Whoop whoop! The party season is here at last…. The stress of fitting into a bikini for another year is behind me. Now the task is to fit my behind into a fancy party dress or three. Hardy, ha.
I love Christmas parties, it is just The Man’s work party that is the tough one. After a stressful run up finding something that fits, I need to then consider my survival tactic to get through the night. I know a few faces with which I can pass the time for a bit, but once they start talking The Job their voices all seem to morph into one. All I can do is nod and drink complimentary booze to maintain interested expression with strangers and numb the boredom.
I find nodding and drinking combination tends to be a winner for the first hour, but by the second (and a few kind glasses of wine courtesy of Big Boss) I can no longer control the urge to talk, or worse, sing, much to the Mans dismay.
Being the youngest wife doesn’t help either. Okay we have children in common but that is where the similarities end, I don’t think they approved of my retro rock chic attire last year. (to be fair I would have been quite scared of my make up too)
At the previous party I had to clamp own hand over mouth to prevent performing a rendition of ‘I will survive’ just to entertain myself. After restraining for an hour it finally all got too much and lead to me jabbering total rubbish in Big Boss’s ear about shoes. Only when he made his excuses did I realise that stilettos might not be his ’thing’. I then proceeded to find a dark corner and pretend to be busy with my mobile, while really I was I accidentally erasing my phonebook.
As long as I avoid drinking too much alcohol and sticking to safe subjects like weather all will be well. And my numbers safe.
I ponder what to wear on my way to meet the man from work. Typical I bump into one of the wives outside. I explain am on my way to drag the man shopping for the Christmas ‘do‘.
In all seriousness she leans towards me and whispers. “ well just remember it won’t be fancy dress this year..” walking away with a sympathetic smile.
I will survive.
Monday, 17 December 2007
Monday, 10 December 2007
Sorry? Did you say Thirty?
Happy birthday to me, kind of.
Here it comes again, another year has hurtled around so fast I have barely got used to ticking the over twenty five box. But here we go, I am now on the home stretch to thirty and apparently need to get my list done.
My list is to consist of all tasks I want to achieve before the big 3 0. The Man and his thirty-something friends have lead me to believe that this is an essential chore, ensuring that I will not leave myself disappointed on my impending big (old) day. Humm, sounds to me like a typical rubbish man idea, but hey, I am game.
Now, I happily have achieved a shotgun marriage, two children of my own and a stepson already... not bad going... as for the 'career' I suppose I could be doing better.
Okay maybe that can be number one...
One. Before I am thirty I will achieve high flying career earning high flying money. Ambitious, yes, but surely achievable. Stranger things have happened, X factor proves that every week.
Two. Ermm. Well I would like to have managed at least one other extreme sport excluding weekly wrestling with children around supermarket...
Three? Not to be fooled into writing another stupid list like this, just to invoke distress at my short time to achieve unrealistic goals...
Four. To have stopped biting nails therefore no longer have need for false ones...
Five. To have given up stuffing bra with tissue/chicken filets and be at one with one's breast size.
Six. To spend more time with fab pals.
Seven. To spend less time worrying about fab pals.
Eight. To finally pass my driving test ( I know, I know I am rubbish).
Nine. Give up dieting ( as I will achieve ultimate size 10 goal).
Ten. To become less sarcastic (As if).
Oh and I will add an extra one for good measure.
Eleven,. To be Yummy Mummy (but please, not to any more children!)
There we go, done.
I have tried my hardest to compile this life plan list so here goes...
Bring it on. (no don't really..)
Here it comes again, another year has hurtled around so fast I have barely got used to ticking the over twenty five box. But here we go, I am now on the home stretch to thirty and apparently need to get my list done.
My list is to consist of all tasks I want to achieve before the big 3 0. The Man and his thirty-something friends have lead me to believe that this is an essential chore, ensuring that I will not leave myself disappointed on my impending big (old) day. Humm, sounds to me like a typical rubbish man idea, but hey, I am game.
Now, I happily have achieved a shotgun marriage, two children of my own and a stepson already... not bad going... as for the 'career' I suppose I could be doing better.
Okay maybe that can be number one...
One. Before I am thirty I will achieve high flying career earning high flying money. Ambitious, yes, but surely achievable. Stranger things have happened, X factor proves that every week.
Two. Ermm. Well I would like to have managed at least one other extreme sport excluding weekly wrestling with children around supermarket...
Three? Not to be fooled into writing another stupid list like this, just to invoke distress at my short time to achieve unrealistic goals...
Four. To have stopped biting nails therefore no longer have need for false ones...
Five. To have given up stuffing bra with tissue/chicken filets and be at one with one's breast size.
Six. To spend more time with fab pals.
Seven. To spend less time worrying about fab pals.
Eight. To finally pass my driving test ( I know, I know I am rubbish).
Nine. Give up dieting ( as I will achieve ultimate size 10 goal).
Ten. To become less sarcastic (As if).
Oh and I will add an extra one for good measure.
Eleven,. To be Yummy Mummy (but please, not to any more children!)
There we go, done.
I have tried my hardest to compile this life plan list so here goes...
Bring it on. (no don't really..)
Monday, 3 December 2007
It's that time again?!?
It's the most wonderful time of the year...
Gathering together those thoughtful gifts, spending time with the one's you love, and celebrating and looking forward to a sparkly new year...
or
Shops packed with insane parents fit to explode, the impending stressful family gathering with relatives you have avoided all year, and hey best of all the fantastic knowledge that Januarys credit card statement will not be a pleasing sight. Merry Christmas to one and all.
I wish I could dismiss the latter cynical statement, but I have to admit I am feeling my inner 'bah humbug' surfacing at the moment...
You see if Christmas actually started a bit closer to Christmas then maybe we could all enjoy the season a bit more, but with places like my local corner shop playing Christmas carols since the first week of October I am starting to feel like Christmas will should surely be already over by now!
On a lighter note, this year I am have succumbed to planning Christmas in a slightly more organised way, the children have completed their list's to Santa thankfully minus a Playstaion three request.. Therefore less chance of any disappointment on their part, and all in laws have been persuaded from attending Christmas lunch at ours for this year. Things are looking up.
My last task now is to ensure that I plant the correct seed in The Man's mind in regard to my Christmas stocking.. The look of disappointment plastered on my face shocked him last year. Suggesting that I really needed a new iron mid December obviously had given the wrong impression.. After the new household appliance presenting itself on Christmas morning I had considered briefly ironing his head. Saying that, me mentioning really needing a new toilet seat last week may not have helped and could have already been noted. Some serious backpedalling may be required!
Oh love him, to be fair I think buying me a Christmas present could easily be his most daunting task of the year the demanding old witch I am.
As they say it's 'the thought that counts' ...lets hope this year that thought is bling!
Http://VeronicaMadden.blogspot.com
Gathering together those thoughtful gifts, spending time with the one's you love, and celebrating and looking forward to a sparkly new year...
or
Shops packed with insane parents fit to explode, the impending stressful family gathering with relatives you have avoided all year, and hey best of all the fantastic knowledge that Januarys credit card statement will not be a pleasing sight. Merry Christmas to one and all.
I wish I could dismiss the latter cynical statement, but I have to admit I am feeling my inner 'bah humbug' surfacing at the moment...
You see if Christmas actually started a bit closer to Christmas then maybe we could all enjoy the season a bit more, but with places like my local corner shop playing Christmas carols since the first week of October I am starting to feel like Christmas will should surely be already over by now!
On a lighter note, this year I am have succumbed to planning Christmas in a slightly more organised way, the children have completed their list's to Santa thankfully minus a Playstaion three request.. Therefore less chance of any disappointment on their part, and all in laws have been persuaded from attending Christmas lunch at ours for this year. Things are looking up.
My last task now is to ensure that I plant the correct seed in The Man's mind in regard to my Christmas stocking.. The look of disappointment plastered on my face shocked him last year. Suggesting that I really needed a new iron mid December obviously had given the wrong impression.. After the new household appliance presenting itself on Christmas morning I had considered briefly ironing his head. Saying that, me mentioning really needing a new toilet seat last week may not have helped and could have already been noted. Some serious backpedalling may be required!
Oh love him, to be fair I think buying me a Christmas present could easily be his most daunting task of the year the demanding old witch I am.
As they say it's 'the thought that counts' ...lets hope this year that thought is bling!
Http://VeronicaMadden.blogspot.com
Friday, 23 November 2007
You want to do Foot what??
I have given up any hope that I will be able to live my own missed dreams through daughter dearest . One of the most exciting things ( I thought ) about having my own little girl would be that I could ensure she get’s to enjoy all things I didn’t. For example Ballet. So I happily put her name down for it at a local school all set to start in a few weeks.
Then there was the newsflash. Daughter darling had discovered that school were doing football club, on the same day at the same time. A choice needed to be made. Out of the window goes the little tutu and pumps I had imagined daughter darling looking so pretty wearing.. In come clumpy football boots and ugly shorts. I really do not know where she is going with this mind of her own business.
But this is all okay, there is still time I convince self. She might even hate football??
Oh no, worst luck after her first session she cannot contain her enthusiasm for the ‘beautiful’ game and four weeks down the line I am still standing out in the cold on a Friday evening cheering her on. Don’t get me wrong I am all for equality in sport etc, I was just hoping that my daughter was not going to be the one flying the flag for the girls.
It is not all bad I realise. I look at my darling princess (the only girl in the group) and feel the warmth of pride welling up. I guess she hasn’t really stood a chance with me being mum, me being no shrinking violet myself. Mother like daughter - being conventional clearly doesn’t run in the genes.
Finally by week five Daughter has managed to score her first goal and I have come around to this football thing, hay at least she can teach her little brother….
Or maybe he will do ballet?? Can just see him in that tutu now..
Then there was the newsflash. Daughter darling had discovered that school were doing football club, on the same day at the same time. A choice needed to be made. Out of the window goes the little tutu and pumps I had imagined daughter darling looking so pretty wearing.. In come clumpy football boots and ugly shorts. I really do not know where she is going with this mind of her own business.
But this is all okay, there is still time I convince self. She might even hate football??
Oh no, worst luck after her first session she cannot contain her enthusiasm for the ‘beautiful’ game and four weeks down the line I am still standing out in the cold on a Friday evening cheering her on. Don’t get me wrong I am all for equality in sport etc, I was just hoping that my daughter was not going to be the one flying the flag for the girls.
It is not all bad I realise. I look at my darling princess (the only girl in the group) and feel the warmth of pride welling up. I guess she hasn’t really stood a chance with me being mum, me being no shrinking violet myself. Mother like daughter - being conventional clearly doesn’t run in the genes.
Finally by week five Daughter has managed to score her first goal and I have come around to this football thing, hay at least she can teach her little brother….
Or maybe he will do ballet?? Can just see him in that tutu now..
Friday, 16 November 2007
New Shoes
For one night only I am totally free… children have been packed off to stay with Nanny for the weekend.
To ensure I take full advantage of this rare opportunity I informed the man, short of hell freezing over we will be hitting the town Saturday night wearing a nice pair of killer heels (me in the heels that is!)
My thoughts turn to footwear. Casting my eye at the sad sally shoes that sit in the hall cupboard I get a familiar fluttering of impulse shopping coming up… The mother in me tells me that I have a million pairs therefore there is no need to splurge, but the addict in me say’s otherwise. Like a million other women I have always had a slightly unhealthy fetish for shoes, happy to sacrifice food and water to get my toes into a snazzy new pair.
One of my biggest issues with a career in Motherhood is that there are not the same opportunities to wear or appreciate stupidly high heels. Now I am lucky to even look at my feet while running out of the house let alone take note of what is covering them. I am sorry to say that I even had two different shoes on last week - not realising until I was in the third aisle in the supermarket! Yes, long gone are the days of foot watching.
I am also well aware that for practical reasons the money would be much better spent on a nice sturdy pair of flats, but something about the practical part puts me off. That settles it.
I treat (or should I say the credit card treats) me to a ridiculously high pair of shoes . I look at them lovingly as the shop assistant puts them into an oversized shoe box and hands me my new babies.
All evening I admire feet and encourage others to do same. All is well. I attempt to walk down a few steps. For any normal heel wearer this would have been a doddle - me having got so used to wearing flats end up under stepping and landing on my knees. Meanwhile one of my shoes decides to make a sneaky exit from foot and flies halfway across room.
There we have it, half of croydon looking at my shoe. I must admit though the pain in my knee’s I could still see beauty in my shiny shoe.
Shame I could not walk to get my foot in it.
To ensure I take full advantage of this rare opportunity I informed the man, short of hell freezing over we will be hitting the town Saturday night wearing a nice pair of killer heels (me in the heels that is!)
