gets vertigo on department store escalators, it probably wasn’t the best idea to attempt to go up it.

We made it up to the first landing unscathed.  My heart was pounding and the palms of my hands were sweating but it was fine.  I could totally do this.  I stepped aside to let a man go past (thank Christ – what happens next was bad enough, but at least there were no spectators) and we continued our ascent.  Z was LOVING it and was scampering off ahead; D was slightly more cautious but still enjoying herself.  I was trying to ignore the fact that I could see down – all the way down to the floor far far below – when I was just hit by paralysing panic.  It was too high and I was too fucking scared and I could not do it.  I crouched down on a step and put my hands over my head, much like you would if rubble was falling on you (not really sure why I did that. I am sure that it made me look completely fucking barking.)

‘Daisy,’ I whimpered. ‘Mummy is very scared and does not like heights.  We need to go back down.’

‘OK Mummy,’ said Daisy, being obedient for the first time since we’d left the house and at exactly the right time.  She turned around and started going down. 

‘Dais, just wait,’ I wailed. ‘We have to get Zach to come too.’ I turned to Zach, who was about five steps ahead of me.  ‘Come on Zach, let’s go,’ I whispered. Not sure why I was whispering either.  Panic does funny things to you!

‘No mummy!’ replied my boy, ever so fucking cheerfully. ‘I go all the way to the top.’

‘Zacchy, please baby.  Mummy is very scared and we need to climb down.’ Zach ignored me and carried on climbing up. Not down, up. 

‘ZACH!’ I shrieked hysterically. ‘WE NEED TO CLIMB DOWN NOW!’ The hysteria just spurred him on.  I know my boy and I know how, once he’s set his mind to something, he is doing it.

What the actual fuckety fuck was I going to do? I could not climb any higher. More than that though, I really, really could not let my three year old son climb without me.  Very slowly, I straightened up out of my rubble-falling-foetal-position.  I turned so I was facing the wall, not the sheer drop just behind me and edged up two more steps.

‘Zach mate, please.  Mummy really needs you to be a good boy right now.’

‘But mummy!’ he bleated. ‘I want to go all the way to the top!’ I knew at this point that bargaining was futile.  I took a deep breath, lunged forward and grabbed his foot.  I dragged him down the steps towards me and grabbed his hand.  He shrieked loudly and embarrassingly, but I at least had hold of him.  I instructed Daisy to begin climbing back down, I tucked my pretty pissed off son under my arm and began my own descent, half hunched over because for some reason it is less scary than if you’re properly stood up. 

We finally made it back down to the entrance and one of the two lovely women greeted us joyfully.

‘Oh well done!’ she said to D&Z. ‘You made it back! Did you enjoy it up at the top?’

‘We didn’t quite make it to the top,’ I mumbled.

‘Oh I’m so sorry!’ said the lovely woman. ‘I really thought they’d be fine with it.’

‘Oh don’t worry, they got to see the inside of the lighthouse and that’s made them happy,’ I replied, swiftly glossing over the fact that the three year olds weren’t scared one iota, it was the 36 year old who was shitting her pants.

So, the moral of this sad tale is that while it is a good idea to not pass your fear of things on to your children, it is not a good idea to try and ignore a very real fear you have and do something with them that you are actually not able to do.  That will just end up with you looking like a twat.

*Probably not flimsy at all. They just weren’t as solid as I’d have liked.

I bet Mrs Richards never had a panic attack going up the stairs!

Mixed Blessings

As a parent, right from the start, you are overwhelmed with a whole world of glittering products and challenging choices. It always seems like if you buy this one thing, or if your kid can just meet this one milestone, life will be easier. The thing is though, the real bastard of parenting is, that everything - every single thing - is a mixed blessing*. For every dream-like pro, there’s a con that you haven’t considered. Here are my top mixed blessings that regularly make me silently scream. 

1.       Crocs. They seem like a good idea - the kids can put them on themselves, they can go in water, in sand, in whatever crap Z chooses to wade through before I can grab him, and the pound shop sells knock offs for, well, a pound. All good things, all good things. But oh dear god they are so bloody annoying. Sure, the kids can put them on themselves but the flip side of that is they fall off all the time. All the time. If we go out and they're wearing crocs, the journey time is tripled - at least. Barely a step is taken without D bleating 'My shoe! Mummy, my shoe!' and some kind stranger chasing after us, as I carry on walking because I don't bloody care about the bloody croc anymore because it is the nineteenth time it’s happened in five minutes and suddenly a barefoot toddler seems fine, totally fine. Then there's the whole durable/washable shebang. Z knows it's fine to go in water in them. This means if he's wearing them, he definitely will go in water in them. It's like a challenge to him: ‘Must find a skanky, dysentery-laced, stagnant puddle to jump in, else wearing my crocs will have been a wasted opportunity!’ Crocs, you are a royal pain in the ass. 

2.       Scooters. The upside of scooters is they can speed up the whole getting places process. In my mind, the kids would whizz off ahead and we'd be getting from A to B in no time. This is not the reality. Firstly, D&Z can't steer them and at no point when riding them do they actually look where they’re going, so barely two metres passes without them crashing into each other, me or (worst case scenario) an innocent passer-by. Sometimes I'm so powerless to do anything that I just have to shut my eyes and pray it's an understanding passer-by. Secondly, the whole whizzing off ahead is not without issues. They whizz off ahead, completely ignoring my bellows to 'STOP AT THE NEXT LAMP POST! STOP! STOP NOW! IT IS VERY DANGEROUS TO IGNORE MUMMY!' I spend much of the time running wildly and sweatily and pointlessly after them (whilst muttering violently about the fucking scooters). Lastly, and by no means least, their interest in them is short lived. Nine times out of ten, I carry the effing things for the majority of the outing. Oh, and crocs plus scooters is an absolute recipe for disaster. 

