Sunday, 19 February 2017

Week 248- tiny drunks, terrible twos and totally losing your shit...

Having small children is sometimes like living with a house full of drunks. 

The speed in which they change their opinions, or love you then think you’re a dick a moment later is incredible and only comparable with someone who's had six pints of Strongbow and a couple of shots of Tuaca.

‘You’re my best friend,’ my two year old says in a slightly menacing way holding my face and trying to give me a Marmitey kiss.

Whilst in the same breath saying ‘go away naughty mummy’ and that little facehold turns into more of a nip. 


I’d never really experienced the ‘terrible twos’ with my daughter. 

Yes, she could be a pain in the ass now and then, ignore what I was telling her or have a mild mardy in the supermarket but it never lasted.

So these purple faced tantrums from my son have come as a bit of a surprise. 

And the reasons for them can be anything. 

Like literally any-fucking-thing.

In the last couple of weeks he has totally lost his shit because-

  • He wasn’t allowed to eat the fish fingers frozen
  • I’d cut the green manky bit off the end of the strawberry and couldn’t ‘fix it’ back on
  • I changed the sheets on his bed
  • He had to wear socks
  • He wasn’t allowed to go out in his pyjamas
  • Peppa Pig had finished
  • Paw Patrol had finished
  • Noddy had finished
  • My shoes didn’t fit him.

I have this great idea for an invention. 

It’s like handles for a bag, but they kind of strap to your child so that when they have thrown themselves on the floor and are going absolutely bonkers in the middle of the doctor's surgery when your name’s been called, you can lift them up like a weight lifter and carry them.

But in light of the fact that I might not get round to actually inventing this in the next six months, hurry up the fantastic threes.

Cos that’s what they’re called, right? 


Sunday, 22 January 2017

Week 244- getting angry and using it...

This has been the most fearful and yet empowering few days to be a woman.

We now have a hateful, dangerous misogynist in the most powerful position in the world. He has no respect for women, he has made that clear through the flippant way he talks about his own daughter, how he views women as pieces of meat; commodities for his own pleasure.

He’s stupid, careless and arrogant.

And that makes him the most dangerous man in the world.

He has the capacity to change the world for the absolute worst, and has already started to do so.

What will this mean for women in the US? What does it mean for women all over the world? For our daughters; our daughter’s daughters? Have his sexist views and judgements given other people a licence to take advantage, to be hurtful, to change the course of development and take us back to the 50s? 

Has he legitimised hate and misogyny?

I feel angry.

Overwhelmingly angry in a way I have never done in all my adult life.

But that anger can also be used as a force to be reckoned with.

And that is what happened this weekend.

All over the world.

Women came together to say they are not going to take this shit.

That only they will make decisions about their own bodies.

That they are angry, furious, and are united in that anger.

This isn’t to the exclusion of men, far from it.

This is about uniting and collectively saying that this isn’t the world we want to grow old in, this isn’t the world we want our sons and daughters to inherit.

That something isn’t right just because you are told it is by an orange man in a toupee who has no experience in politics, but will be making life-changing decisions on our behalf.

Well no.

No fucking thank you.

On behalf of our grandmothers and great-grandmothers we say no. 

Sunday, 8 January 2017

Week 243- getting trashed, getting bitten and getting on the resolution train in week two...

You know when you have one of those calm Christmases where everything goes like clockwork, you feel relaxed and ready for the New Year, you make achievable, ambitious resolutions and start to do them on January 1st cos you are SO READY?


Me neither.

So I was all geared up to start going to the gym in the New Year.

I’d asked for gym gear for Christmas and disappointingly got it.

But on the plus side I am going to be a VISION in lyra now instead of an embarrassment in my pyjamas on the treadmill. 

The budget gym was working out to be not so budget as I’ve been once to a 20 minute class in four months so that cost me eight quid.

Or four quid a minute.

I think Beyonce gets out of bed for less.

But whatever.