My thoughts turn to footwear. Casting my eye at the sad sally shoes that sit in the hall cupboard I get a familiar fluttering of impulse shopping coming up… The mother in me tells me that I have a million pairs therefore there is no need to splurge, but the addict in me say’s otherwise. Like a million other women I have always had a slightly unhealthy fetish for shoes, happy to sacrifice food and water to get my toes into a snazzy new pair.
One of my biggest issues with a career in Motherhood is that there are not the same opportunities to wear or appreciate stupidly high heels. Now I am lucky to even look at my feet while running out of the house let alone take note of what is covering them. I am sorry to say that I even had two different shoes on last week - not realising until I was in the third aisle in the supermarket! Yes, long gone are the days of foot watching.
I am also well aware that for practical reasons the money would be much better spent on a nice sturdy pair of flats, but something about the practical part puts me off. That settles it.
I treat (or should I say the credit card treats) me to a ridiculously high pair of shoes . I look at them lovingly as the shop assistant puts them into an oversized shoe box and hands me my new babies.
All evening I admire feet and encourage others to do same. All is well. I attempt to walk down a few steps. For any normal heel wearer this would have been a doddle - me having got so used to wearing flats end up under stepping and landing on my knees. Meanwhile one of my shoes decides to make a sneaky exit from foot and flies halfway across room.
There we have it, half of croydon looking at my shoe. I must admit though the pain in my knee’s I could still see beauty in my shiny shoe.
Shame I could not walk to get my foot in it.
Friday, 9 November 2007
Late... Whoops!
I myself like to be extra early for everything, just in case. There could be a freak thunderstorm or ladder in tights.. Always be prepared is my geeky motto..
Yet something has gone seriously amiss today.
With the half term holidays all long gone, a blocked bath drain and the impending Christmas season looming I had just started to get my footing again when I really let my yummy self down.
After a nip into croydon and the purchasing of a plunger to fix one problem, I arrive home confident that my ever punctual self can squeeze in a dab of drain unblocking still with plenty of time before collection of darling daughter.
Please do not ask what came over me. I am blaming the bleach fumes - while I desperately plunged the drain, task of school run slipped out of my head… next thing I know I am looking at the clock with a sick feeling in my stomach.
Running up the road like a wild animal I ignore the stares of passers by totally consumed with guilt of being the last mom at the gate… For good measure infant son vomits his lunch all down himself, running after lunch clearly doesn’t suit him either.
I arrive sweating more than any pig I have ever seen , 10 mins late.I am actually unsure of who's gaze I am fearing more, Mrs Teachers disapproving gaze or darling abandoned daughters.
Meanwhile poor infant son is hanging off my arm looking tramatised from the run. I walk to a corner room and try to catch my breath. I see a bundle of kids all bustling about, thank god I am not the only late mum.
Daughter is not in pieces and seems pretty fine all things considered.
I swiftly walk across the room and squeeze out an apology with head hung low.
Daughter's sad expression soon transforms as she discovers my guilt, quick in her understanding that this will be great bartering tool.
We head for home and as requested messy jelly making session to make amends.
Me late? Feeling guilty?
Never….
Yet something has gone seriously amiss today.
With the half term holidays all long gone, a blocked bath drain and the impending Christmas season looming I had just started to get my footing again when I really let my yummy self down.
After a nip into croydon and the purchasing of a plunger to fix one problem, I arrive home confident that my ever punctual self can squeeze in a dab of drain unblocking still with plenty of time before collection of darling daughter.
Please do not ask what came over me. I am blaming the bleach fumes - while I desperately plunged the drain, task of school run slipped out of my head… next thing I know I am looking at the clock with a sick feeling in my stomach.
Running up the road like a wild animal I ignore the stares of passers by totally consumed with guilt of being the last mom at the gate… For good measure infant son vomits his lunch all down himself, running after lunch clearly doesn’t suit him either.
I arrive sweating more than any pig I have ever seen , 10 mins late.I am actually unsure of who's gaze I am fearing more, Mrs Teachers disapproving gaze or darling abandoned daughters.
Meanwhile poor infant son is hanging off my arm looking tramatised from the run. I walk to a corner room and try to catch my breath. I see a bundle of kids all bustling about, thank god I am not the only late mum.
Daughter is not in pieces and seems pretty fine all things considered.
I swiftly walk across the room and squeeze out an apology with head hung low.
Daughter's sad expression soon transforms as she discovers my guilt, quick in her understanding that this will be great bartering tool.
We head for home and as requested messy jelly making session to make amends.
Me late? Feeling guilty?
Never….
Friday, 2 November 2007
Cat Fight
It is a fact, Women and their friendships with one another are no doubt a minefield.
I honestly believe that it is better to avoid arguments with your closest female buddies simply cos when push come to shove they can have a hell of a lot of ammunition on you! I say this, but in practice only have one out of five close girlies that I have not come to blows with.
BUT being stuck in the middle of two pals is worse.
Here’s the story..
Skinny legs has Rubbed Lonely hearts up the wrong way. As a reaction Lonely hearts has hit some low blows. Skinny legs cannot let it go.
My problem? They have both used their speed dial to get me on side. Oh, I hate women.
There is no point in talking to The Man, through no fault of his own he be just a mere man and not capable of understanding the complex maze that is a girlie row. Furthermore he would be likely to tell me to keep out of it, but already is not an option!
I have done my best to put them both straight but am now accused of sitting on the fence. The fence is good, and probably the safest of places right now… But of course there are future commitments of which the fence is simply not available.
Okay, so a ’knocking of heads ceremony’ will need to take place before either expose any more deep dark dirt on the other. I arrange to get them together at mine for a meal and civil chat.
Both arrive, after an icy exchange get down to the nitty gritty. A few tears and thankfully they solve their issues. I should be happy right? Agony V? Well no - in the comfort of their reconciliation I make small comment on their childish behaviour. Both take offence. They leave together questioning where I get off with such a comment??!!
I am now in the doghouse!
I guess if nothing else I will get removed from speed dial for a bit.
I honestly believe that it is better to avoid arguments with your closest female buddies simply cos when push come to shove they can have a hell of a lot of ammunition on you! I say this, but in practice only have one out of five close girlies that I have not come to blows with.
BUT being stuck in the middle of two pals is worse.
Here’s the story..
Skinny legs has Rubbed Lonely hearts up the wrong way. As a reaction Lonely hearts has hit some low blows. Skinny legs cannot let it go.
My problem? They have both used their speed dial to get me on side. Oh, I hate women.
There is no point in talking to The Man, through no fault of his own he be just a mere man and not capable of understanding the complex maze that is a girlie row. Furthermore he would be likely to tell me to keep out of it, but already is not an option!
I have done my best to put them both straight but am now accused of sitting on the fence. The fence is good, and probably the safest of places right now… But of course there are future commitments of which the fence is simply not available.
Okay, so a ’knocking of heads ceremony’ will need to take place before either expose any more deep dark dirt on the other. I arrange to get them together at mine for a meal and civil chat.
Both arrive, after an icy exchange get down to the nitty gritty. A few tears and thankfully they solve their issues. I should be happy right? Agony V? Well no - in the comfort of their reconciliation I make small comment on their childish behaviour. Both take offence. They leave together questioning where I get off with such a comment??!!
I am now in the doghouse!
I guess if nothing else I will get removed from speed dial for a bit.
Friday, 26 October 2007
Chinwag
I have been put on a diet… not the food kind more the talking kind…‘It’s good to talk’ is most certainly not one of the popular phrases in our house at the mo.
High phone bill’s are a occupational hazard for me. When I was part of the workforce I never had the time for a good chinwag - always had plenty of things to catch up on but not the hours in the day. Now I find that there is very little for me to catch up on but sooo much more time to do it!
Unsurprisingly when this months phone bill dropped through the door I knew that I might not have the word’s to explain.
I watch The Man open the bill, toe’s and fingers crossed that by some act of God the phone bill company would have let a few of those marathon calls slip. By the furrowing on brow this clearly was not to be. I want to phone a friend, but by The Man’s expression I decide against it…. I revert back to my teens and wait to hear the terms of my punishment.
The Man knows me too well. He use’s the punish thy self tactic. He say‘s little, just uses disappointed expression on his face a look that tells me I could have flown across croydon for cheaper. Oh dear.
Furthermore now I would have to wait another month for some sneaky new boots.
I have to curb the aimless hour long calls to fellow chatterbox pals and focus on the job in hand. I vow to remove phone from sight to prevent temptation. Shamefully this just makes me feel like a mad women, I can feel withdrawal symptoms after five minutes. I finally crack & retrieve the phone to look at it. Is this what it has come to? Me looking at my house phone like it be a family member?
I grab my coat and head to school as I have parents evening in five minutes. Daughter darling’s teacher offers me a seat and proceeds to inform me on my daughters behaviour.
‘ I only have one concern about this Little Lady’ say’s Mrs Teacher,
‘She seems to have a bit of a chatting problem’
I cannot keep a straight face. Mrs Teacher looks at me as though I am mad. I excuse myself as quick as I can.
‘Like mother like daughter’
High phone bill’s are a occupational hazard for me. When I was part of the workforce I never had the time for a good chinwag - always had plenty of things to catch up on but not the hours in the day. Now I find that there is very little for me to catch up on but sooo much more time to do it!
Unsurprisingly when this months phone bill dropped through the door I knew that I might not have the word’s to explain.
I watch The Man open the bill, toe’s and fingers crossed that by some act of God the phone bill company would have let a few of those marathon calls slip. By the furrowing on brow this clearly was not to be. I want to phone a friend, but by The Man’s expression I decide against it…. I revert back to my teens and wait to hear the terms of my punishment.
The Man knows me too well. He use’s the punish thy self tactic. He say‘s little, just uses disappointed expression on his face a look that tells me I could have flown across croydon for cheaper. Oh dear.
Furthermore now I would have to wait another month for some sneaky new boots.
I have to curb the aimless hour long calls to fellow chatterbox pals and focus on the job in hand. I vow to remove phone from sight to prevent temptation. Shamefully this just makes me feel like a mad women, I can feel withdrawal symptoms after five minutes. I finally crack & retrieve the phone to look at it. Is this what it has come to? Me looking at my house phone like it be a family member?
I grab my coat and head to school as I have parents evening in five minutes. Daughter darling’s teacher offers me a seat and proceeds to inform me on my daughters behaviour.
‘ I only have one concern about this Little Lady’ say’s Mrs Teacher,
‘She seems to have a bit of a chatting problem’
I cannot keep a straight face. Mrs Teacher looks at me as though I am mad. I excuse myself as quick as I can.
‘Like mother like daughter’
Friday, 19 October 2007
Nitty Gritty
It does n’t rain it pours. That does not just apply to the fine weather at the mo either. After planning the birthday party of the year for darling daughter and thankfully pulling it off, I notice that the housework has somewhat been neglected.
So am actually looking forward to getting back on track and the Flat looking slightly less like a squat and more like my home.
My head begins to itch. I begin to think I am paranoid, which in turn makes me itch more. I grab infant son and start shuffling though his hair, nothing. Daughter gets caught next and head ruffled. Nothing. I had not noticed either of them itching either.
Panic is setting in and the itching is getting worse. Maybe it was the new shampoo? An allergic reaction? Mother in law arrives for dinner with brother in law and co. I alert them all to my itching and they all take a step back. I am a leper! Mother in law and co start combing though my head but to no avail, no sign of any little people.
Okay. Convinced that I am actually losing the plot, following morning I book an appointment for the Doc. I head out drop daughter at school (only for more people to edge away from crazy itching woman) and then off to surgery. One glance to my head and Doc confirms that I do in fact have an allergy - TO NIT EGGS! ARGH! … I apologise for using up valuable doc appointment and run as fast as I can to chemist. I now feel as though they are all over my body and look like I have ticks as requesting five bottles of nit killer.
Back home I do four doses- to be sure. Then wait for them to die. One by one as the family arrive home all are directed to the bathroom for my de-nit marathon. Finally by 9pm the infestation is over.
Relishing the joys of my itch less head, I flick on the telly to see the date staring back at me, I had completely forgot!
The Man looks at me with amusement, handing me a card ‘Happy Anniversary Love’.
So am actually looking forward to getting back on track and the Flat looking slightly less like a squat and more like my home.
My head begins to itch. I begin to think I am paranoid, which in turn makes me itch more. I grab infant son and start shuffling though his hair, nothing. Daughter gets caught next and head ruffled. Nothing. I had not noticed either of them itching either.
Panic is setting in and the itching is getting worse. Maybe it was the new shampoo? An allergic reaction? Mother in law arrives for dinner with brother in law and co. I alert them all to my itching and they all take a step back. I am a leper! Mother in law and co start combing though my head but to no avail, no sign of any little people.
Okay. Convinced that I am actually losing the plot, following morning I book an appointment for the Doc. I head out drop daughter at school (only for more people to edge away from crazy itching woman) and then off to surgery. One glance to my head and Doc confirms that I do in fact have an allergy - TO NIT EGGS! ARGH! … I apologise for using up valuable doc appointment and run as fast as I can to chemist. I now feel as though they are all over my body and look like I have ticks as requesting five bottles of nit killer.