3.       Electronic devices. My two don't have any electronic devices (largely at the moment because I just can't justify the cost) but I do let them play games on my iPhone and my mum has an iPad that they sometimes watch stuff on. The plus side of this is that they're completely absorbed by them and it buys me ten minutes of peace. If I'm lucky. There are so many downsides though and we never, ever end a session on a device without at least one person weeping. The first hurdle is that they have to take turns. Taking turns is Very Hard when you're three, and even more so when the thing you're waiting for is So Much Fun. Then there's the fact that, actually, my kids are a bit shit at lots of the games we've got, so I end up having to help them, thus totally defeating the point of them being on the device in the first place. (I am, however, a total pro at making Peppa Pig candy floss against the clock.) Watching a programme isn't any better. ‘Don't touch the screen!’ is always the first instruction. Thirty seconds in: 'MAMAAAAGGGHHH! I HAS PRESSED SOMETHING! IT IS NOT WORKING ANYMORE!' Oh for fuck's sake. Again, having to intervene every two minutes just is not the point of a device. The worst part though is when you have to take the device off them. This is always, no matter how many warnings you give, going to end in what one friend refers to as the iPaddy. No toddler in the history of time has ever willingly relinquished an electronic device - you have to prise it out of their sweaty, sticky, surprisingly strong grip in an undignified and inelegant scuffle, then listen to them sob for the rest of eternity. A mixed blessing indeed. 

4.       Potty training.  It's not just products that we convince ourselves will be life-changing. Oh no, there's a whole barrel-load of milestones that I have been sure will make my life easier. And in some ways they do - but they also bring a whole raft of new nonsense with them. Potty training is definitely up there as one of the biggest mixed blessings. No more nappies – think of the money we’ll save! Hurray! No more searching for a changing table! Woohoo! No more poo-splosions that'd make grown adults weep! Yes! Who could ask for more? Me. Now I know what them being potty trained is like, I want to ask for more. Or rather less.  I want to spend less time in the bloody toilet.  I now spend approximately 60% of my life in the toilet. At least. You see that list of summer holiday plans I put up the other day? Mostly we'll go to the toilets at those places. Maybe the café too if we’re lucky, but mostly it will be spent in the toilet, with Zachary trying to get into the tampon bin and Daisy pulling off yards of toilet paper and me getting wedged in the door because of my bastarding backpack and both of them attempting to lick the toilet brush.  Suddenly the changing table doesn’t seem so bad.

5.       Getting rid of the buggy.  It is no secret that I loathed all three of the double buggies I had.  They are heavy, they are unwieldy, I scraped my shins trying to heft the bastards in and out of the car more times than I care to remember and people do not realise how hard they are to push (seriously, so hard.  If you see someone with a double buggy, be kind.  Hold the door. Lift the buggy up the stairs.  Get out of the way.  Smile.  Pat them on the back.  Hand them a gin and tonic. They need it.)  I was desperate to get rid of all three of them.  The twins are now three and while we do have a cheap single stroller (mainly used for lugging crap down to the beach) we are largely buggy-less.  It means I can go into any shop and not worry about getting wedged in the door.  Public transport in all forms is now available to me.  Stairs are no longer a barrier to a solo day out.  The mixed blessing part comes from the fact the children – the two feral, wayward and impossible to control children - are no longer contained.  Sure, we can go into any shop.  They can also pull crap off the shelves in any shop too.  We can go on the bus – and they can reach up to press the bell a gazillion times.  We can walk up and down stairs.  We can also tumble headlong down the stairs because we are utterly unaware of our capabilities and heed no warnings that mummy offers.  They also walk at vastly different paces – Z zooms off ahead while D trips and wafts behind me.  I spend half the time shouting at Z to wait and the other half shouting at D to catch up.  Is it better than the double buggy? Marginally.

6.       Speech development.  I can remember when D&Z were about 18 months, talking to a friend about how I was sure part of their tantrumming was because they couldn’t communicate what they wanted to and it would be much easier once they could talk properly because then they could tell me what they wanted.  Hahahahahahaha.   No.  Both my children can now communicate in full and extensive sentences and their tantrum throwing ability has developed at a similar rate.  Now, when they throw a tantrum, they can tell me in full sentences why exactly they are so pissed off at me.  ‘Mummy, it is not fair because you will not let me have another Jaffa Cake and I love Jaffa Cakes, I just love them in the whole world and it is not fair Mummy and I do not like you in the whole world ever.’ And it’s not just that their developed speech has had no impact on reducing the tantrums.  Oh no.  It is also the fact that they never, from the moment their eyes ping open, to long after they’ve gone to bed, stop talking.  Ever.  I get a double running commentary on everything that is happening.  Daisy’s is high pitched and hyperactive, Zachary’s is slow and ponderous.  I get asked 7000 questions a minute and I’m not given the chance to answer one and sweet mother of Christ they must say ‘Mummy’ thousands and thousands of times a day.  Sometimes that’s all they say: ‘Mummy?’ ‘Yes love?’ ‘Mummy? Mummy! Mummy…Mummy-Mummy! MUMMMY!’ ‘Yes? What do you want?’ ‘MUMMMMMMMMMY!’ Over and over and over again until I cannot bear to hear the word ‘Mummy’ again (which is when I put the TV on and hide in the kitchen!)

So, next time you’re looking around the metaphorical corner, hoping that x or y might make a tiny part of your life easier, just remember to take off the rose coloured glasses and lower those expectations.  Being a parent is an exhilarating, muscle-aching, heart-breaking, chest-swelling, tear-welling, mind-blowing, nerve-grating, patience-testing, late-running, door-slamming, hug-winning, smile-making, love-growing marathon.  No product or milestone is going to make it easier, it’ll just be different.  And when you’re picking up that effing jeffing croc for the gazzilionth time, at the same time as silently screaming, remember that all too soon no-one will need you to pick up their croc, or to drag them along on the scooter or to wrestle the toilet brush away from their mouth.  All these things are mixed blessings, just like being a parent, but they’re definitely blessings.  How lucky we are to have these teeny tiny tyrants in our lives, and how fleetingly it will pass.  And in the meantime, if the silent screaming and the remembering this only lasts fleetingly doesn’t work, pour yourself a gin and tonic: that’s one blessing that’s always happily mixed in this house.

