Sunday, 28 June 2015

Week 194 bleeding, gipping and Emily Bishop...

Now, I'm not saying I'm Florence Nightingale or anything when it comes to my children, but I thought I'd be able to deal with a bit of blood.

Turns out no.

Turns out I'm a total weaner when it comes to injuries, however minor.

This shouldn't have come as much of a surprise. 

I broke my toe on New Year's Eve in Thailand about a million years ago, and fainted at the sight of my own blood. 

In my defence it was a tad unexpected. 

We were in a shack that was on a cliff face and was built around the rocks. At midnight they turned the lights off to do the countdown and when they shouted 'Happy New Year,' turned them back on again, blasting out Billy Jean, my second all time fave Michael Jackson song, so I jumped in the air and in doing so smashed both feet into one of the rocks. 

There was blood everywhere. 

After a quick faint, I decided to ignore it, wrap my toe in bog roll and have another bucket of Thai whiskey.  

January 1st started well with a septic toe that still makes me gip when I think about it.

But I digress.

My daughter was pelting it down the road on her scooter and careered headlong into a bag of cement. 

By the time I reached her she was sobbing so much that I couldn't work out where one word ended and the next began, clutching a big bloody grazed elbow.

And all I could think was, 'shit. I definitely don't want to touch that.'

I scooped her up, carried her home, gave her two and a half ice lollies as a bribe so she'd let me put some Savalon on it.

I was trying to play it cool. Be the voice of confidence. 

But I was shouting at her about an octave higher that normal, projecting massive nervous body language that was anything but reassuring. 

I was back in that ramshackle nightclub looking down at a pool of blood again, gipping my face off.

Give me a car sick child any day. 

Puke. No wozzers. Blood. No thanks.

So. New mid year resolution.

I've going to man up.

Approach cuts and grazes with the confidence of Kanye, the professionalism of Alicia Florrick and the bedside manner of Emily Bishop. 

Either that or keep a shit load of ice lollies in the freezer. 

Sunday, 21 June 2015

Week 193- cruising, climbing and connect four...

So. The word on the parenting street is boys are more difficult when they're little but get easier when they're older.

For the love of God, let that be true.

My son won't sit still. 


Even in his sleep he slams his hand against the mattress like a wrestler tapping out. 

And meals are more of a promenade thing. 

He won't stay in a high chair for more than about 4 seconds, but you can feed him scraps while he's waddling around. He opens his mouth like a hungry bird then carries on cruising around the room.

His favourite things to do at the moment include:
Dropping connect four chips in your cup of tea
Sucking on your mobile phone until the screen starts to change colour
Climbing down off things head first and hoping someone is close enough to catch him before he smashes his head on the floor
Sticking his fingers so far up both of your nostrils that your eyes water. 

I know this can't last forever. 

I know it's just a phase.

I know there will be a point when he will stay in one place for more than a millisecond.

My worry is I'll have to wait another 17 years before it happens. 

Sunday, 14 June 2015

Week 192- sweating, sucking teeth and staying in bed...

Some weeks it would be cheaper and more productive to stay in bed with your head under the duvet. 

This has definitely been one of those weeks. 

Firstly, the car broke down. 

Our friend came round to jump start it. 

We drove it round the corner. 

It broke down. 

The RAC came out to tow it back round the corner to our house. 

And so the garage three doors up charged us forty quid call out to tow it up the road.

Thanks guys. 

So I had to push the children over to the childminders in a double buggy before jumping on the bus to work in the morning. 

It's Pigeon Street style hilly so I was virtually horizontal pushing it along. 

And sweating. A lot. With no change of shirt and a day of meetings in an airless room.

I smelt like the inside of a marathon runners trainer, only made worse by a mercy dash to Boots to liberally squirt myself with the tester perfumes.

BO and Chanel No. 5 do not a good combination maketh. 

So there was that.

And then we got three different kitchen fitters round to quote to take out our demolition-look kitchen. 

I've never been a good cook, but what I lack in skill, I make up in enthusiasm. 