Back home I do four doses- to be sure. Then wait for them to die. One by one as the family arrive home all are directed to the bathroom for my de-nit marathon. Finally by 9pm the infestation is over.
Relishing the joys of my itch less head, I flick on the telly to see the date staring back at me, I had completely forgot!
The Man looks at me with amusement, handing me a card ‘Happy Anniversary Love’.
Friday, 12 October 2007
Diet Coke Motherhood
I am trying to figure out for the third time how to blow out a friends party.
It is not that I do not want a drink fuelled sparkly shoe night out with the girlies but as usual I am broke as a joke. My last tenner has gone onto the electric key and I am doomed to another night in front of the rubbish telly.
I am thinking to myself that if I were to do talks to young girls on contraception that tonight would be a good example to use. Maybe that would solve teenage pregnancy - put a baby on one side of A4 paper and a designer bag on the back, using it as a flashcard I would hold it up and say 16years of nights in, or unlimited accessories for life. I bet that the rates would drop in a flash. Forget all that sleep deprivation stuff, show them the real sacrifice!
What makes this phone call hard to make is that I know that my darling full time working childless buddy will not have any empathy and will just think I am being boring. ARGH. On my last meeting with her she told me how her handbags and shoes were her ‘children’ I recall wondering why my own children couldn’t look so glam strapped around my ankles and under my arm!
The Yummy Mummy rulebook in my head is screaming that I am failing one of the fundamental step’s - How can one live a champagne lifestyle on a diet coke budget? Answer is you don’t.
I am still not giving up on my quest, I just decide that this is a Wannabe Yummy Mummy occupational hazard, that I will just have to (yet again) make my own entertainment in my front room. I do have an amazing imagination, just one friend, a husband asleep on the couch and a bottle of cheap rose and I am as glam as they come.
I can even wear my ridiculous heels and ladder my tights dancing.
The joys of diet coke motherhood.
It is not that I do not want a drink fuelled sparkly shoe night out with the girlies but as usual I am broke as a joke. My last tenner has gone onto the electric key and I am doomed to another night in front of the rubbish telly.
I am thinking to myself that if I were to do talks to young girls on contraception that tonight would be a good example to use. Maybe that would solve teenage pregnancy - put a baby on one side of A4 paper and a designer bag on the back, using it as a flashcard I would hold it up and say 16years of nights in, or unlimited accessories for life. I bet that the rates would drop in a flash. Forget all that sleep deprivation stuff, show them the real sacrifice!
What makes this phone call hard to make is that I know that my darling full time working childless buddy will not have any empathy and will just think I am being boring. ARGH. On my last meeting with her she told me how her handbags and shoes were her ‘children’ I recall wondering why my own children couldn’t look so glam strapped around my ankles and under my arm!
The Yummy Mummy rulebook in my head is screaming that I am failing one of the fundamental step’s - How can one live a champagne lifestyle on a diet coke budget? Answer is you don’t.
I am still not giving up on my quest, I just decide that this is a Wannabe Yummy Mummy occupational hazard, that I will just have to (yet again) make my own entertainment in my front room. I do have an amazing imagination, just one friend, a husband asleep on the couch and a bottle of cheap rose and I am as glam as they come.
I can even wear my ridiculous heels and ladder my tights dancing.
The joys of diet coke motherhood.
Saturday, 6 October 2007
Slummy Mummy
On a happy family picnic in (posh) Wimbledon park enjoying the bank holiday sunshine, looking forward to resting my bones while The Man takes control of the little soldiers, Sunday papers to the right of me and a cucumber sandwich to the left I opened a Sunday mag to flick though the celeb photos. Lucky for me the mag had decided to run the whole edition surrounding the Celeb Yummy Mummies! Fab.. I settle down to read.
First ‘GROOMED AND DOOMED’ preggy celebs ( the Doomed celebs looking better than I did during both pregnancies!) then YUMMY MUMMY V SLUMMY MUMMY followed by an article with good ole Katie Price….‘YOU HAVE TO BE A YUMMY MUMMY - OTHERWISE MEN LOSE INTEREST’ (An ad for Cosmetic surgery on the following page!)
well that’s nice.. Not much pressure there… flicking through I get more and more disheartened. An article going on to slate Mutya Buena for her post preg belly -mocking ‘ROUND ROUND BABY’ .
Lastly ‘I HAD MY BABY AND WAS AT HOME BY LUNCHTIME’ heading an interview of a well known WAG…okay then.
After all that I am about ready to run and drown myself in the nearby lido - Thank you very much MR/MRS magazine editor, you have really made my day…
Deciding to abort my mag read I turn to observe the Mummies in the park. Opposite I have classy mom,
All French tips and waif like wearing completely non practical kitten heels pushing infant on baby swing’s. What a lot she will need to learn before ‘Oscar’ starts walking - either that or get a nanny. On cue along comes a hippy version of Mary Poppins all clapping and over praising a snotty plaid dressed girl. While Hippy Poppins throws an over enthusiastic wave at group of other like dressed mothers/nannies dear snotty picks her nose. Lovely.
Resume reading methinks,
As I am about to consider rolling self up in picnic blanket and putting hamper on head I read a reply to someone on the agony aunt page… “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.” Laughing out load I go and join the kids.
First ‘GROOMED AND DOOMED’ preggy celebs ( the Doomed celebs looking better than I did during both pregnancies!) then YUMMY MUMMY V SLUMMY MUMMY followed by an article with good ole Katie Price….‘YOU HAVE TO BE A YUMMY MUMMY - OTHERWISE MEN LOSE INTEREST’ (An ad for Cosmetic surgery on the following page!)
well that’s nice.. Not much pressure there… flicking through I get more and more disheartened. An article going on to slate Mutya Buena for her post preg belly -mocking ‘ROUND ROUND BABY’ .
Lastly ‘I HAD MY BABY AND WAS AT HOME BY LUNCHTIME’ heading an interview of a well known WAG…okay then.
After all that I am about ready to run and drown myself in the nearby lido - Thank you very much MR/MRS magazine editor, you have really made my day…
Deciding to abort my mag read I turn to observe the Mummies in the park. Opposite I have classy mom,
All French tips and waif like wearing completely non practical kitten heels pushing infant on baby swing’s. What a lot she will need to learn before ‘Oscar’ starts walking - either that or get a nanny. On cue along comes a hippy version of Mary Poppins all clapping and over praising a snotty plaid dressed girl. While Hippy Poppins throws an over enthusiastic wave at group of other like dressed mothers/nannies dear snotty picks her nose. Lovely.
Resume reading methinks,
As I am about to consider rolling self up in picnic blanket and putting hamper on head I read a reply to someone on the agony aunt page… “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.” Laughing out load I go and join the kids.
Friday, 28 September 2007
Siren
After reading really pessimistic book about men and marriage I have decided to bring some va va voom back into The Mans life, whether he likes it or not. I have managed to get kids in bed, tidy away evidence of children and bath self with still an hour to spare before his arrival. Usually by this point I am already counting down minutes to bedtime!
Now don’t get me wrong the Man seems to be very content in his life/Marriage with me at the moment, but after my read on bad adulterous men I decide that prevention is better than cure.. Out comes tight fitted (flattering) clothing and I apply make up as if I am auditioning for Playboy mansion.
Okay I then put on oil burners (for mood) and await unsuspecting hubby’s arrival….
To give myself that extra spark I decide to start on the wine as only 25 mins to kill. Gulping half a glass I feel confident that I will be siren tonight for Hubby’s delight..
Throwing self on the sofa and finishing glass I close eyes for just a little moment sure that I will not fall asleep. I must be dreaming when the next thing in my ear is daughters voice .. “MOMMY! Breakfast pleeeeassssseeee”
Lord help me… Hubby arrived home to find me dead to the world empty wine glass in hand impersonating a Lush. He goes on to tell me that on his attempt to wake me from my happy slumber he received a grunt in reply, adding that he had never seen someone so beautiful snore so much like a truck driver. ahhhh. My snores had made it quite difficult for him to sleep, Whoops.
I stick to usual routine the following night of cosying up on couch in Pj’s.. not quite the siren look I had hoped for but on The Man’s arrival home me being awake has got to be a plus. I ditch the pessimistic book and vow to shower hubby with stimulating conversation instead. After five minutes I hear a grunt and a snore, it’s payback. I spent the rest of night with pillow over head.
Stupid Book.
Now don’t get me wrong the Man seems to be very content in his life/Marriage with me at the moment, but after my read on bad adulterous men I decide that prevention is better than cure.. Out comes tight fitted (flattering) clothing and I apply make up as if I am auditioning for Playboy mansion.
Okay I then put on oil burners (for mood) and await unsuspecting hubby’s arrival….
To give myself that extra spark I decide to start on the wine as only 25 mins to kill. Gulping half a glass I feel confident that I will be siren tonight for Hubby’s delight..
Throwing self on the sofa and finishing glass I close eyes for just a little moment sure that I will not fall asleep. I must be dreaming when the next thing in my ear is daughters voice .. “MOMMY! Breakfast pleeeeassssseeee”
Lord help me… Hubby arrived home to find me dead to the world empty wine glass in hand impersonating a Lush. He goes on to tell me that on his attempt to wake me from my happy slumber he received a grunt in reply, adding that he had never seen someone so beautiful snore so much like a truck driver. ahhhh. My snores had made it quite difficult for him to sleep, Whoops.
I stick to usual routine the following night of cosying up on couch in Pj’s.. not quite the siren look I had hoped for but on The Man’s arrival home me being awake has got to be a plus. I ditch the pessimistic book and vow to shower hubby with stimulating conversation instead. After five minutes I hear a grunt and a snore, it’s payback. I spent the rest of night with pillow over head.
Stupid Book.
Friday, 21 September 2007
Scales
Oh someone help me…
I have just been into my bathroom and done the most stupid thing.. Stood on the god damn scales.
Nothing like getting into a scalding bath, you might think, but to me- I may as well have… Seven whole pounds have jumped onto my body without me even noticing! Damn you legging’s and smock top’s.. how can you call it fashion if it allows you to put on seven pound’s without even noticing??!!! This would not happen if we were having a summer of skinny jeans, oh no, this time last year my Jeans would stop me breathing if I gained half a pound let alone a whole SEVEN.
I am resigned to the fact that I may have to settle myself in the larger lady aisle from now on because I just cannot face a diet. Healthy eating yes but I may have difficulty with that too AS I THOUGHT I WAS DOING THAT ALREADY!?!
I blame all the preggy celebs for this. If it were not for them getting chubby, the Fashion bod’s would not have accommodated them by allowing these smocks in anyway.
I am going to have to breath now for a moment.. Don’t know if it is the rant or the extra weight I am carrying that has made me out of breath..
I am once and for all going to remove the scales from the bathroom and bin them. It is a joke… just a few moments ago I was content with myself (a rare moment) and in that glee I felt confident putting my trotters on scales just to see..
Into the bin they go, as do my smock tops .. Okay that is a bit hasty, I may need them. I retrieve smocks to see they are covered in infant son’s discarded avocado leftovers. .. Oh joy.
I invite pal over to help devour remains of Galaxy Bar in fridge to take mind off pending obesity. Then dance around the front room to Sing star.. Mucho fun, and no chafing- waving pal off I feel cheery and even consider digging scales out to see the damage. Covered now with more yuck, I think not. I feel at a loss…
Note to self…. buy new Scales tomorrow.
I have just been into my bathroom and done the most stupid thing.. Stood on the god damn scales.
Nothing like getting into a scalding bath, you might think, but to me- I may as well have… Seven whole pounds have jumped onto my body without me even noticing! Damn you legging’s and smock top’s.. how can you call it fashion if it allows you to put on seven pound’s without even noticing??!!! This would not happen if we were having a summer of skinny jeans, oh no, this time last year my Jeans would stop me breathing if I gained half a pound let alone a whole SEVEN.
I am resigned to the fact that I may have to settle myself in the larger lady aisle from now on because I just cannot face a diet. Healthy eating yes but I may have difficulty with that too AS I THOUGHT I WAS DOING THAT ALREADY!?!
I blame all the preggy celebs for this. If it were not for them getting chubby, the Fashion bod’s would not have accommodated them by allowing these smocks in anyway.
I am going to have to breath now for a moment.. Don’t know if it is the rant or the extra weight I am carrying that has made me out of breath..
I am once and for all going to remove the scales from the bathroom and bin them. It is a joke… just a few moments ago I was content with myself (a rare moment) and in that glee I felt confident putting my trotters on scales just to see..
Into the bin they go, as do my smock tops .. Okay that is a bit hasty, I may need them. I retrieve smocks to see they are covered in infant son’s discarded avocado leftovers. .. Oh joy.