*Except for maybe the Gro Clock – I’ve had four (FOUR!) post 7am rises in the last week thanks to the Gro Clock.  Fucking miracle.

The Ten Commandments of Toddler

1. Thou shalt always stand in the way of the door that mummy is trying to open or close. 
2. Thou shalt always refuse to put on a vital piece of clothing - such as pants - when mummy is late and in a hurry to get out of the door.
3. Thou shalt always ask a question at least seventeen times and during those seventeen times thou shalt never allow mummy time to answer the question. 
4. Thou shalt always behave beautifully when other people look after thee and thou shalt save all the worst rat-baggery behaviour for when just mummy is there. 
5. Thou must examine every leaf, stone, snail, flower and piece of skanky rubbish on the road whenever thou walks anywhere. Thou shalt ensure every walk takes at least ten times as long as it could take. 
6. Thou shalt always decide thou needs a poo just as mummy has got thee nicely tucked up in bed. 
7. Thou shalt always wake up as early as possible and ensure thou wakes the entire house up too. Thou shalt especially make sure this happens when thou are very tired and thou must moan incessantly about how tired thou are at mummy all day long. 
8. Thou shalt never do something the first time mummy asks. Thou must make mummy ask at least three times. 
9. Thou shalt always remember the naughty words mummy says and repeat them when in front of the largest possible audience. 
10. Thou shalt push mummy to the very limits and just at the point thou sees she is close to breaking, thou must then do something heartbreakingly adorable so mummy will love thee for eternity, regardless of all the rat-baggery.

Things I Am Done With This Half Term

We've had a really, really great half term.  We've been to the beach, to castles (Dover and Deal - both great but Dover is just amazing), to the ruins of two different abbeys (Bayham Old Abbey is a new favourite), and to parks; we've eaten fish and chips, ice creams aplenty, an unhealthy amount of Haribo and we've hung out with our favourite people. Generally, we've had a jolly good time.

That doesn't mean they haven't driven me mad at points though (mainly when we're in the house.  My children are not house-dwellers.  They need to be outside, in large open spaces where no-one can hear their/my bellowing and where they can't break the TV for the 49th time.)  In no particular order, here are the things from half term that I no longer have any patience to deal with.

1) Tissue and wipes everywhere.  They love tissues.  They love wipes.  They fold them, they screw them up into balls, they shred them, they wrap crap in them, they wrestle over them (the wrestling is not specific to tissues/wipes to be fair - they will wrestle over anything.  Anything.)  In some ways, this is great - it's a super cheap and easy way to entertain them: "Here you go kiddo, have a kitchen roll. Knock yourself out."  In other ways though, it's super fricking annoying.  I am so bored of walking into a room and finding it's been turned into a hamster's cage, with a sea of shredded tissue everywhere.  I am also fed up of having no wipes or tissue left when I need it (like, when they've knocked their drink over for the gazzilionth time). Kids, please stop playing with tissues (and you know, maybe play with one of your many, many toys that take up a significant chunk of the living room).

2) Half eaten food on the floor.  This is usually a biscuit, but it can be any food.  My children specialise in eating half of whatever they've asked for then casually throwing the other half onto the floor.  Because that's where unwanted food goes.  I'm not just bored of this, I'm also bored of telling them to pick it up.  And I'm bored of them asking for another one of whatever has been discarded on the floor, minutes later.  Eat your food.  All of it.  And if you don't want it, put it in the goddamn bin (but not the bin in the living room because mummy doesn't empty that very often and it will just rot in there and smell bad, and mummy will spend ages trying to figure out if someone's done a shit somewhere before she realises that actually someone has put food in the bin we are not supposed to use because mummy can't be arsed to empty it). 

3) Repeating the same question over and over and over again.  Oh sweet Jesus.  How is anyone meant to make it through parenthood sane when there is a never-ending stream of constant questions that you are not given even a millisecond to answer?  It goes like this: "Mummy, can I have a drink?" "Yes bab-" "Mummy, can I have a drink, a drink mummy, I want a drink." " Yep, I'll-" "Mummy, I want a drink, can I have a drink mummy, I want a drink." "I'm making you-" "MummycanIhaveadrinkmummyIwantadrinkcanihaveonemummycanI?" "I AM MAKING YOU A DRINK. STOP BELLOWING AT ME."  And then I get pissed off because I've just shouted at them to stop shouting at me which I try really hard not to do, but sometimes it's the only way to be heard!

4) Loud, unnecessary noises.  This is a new thing.  They make this godawful grunty/shrieky noise - much like, I imagine, a pig would make if you were to shove something up its arse; low and grunty at first, followed by shrill and shrieky) - either to make each other laugh or to drown me out when I'm telling them off.  The first I can just about bear, the second is not the dream.  Looking for the silver lining, at least it's better than them shouting obscenities ("Ooh that bloody door!" mimicked Zachary gleefully the other day.  Must stop swearing in front of the children.  Must stop swearing in front of the effing jeffing buggering children.) but really, I'd rather my children didn't swear or make horrendous noises.  I need to lower those expectations, I know.

5) There is always crap in the way of whatever I'm trying to do.  Particularly in the bathroom.  Our bathroom is small and L-shaped. All three of us being in there is the stuff of nightmares.  I went in to brush my teeth this morning.  First, I'm greeted by two potties, one with a wee in.  I empty that and then navigate my way around the two steps that, in theory, allow them to get on the loo themselves (in practice, they bellow for me to lift them onto the loo, and use the steps to reach the sink and throw water everywhere.) By this stage, I've been joined by my two adorable yet slightly feral sidekicks, who commence wrestling over one of the steps.  They ignore my attempts to give them the other step so they can have one each (where would the fun be in that?) so I give up and decide to clean my teeth while they fight around my ankles. Of course though, the sink is full of crap - two flannels, a hairbrush, two different yet equally ineffectual bottles of detangling spray, a razor, half a biscuit and - of course - a fork. How I long for an empty sink to clean my teeth in. (This girl dreams BIG!)