Until we moved into our new house.

The kitchen has been build on a budget of about £4.50.

On day one of moving in I opened the top drawer on a set of four, and all of them fell down. And that is how they have stayed for the last three months.

But it turns out it is not only the kitchen that's the problem.

It's the boiler that's got about seven unidentifiable wires sticking out the bottom (who knew?)

So after much sucking of teeth, all three kitchen fitters independently recommended we get the boiler replaced before doing anything to the kitchen.

Which costs more money than two round the world flights.

So there was that.

And then I dropped my phone down the loo. No insurance. Obvs. It can't be claimed on the house insurance. Of course. And the 15 year old boy in the phone repair shop spent all day taking it apart to confirm that it definitely won't ever turn on again. Perfect.

So. Car bust. Boiler virtually condemned. Phone out of action. 

Deep breath.

Come on next week.

Do your worst. 

Sunday, 7 June 2015

Week 191- jobs lists, getting a grip and being a grown-up...

I can only assume that the idiot who made up the phrase, ‘if you want something done, ask a busy person,’ hadn’t ACTUALLY met a busy person.

There much be a point where you nail the balance between being a parent/ having a job/ applying eye make-up to both eyes before leaving the house/ visiting your own family more frequently than just Christmases and funerals.

But I’m not sure when you get to that point.

I kind of imagined that as the children got older, I would manage to create a bit of time for myself to read the odd page or two of my book. Or, God forbid, go and get a bikini wax.

But the fact that, according to my Kindle, I haven’t read more than 10% of We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves since I downloaded it two years ago, leads me to think that isn’t the current situ.

And as for managing to get a wax? Well, I don’t know how I’d begin to explain to a beauty therapist how I’d let things get so unruly, unless I’d been kept it solitary for the last decade.

So. I’m going to get a grip.

I’m going to get organised.

And I don’t mean just rewriting my jobs list to include things I’ve already done (brush teeth, drop children off at the childminders, make bed) so I have things to tick off, leaving the big stuff unfinished.  

When I first had my daughter, I had a rule that if I got one thing done that day, it was a success.

Now, the policy is, start 30 things badly and hope to fuck that I don’t leave a child somewhere or that the gas doesn’t get cut off as I’ve walked round with the unpaid bill crumpled up in the bottom of my bag for months.

I’m going to get one thing done a day from the ‘I’d rather eat me own shite that do that’ list.

So everyday I will be a little bit closer to being a grown-up.

The big stuff will become smaller, and the small stuff will just get done. 

First things first though. 

I'll write the list. 

Then rewrite it in my best handwriting obviously.

Sunday, 31 May 2015

Week 190- Big Daddy, downing shots and crowd-surfing like Eddie Vedder...

As I type, I am currently sat very sheepishly on a pile of cushions.

My back is so bruised it feels like I have been clotheslined by Big Daddy.

And I can’t complain about it out loud.

As this is isn’t an injury caused by tripping over my son’s walker.

Or slipping on a rogue soggy rice cracker.

Or from carrying the pram up and down the millions of stairs to our front door.

No. My back is so sore I can’t even put my coat on because I fell off a stage after an evening of celebratory drinking on my friend’s hen do.

Or if could have been from falling off the table I was dancing on.

Or both.

I can’t remember.

See, I think if you want to have a good night out. I mean a proper ‘dance till your feet bleed, sing till your voice is so horse you sound like Darth Vader’, night out...

... then go out with a mum of small children.

Because we are so massively delighted to be out, so hugely excited to be listening to music that doesn’t instruct you to touch your head/ shoulder/ knees/ toes, that we are absolute quality for money.

And often a cheap date too.

With little opportunity to get involved in hard liquor at home, two Sambuca’s and we’re absolutely floored.

We’re the first on the dance floor, and will dance to ANYTHING. Fire alarms, lift music, mobile phone ring tones. It doesn’t matter.

We often have no idea what the music is anyway, unless it’s been a question on Ken Bruce’s Popmaster or a dance routine on Milkshake’s Bop Box.

