***Based on a TRUE story involving REAL toys***
***Based on a TRUE story involving REAL toys***
I was sat on the sofa the other day, minding my own business, when the youngest one wondered up and punched me in the face with his tommee tippee cup.
The blow was hard, for a not quite 2 year old, and as I watched the bruise rise around my left eye I couldn’t help but thinking it was somewhat metaphorical – signifying that the baby days were well and truly over.
Welcome to TODDLERHOOD, season 2.
I think I may have blocked out some of the horrors of the first series but lately I’ve been having flashbacks. I remember my first son tantruming to the extent that his face turned deep blue and his body lay jerking on the floor. I remember screaming, convinced that he was having some sort of seizure and dashing for my phone to call 999.
As it turned out he was just a ‘bit’ pissed off that I had broken his banana in half. And at that moment, all the anger at being given an incomplete bit of fruit, was deemed more significant than actually – just breathing.
There are things we excel at in our house (dancing about the kitchen, devouring jam toast, farting) and there are things that we are altogether less good at (most things aside from the aforementioned things).
Basically stuff done voluntarily must meet the criteria of being funny, fun or delicious which causes no end of problems with the practicalities of getting to school/nursery/work on time because getting dressed falls into none of those categories.
Of course we could make it easier on ourselves by orchestrating the whole process but we are trying desperately hard to instil some form of responsibility in the eldest one at the minute.
So the new house rules are: –
After a week of hard lining, improvement has been minimal. Probably because the chosen method of aiding co-operation involves making ridiculous threats and never following though. Sorry Jo Frost, my bad.
When I got to thinking about it I realised that nearly everything that comes out of my mouth is absolute rubbish! In fact by the end of the day I often feel like I have exhausted a full arsenal of empty threats including:-
Threat -‘If you don’t put your shoes on now then you can stay here on your own!’
Problem – Destruction of the house/destruction of himself. Also, um, illegal.
Threat – ‘No more TV/i-Pad!’
Problem – I might as well shoot myself in the face, TV/i-Pad time is the only time I actually have to get sh*t done.
Our house is a war zone right now. Us (or actually just me) vs. the toys.
They are bloody everywhere, slowly creeping into every nook and cranny, claiming room after room for their own. In my shoes, in my bed, in my handbag, even in the freezer?!
If the situation was serious before, Christmas certainly didn’t help. Arriving home with a car that looked like the getaway vehicle in a Toys R Us smash and grab has lead to far too many storage solution related dreams #FML.
I was not prepared to take it lying down so there was only one thing for it – we needed a big clear out. The only thing in my way was a small, blonde, noisy thing but I reasoned that I could appeal to his better nature.
But, um, have you ever asked a child to help select a few of his old toys to give away?
Yep so altruism hasn’t really happened yet. Whatever, I just got stuck in anyway – he couldn’t still want all of the old broken sh*t right?
So Christmas is over. Or at least it is for the kids because by my reckoning all the adults still seem to be living on a diet of oven snacks and prosecco, deluding themselves that it will all be ok if they can manage a dry January, which will NEVER happen.
All in all there were some highs and there were some lows but I learnt a lot.
On Christmas Eve we saw ‘Father Christmas’ fly overhead. It would have been a bit more magical had all the adults not kept using the terms ‘sleigh’ and ‘International Space Station’ interchangeably and nudging each other and laughing when they got it wrong. Lesson one, most things about Christmas are utter b*llshit.On the morning itself I rushed downstairs and to my extreme relief saw that he had been. It seems the repeated threats of ending up on the naughty list didn’t amount to much. MENTAL NOTE: Next year don’t let their ‘he’s always watching’ b*llocks influence your behaviour. Either he didn’t see me decorating mummy’s handbag with cat food or he doesn’t give a rats arse.
Wondering how to b*llshit your way though your kids tricky questions about Father Christmas?
Yep so am I…
Q: Does anyone ever see Father Christmas?
A: No. He carries a Glock G21 and silencer – if he sees you he will have to kill you.
Q: What does Father Christmas do if you haven’t got a chimney?
A: Kicks the back door in.
Q: How does he get the presents into my stocking?
A: He comes into your bedroom whilst you are sleeping and…
Q: BUT I DON’T WANT ANYONE COMING INTO MY BEDROOM WHILE I AM SLEEPING?!?!
A: Unless we write a note saying to leave the presents in the bin outside…
Q: Why does Father Christmas get some people bikes and other people colouring books?
A: Because capitalism.
One of the nicest things that has happened to me lately is that I have started being sent free gin which has made me feel like a bloody genius for deciding to call my blog ‘Hurrah For Gin’. Yay go me – sweet :)
Firstly a lovely bottle of Hendricks which is one of my favourites for it’s lovely cucumber flavour. Thank you Waitrose!
Get your grubby mitts off my fancy gin!
And secondly one I had not tried before but loved imminently for its stylish bottle and the fact that the super kind lady who sent it also provide a smaller bottle for my ‘nappy bag’ <3 The Botanist. Upon tasting I am also pleased to tell you it’s also bloody delicious.
Having lots of lovely gin is great timing right now as my family always hold an annual cocktail making content on Christmas day evening. This is my recipe for this year:-
Rhubarb Gin Fizz
1 part Cawston Press rhubarb
1 part prosecco
1 part gin
I got married 3 years ago today so I thought I would write a little bit about how we actually came to be married – also I was thinking that If for whatever reason we die before I document it perhaps our children won’t ever know the wondrous tale!
Actually it’s not such a great story… I would like nothing better than to tell you a tale like the one of my Mum and Dad’s. They met in a pub, sat on a staircase, him sitting on the step behind her. They got chatting, he asked for her number and a few days later having totally forgotten her name, called her lodgings and asked to speak to the ‘northern nurse’. A brave and totally uncharacteristic moment for my dad which led to mine and my sisters very existence.
Our tale was more akin to a gradual wearing down.
We met at work. Our jobs were on a similar level but he had to produce reports for me and unfortunately, probably as they were deeply dull reports, he often got them wrong.
We found each other mildly irritating for a while but slowly and surely over the course of a year we started to grow on each other.
We liked to stay up all night dancing.
We were just friends but I started to realise that I didn’t enjoy things as much when he wasn’t there.
One day, after an award win at work, our company held an event to celebrate. They had loads free booze so we got drunk and snogged.
The next day everyone was hungover. I said I couldn’t believe it. No one else was surprised.
Unedited scenes from the Advent frontline…
I’m a P/T SAHM, a P/T WM and a P/T WAHM. If you don’t know what any of those stand for then good for you.
I have always felt a very strong need to work, or just engage my brain and passions outside of being a parent. That in itself causes problems in my confused little head.
I wonder if I’m a bad mum because I look forward to having time away from my boys on the days that I work and when I’m at work I feel guilty about leaving them. The stupidest thing of all is that during the time I am supposed to be enjoying away from them, I just end up missing them instead.
That is the great brain f*ck of parenthood.
The need to escape, the guilt, the worry, the constant question that you are not doing a good enough job. How is anyone supposed to make sense of all that stuff?