I think I'm really lucky to be a teacher and get all of the lovely holidays with the kids, I really do.  But there definitely comes a point where we're all ready for a bit of structure in our lives and a bit of time away from each other.  Kids, it's been a blast - let's do it all over again in the summer holidays (although can you please at least have relinquished the tissue obsession by then). 

What I Say Versus What I Actually Mean

1. "Well didn't we have a lovely time?" It was a bit boring to be honest, but nobody vomitted, wet themselves or shit themselves. Nobody started a punch up, flashed their arse or smacked me in the face.  Nobody ignored me counting to five and therefore laughed in the face of my behaviour system, nobody fell over and hurt themselves and we all got back home in one piece.  This is what qualifies for a lovely time these days my love.

2.  "What a good girl/boy you're being!" Your sibling is being an absolute toe-rag so to try and save my sanity, I'm focusing on the fact that you are not throwing an epic tantrum/lobbing food across the kitchen/refusing to do anything I say.  I'm also vaguely hoping that the toe-rag will hear the praise and stop doing whatever they're doing in a bid to also get praise.  I know it's unlikely though and in all probability what will happen is that you, the one behaving, will decide my praise is worth nothing in the face of gaining some approval from the toe-rag, so despite my praise, you will jump ship and also start being naughty.  Oh happy days.

3.  "We'll talk about it later." I cannot listen to you moan about this anymore.  I just can't.  I'm hoping that you'll forget and we'll never speak of this again.

4.  "If you put your shoes on/coat on/get in the car seat, you can have some Haribo." I'm desperate kiddo.  It's 7 o'clock in the morning and I'm offering you bucket loads of sugar, even though I know this is terrible parenting, so please, for the love of God,  do what I'm asking you to do, because if you don't I'm either going to weep or shout, and I know I do both of those things fairly often, but I don't like doing them.  Please, please put the god damn shoes on.  No? You hate me don't you? You actually hate me.  

5. "I love you baby." I love you so much there are not enough words in the world to describe it.  I love your funny face and your belly laugh and your jokes and your heart and your soul and your squidgy cuddles and your goofy smiles and every last thing about you.  I love you all the time, every day, for the rest of time itself. And beyond.  And so help me God, if anyone ever, ever hurts you, I will hunt them down and kill them.  Hunt them down and kill them.  Mama's got your back baby.  

Disgusting Stuff Parenthood Has Introduced Me To

Before I had kids, I knew there'd be some lowering of my usual, acceptable levels of hygiene. I just did not realise how low the bar was going to drop...here's some of the most disgusting things I do or accept now I'm a mum.

1. Showering does not happen as much as it should. Some weeks, nowhere near enough. Pre-kids, I showered every morning. Post-kids I very rarely shower in the morning. In between refereeing World War 3 and trying to pack both my bag and their bag, there's just no time. If I do manage a shower, it's once they're in bed. So honestly, I shower 3ish times a week. Pre-kids me would be horrified at this. Post-kids me thanks the world for dry hair shampoo.

2. Wiping arses is so rank. I mean, obviously I knew I'd have to do this, but I thought about it in a baby/nappy way. I did not consider the horror that is wiping the arse of a toddler who's just done a grown-man sized turd. And then there's the whole having to clean the potty out afterwards. Oh man - I did not sign up for this shit (literally).

3. Sleeping in sheets that a child has weed on happens. Exhaustion is to blame for this. I know it's minging, and I know it basically means I smell faintly of wee the next day, but some days I just do not have the energy to change them.

4. Wiping snot with my hand is a likelihood. In an ideal world, I'd use a tissue or wipe. This is not an ideal world. Some days, I have neither. Or, I don't have the energy to get them out of my bag for the 223rd time. Either way, I swipe my hand under their nose and then quickly wipe my hand on my jeans. Gross, I know.

5. Living with rotting food in my car is an unavoidable reality. My car has always been a bit of a rubbish tip. Add two toddlers to the equation and it just spirals. Rotting apples, mouldy biscuit crumbs and sticky half chewed and spat out Haribo line the floor of my car. Every so often I attempt to make it better. I soon realise that the effort it takes to get it clean is just not worth it because they almost immediately mess it up again. Little buggers.

6. Eating chewed up and spat out food doesn't even gross me out anymore. If either of my children half eats something then spits it out, and there is not a bin to hand, I'll just eat it. It's easier and, when you're a lone wolf, you have to eat whenever you get the chance. Plus, they've done part of the work for you already.

Parenting: where eating chewed up and spat out food is winning.

Why My Carpet Looks Like This

Tea time, bath time & bed time are always stressful, particularly on a work day, and even more so when - like today - you were awoken at 5am. On the train home this afternoon, I promised myself I was going to be calm & kind. Calm & kind was going to be my mantra and I was going to let the small stuff go.

It started well. I put tea in the oven, took the effing jeffing bins out and we all sat on the sofa and had a cuddle while we watched Mister Maker, the current fav in our house. I'm terrible for being on my phone so I also put my phone in the kitchen so I wouldn't be distracted. It was lovely.

Then we had tea. They were a bit annoying and shouty but I let it slide. I just ignored the bad and praised the good. It was not lovely (is tea time ever lovely?) but I didn't get visibly cross at any point (I flicked them the finger a lot, but only in my head. On my face a smile was plastered). It took seventeen fucking lifetimes so I decided not to bath them. I told them to go into the living room and take their clothes off while I tidied up the dinner stuff.

It's here where things took a turn for the worse. A naked Zachary ran into the kitchen and declared 'I need a wee mummy!' 'Quick!' I replied 'toilet!' 'No mummy. No wee in the toilet!' He said. I assumed he didn't need a wee, carried on cleaning up & he trotted off.