2017 was going to be my year.

I’m getting married.

I’m going to finish my book.*

But firstly I’m going to get so fit that I’ll jog everywhere.

To work.

To pick the kids up.

To the kitchen.

I’m going to live in lycra.

So January day one. (Which is obviously 2nd Jan as everyone knows resolutions don’t actually start until the day after New Year’s Day.)

And I’ve got the mother of all sore throats. Like can’t-swallow-water sore.

Ah well. I’ll just catch up on Festive Corrie.

Day two and I wake up with a spider bite on my wrist.

A false widow spider.

A fucking spider bite.

Are you shitting me?

Who get’s bitten by a spider in January, whilst in bed?

I give it a scratch and it pops.


Fast forward three days and I’ve still got a throat like a bag of old razors and I’m sat in A and E with my infected bite.

The GP even looks a bit gipped out by it.

So. I haven’t exactly cracked the resolution thing yet, but when I say they start on day two, what it actually means is week two, right?

Happy New Year all.

Looking forward to sharing the next year with you.

*If I don’t finish my book, you have permission to trash my laptop and permanently lock me out of Facebook.

Sunday, 11 December 2016

Week 239- front room discos and eating like it's Christmas...

I am so getting into this Christmas lark, way more than the children.

They just want to sit off and watch telly but recently we’ve started to have a Christmas disco.

By disco I mean I put on youtube through the TV and dance to Fairytale of New York whilst the kids sit on the sofa whinging about when I’m going to put Shimmer and Shine back on.

Well, when people said Christmas comes into it’s own when you have kids, they were right.

I’ve watched The Snowman twice, The Polar Express and Elf and that’s just this weekend.

I’ve started buying a Lindt Christmas rabbit (but is it?) every time I walk past our posh newsagents as a matter of habit.

I’m having mince pies as an inbetween snack snack.

And I don’t even like them.

I am thinking about drinking ‘Christmas’ wine from about 2pm onwards.

In fact, if you preface most things with ‘Christmas’, you can get away with doing and eating anything.

Right then, I’m off to have a Christmas Snickers and watch a Christmas episode of Corrie on catch up.

I've got this festive shit nailed.

Sunday, 4 December 2016

Week 238- weddings, wind and wearing bad sports bras...

So, isn’t the deal with joining a gym that you instantly lose a stone, and then several subsequent pounds every time you put a pair of trainers on?

I’m back at my old gym.

By ‘back at’ I mean I’ve set up a direct debit and carry around a sense of guilt for not actually going.

I’ve tried one class.

Which was murder.

It’s not just that everyone on the entire planet is fitter than me, it’s that it’s learning a whole new language.

I thought a burpee was a cutsie way of referring to wind.

But it turns out it’s a torturous series of exercises where you go from lying down to jumping up mega quickly; subsequently putting the strength of your pelvic floor to the test.

I’m not a vain person.

You only need to look at the state of my current wardrobe, which is mainly the staple mum uniform of striped T-shirt and white converse with a pair of jeans that give me a 24-7 builders ass, to know that.

But I am getting married next year.

Pictures to mark the occasion might possibly lurk on the top of a family members piano for years to come.

I want my children to look back at the day and think, wowzers, my mum looks immense.

Instead of, was it the trend in 2017 to wear trainers and an ill-fitting T-shirt to your own wedding?

So I’m going in, I’m starting to take the gym more seriously that it just being a monthly reminder on a bank statement.

I’m going to buy a pair of leggings that haven’t been through two pregnancies.

I’m going to get rid of the sports bra that smells like the inside of a trainer and gives about as much support as a Satsuma net bag, in favour of the kind of thing they wear at the Olympics, all streamline and luminous.

I’m going to set personal bests.

And I’m going to smash them.

But, as with all good ideas, they start on Monday.

So first I’m going to get under a duvet and eat all the chocolates out my advent calendar in preparation for tomorrows new me.

I am all over this fitness thing already.