I invite pal over to help devour remains of Galaxy Bar in fridge to take mind off pending obesity. Then dance around the front room to Sing star.. Mucho fun, and no chafing- waving pal off I feel cheery and even consider digging scales out to see the damage. Covered now with more yuck, I think not. I feel at a loss…
Note to self…. buy new Scales tomorrow.
Friday, 14 September 2007
The Stick of Life
There is nothing like a pregnancy scare to make you put things into perspective.
I say this sitting opposite the stick of life waiting for the two minutes to be up.
Considering that I am now supposed to be a responsible (contraceptive) pill taker, I still seem to have difficultly, therefore missing three this month. Not a good look.
I am now sweating with fear that I have yet again landed myself at the cabbage patch without so much as a baby sack in sight.
Okay, been here before. First time 18 years old and living life to the full.. Only realising when I was two months late that maybe purchasing a stick of life may be advisable. Young. Naive (stupid) I picked up the stick and laughed with nerves at my pending pregnancy. Reaction could have been worse.. On the road to motherhood I stumbled and my beautiful daughter was born.
Stick of life two was bought expectantly.. In fact I think I bought about twenty in the run up to pregnancy number two, this time planned. When I finally got the two lines of joy I headed straight out to spread the news… unbeknown to what I would be letting myself into again… Darling son arrived early and not without issues ( large hole in heart amongst other things) but luckily for us I managed to blag fate a second time and now have a healthy ( if not a bit fat) darling boy…
A sudden broody feeling comes over me, maybe one more wouldn’t be all bad.. Slowly I begin to come around to The Mans More the merrier way of thinking. By the time the two minutes are up my fear has turned into a sick excitement feeling….
I peer over towards the result stick…NEGATIVE…
Hallelujah! Who was I kidding? Another one? My slight disappointment is made up by the though of not having to buy those newborn nappies again just yet and maybe enjoying a bottle of wine instead
I say a silent prayer -I promise from now on to always take my pill on time….
More the Merrier? I feel less is more!
I say this sitting opposite the stick of life waiting for the two minutes to be up.
Considering that I am now supposed to be a responsible (contraceptive) pill taker, I still seem to have difficultly, therefore missing three this month. Not a good look.
I am now sweating with fear that I have yet again landed myself at the cabbage patch without so much as a baby sack in sight.
Okay, been here before. First time 18 years old and living life to the full.. Only realising when I was two months late that maybe purchasing a stick of life may be advisable. Young. Naive (stupid) I picked up the stick and laughed with nerves at my pending pregnancy. Reaction could have been worse.. On the road to motherhood I stumbled and my beautiful daughter was born.
Stick of life two was bought expectantly.. In fact I think I bought about twenty in the run up to pregnancy number two, this time planned. When I finally got the two lines of joy I headed straight out to spread the news… unbeknown to what I would be letting myself into again… Darling son arrived early and not without issues ( large hole in heart amongst other things) but luckily for us I managed to blag fate a second time and now have a healthy ( if not a bit fat) darling boy…
A sudden broody feeling comes over me, maybe one more wouldn’t be all bad.. Slowly I begin to come around to The Mans More the merrier way of thinking. By the time the two minutes are up my fear has turned into a sick excitement feeling….
I peer over towards the result stick…NEGATIVE…
Hallelujah! Who was I kidding? Another one? My slight disappointment is made up by the though of not having to buy those newborn nappies again just yet and maybe enjoying a bottle of wine instead
I say a silent prayer -I promise from now on to always take my pill on time….
More the Merrier? I feel less is more!
Monday, 3 September 2007
Mothers and Daughters
I must say that as much as my daughter and I have had hard times together , she truly is my darling, and without her I would be lost. Saying this I am finding her new found attitude problem a serious challenge. When she was born I convinced myself that she would be my mini me, only more clever more beautiful and generally an all round good egg. I looked down on her little toes and thought that I had found a true allie for life….
Forward five years, Daughter darling questions all I do, doesn’t agree with a thing I say and has just picked up the endearing habit of rolling her eyes at me.
But where would I be now without her? This question often pops into my mind. Daughter and I have sure made an impressive journey over the past five and half years, by now I was hoping that she would be the perfect little girl I had imagined that I had always been.
I call my Mom for some reassurance that she will become the sweet and innocent girl I was. Hearing her laughing on the other end of the line I think she has misheard my troubles. Once she has finished her fit of the giggles She proceeds to correct my warped memories, reminding me of screaming rows we had over the most ridiculous things. Horror sinks in as I recall how vile I was. This is all to come, I hear her smile.
Forward five years, Daughter darling questions all I do, doesn’t agree with a thing I say and has just picked up the endearing habit of rolling her eyes at me.
But where would I be now without her? This question often pops into my mind. Daughter and I have sure made an impressive journey over the past five and half years, by now I was hoping that she would be the perfect little girl I had imagined that I had always been.
I call my Mom for some reassurance that she will become the sweet and innocent girl I was. Hearing her laughing on the other end of the line I think she has misheard my troubles. Once she has finished her fit of the giggles She proceeds to correct my warped memories, reminding me of screaming rows we had over the most ridiculous things. Horror sinks in as I recall how vile I was. This is all to come, I hear her smile.
Sorting
Okay, I admit I have a problem….
Before The Man moved in, my two bedroom flat was my own little sanctuary. I had little precious items in it but I felt like it was my place and therefore always ensured that all was as organised and tidy as was humanly possible. I knew that adding another two beings and their stuff to my home was going to make things tighter, but I was confident that with my tidying away skills, it would not be a problem. Infant son’s arrival incurred more stuff, but I was coping.
That is until today.
After fighting the ironing board back into the kitchen cupboard full of junk, wading through the hall cupboard for a lost shoe then looking onto the front room table too see a huge pile of The Man’s opened mail with coffee cup balancing precociously on top, I decide enough is enough.
I go into sorting mode and proceed to put everything away in what I feel are appropriate home’s for items. By lunchtime I have regained control of the situation and reward self with doughnut and tea, sandwich and biscuits for kids. Feeding time over, I return to ‘sort’ out more and decide to rearrange kitchen cupboard’s to make life more organised.
By the time Man arrives back home I have managed to moved all of front room around too for good measure. On his entrance to the room he stubs big toe on the sofa and has look of dismay on tired face. I expect some excitement at my attempt to revamp but Man just groans and enters kitchen in search of dinner. (he has become used to these outbursts of organising)
Then does it dawn on me that I have not prepared anything. For anyone. Poor starving children! I realise that they were only so quiet watching TV because they had fallen asleep waiting for food!
I quickly head for the kitchen cupboards hoping to rustle up something , leaving man to fed for self. Reaching for the cupboards everything is so organised I can’t find a thing!
Once all fed I look back at the chaos that is my kitchen… If it’s not broke don’t try to fix it springs to mind, so much for the sanctuary.
Before The Man moved in, my two bedroom flat was my own little sanctuary. I had little precious items in it but I felt like it was my place and therefore always ensured that all was as organised and tidy as was humanly possible. I knew that adding another two beings and their stuff to my home was going to make things tighter, but I was confident that with my tidying away skills, it would not be a problem. Infant son’s arrival incurred more stuff, but I was coping.
That is until today.
After fighting the ironing board back into the kitchen cupboard full of junk, wading through the hall cupboard for a lost shoe then looking onto the front room table too see a huge pile of The Man’s opened mail with coffee cup balancing precociously on top, I decide enough is enough.
I go into sorting mode and proceed to put everything away in what I feel are appropriate home’s for items. By lunchtime I have regained control of the situation and reward self with doughnut and tea, sandwich and biscuits for kids. Feeding time over, I return to ‘sort’ out more and decide to rearrange kitchen cupboard’s to make life more organised.
By the time Man arrives back home I have managed to moved all of front room around too for good measure. On his entrance to the room he stubs big toe on the sofa and has look of dismay on tired face. I expect some excitement at my attempt to revamp but Man just groans and enters kitchen in search of dinner. (he has become used to these outbursts of organising)
Then does it dawn on me that I have not prepared anything. For anyone. Poor starving children! I realise that they were only so quiet watching TV because they had fallen asleep waiting for food!
I quickly head for the kitchen cupboards hoping to rustle up something , leaving man to fed for self. Reaching for the cupboards everything is so organised I can’t find a thing!
Once all fed I look back at the chaos that is my kitchen… If it’s not broke don’t try to fix it springs to mind, so much for the sanctuary.
Brother in Law
Week one of the summer hols and I have managed to be fantastic Yummy Mummy - Daily outing’s to the park, friends over for tea and becoming the board game queen, there have been no end to my talents…but, and there is a big BUT there is only so much sticking and gluing any person can take, I had not realised that I would actually be calling for the school run to recommence so soon but little people are totally underestimated in their knackering abilities.
Just as I was beginning to show signs of serious summer holiday fatigue wonderful brother-in-law and co (currently considering sproggs) step in and offer to remove two eldest for a Friday night, promising to return my angels the following evening. What a result.
I offer them words of warning taking on the squabbling pair, but they convince me that all will be well and mucho fun. Ha Okay then. I wish them luck and settle down to no speaking child zone.
By Saturday evening I feel ready to face their cherry cheeks again, a schedule of activities prepared for following week. Arriving with noise and excitement, I gather that the escapade has been joyous for my terrible two both beaming ear to ear proclaiming that I was not missed at all, … a few moments later in stroll brother-in-law and co. By their pale complexion I can tell that they now reconsider any future plans of visiting the cabbage patch themselves. After a quick cuppa and passing the time I can see them edging towards the door, I have to suppress a giggle when they diplomatically explain how surprisingly demanding two children are. After receiving much praise for handling two plus infant I suggest they go and get a rest, not before reminding them to be back same time next week. Not wanting to hurt my feeling’s they slowly agree.
Walking to the door I thank them again and assure them that it is only a joke, once a month is sufficient. Relief and nervous laughter erupts.. “Thank god for that” they chorus , oh well worth a try methinks
Guess it will have to be more gluing, let’s hope my patience last’s the next yoghurt carton stuck to the telly!
Just as I was beginning to show signs of serious summer holiday fatigue wonderful brother-in-law and co (currently considering sproggs) step in and offer to remove two eldest for a Friday night, promising to return my angels the following evening. What a result.
I offer them words of warning taking on the squabbling pair, but they convince me that all will be well and mucho fun. Ha Okay then. I wish them luck and settle down to no speaking child zone.
By Saturday evening I feel ready to face their cherry cheeks again, a schedule of activities prepared for following week. Arriving with noise and excitement, I gather that the escapade has been joyous for my terrible two both beaming ear to ear proclaiming that I was not missed at all, … a few moments later in stroll brother-in-law and co. By their pale complexion I can tell that they now reconsider any future plans of visiting the cabbage patch themselves. After a quick cuppa and passing the time I can see them edging towards the door, I have to suppress a giggle when they diplomatically explain how surprisingly demanding two children are. After receiving much praise for handling two plus infant I suggest they go and get a rest, not before reminding them to be back same time next week. Not wanting to hurt my feeling’s they slowly agree.
Walking to the door I thank them again and assure them that it is only a joke, once a month is sufficient. Relief and nervous laughter erupts.. “Thank god for that” they chorus , oh well worth a try methinks
Guess it will have to be more gluing, let’s hope my patience last’s the next yoghurt carton stuck to the telly!
Boobies
Big ones small ones…. Saggy ones, … we all have them (kind of) and for some reason few of us have good relationships with our lady lumps.. I am no exception.
I spend all morning with Son ( loveable Lucifer we call him, as is refusing to sleep though nights and keeping the whole family awake!) then head to croydon to hunt new bra. All current bras are now too big, too grey or just too damned ugly to be shown the light of day a moment longer.
Shop assistant has an amazing pair of boobies that would make Jordan feel self conscious about breast size, let alone me! Finding a few promising lovelies I head to the changing room… please tell me what the chances are on the day that you are going to try on bras, that all curtains happen to be missing? I will tell you … if you have post preggy boobs that warrant hiding from outside opinion and nosey eyes - then pretty damn likely!
Opposite the mirror I think back to the days where I happily sunbathed topless and was even quite proud of my Pete and Percy’s…. sadly, time and babies have taken their toll on my little buddies. Days of maximum exposure over! I pull, stuff and harness myself into various bras without finding ‘the one’. My disheartened sighs lead to Busty assistant suggesting chicken filets.
Handing me the cold slabs of falseness, I feel cheated. Of all the injustices it would have to be Busty girl to offer me these in my hour of need. I lob them into the cups and look up at the mirror, Amazing! I am Jordan too! (Okay not quite…) I admire the reflection disturbed by bored crying son that has dropping his toy. Reaching down to retrieve his little friend as one of my own becomes dislodged sticking to his hair - Son cries so load that everyone turns and my secret is no more. Bright red I rapidly exit changing room leaving load laughter behind.