Five seconds later he shouted from the living room 'I DONE A WEE MUMMY!'

I walked into the living room and the little shit had peed on the carpet. At this point I could just about still remember my calm & kind mantra. 'Never mind!' I gaily trilled through gritted teeth, 'mummy will clean it up!'

Off I trudged to get kitchen roll and a cloth and cleaner. I cleaned up the wee and went back to tidying the kitchen.

I had approximately thirty seconds of peace before Daisy came running in, clutching a bright pink clay fish she made a few weeks ago at the childminders and happily informed me 'Zacchy has been Very Naughty mummy!'

Heart sinking, I went into the living room and saw bright pink swirled over the patch of wee. On my carpet that is exactly ten months old.

I still didn't lose it. I did calm but ever so disappointed. I went back to the kitchen, got the cloth and the carpet cleaner (which is some super grade industrial cleaner stuff) and tried to get the bright pink off my once (for about one week) cream carpet.

The point at which I lost it was when, after putting the carpet cleaner back in the kitchen, I returned to find Zachary rubbing his naked arse on the wee/pink clay/industrial carpet cleaner mess while Daisy tore a tissue up and threw it at him, like fucking wedding confetti, in some weird twin bonding ritual. Then, I lost it. Calm and kind went out the window. 'FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. GET OFF THAT AND GET ON THE SOFA RIGHT NOW! NOW! YOU DO NOT RUB YOURSELF ON CLEANING STUFF! WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? GET ON THE SOFA NOW!'

Daisy wept, I felt awful and Zachary sat on the sofa, stroking his - presumably - a bit burny bottom. I took a deep breath and tried to claw it back. We all had a cuddle, I said sorry for shouting and rinsed Zachary off in the shower.

Everyone has a breaking point. Turns out mine is my son rubbing his arse on carpet cleaner.

#calmandkind #calmandkindunlessyourubyourarseoncarpetcleaner

The Car Inventory

Cleaned out the car today. Here's the inventory:

9 coats
5 handbags (theirs not mine)
4 pairs of socks
1 odd sock
2 books (one of which I swear I have never seen. Did they shoplift it? And manage to get it into the car without me noticing? Highly likely.)
3 pairs of wellies
2 Happy Meal troll heads
5 hair bobbles
7 buckets
8 spades
1 kite
1 stick/small tree
1 stuffed chick
1 sun hat
1 windbreak
1 buggy (single - we ditched the double ages ago because it was a bastarding behemoth of a buggy, as all double buggies are.)
3 pairs of 'lost' sunglasses
1 rotting apple core
4 half full bottles of water
One perfume stick
One bottle of 'go to sleep' lavender spray - I have no idea how or why this in my car. No idea. Beyond 'because twins'.
2 uneaten Yoyos
7 YoYo cards
473* empty Haribo packets
271 empty crisp packets
1/2 tonne of biscuit crumbs
At least 17 satsumas worth of dried/mouldy satsuma peel (which actually made me feel a bit better because at least they do eat some fruit, as well as all the Haribo, biscuits and crisps!)
A LOT of sand (half a beach at least)
Countless used, snotty wipes/tissues

My car is now as gleaming as it can be, given the abuse it has suffered. I am under no illusion that it will stay this way. Within a week, two weeks max, it'll be back to being a cesspit full of rotting food and crap. Until then, I shall thoroughly enjoy the fleeting cleanliness. Parenting: you've got to take your wins where you can find 'em!

*I've started to make numbers up now. Basically, too many to count.

Good Parents Have Bad Days And That's OK

Sometimes, when you're a parent, it's unbearably hard. Some days are awful. You're tired, they're tired, you have no patience, they cannot be reasoned with and it's just bloody awful. You shout too much and you're not patient enough and you feel like a bit of a shitty mum.

That's how I felt today. I was feeling proper miserable about what a crappy mum I'd been. Then I looked at these pictures.

We've all got them. Pictures of days when we weren't grumpy (perhaps only for the duration of the photo, but that's still a win!) Pictures that make you realise that your lot, your snot soaked, sleep deprived, love drenched lot, is a pretty great one. And if you've had a bad day, or a bad week, or a bad month, it's ok. Being a mum is hardcore. It's relentless and tiring and patience trying. But if you worry that you're not a good enough mum, then probably, you are a good enough mum. The very fact that you worry about your mum credentials means you are a good mum.

The only opinion we should take to heart on our parenting skills is that of our kids. My Daisy is brutally honest. She doesn't hold back. When I put her to bed tonight, she put her long gangly arms around my neck, squeezed me as tight as can be, and said 'I had a lovely day mummy.' She had a lovely day, all the while I thought I was being an awful mum.

We're our own harshest critics. We should back off from being so hard on ourselves. We should be kind to ourselves, and each other, and put those expectations down. If you're a parent and you've had a bad day, repeat this mantra to yourself: good parents have bad days. And that's ok.

The Best Things About Being A Lone Wolf Mama

Quite a lot of the time, when people learn I’m a lone wolf mama to twins, they look at me with pity.  “Wow!” they exclaim, “that must be hard!” And yep, sometimes it is.  But isn’t any type of parenting? Sure, it’s hard work, it’s relentless and it’s all on one pair of sometimes very tired shoulders, but there are plenty of amazing benefits to doing it solo.  Here they are:

1) Your word is law.  I make up (as I go along!) the rules in our house.  There is no contradiction, no playing one parent off another, no uncertainty.  When Zachary is standing, mud in hand, ready to lob it in my face and I’m bellowing “PUT THAT DOWN BEFORE MUMMY GETS TO FIVE OR YOU WILL GO ON THE NAUGHTY STEP*!” he knows that that is actually what will happen.  When Daisy is throwing herself to the floor at tea time because I gave her “THE WRONG SPOON MUMMY”, she knows that if she isn’t up at the table by five, she is on the naughty step. They know 100% what is expected of them, all the time.  Sure they butt against those expectations – all the time, all the fucking time – but there’s only one set of expectations to butt against.

