Sunday, 19 March 2017

Week 252- bathrooms, B and Q and brilliant ideas...

You know how you have those moments when everything comes together and you feel all content and calm, and look at your family and home and think, yep, I’ve got this shit nailed?

No. Me neither.

So I had this brilliant idea that now would be the time to do up our old lady bathroom.

That I couldn’t have another bath looking up at the apricot polystyrene tiles on the ceiling.

That the sink that has been fitted inside a kitchen unit, (that’s right, someone had the fantastic idea to build a kitchen unit in a bathroom,) was losing its quirky charm.

I could have done a bit or research.

Worked out what we wanted.

Costed it up.

Got some drawings or whatever it is you do done.

That would have been the sensible thing to do.

Alternatively, I could have just thought fuck it, I’ll get the wall knocked down and then work out what the fuck we’re doing afterwards.

So. There is one minor problem here.

Actually there’s loads if you think we now have to go to a neighbours to bath the kids until we get our shit together, but on the plus side my gym membership is finally paying off with using their shower every other day.

But the main problemo is our totally change averse two-year-old.

I had tried to warn him that the bathroom might look a tad different when we were driving home from the childminders.

I could see him clenching his little firsts and sucking his lip in, gearing up for the mother of all mardies.

But I reckon half the street could here his screams of ‘FIX IT! FIX IT! FIX IT!’ as he looked at the half torn down wall.

I kind of get what he means.



This doesn’t scream 'long soak listening to radio four with the candles lit.'

But it will.

I will have an aspirational bathroom that cries out how together my life is.

Then I’m going to build my life around it.

I’m just one B and Q bathroom planning session away from being a grown up.



Sunday, 5 March 2017

Week 250- potties, poo and pissing on the table...

I had forgotten how 100% disgusting potty training it.

I think it’s like birth.

Your brain cancels out the pain; otherwise you’d insist that your child wears a nappy until they turn eighteen.

It’s not just the that wee and shit gets EVERYWHERE.

It’s the number of times a day you find yourself saying in a loud shouty yet trying to be encouraging voice, ‘do you need a wee? do you need a poo? do you need a wee? do you need a poo? do you need a wee? do you need a poo? do you need a wee? do you need a poo? do you need a wee? do you need a poo? do you need a wee? do you need a poo? do you need a wee? do you need a poo?’ whilst chasing a two-year-old around a packed playground with a potty.

But that’s all part of the job, right?

That’s part of the pay off of having these little creatures who love you unconditionally and think you’re the best thing ever.

What is not part of the deal is your little boy climbing onto the kitchen table when you’ve left the room for less than two seconds and weeing all over the table whilst your five year old is eating her breakfast.

Seriously?

Pissing on the table.

‘What are you doing??’ I ask in total despair.

And his response?

‘You’re my best friend.’

It’s like living with the drunk friend who is a fucking nightmare to go out with, but always manages to charm you round the next day even though they’ve ripped your favourite top they’d borrowed without asking and puked and missed the loo in the shared bathroom.

If this is him at age two, what do the teenage years hold?


Kill. Me. Now.  

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. 

WFT?

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? 

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?

Nope.

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.

Gross.

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.