Chicken filets? I’m gonna stick to the frozen type thanks.
I spend all morning with Son ( loveable Lucifer we call him, as is refusing to sleep though nights and keeping the whole family awake!) then head to croydon to hunt new bra. All current bras are now too big, too grey or just too damned ugly to be shown the light of day a moment longer.
Shop assistant has an amazing pair of boobies that would make Jordan feel self conscious about breast size, let alone me! Finding a few promising lovelies I head to the changing room… please tell me what the chances are on the day that you are going to try on bras, that all curtains happen to be missing? I will tell you … if you have post preggy boobs that warrant hiding from outside opinion and nosey eyes - then pretty damn likely!
Opposite the mirror I think back to the days where I happily sunbathed topless and was even quite proud of my Pete and Percy’s…. sadly, time and babies have taken their toll on my little buddies. Days of maximum exposure over! I pull, stuff and harness myself into various bras without finding ‘the one’. My disheartened sighs lead to Busty assistant suggesting chicken filets.
Handing me the cold slabs of falseness, I feel cheated. Of all the injustices it would have to be Busty girl to offer me these in my hour of need. I lob them into the cups and look up at the mirror, Amazing! I am Jordan too! (Okay not quite…) I admire the reflection disturbed by bored crying son that has dropping his toy. Reaching down to retrieve his little friend as one of my own becomes dislodged sticking to his hair - Son cries so load that everyone turns and my secret is no more. Bright red I rapidly exit changing room leaving load laughter behind.
Chicken filets? I’m gonna stick to the frozen type thanks.
Dirty Diets
Day one in my week long challenge to stick to dodgy diet. Ensuring bottom and thighs shrink in time for looming posh wedding reception at weekend. After taking nearly two months, ten shopping trips in six different locations to find the near perfect cheap dress, the stress/comfort/pie eating has got to stop before a shoehorn is required to get me into it! It is so unfair that rain or shine a man can wear a black suit, as if being a man wasn’t easy enough. My expanding waistline has not been helped by the fact that on every one of those disappointing shopping escapades (as compensation for my lack of outfit) I had been rewarding myself with bars of chocolate. Then on finding the dress I feel a cube of Galaxy as the perfect celebration!
Yes I have just been making it harder for myself I know. But now the chocolate addiction has taken hold.. I will have to be strong.
Off I go to local supermarket screaming child in tow… I think he is feeling my pain of missing out chocolate Isle. Vegetables, tea, lentils, grapefruit juice, celery, doing well.. Have managed to distract self with amazing new washing pegs on sale. Almost done, tills in sight when out of nowhere arrives a promotions lady offering me cake. WHAT IS THAT? I politely decline patting my stomach indicating that pounds are to be watched and not the money kind, to look up and see her nodding in agreement! Cheeky cow.
Almost running to the tills to prevent encountering other messengers of the devil I rapidly unload my healthy goods onto the belt, pay and leave.
Day one two and three go smoothly if not through gritted teeth. By day four I am feeling quietly confident at my new found air and dust eating habits. That is until I make the grand diet mistake of meeting up with some ex work peoples for coffee and cake. You see I am not a moderation person, give me a slice and I want the whole cake, appreciative I say - Greed I think most people would call it. So of course I am presented with all this amazing choice of fudge and iced cupcakes. Being the weak wreak that I am I break. Unable to resist almost believing that I can hear the sugar calling me. I have not one, two, but three different cupcakes to satisfy my sugar craving. So why is it that once you crumble that somehow it is soo much easier to convince yourself that the takeaway for dinner is cool idea too. Oh dear.
I end up at square one, as I am dressing for the reception I call The man over to do up my dress. Hesitant to take up this task The Man reluctantly moves towards me hoping that I will not kill him if the zipper relents. It’s a tight squeeze but I am there.
Sighs of relief all round. I realise how unfair I have been. Poor man loves me rolls and all.
I vow to make effort to healthy eat always from now on and no more crash dieting!
Walking up the steps of the reception on our second glass of champagne I chat to a good girlfriend of mine, both our men walking ahead. The Man turns to me and points out a women at the top wearing a familiar outfit. Supposedly the Very Posh cousin of the bride. Barely able to see straight I look down on myself and see a matching dress. Laughter erupts from me, can’t be that posh if she shops in Primarni too.
What a joke. For the rest of the evening I eat canapés and sip chilled wine. Only when I feel the tightness around my boobs do I remove myself from the food and go for a boogie.
Dieting. Rubbish. Dancing, now that’s something I can do..
Yes I have just been making it harder for myself I know. But now the chocolate addiction has taken hold.. I will have to be strong.
Off I go to local supermarket screaming child in tow… I think he is feeling my pain of missing out chocolate Isle. Vegetables, tea, lentils, grapefruit juice, celery, doing well.. Have managed to distract self with amazing new washing pegs on sale. Almost done, tills in sight when out of nowhere arrives a promotions lady offering me cake. WHAT IS THAT? I politely decline patting my stomach indicating that pounds are to be watched and not the money kind, to look up and see her nodding in agreement! Cheeky cow.
Almost running to the tills to prevent encountering other messengers of the devil I rapidly unload my healthy goods onto the belt, pay and leave.
Day one two and three go smoothly if not through gritted teeth. By day four I am feeling quietly confident at my new found air and dust eating habits. That is until I make the grand diet mistake of meeting up with some ex work peoples for coffee and cake. You see I am not a moderation person, give me a slice and I want the whole cake, appreciative I say - Greed I think most people would call it. So of course I am presented with all this amazing choice of fudge and iced cupcakes. Being the weak wreak that I am I break. Unable to resist almost believing that I can hear the sugar calling me. I have not one, two, but three different cupcakes to satisfy my sugar craving. So why is it that once you crumble that somehow it is soo much easier to convince yourself that the takeaway for dinner is cool idea too. Oh dear.
I end up at square one, as I am dressing for the reception I call The man over to do up my dress. Hesitant to take up this task The Man reluctantly moves towards me hoping that I will not kill him if the zipper relents. It’s a tight squeeze but I am there.
Sighs of relief all round. I realise how unfair I have been. Poor man loves me rolls and all.
I vow to make effort to healthy eat always from now on and no more crash dieting!
Walking up the steps of the reception on our second glass of champagne I chat to a good girlfriend of mine, both our men walking ahead. The Man turns to me and points out a women at the top wearing a familiar outfit. Supposedly the Very Posh cousin of the bride. Barely able to see straight I look down on myself and see a matching dress. Laughter erupts from me, can’t be that posh if she shops in Primarni too.
What a joke. For the rest of the evening I eat canapés and sip chilled wine. Only when I feel the tightness around my boobs do I remove myself from the food and go for a boogie.
Dieting. Rubbish. Dancing, now that’s something I can do..
Sleep
Symptoms: Headache, Foot ache, Ringing in ears, Nauseous feeling in pit of stomach, loss of appetite and urge to retreat to duvet cover and hibernate.
Diagnosis: All symptoms are pointing to a heavy night out on the tiles, dancing - shouting to be heard , drinking too much Rose and then walking a mile and a half home in heels. I wish. Actually, the cause of my mysterious illness is not half as complex, or fun. Just Infant Sons new idea of routine that he no longer sees fit to adhere to.
I am starting to really believe that there is a huge conspiracy with Parenting… all the books say, children thrive on routine - that without one you will be a candidate for a visit from Super nanny, or worse if not nipped in the bud even guests on Jeremy Kyle! For five whole years I have agreed with this theory , my daughter was fantastic - in fact she responded so well to a structured day that I often mocked others at their complaints at tiredness and lack of control with a restless child… assuming that clearly they were not ensuring that the child was in a good routine. You could say I am getting payback now. Big time. I am clearly going to get a sleepless night for every time I thought my parenting skills were in the bag, that being the case I may never sleep again!
So at the moment I am cruising through my daily duties in complete daze. If interrupted from my daze I am likely to bite unsuspecting friend/child/relative’s head off whole and probably make a fair few enemies if something doesn’t change quick!
Yesterday morning even Infant son seemed to know that Mummy had issues, could have had something to do with the fact that I was attempting to spread butter on his weetabix…. The day before I had attempted to store up valuable sight energy helping my daughter dress with my eyes still closed, my backfired when I realised I had dressed her back into her Pj’s!!
My normal Patience threshold also seemed to play up today, too. My daughter singing the Lazy Town theme tune at the top of her voice which I can normally take as an endearing aspect of her personality, today seems to be jibbing at me like a woodpecker. I ask her quietly to please refrain from singing so loud - not hearing me she continues, I eventually say that she cannot sing again until bath time. The perplexed look I got back makes me wonder what kind of evil mother this sleep issue is turning me into.
Diagnosis: All symptoms are pointing to a heavy night out on the tiles, dancing - shouting to be heard , drinking too much Rose and then walking a mile and a half home in heels. I wish. Actually, the cause of my mysterious illness is not half as complex, or fun. Just Infant Sons new idea of routine that he no longer sees fit to adhere to.
I am starting to really believe that there is a huge conspiracy with Parenting… all the books say, children thrive on routine - that without one you will be a candidate for a visit from Super nanny, or worse if not nipped in the bud even guests on Jeremy Kyle! For five whole years I have agreed with this theory , my daughter was fantastic - in fact she responded so well to a structured day that I often mocked others at their complaints at tiredness and lack of control with a restless child… assuming that clearly they were not ensuring that the child was in a good routine. You could say I am getting payback now. Big time. I am clearly going to get a sleepless night for every time I thought my parenting skills were in the bag, that being the case I may never sleep again!
So at the moment I am cruising through my daily duties in complete daze. If interrupted from my daze I am likely to bite unsuspecting friend/child/relative’s head off whole and probably make a fair few enemies if something doesn’t change quick!
Yesterday morning even Infant son seemed to know that Mummy had issues, could have had something to do with the fact that I was attempting to spread butter on his weetabix…. The day before I had attempted to store up valuable sight energy helping my daughter dress with my eyes still closed, my backfired when I realised I had dressed her back into her Pj’s!!
My normal Patience threshold also seemed to play up today, too. My daughter singing the Lazy Town theme tune at the top of her voice which I can normally take as an endearing aspect of her personality, today seems to be jibbing at me like a woodpecker. I ask her quietly to please refrain from singing so loud - not hearing me she continues, I eventually say that she cannot sing again until bath time. The perplexed look I got back makes me wonder what kind of evil mother this sleep issue is turning me into.
Bikini
Have I mentioned previously that my daughter is five? Yes, five years old.. Only in reception class at school , still learning to tie her own shoelaces? Well to hear the running debate that has been going on the past week you would be forgiven for thinking she had just turned 15!
This dramatic transformation all started when she suddenly discovered (through being at a friends house) that there was such thing as bikini‘s being on sale to the under 6‘s. Oh how I have tried to hide this fact from her, not as I am totally anti them, but knowing that as soon as the truth was discovered ( and that swimming costume is due for replacement )that there would be fireworks in our house on request for a bikini - mainly being omitted by The Man.
Here’s the picture I came home to, I had been busying myself with very important nail infilling duties in croydon so had relied on The Man to take charge and ensure childcare duties were dealt with..
Darling Daughter has been to swimming and tea with a friend from school, so man has had extra few hours to untidy house and not do the washing… by the time I am walking in, the place looks like Primark on a Saturday and I can feel that the tension is not right here even if they are fearing my reaction to the mess… I turn to my daughter and ask about her day only to get puppy dog eyes and a look of injustice … certain that everyone is taking the mess too seriously, considering that all I had done is raise my eyebrows - I proceed to tell all that It’s okay - today I will not lose the plot about a bit of mess.. Quite big of me I believe.
When this broadcast has little effect I really begin to worry .. What is going on , if it is not the fear of me turning into the she devil herself, then what can be worse.. I look to The man for an explanation but I get the Nod - meaning that what he has to tell me is not for the consumption of children… okay.
I run though the golden bedtime hour of feeding bathing and dressing children for bed with a real worry in the pit of my stomach … I know that daughter Darling is going through a bit of a Veruca Salt stage but I didn’t think she would be capable of bringing The Man to this type of silent anger… Finally children are all cosy in bed and The Man sits down handing me a glass of wine… I start feeling really hot with the anticipation of what he is about to warble when amongst all my fretting I realise that he has already started speaking… ‘Wants a Bikini’ I hear … then I realise that all my fretting has been for nothing … ‘a bikini’ I ask, laughing.
Confirmed. Relief sweeps over me that this clearly has not been any of the disaster scenario’s that I had been dreaming up…like her attempting to leave home etc.
Only, clearly from the expression on The Mans face I could tell that he did not see this as any laughing matter… I start to see where this has all gone so wrong.