But most importantly, we’re a right laugh.

That’s partly because we don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks.

Once you’ve pushed out two babies in front of several midwives and student doctors, the thought of an impromptu twerk in the pub to BeyoncĂ©’s 'Crazy in Love' somehow doesn’t seem to register on the embarrassment scales as highly as it may have done pre-children.

So, if you’re putting together your dream night out guest list, have a think of any of your friends with kids.

Don’t think we won’t be up for it because we’re tired/ got to be up early/ are too grown up or sensible now to neck Tequilas and ass dance to Status Quo (no she didn't…)

But, and this is just a small plea, if you see us looking like we’re going to throw ourselves off a stage like Eddie Vedder...

... just shout 'NOT A GREAT IDEA!' or something along those lines. 

Because it’s a total bastard trying to carry two children the following day.

Monday, 25 May 2015

Three Generations of Women - the next step...

Right. Sorry in advance. This week's blog post isn't about parenting as such. 

But it is about being a mother. 

Or having a mother. 

Or knowing a mother.

Last year my theatre company, Broken Leg Theatre, developed a website for women to upload their stories, sharing experiences and memories of what it is to grow up in Britain over the last 100 years. 

And the response was immense. Like, truly incredible. 

Nearly 2000 stories were uploaded. Tales of courage, of oppression, of love. 

Secrets that were held in families for years, shared with us online. 

And from this, we wrote a play, which was performed to audiences in Brighton, London and Leeds as script in-hand-readings. 

We now want to build on this. 

To enable more women to share their stories by developing the website further. To hold writing workshops for women to find their voice. And to tour the play nationally. 

To do this we need to fundraise.

We've set up a crowdfunding campaign, and already within the first four days we've raised £1650. 


But we need to reach our target of £5500.

And we have only 28 days left to do it. 

So, if you can donate, that would be fantastic, but if not it would be amazing if you could repost this blog or the link to the campaign. 

Or have a look at the website, read some of the inspiring stories, and maybe add your own?

Because we've all got a voice, we've all got a story to share. 

And maybe this might be the right place for you to share yours.


Monday, 18 May 2015

Week 188- sleep, sewing and what success looks like...

My son sleeps through the night!

I know I’m tempting fate but I don’t fucking care!

Also, when I say the whole night, I mean his day starts at 4am now- but that’s the time some commuters get up to go to work, so technically, yes, he sleeps through the night.

Practically, my day now starts three hours earlier than it did when I used to drug him with breast milk from 2am onwards as I lay there like a bed-bound heifer attempting to catch another 40 winks while he used me as a human dummy.

But those days are over *dusting hands*

We are moving on.

And I am going to embrace these eye-wateringly early starts.

I was having a think about what I could do with an extra three hours a day while still entertaining a one-year-old.

  • Finish writing my novel
  • Upload and print out all the millions of pictures I have of my children that are lurking on a range of digital devices
  • Clean out the cupboards
  • Sew at least one button back on every item of clothing my children own
  • Sort out the children’s clothes to filter out all the really titchy baby gros I’m still squeezing my son into.

Day one. My son plays happily on the floor as I turn on the computer, then sit with my eyes shut in front of it as the glare feels like it is burning my retinas.

Day two. Tip out three drawers of children’s clothes onto the floor, just to stare at them for a couple of hours, then squash them all back into the drawers again.

Day three. Sit on the sofa under a duvet with my son in a headlock. 5.30am he gives in and goes to sleep on me.

Forget fast cars and big houses.

This is what success now looks like.

Quick plea...
If you enjoy my blog, please could spare two minutes to vote for my blog in a couple of awards….

I’ve been shortlisted for the Brit Mums Brilliance in Blogging Awards in the writer category, the link is here; the writer category is number 7, and my blog's called You Can Take Her Home Now… (

Secondly, the MAD awards have just opened, I’ve been a finalist three times in the writing category, and it would be fab to be there again, the link to that is: (The writer category is second from the bottom on the second screen after you’ve nominated your blog of the year.)

Thanks! x