2) It’s harder to make mum friends but those mum friends you do make are fucking gold.  Gold, I tell you.  It’s harder for a number of reasons – I’m less confident because our set up is ‘different’, some mums are wankers** and view you as a potential threat or just too different to them and sometimes it’s just too fucking hard (either logistically or mentally) to even get out of the house.  But if you do manage, prizes await, and those prizes are your worth-their-weight-in-gold mama friends.  I have friends who I knew before I was up the duff, friends who were neighbours, friends who are neighbours, friends who I met in the park, friends who I met through the amazing Gingerbread charity.  The one thing they all have on common is they have been unfazed by my lone wolf mamaness.  They are all worth so much more than their weight in gold and I love them. I don’t think I would have invested so much energy into these friendships if I’d had a partner.  So, I don’t have a partner, but I do have friends that would drop everything and be there for me.  If you’re a lone wolf mama friend, pat yourself on the back.  You’ve passed rigorous anti-wanker testing and you’re providing an essential service.  We are grateful. 

3) The love.  I hate to sound selfish, but it’s all mine! They love me above and beyond anything or anyone else (except maybe Peppa and Mister Maker – I’ll take that ranking!) Being a mum is often billed as a giving thing – and it is.  You give your all, your everything, your very soul along with your basic hygiene and your sanity, in raising them.  But they give it back.  And when you’re a lone wolf, you are the sole receiver of that love.  It’s pretty fucking amazing.  Sometimes that love is a bit too brutal (Daisy: “I don’t really like you.” Today, when I told her she couldn’t have any more bubbles) but sometimes it’s just heart exploding (Zach: “Mummy, I love you. Really really love you.” Today, when he went for his second shit during Toddler Twist.) My boy likes to keep his declarations of love real. Love, they say, is what makes the world go round, and if you’re a lone wolf, you have it in abundance.

4) The pride.  When it’s just me and the kids, they are challenging***. They shout at me, they fight, they ignore me, they piss in the play house (Zachary) and they tell tales about every fucking thing that happens (Daisy) and they drive me fucking loop the loop nuts.  In short, there's a lot of counting to five.  But.  But, when we go out, and when they are not with me, they are a delight.  They are kind, they share, they are polite, they do as they are asked, they are funny.  Strangers coo over how lovely they are and friends and family who look after them tell me how easy they are.  And my heart bursts with pride.  I’ve done that.  I’ve fucking done that, all by myself.  #proud 

*I’m well aware the naughty step is not currently fashionable.  Don’t give two shits.  I’ve never been fashionable.  It works for us. 

**Yep, I just called a select few of other mums wankers.  They are.

***Unremitting shitbags.

Parenting Scenarios From Hell

As most of you will know, I’ve spent this week implementing Operation Dry At Night.  This happened for two reasons.  One, because they told me they didn’t want to wear pull ups at night and two, because I only had one pull up left and couldn’t be arsed to schlep to the shops to buy more.  So I went with it.  It’s been a hellish piss-soaked disaster and they are now back in pull ups.  It got me thinking though of all the bloody awful scenarios we find ourselves in as parents.  Here’s my top five:

1) When they ask me to fix something and then bleat at me incessantly while I try to do it.  This is like the Crystal Maze, or some other similarly challenging and stressful game show.  Except it’s more stressful because the consequence of failing is the mother of all meltdowns from an irrational toddler, and the whole time I’m trying to fix whatever shitty plastic toy they’ve broken, they are shouting at me: “MUMMY FIX IT! MUMMMY I WANT IT! NOW MUMMY NOOOOW!” “I AM SHITTING TRYING TO FIX IT! STOP SHOUTING AT ME!” and putting their unhelpful little mitts in the way and hitting me and pushing each other and OH MY GOD HOW IS ANYONE SUPPOSED TO FIX ANYTHING UNDER THESE CONDITIONS?

2) When I have to go to the toilet with them when we’re out and about.  Oh sweet Jesus.  Here’s why this is so fucking awful:  firstly, trying to cram three people in your average toilet cubicle is nigh on impossible, especially when the only person aware of the space constraints has a massive backpack on that keeps getting wedged in the door – the door that the motherfucking three year olds are standing in the way of fully opening.  Once I’ve managed to cram the three of us into the cubicle, I then have to hold one child on the toilet whilst simultaneously stopping the other one from picking up the toilet brush, sticking their hands in the sanitary towel bin and pulling all of the toilet roll off the roll. And it’s even worse if I also need a wee.  Then I have to suffer “MUMMY ARE YOU DOING A POO? CAN I TOUCH YOUR BOTTOM MUMMY? THAT IS A BIG WEE YOU ARE DOING MUMMY.  IT IS ENORMOUS.” at the same time as wrestling the pair of them, in a bid to stop them from opening the cubicle door while I’m mid-wee.

3) When they deliberately hurt me when we’re having a cuddle.  I swear every toddler I know has their own thing.  One friend’s little boy headbutts her, another friend has a boob grabber, and for my two it’s pinching me.  They grab my jumper or trousers and with it, grab a handful of my actual skin.  They know they’re doing it, they just don’t give two shits because, to them, I am barely human.  Let’s remember my son refers to me as ‘the lady’.  He couldn’t care less if he hurts ‘the lady’s’ arm.  What’s she still doing hanging around here anyway?!