Here we have the classic.. Little girl wants to dress up as big lady and The Man is afraid of losing his innocent little girl. It is time for me to get him to wake up and smell the impulse, here comes the years of compromise! After an hour of battling out the pressures society puts on your women I finally manage to persuade The Man that a tankini is more than suitable.
The Man then goes to take a peek at the daughter to see if she is asleep.. Her eyes still wide open he goes in to give her a kiss on the head and tuck her in…
I watch through the door as I see his serious face explaining our decision, a small smile slowly begins to grow across her face.. Then onto his…
Outside I look down onto my new set of nails with a smile and think to myself, alls well that ends well, and of course I’m glad they made it up too!
This dramatic transformation all started when she suddenly discovered (through being at a friends house) that there was such thing as bikini‘s being on sale to the under 6‘s. Oh how I have tried to hide this fact from her, not as I am totally anti them, but knowing that as soon as the truth was discovered ( and that swimming costume is due for replacement )that there would be fireworks in our house on request for a bikini - mainly being omitted by The Man.
Here’s the picture I came home to, I had been busying myself with very important nail infilling duties in croydon so had relied on The Man to take charge and ensure childcare duties were dealt with..
Darling Daughter has been to swimming and tea with a friend from school, so man has had extra few hours to untidy house and not do the washing… by the time I am walking in, the place looks like Primark on a Saturday and I can feel that the tension is not right here even if they are fearing my reaction to the mess… I turn to my daughter and ask about her day only to get puppy dog eyes and a look of injustice … certain that everyone is taking the mess too seriously, considering that all I had done is raise my eyebrows - I proceed to tell all that It’s okay - today I will not lose the plot about a bit of mess.. Quite big of me I believe.
When this broadcast has little effect I really begin to worry .. What is going on , if it is not the fear of me turning into the she devil herself, then what can be worse.. I look to The man for an explanation but I get the Nod - meaning that what he has to tell me is not for the consumption of children… okay.
I run though the golden bedtime hour of feeding bathing and dressing children for bed with a real worry in the pit of my stomach … I know that daughter Darling is going through a bit of a Veruca Salt stage but I didn’t think she would be capable of bringing The Man to this type of silent anger… Finally children are all cosy in bed and The Man sits down handing me a glass of wine… I start feeling really hot with the anticipation of what he is about to warble when amongst all my fretting I realise that he has already started speaking… ‘Wants a Bikini’ I hear … then I realise that all my fretting has been for nothing … ‘a bikini’ I ask, laughing.
Confirmed. Relief sweeps over me that this clearly has not been any of the disaster scenario’s that I had been dreaming up…like her attempting to leave home etc.
Only, clearly from the expression on The Mans face I could tell that he did not see this as any laughing matter… I start to see where this has all gone so wrong.
Here we have the classic.. Little girl wants to dress up as big lady and The Man is afraid of losing his innocent little girl. It is time for me to get him to wake up and smell the impulse, here comes the years of compromise! After an hour of battling out the pressures society puts on your women I finally manage to persuade The Man that a tankini is more than suitable.
The Man then goes to take a peek at the daughter to see if she is asleep.. Her eyes still wide open he goes in to give her a kiss on the head and tuck her in…
I watch through the door as I see his serious face explaining our decision, a small smile slowly begins to grow across her face.. Then onto his…
Outside I look down onto my new set of nails with a smile and think to myself, alls well that ends well, and of course I’m glad they made it up too!
I.I.S
There is a serious rift between The Man and I at the moment, it has lasted two days and shows no sign of being lifted anytime soon.
No, there has not been a serious relationship crisis, adultery or the like - simply the mistake of me asking The Man to accompany me to Ikea. What a drama.
Now I am well aware like many of the weaker sex The Man suffers from a disorder known as I.I.S (Irrational Ikea Syndrome) Whereby at just the mention of the I word, starts coming out in a cold sweat and behaves as though a tic has taken over his face. Because of this I rarely make the request choosing fellow Ikea lover - my mom or best mate instead only bothering The Man as a last result. It is also well known that if your ever on the verge of breaking up Ikea will ensure that your relationship is all over by the time you are leaving the car park - inevitably with one of you walking.
Usually during my annual trips with The Man I ensure that there is purpose to the shop and that I only take the recommended 30 mins in store to prevent the Mans symptoms coming to boil… so far so good.
But this was not to be on our last visit. Hence the Hate Stares currently being exchanged.
After shoe horning him though the front entrance with the promise that lunch is on me, I managed to keep him preoccupied by allowing him to be in charge of the buggy & Infant Son. Daughter and Stepson both elsewhere to keep the mission simple. Although I did notice the odd twitch as I browsed the kitchen area, overall I was impressed that all was going to plan. With still 10 mins on the clock I have got us down to collect various goods. Good stuff.
Unbeknown to me, restocking was taking place. On arriving to the warehouse area we were delayed by forklifts and ultimately unable to proceed to relevant aisles to get bathroom cabernet - then finding the correct aisle only to see that the guy in front has the last one on his trolley. Very frustrating I know, I even considered distracting him so that The Man could steal it off the trolley. But could see that even suggesting something like that in jest could maybe not be seen as funny .
The Man’s hyperventilating and the hulk noises were starting. I got the trolley to the checkout and could see light at the end of the tills. We waited, and waited. By this point the infant son was not too impressed either, finding the washing up brushes not half as interesting as half an hour ago. Grunting and winging Like father like son!
At last we were at the tills and all ready to pay. Only my purse was not in my bag…
nor would it be in the car…a dark cloud was rapidly forming over my head as I know full well I have left it on the bed at home next to The Mans Wallet, had been preoccupied trying to find my stinking mascara!
So there we have it. I not only made him go to Ikea but I also managed to have him queue up with me for twenty minutes only to leave empty handed and with no promise of lunch.
But hay, he will cool down soon ( I hope ) and at least I found my lip balm.
Mascara still missing.
No, there has not been a serious relationship crisis, adultery or the like - simply the mistake of me asking The Man to accompany me to Ikea. What a drama.
Now I am well aware like many of the weaker sex The Man suffers from a disorder known as I.I.S (Irrational Ikea Syndrome) Whereby at just the mention of the I word, starts coming out in a cold sweat and behaves as though a tic has taken over his face. Because of this I rarely make the request choosing fellow Ikea lover - my mom or best mate instead only bothering The Man as a last result. It is also well known that if your ever on the verge of breaking up Ikea will ensure that your relationship is all over by the time you are leaving the car park - inevitably with one of you walking.
Usually during my annual trips with The Man I ensure that there is purpose to the shop and that I only take the recommended 30 mins in store to prevent the Mans symptoms coming to boil… so far so good.
But this was not to be on our last visit. Hence the Hate Stares currently being exchanged.
After shoe horning him though the front entrance with the promise that lunch is on me, I managed to keep him preoccupied by allowing him to be in charge of the buggy & Infant Son. Daughter and Stepson both elsewhere to keep the mission simple. Although I did notice the odd twitch as I browsed the kitchen area, overall I was impressed that all was going to plan. With still 10 mins on the clock I have got us down to collect various goods. Good stuff.
Unbeknown to me, restocking was taking place. On arriving to the warehouse area we were delayed by forklifts and ultimately unable to proceed to relevant aisles to get bathroom cabernet - then finding the correct aisle only to see that the guy in front has the last one on his trolley. Very frustrating I know, I even considered distracting him so that The Man could steal it off the trolley. But could see that even suggesting something like that in jest could maybe not be seen as funny .
The Man’s hyperventilating and the hulk noises were starting. I got the trolley to the checkout and could see light at the end of the tills. We waited, and waited. By this point the infant son was not too impressed either, finding the washing up brushes not half as interesting as half an hour ago. Grunting and winging Like father like son!
At last we were at the tills and all ready to pay. Only my purse was not in my bag…
nor would it be in the car…a dark cloud was rapidly forming over my head as I know full well I have left it on the bed at home next to The Mans Wallet, had been preoccupied trying to find my stinking mascara!
So there we have it. I not only made him go to Ikea but I also managed to have him queue up with me for twenty minutes only to leave empty handed and with no promise of lunch.
But hay, he will cool down soon ( I hope ) and at least I found my lip balm.
Mascara still missing.
Very Bad hair day
As many of you women will already know the road to beauty and perfection is a long tiring and expensive one. With the added pressure of ensuring that my children are dressed cleaned and looking fairly presentable I am currently the last on the list of maintenance in this house.
So my hair is now demanding immediate attention.. The roots are showing so badly that you could question if it has ever seen scissors let alone hair dye.
Right, as the monthly budget has been stretched to beyond its limit there is no use looking there for help.. One thing for it, it’s gonna have to be a home highlighter kit. Against advice of the man and friends ( I am cringing as I Type) How hard can it be methinks??
I wait for a man free evening with the kids tucked up in bed for my moment to strike.. I proceed to remove wand from packaging and mix the peroxide.. Extra courage is needed so I present myself with a glass of chardonnay to help me along the way.. Here we go…
Halfway through I get adventurous believing I have actually missed my calling as top colourist in trendy salon, I am confident enough to manage the whole of my head …big mistake - I drop splodges everywhere and have not been watching the time, was it half an hour ago or what? I don’t think that no pain no gain applies to hair colouring!
I quickly head for the bathroom cursing for doing this myself , as clearly the burning on my head cannot be a good sign. All washed and to my relief none of my barnet is away with the suds..
I towel dry and commence to blow-dry , on lifting my head to the mirror I am alarmed at the brightness of my hair, I deliberately leave hall light off as the rays from my hair are bright enough..
Keys In the door and the man is home.. For some reason I run for cover in the bedroom as the thought of the I told you so’s cannot be faced with grace at this present moment, I head for the Ghd’s and straighten within an inch of its life. There, okay slightly bright but passable.. I head for the kitchen and for judgement.
From the expression on The Man’s face it is not “ well what a success, you look fantastic!” more of a
“ Lord please remove me from this place as there has been carnage to this woman’s head and my comment could clearly mean carnage to mine!”
Ever the diplomat the man encoragly raises his eyebrows and smiles,
“ well I have always liked the retro look”
Smoothly I pour myself a large glass of wine and face the prospect of a month in a ponytail, sympathetic disapproving looks from friends and family and ultimately a complete mistake on my head.
Ever the optimist I convince myself that there has always got to me someone ready to start off a new trend.. And that any strange looks I will take as compliments. But somehow my son screaming at me on sight the next morning tells me otherwise…………
So my hair is now demanding immediate attention.. The roots are showing so badly that you could question if it has ever seen scissors let alone hair dye.
Right, as the monthly budget has been stretched to beyond its limit there is no use looking there for help.. One thing for it, it’s gonna have to be a home highlighter kit. Against advice of the man and friends ( I am cringing as I Type) How hard can it be methinks??
I wait for a man free evening with the kids tucked up in bed for my moment to strike.. I proceed to remove wand from packaging and mix the peroxide.. Extra courage is needed so I present myself with a glass of chardonnay to help me along the way.. Here we go…
Halfway through I get adventurous believing I have actually missed my calling as top colourist in trendy salon, I am confident enough to manage the whole of my head …big mistake - I drop splodges everywhere and have not been watching the time, was it half an hour ago or what? I don’t think that no pain no gain applies to hair colouring!
I quickly head for the bathroom cursing for doing this myself , as clearly the burning on my head cannot be a good sign. All washed and to my relief none of my barnet is away with the suds..
I towel dry and commence to blow-dry , on lifting my head to the mirror I am alarmed at the brightness of my hair, I deliberately leave hall light off as the rays from my hair are bright enough..
Keys In the door and the man is home.. For some reason I run for cover in the bedroom as the thought of the I told you so’s cannot be faced with grace at this present moment, I head for the Ghd’s and straighten within an inch of its life. There, okay slightly bright but passable.. I head for the kitchen and for judgement.
From the expression on The Man’s face it is not “ well what a success, you look fantastic!” more of a
“ Lord please remove me from this place as there has been carnage to this woman’s head and my comment could clearly mean carnage to mine!”
Ever the diplomat the man encoragly raises his eyebrows and smiles,
“ well I have always liked the retro look”
Smoothly I pour myself a large glass of wine and face the prospect of a month in a ponytail, sympathetic disapproving looks from friends and family and ultimately a complete mistake on my head.
Ever the optimist I convince myself that there has always got to me someone ready to start off a new trend.. And that any strange looks I will take as compliments. But somehow my son screaming at me on sight the next morning tells me otherwise…………
Reunion
Oh here we go.
Clever me has taken up chatting to old school friends on stupid addictive internet site. Face book.
I have some how been influenced by old school friend to join conversation with other long lost school friends over internet site.. What’s the harm, lets see what we have all been up to over the last ten years.. Bit of nosey fun methinks. Methinks wrong. I am now scheduled to attend a Reunion.
