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.