4) When they won’t stop fighting.  If you only have one child then take a moment to revel in the peace because when you have two, there is no peace.  One of the most irritating things you can say to someone with twins is “Oh at least you must get a bit of time when they play together.” Hahahahahahahahaha.  No.  They play nicely for approximately 37 ½ seconds every third Tuesday of the month.  If I’m lucky.  The rest of the time they fight: over toys (even though we have two of everything), over who sits where (SHE IS IN MY SEAT! GET OUT OF MY SEAT!” [drags his sister off the seat by her hair]), over absolutely nothing (“He is looking at me Mama.  I don’t like it.  Make him stop.” [smacks her brother in the face]) and of course, over me.  It is fucking exhausting.  Sometimes I separate them.  Other times I leave them to it and hide in the kitchen. #survivalofthefittest

5) When they break shit.  I have lost count of how much stuff my two have broken – a TV, a living room lamp, a toaster, their toy kitchen, my iPhone 6, their dolls house – the list is endless.  This afternoon we were waiting for the Tesco man to arrive, an activity which is Very Exciting when you’re three.  He arrived and Daisy, who was stood on a stool at the living room window shrieked “HE’S HERE ZACH! HE’S HERE!” Zach ran up to window, dragged Daisy off the stool, Daisy grabbed hold of the television in a bid to stay where she was (the one I bought to replace the first TV that they broke), lost her footing and fell off the stool, bringing the whole television down on top of her.  On top of her.  All I could see was her arms and legs poking out either side! Once I’d ascertained she was alright, (& said a silent thank you that it wasn’t the massive old TV that she’d pulled on top of her – pretty sure that would have killed heron impact!) I examined the TV.  The screen has come away from the casing in the corner, but other than that it still works.  For now. 

So, to sum up, if you have kids, they’ll hurt you, break all your shit, put you under unnecessary pressure when you’re trying to help them, never let you pee alone again and fight, all the fucking time.  And you’ll still love them and think they are the most amazing creatures to have ever walked the earth.  Go figure.  

I Do Love Them Loads, But Sometimes They Are Little Shits

Hot on the heels of You Are Nearly Three, And This Is What I See, comes a post about today.  Today, where they are really tired from all the fun they’ve had with the holidays and their birthday, and so am I, and they’ve been LITTLE SHITS ALL DAY LONG.  I like to keep it real, so here’s what today was like.

This morning, I decide we are staying in.  They’ve been bought a gazillion amazing presents so we can do a morning indoors (not the whole day – only a truly horrendous hangover, illness or extreme exhaustion leads to a whole day indoors because, mostly, it makes me want to kill them and/or myself). First we get out the magic sand I’ve bought them.  It is kinda cool – like play doh, but only one colour (YES!) and less sticky.  The only thing is, if you chuck it on the floor, and your floor isn’t pristine, shit sticks to it.  So I tell them not to throw it on the floor. So they throw it on the floor.  Then they get dog hair in it, and my hair in it, and stale grated cheese and old Rice Crispies and all manner of other shit, and then they weep because the magic sand isn’t magic anymore, just a bit disgusting.

We pack it away, stale grated cheese and all.  Next we get out some sponge paints.  The paint is controlled (again, YES! I am not an artsy crafty mum.  I like my white walls.  Small children with paints are not good friends to white walls) by a sponge at the top.  The thing is though, their grubby little mitts aren’t strong enough to squeeze the paint through so the whole 17 hours* that we do the painting for involves one of them bellowing at me “MUMMY DO THE PAINT! DO THE PAINT!” while I bellow back “THERE ARE TWO OF YOU AND ONLY ONE OF ME, YOU NEED TO LEARN TO WAIT!” We pack the paints up.

I decide outside fun is needed.  I boot them out into the garden to play on their new trampolines.  There’s approximately three minutes of nice bouncing before Zach climbs onto Daisy’s trampoline and bounces on her. On her.  FFS.

I decide to go out.  My mum is here (thank Christ) and I need to get some new shoes for me (the sole of my one and only pair of boots is at least 80% unattached on one side – it makes me fall over, a lot) so off we trundle to Primark.  Just getting them in the car makes me want to end it all.  The car is parked far, far away from the house. They’ve been given much coveted umbrellas for their birthday which they insist on bringing, even though it’s not raining.  They both twat each other in the face with said umbrellas 14 times and cry a lot on the walk to the car.  They also demand the umbrellas are put both up and down 47 times.  By the time we get to the car, I’m feeling proud that I haven’t beaten either of them with the umbrellas**.    

Then we have to get in the car. I’m attempting to strap Zach in while Daisy bleats at me about something.  I’m wrestling Zach into the car seat while she makes this noise at me “UUUUNNNGHGHGHGHGARRRGGGHGHGUNNGHGHHH” interspersed with bellowings of “MAMMMMAGGGHHHHHHH!” and he’s twatting me in the face with a fucking spade and I lose my shit.  “RIGHT! IF YOU DON’T STOP SHOUTING AT ME AND YOU DON’T STOP HITTING ME IN THE FACE WITH THE SPADE THEN WE WON’T GO ANYWHERE. WHAT IS THE MATTER DAISY?”

“I give you my umbrella,” she squeaks meekly.  I grab the effing jeffing umbrella, lob it in the front seat, wrestle the spade out of Zach’s vice like grip and strap him in.  I pick Daisy up, apologise for shouting while she belts me in the face, and fling her in the car, in between cars trying to run me over (twin bonus – one twin is always on the road-side of the car – fun times for mama trying to get them in). Off we happily drive to Primark.  Zach falls asleep immediately, while Daisy bleats the entire way there that she’s tired but screeches violently if I suggest she has a snooze (I would actually sell my soul to kip for 15 minutes in the car*** during the day).

We get to Primark.  It’s not pretty.  They do literally fuck all I ask them to, pull stuff off the hangers, ignore me, run away from me, shout at me and generally piss me off. I end up buying them a pair of shoes each and a pair of mock crocs each as a reward for their awful behaviour.  Excellent parenting skills. I also buy them chips from MaccyDs on the way to the car park because that is also what you get if you’ve been a little twat (and mummy’s desperate for you to be quiet for five fucking minutes).