Now this should again, just be harmless fun right? Yes? Maybe if I went to a normal comprehensive with normal average people, I can see how a catch-up could be great , but no you see. I don’t know if I should be Proud or ashamed to admit this but I attended a Private Convent Boarding school a million miles away from my heavenly croydon somewhere past a really big field. I attended this privilege with other shall we say even more privileged people all of which have excelled in their careers, life, image etc.
Although never unpopular I hasten to add , unlike many of my classmates I was always on the lookout for more excitement.
Hence me = no degree, 2 ½ children and no swimming pool , drinks wine on discount.
Them = All childless, all further educated career driven and frankly quite scarily independent women with swimming pools filled with champagne.
Now believe me I am proud of attending the university of life and am very content with my lot thanks, But there is something very intimidating about meeting them all again in one room that is not the school common room and therefore having to reintroduce myself as a grown woman.
No longer can I be miss where’s the excitement, or laugh at those who mocked my imminent stardom and pity them for not seeing my potential. Sadly the stardom boat has sunk when I grasped the reality of competition! And excitement for me now is getting to Tiger occasionally without Rusk in my hair!
To add to my distress there is the rather large fact that I have stupidly exaggerated my success and beauty in conversation with these old chums ( as you do? Don’t you?) therefore serious action is required to amend these white lies.. Yes I know. I am a Div. The darling issue of nothing to wear and roots that are coming out of my head like overgrown weeds, really is the least of my worries!
Must proceed to do dodgy exercise video at least twice a week and take up running, all to visually enhance myself before reunion. I persuade The Man to invest in a new tracksuit for me with the promise that by the end of the month he will be married to fittest ( in both sense of the word) woman in Corydon, no, South London.. Ha ha..
Have agreed with friends and family that maybe I am taking the reunion too seriously, as why does any of this matter anyways?
Yes, well easier said than done…14days and six hours to go…my sense of Yummy ness will not let me fail… bring it on!
Clever me has taken up chatting to old school friends on stupid addictive internet site. Face book.
I have some how been influenced by old school friend to join conversation with other long lost school friends over internet site.. What’s the harm, lets see what we have all been up to over the last ten years.. Bit of nosey fun methinks. Methinks wrong. I am now scheduled to attend a Reunion.
Now this should again, just be harmless fun right? Yes? Maybe if I went to a normal comprehensive with normal average people, I can see how a catch-up could be great , but no you see. I don’t know if I should be Proud or ashamed to admit this but I attended a Private Convent Boarding school a million miles away from my heavenly croydon somewhere past a really big field. I attended this privilege with other shall we say even more privileged people all of which have excelled in their careers, life, image etc.
Although never unpopular I hasten to add , unlike many of my classmates I was always on the lookout for more excitement.
Hence me = no degree, 2 ½ children and no swimming pool , drinks wine on discount.
Them = All childless, all further educated career driven and frankly quite scarily independent women with swimming pools filled with champagne.
Now believe me I am proud of attending the university of life and am very content with my lot thanks, But there is something very intimidating about meeting them all again in one room that is not the school common room and therefore having to reintroduce myself as a grown woman.
No longer can I be miss where’s the excitement, or laugh at those who mocked my imminent stardom and pity them for not seeing my potential. Sadly the stardom boat has sunk when I grasped the reality of competition! And excitement for me now is getting to Tiger occasionally without Rusk in my hair!
To add to my distress there is the rather large fact that I have stupidly exaggerated my success and beauty in conversation with these old chums ( as you do? Don’t you?) therefore serious action is required to amend these white lies.. Yes I know. I am a Div. The darling issue of nothing to wear and roots that are coming out of my head like overgrown weeds, really is the least of my worries!
Must proceed to do dodgy exercise video at least twice a week and take up running, all to visually enhance myself before reunion. I persuade The Man to invest in a new tracksuit for me with the promise that by the end of the month he will be married to fittest ( in both sense of the word) woman in Corydon, no, South London.. Ha ha..
Have agreed with friends and family that maybe I am taking the reunion too seriously, as why does any of this matter anyways?
Yes, well easier said than done…14days and six hours to go…my sense of Yummy ness will not let me fail… bring it on!
Back to work
Due to my contract terms with my previous employer, a condition in taking maternity leave were that I would need to return to work for one calendar month before proceeding with my career break..
Fine okay. Plans were put in place for The Man to take annual leave to care for my two Angels and that in effect our roles would reverse for this month of duty..
Well, well how this time would enlighten me to the life of a working woman with a stay at home Dad. Totally Yummy methinks.
Of course I would now be expecting The Man to perform this job to the same standard of the previous employee (me) and ensure that the running of the home is smooth and obviously as immaculate as I manage week on week … Little did I know what a tall order this would be…
The Man’s first reaction to the bullet point daily schedule that I had presented him with was a smile and laugh with the attitude that I was plain mad and obviously have too much time on my hands to have complied this home aid for his use. Clearly he thought that Child/home responsibilities were going to be a doddle. Punk
I must admit the first week I was in my element. As was He. No more night shifts for me seeing to Infant son, and thankfully no more small chat with the other parents at the school gate.. I was a real grown up again.. Ignoring the fact that no cleaning or washing seemed to be moving and that The Man had clearly given up shaving - getting to wear tidy suits and flawless make up made up for these niggles.. Life felt good. At the end of the day kisses were planted on my cheeks by my Angels and off to bed they went.
Oh how easy.
By the second week The Man was starting to show signs that the “Dad at home” novelty was wearing thin.. Bags under eyes and a new dishevelled look, The Man was not happy. Nor were the family wardrobes, by now we were all pulling on the back of cupboard reserves as all decent clothing was in overflowing wash basket. Admittedly I couldn’t help my smugness at his impending decent from ‘cocky Man thinks staying at home is easy’ stance. But I begin to worry as son seems to be wearing daughters pjs.
Week three and four I receive constant text’s from the Man exclaiming my brilliance at childcare/cleaning and pleas for him to go back to work.. All of course I relished in.. but I have to say it, the novelty for me was wearing thin too… I had began to hate fellow commuters again and I am ashamed to say was begrudging pushchair users for travelling before nine narrowing my eyes as they rolled over my kitten heels … Yes I wanted the dirty nappies back.. the normal rational husband…and of course the ballet pumps.
On my return home I am cruel… I lead the wreck of a man into believing that I like the change and suggest that we both work part time to share the childcare… he promptly turns a shade of green that only sambuca can usually achieve.. I take pity and advise The Man that he is off the hook and that I will return to normal duties with the precaution that there is a lesson learnt from his time as ‘Me’ The Man returns to usual colour and showers me with compliments..
What a result… Yummy me? Apparently!
Fine okay. Plans were put in place for The Man to take annual leave to care for my two Angels and that in effect our roles would reverse for this month of duty..
Well, well how this time would enlighten me to the life of a working woman with a stay at home Dad. Totally Yummy methinks.
Of course I would now be expecting The Man to perform this job to the same standard of the previous employee (me) and ensure that the running of the home is smooth and obviously as immaculate as I manage week on week … Little did I know what a tall order this would be…
The Man’s first reaction to the bullet point daily schedule that I had presented him with was a smile and laugh with the attitude that I was plain mad and obviously have too much time on my hands to have complied this home aid for his use. Clearly he thought that Child/home responsibilities were going to be a doddle. Punk
I must admit the first week I was in my element. As was He. No more night shifts for me seeing to Infant son, and thankfully no more small chat with the other parents at the school gate.. I was a real grown up again.. Ignoring the fact that no cleaning or washing seemed to be moving and that The Man had clearly given up shaving - getting to wear tidy suits and flawless make up made up for these niggles.. Life felt good. At the end of the day kisses were planted on my cheeks by my Angels and off to bed they went.
Oh how easy.
By the second week The Man was starting to show signs that the “Dad at home” novelty was wearing thin.. Bags under eyes and a new dishevelled look, The Man was not happy. Nor were the family wardrobes, by now we were all pulling on the back of cupboard reserves as all decent clothing was in overflowing wash basket. Admittedly I couldn’t help my smugness at his impending decent from ‘cocky Man thinks staying at home is easy’ stance. But I begin to worry as son seems to be wearing daughters pjs.
Week three and four I receive constant text’s from the Man exclaiming my brilliance at childcare/cleaning and pleas for him to go back to work.. All of course I relished in.. but I have to say it, the novelty for me was wearing thin too… I had began to hate fellow commuters again and I am ashamed to say was begrudging pushchair users for travelling before nine narrowing my eyes as they rolled over my kitten heels … Yes I wanted the dirty nappies back.. the normal rational husband…and of course the ballet pumps.
On my return home I am cruel… I lead the wreck of a man into believing that I like the change and suggest that we both work part time to share the childcare… he promptly turns a shade of green that only sambuca can usually achieve.. I take pity and advise The Man that he is off the hook and that I will return to normal duties with the precaution that there is a lesson learnt from his time as ‘Me’ The Man returns to usual colour and showers me with compliments..
What a result… Yummy me? Apparently!
Museum
As both eldest are off school today for teachers training, I have planned an exciting trip to London’s natural history museum. This is cultured, educational, interesting and maybe even something to boast about. Yes me, the one who finds co coordinating a journey to central croydon with one child a mission has decided that single handedly I will educated and stimulate my little angels with something greater than the local park today. Then to return home before rush hour with plenty time to cook for the man before his arrival home. Perfect plans for perfect day.
Now please bear in mind that in my previous life I did commute though rush hour on a daily bases therefore consider myself a pro. Three kids London return no probs.
I leave East Croydon prepared, calm and even maybe enjoying the company of these little people.
On arrival at Victoria I soon realise that I may have underestimated the difficultly that would be presented to me -a load of big fat dirty stairs. Well of course these things had not been an issue in my previous career as I skipped and hopped my way to work up and down them. I could now see that baby in pushchair would not be partaking in this pastime with me, suddenly I remembered falling out with them during the last few months of my pregnancy and often cursing them one by one wrenching my lump of a bump amongst them. While this all flashes though my mind I smile at the passing commuters as though I am completely in controlled just composing myself in all my yumminess ( made special effort with make up this morn! Trendy chic is today’s look )
After a fair bit of sweat and clenching teeth we mount the circle line and thankfully arrive at south ken unscathed. Children are still finding whole thing a huge adventure but are becoming concerned with mummy’s strange noises and sweat patches. Not to worry the museum is in sight. As we walk up to the main entrance I smugly laugh at all those parents that would be dragging their kids up here next week during the chaos of half term, there is a straight walk to the entrance no quos, no agro, I have struck gold.
After two long hours I manage to prize my big ones (kids) away from the stuffed ferrets to retreat to a café for lunch. On arrival to our table I finally see the first mirror mounting the opposite wall since applying my trendy/chic make up, I laugh at the reflection believing some other monster must be walking behind me, only to realise the stinking refection would actually be me. From the pushchair escapade earlier my sopistacat look sadly was more on my neck than my face and the well ghd’ed locks now resembled the “dragged though bush backwards look” only without the twigs or trend. The children chow down while I attempt to recreate some sort of normal composure.
Amazingly we make it home in one piece, me vowing to offload smallest and pushchair elsewhere on future adventures. We find The Man leaning sadly into the fridge looking at watch puzzled as to where dinner plate may lie. Acknowledging our arrival his eyebrows raise two inches only to attempt to return to normal on seeing my interesting facial collage. I can see the urge in him to ask about dinner but the fear of sending me over edge as a result preventing the words exiting, instead offers of fish and chips. Gold Star to The Man Yummy.
Now please bear in mind that in my previous life I did commute though rush hour on a daily bases therefore consider myself a pro. Three kids London return no probs.
I leave East Croydon prepared, calm and even maybe enjoying the company of these little people.
On arrival at Victoria I soon realise that I may have underestimated the difficultly that would be presented to me -a load of big fat dirty stairs. Well of course these things had not been an issue in my previous career as I skipped and hopped my way to work up and down them. I could now see that baby in pushchair would not be partaking in this pastime with me, suddenly I remembered falling out with them during the last few months of my pregnancy and often cursing them one by one wrenching my lump of a bump amongst them. While this all flashes though my mind I smile at the passing commuters as though I am completely in controlled just composing myself in all my yumminess ( made special effort with make up this morn! Trendy chic is today’s look )
After a fair bit of sweat and clenching teeth we mount the circle line and thankfully arrive at south ken unscathed. Children are still finding whole thing a huge adventure but are becoming concerned with mummy’s strange noises and sweat patches. Not to worry the museum is in sight. As we walk up to the main entrance I smugly laugh at all those parents that would be dragging their kids up here next week during the chaos of half term, there is a straight walk to the entrance no quos, no agro, I have struck gold.
After two long hours I manage to prize my big ones (kids) away from the stuffed ferrets to retreat to a café for lunch. On arrival to our table I finally see the first mirror mounting the opposite wall since applying my trendy/chic make up, I laugh at the reflection believing some other monster must be walking behind me, only to realise the stinking refection would actually be me. From the pushchair escapade earlier my sopistacat look sadly was more on my neck than my face and the well ghd’ed locks now resembled the “dragged though bush backwards look” only without the twigs or trend. The children chow down while I attempt to recreate some sort of normal composure.