On the way home, we have to go to the supermarket to get food.  People at my local supermarket are lawless (lawless, I tell you) and park in the parent and toddler spaces willy nilly, regardless of whether they have toddlers.  It makes me mad.  We get to the supermarket and there are no free parent and toddler spaces.  I drive round (honestly, it’s not the proximity to the shop – it’s the space either side I want.  I wish they’d put them further away from the shop, but next to a trolley park thingy so I can easily get them out of one metaphorical prison and into another!) and still nothing.  I drive round a third time (while my children shout “WE ARE AT THE SHOP MUMMY! STOP MUMMY!”) and a guy is pulling out of a space.  I pull in and out of another parking space this other guy swings his car towards me, winds his window down, calls me a c**t and gesticulates angrily at me.

Ooh, I’m angry.  I park in the space.  You want this space? Speak nicely to me then.  Do not call me a c**t.  I get out of the car and the guy moves towards me and says in a really patronising voice “Use your eyes next time, we were waiting for ages for that space.” I lose my shit again.  He’s stood there with his wife and two teenagers and has no effing right to park in the parent and toddler parking and I have been dealing with shrieky, fighty defiant toddlers all the live long day and he is not going to intimidate me.  Moreover - have I mentioned this before? -  he just called me a c**t.  How effing dare he? I bellow at him across the car park “You’ve just sworn at me in front of your kids and mine.  Disgusting.  Just disgusting!” in a voice that, unfortunately, makes me sound like a 1950s housewife.  His wife and son also shout at me, at the same time as Daisy shouts at me “WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING MUMMY? WHO IS THE MAN?”  Essentially, there are a lot of people shouting and most of them are shouting at me.  FML. 

We shop.  It’s excruciating because I now have to avoid the family from hell, but at least the kids behave.  Oh no.  They don’t.  They scream, fight and shout the whole way round.

We come home.  They continue to scream, fight and shout over everything, in their new crocs.  Daisy makes me count how many bounces she can do on the trampoline and Zach shoots all of the Stomp Rocket rockets over the fence.  He also tries to lob his new football, but I wrestle him to the ground.

They have tea and I tell them A LOT how tired they are.  The whole time they bellow at me about what they want on their fork and I bellow back that if they’re going to be that picky then maybe they could feed themselves. Zachary asks my mum to smack his winkie at bath time; I worry he’s a pervert.  Daisy tells me after bath time that she will ‘kill me all up’; I worry she’s a psycho.  I put them to bed at 6.30.  Wearing their new crocs.****  FFS.

*10 minutes 

**I’M JOKING.

***Anywhere.  Any.  Where.

 

**** Just as I finished writing this, Daisy came to her bedroom door crying.  I went up to see her and she wept that she needed to sleep in my bed because her feet hurt.  MAYBE THAT’S BECAUSE YOU WENT TO BED WEARING YOUR CROCS. F.F.S. 

You Are Nearly Three And This Is What I See

On Sunday, Daisy and Zachary will turn three.  I cannot believe that three whole years have passed since they had an in-utero punch up that resulted in their arrival into the world, two months early.  This post is for them.

Daisy, you are nearly three and this is what I see:  I see a little girl who has fire in her very core, who is passionate and unwavering and strong. You are fearless (except when there is any kind of insect and/or cow around, and then you shriek hysterically and, in my opinion, completely unnecessarily), you are oh so funny and you are absolutely marching to your own tune.   You do things your way and your way alone.  Sometimes, now, when your way is wearing your pants over your trousers, or eating an entire meal with your knife only, or refusing to put your little paw in mine, it’s a bit hard and I sigh and momentarily wish you were more biddable, more pliant, easier to cajole.  But those wishes aren’t anything more than tiny sparks that flare up and then die out.  I’m immeasurably proud of how individual you are, and how you know exactly what you want and I know that in years to come, you will make me even more proud with your determination, decisiveness and originality.  You might be a twin, my love, but you are a one off.  Lastly, but by no means least, you are top to toe brimming full of love, or as you call it ‘luff’.  I luff how luffing you are and I will never, ever tire of you flinging your long gangly arms round my neck and passionately declaring with every fibre of your being ‘I really really luff you Mama!’ Daisy, you are nearly three, and this is what I see: a wonderful woman in the making.  I think you might end up ruling the world, but if you don’t, you’ll certainly change it for the better (you already have just by being here).  You are marvellous.

Zachary, you are nearly three and this is what I see: I see a little boy who has joyfulness running through his veins, who is a joker but also steady and constant and reliable.  You are wise beyond your years (not always, obviously – especially not when you’re running round with two pairs of pants on your head but none on your arse), you are kind and you are helpful beyond measure.  You approach the world and everything it has to offer with the biggest smile and buckets full of enthusiasm.  You, too, know your own mind, but you show it in a really different way.  If I tell you not to do something, you beam at me with those enormous blue eyes, say ‘OK Mama,’ then do it anyway.  You are incapable of being in a sulk or holding a grudge because you are just so desperate to have fun. Your empathy amazes me and makes me so proud.  I will never forget the time when NyNy was crying because she was sad YeYe was poorly and I didn’t realise.  What alerted me to her sadness was that you bum shuffled over to her and rested your little blond bombshell head on her knee. You might be a twin, my darling, but you are a one off too.  Your love is calmer, less easily doled out, but just as deep and genuine as Daisy’s.  When I get a kiss from you, I feel like the luckiest being on the planet.  Zachary, you are nearly three, and this is what I see: a magnificent man in the making.  I think you will look after the world, keep it organised and make sure everyone is happy (you do all these things to my world already).  You are tremendous.

My darling twins, you are nearly three, and this is what I see: scraped knees and splinters in hands, dinners not eaten and dinners gobbled up, sleepless nights and early mornings, poorly tummies and raging fevers, snuggly cuddles and snotty kisses, uncontrollable laughter and drying big fat tears, fighting and making up, shouting and saying sorry, trying and giving up, trying and not giving up, playing and watching telly, going to the park and to the trampoline place and soft play and the farm and the library and the swimming pool…and weaving its way in amongst all of this, holding it all together and keeping us all going when times are tough, love.  My darling twins, you are nearly three, and this is what I see: love.