Amazingly we make it home in one piece, me vowing to offload smallest and pushchair elsewhere on future adventures. We find The Man leaning sadly into the fridge looking at watch puzzled as to where dinner plate may lie. Acknowledging our arrival his eyebrows raise two inches only to attempt to return to normal on seeing my interesting facial collage. I can see the urge in him to ask about dinner but the fear of sending me over edge as a result preventing the words exiting, instead offers of fish and chips. Gold Star to The Man Yummy.
P.E Kit
Right not a problem, Friday has rolled around yet again so fast that I could believe it’s got a grudge.
PE at school and not a kit to be found in this pit we call our home.
Of course in the book of yummy this would be ironed bagged and smelling fresh as a daisy, but yet again this task seemed to be overlooked as I lunched yesterday and now daughter looks at me as though I am complete failure as standard mummy let alone yummy. It is 7:45 I recover kit from wash basket and have sinking feeling that with all attempts will not be smelling like daisy today. Resolve problem by finding clean clothing that resembles PE kit, make peace with daughter by promising fairy cake session after school and then move on to mirror.
Okay refection is not kind today and feel that only option is to cover with make up quick… 8:10 and feel on top of things when 11 month old chooses to vomit, husband surfaces with face like thunder as did night shift. Change son, we are out the door…
Manage to arrive at school in record stomping time, kiss daughter goodbye then on to croydon.
Today sadly my quest is not to entertain my son with books and educate but to hit shops in an attempt to find yummy outfit for a ( rare ) night out in croydon with girl Friends tonight.
Now I really do feel that when I comes to shops croydon has seriously got it, king’s road ? blue water ? No give me croydon any day the choice is vast in fact on this particular day too vast . I spin round the whit gift occasionally stopping to chat with various random others but to no joy.. Off to central.
Find dress and attempt to squeeze buggy into changing room. Get hot and give up. Dress to expensive anyway…walk to surrey street and get nails done instead , I must admit with all that I have let slip on my road to motherhood shallowly nails has not been one of them. Yeah that was me at mayday with my newborn and fresh nails, come on I am from croydon … but on the up side nails must give me points towards my pending yummy ness?
Head back home for the feeding of the son , on arrival at front door have argument with pushchair, brake a fresh nail, buggy wins battle - but war not over.
Have safe domesticated afternoon with son and collect daughter from school with ease. Have prepared cake materials before hand and feel quite smug with my organised yumminess.
Correction Forgot to get flour in croydon , yummy ness erased.
The man arrives home , I manage a whirlwind and children are in bed.
Minus a nail and some flour not a bad day , get ready and exit home to meet childless friends in tiger
Look okay.. Rusk in hair from son but don’t realise until too late and barmaid is pointing mouthing “yummy”.
PE at school and not a kit to be found in this pit we call our home.
Of course in the book of yummy this would be ironed bagged and smelling fresh as a daisy, but yet again this task seemed to be overlooked as I lunched yesterday and now daughter looks at me as though I am complete failure as standard mummy let alone yummy. It is 7:45 I recover kit from wash basket and have sinking feeling that with all attempts will not be smelling like daisy today. Resolve problem by finding clean clothing that resembles PE kit, make peace with daughter by promising fairy cake session after school and then move on to mirror.
Okay refection is not kind today and feel that only option is to cover with make up quick… 8:10 and feel on top of things when 11 month old chooses to vomit, husband surfaces with face like thunder as did night shift. Change son, we are out the door…
Manage to arrive at school in record stomping time, kiss daughter goodbye then on to croydon.
Today sadly my quest is not to entertain my son with books and educate but to hit shops in an attempt to find yummy outfit for a ( rare ) night out in croydon with girl Friends tonight.
Now I really do feel that when I comes to shops croydon has seriously got it, king’s road ? blue water ? No give me croydon any day the choice is vast in fact on this particular day too vast . I spin round the whit gift occasionally stopping to chat with various random others but to no joy.. Off to central.
Find dress and attempt to squeeze buggy into changing room. Get hot and give up. Dress to expensive anyway…walk to surrey street and get nails done instead , I must admit with all that I have let slip on my road to motherhood shallowly nails has not been one of them. Yeah that was me at mayday with my newborn and fresh nails, come on I am from croydon … but on the up side nails must give me points towards my pending yummy ness?
Head back home for the feeding of the son , on arrival at front door have argument with pushchair, brake a fresh nail, buggy wins battle - but war not over.
Have safe domesticated afternoon with son and collect daughter from school with ease. Have prepared cake materials before hand and feel quite smug with my organised yumminess.
Correction Forgot to get flour in croydon , yummy ness erased.
The man arrives home , I manage a whirlwind and children are in bed.
Minus a nail and some flour not a bad day , get ready and exit home to meet childless friends in tiger
Look okay.. Rusk in hair from son but don’t realise until too late and barmaid is pointing mouthing “yummy”.
Recovering
Okay, I am getting quite lost in my new Profession. This career change has not worked out to be as smooth a transition as I had planned. Now I had hoped in my training to be Yummy that I would come across some sort of guide to being a mother, you know top tips to succeed. Well I haven’t, and by the day it seems that I am in continuous recovery. Let me explain..
I was a teenage mum, you know, the classic (I think) been dating guy for while - think that I am invincible of the pregnancy disease only to discover pregnancy can be caught by sitting on dodgy chair. Only kidding, obviously I was not careful enough and low and behold my life was turned upside down.
My beautiful daughter arrives and Her Dad decides to go. Tragic, no afraid not, pretty standard I would say.
Any way as I emerged as a new teenage- single- mother, there was light at the end of that subway for me… I like to think I became a “recovering” teenage mother, growing and embracing the role that I had decided to enlist myself to. I became slightly wiser and could finally ditch the “teenage” off my title, but not yet the stigma as I still looked quite young. Right, so I became the Single mum, working full time thankfully and making my way though the first years of my daughters life.. Time moves on and it comes about, that the time is right to recover from my singlemotherdom and look towards a growing new relationship with The Man himself….great, am no longer teenager, am no longer single am now credible mother? Don’t be silly Now my title is step-mum. Am I destined to always be a double barrelled mother??
So during all this you would think that though my need to prove myself, by reading up on half the parenting books ever known to Croydon Library by gaining my step son and ultimately by going to the cabbage patch again through choice, that I would have half a clue to what this full time motherhood requires.
Nope, only that whatever it means I want to love , care and educate them… but by also staying trendy sassy and not beyond my years, therefore a tad Yummy.
Do you know I am actually perking myself up, that has got to be a sign of maturity?
So is my quest for yummy hood all a sad cover up for the fact that I have “Missed out” or that I am “Making up for lost materialistic youth”? should I allow myself to aim for another double barrelled existence to recover from?
Yeah why not!! Better to regret something you’ve done and all that, while ballet slippers are still in fashion and pointy boots still fit under the buggy I have got give it a go.
I was a teenage mum, you know, the classic (I think) been dating guy for while - think that I am invincible of the pregnancy disease only to discover pregnancy can be caught by sitting on dodgy chair. Only kidding, obviously I was not careful enough and low and behold my life was turned upside down.
My beautiful daughter arrives and Her Dad decides to go. Tragic, no afraid not, pretty standard I would say.
Any way as I emerged as a new teenage- single- mother, there was light at the end of that subway for me… I like to think I became a “recovering” teenage mother, growing and embracing the role that I had decided to enlist myself to. I became slightly wiser and could finally ditch the “teenage” off my title, but not yet the stigma as I still looked quite young. Right, so I became the Single mum, working full time thankfully and making my way though the first years of my daughters life.. Time moves on and it comes about, that the time is right to recover from my singlemotherdom and look towards a growing new relationship with The Man himself….great, am no longer teenager, am no longer single am now credible mother? Don’t be silly Now my title is step-mum. Am I destined to always be a double barrelled mother??
So during all this you would think that though my need to prove myself, by reading up on half the parenting books ever known to Croydon Library by gaining my step son and ultimately by going to the cabbage patch again through choice, that I would have half a clue to what this full time motherhood requires.
Nope, only that whatever it means I want to love , care and educate them… but by also staying trendy sassy and not beyond my years, therefore a tad Yummy.
Do you know I am actually perking myself up, that has got to be a sign of maturity?
So is my quest for yummy hood all a sad cover up for the fact that I have “Missed out” or that I am “Making up for lost materialistic youth”? should I allow myself to aim for another double barrelled existence to recover from?
Yeah why not!! Better to regret something you’ve done and all that, while ballet slippers are still in fashion and pointy boots still fit under the buggy I have got give it a go.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
Well this is She...
Here we go… 25 yr old female, wife, mother of two and a half seeks sanity and refuge in exposing her quest to become yummy mummy.
Now I know this may sound crazy being that I have been a mother in name for the past five years but on the arrival of my second child I have finally decided to become the organised well groomed woman that I know deep down I have been destined to be since my own birth.. (just haven’t got round to being!) also the fact that my firstborn arrived unplanned to me as a croydon facelift teenager now is time to prove all the critics wrong that as a teenage mother living in the borough it isn’t all rose but we can be yummy with the best of them..
So what are my aims??
Well as always to attempt to rise early perform near miracle with make up and emerge from my home for the school run appearing flawless and escorting two angels effortlessly. Now note that my second born is now 18 months and has an obsession with rusks - sadly this is not as easy as it sounds.
Reality is running out of the door in less than co coordinated clothing, Rusk attached to unbrushed croydon facelift children in tow begging for mercy at my frantic pace…please tell me I am not alone..
You see us Croydon mums, regardless of age are clearly under pressure to be glam city luvvys, with the elegance of the surrey etiquette. Sadly I think that I for one end up being a bit of a crazy looking trendy hillbilly.
Once the school run (literally) is over my next task is to head to central croydon on a mission to educate my son in croydon library. ( the children’s books are great!) on arrival my son claims that he is not feeling up to Julia Donaldson and the gruffleo and more up to a gruff and a sleep. So there I sit children’s section reading books to myself.
On leaving the library I am not defeated in my mission to be yummy, I promptly move on to be a lady that lunches while feeding son with another of my yummy friends. we head to the closest most child friendly spot for a coffee and a chat only for my friends child to parade as though auditioning for a role on super nanny, lying on the floor and screaming “happy meal now!“ I smile with sympathy and am eager to remove myself from this very un-yummy situation.. not good. It is now time to run again before my daughter is last at the gate.
Okay so today not so yummy but there is always tomorrow.. As for being yummy tonight the man (husband) is expecting a clean shirt for work tom, Stepson has arrived for the weekend and dinner is to be arranged. Rusk has also taken over front room rug..Oh then maybe I’ll wash my hair…
Now I know this may sound crazy being that I have been a mother in name for the past five years but on the arrival of my second child I have finally decided to become the organised well groomed woman that I know deep down I have been destined to be since my own birth.. (just haven’t got round to being!) also the fact that my firstborn arrived unplanned to me as a croydon facelift teenager now is time to prove all the critics wrong that as a teenage mother living in the borough it isn’t all rose but we can be yummy with the best of them..
So what are my aims??
Well as always to attempt to rise early perform near miracle with make up and emerge from my home for the school run appearing flawless and escorting two angels effortlessly. Now note that my second born is now 18 months and has an obsession with rusks - sadly this is not as easy as it sounds.
Reality is running out of the door in less than co coordinated clothing, Rusk attached to unbrushed croydon facelift children in tow begging for mercy at my frantic pace…please tell me I am not alone..
You see us Croydon mums, regardless of age are clearly under pressure to be glam city luvvys, with the elegance of the surrey etiquette. Sadly I think that I for one end up being a bit of a crazy looking trendy hillbilly.
Once the school run (literally) is over my next task is to head to central croydon on a mission to educate my son in croydon library. ( the children’s books are great!) on arrival my son claims that he is not feeling up to Julia Donaldson and the gruffleo and more up to a gruff and a sleep. So there I sit children’s section reading books to myself.
On leaving the library I am not defeated in my mission to be yummy, I promptly move on to be a lady that lunches while feeding son with another of my yummy friends. we head to the closest most child friendly spot for a coffee and a chat only for my friends child to parade as though auditioning for a role on super nanny, lying on the floor and screaming “happy meal now!“ I smile with sympathy and am eager to remove myself from this very un-yummy situation.. not good. It is now time to run again before my daughter is last at the gate.
Okay so today not so yummy but there is always tomorrow.. As for being yummy tonight the man (husband) is expecting a clean shirt for work tom, Stepson has arrived for the weekend and dinner is to be arranged. Rusk has also taken over front room rug..Oh then maybe I’ll wash my hair…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
