Sunday 25 October 2015

Week 221- zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

We've 'gained' an hours sleep today?



What about it your children wake up at what-the-fucking-time-do-you-call-this-o'clock normally?

Then is it a lie in?



Wow, the changing of the clocks can really bring out the worst in a person. 

Sunday 18 October 2015

Week 210- glow sticks, whistles and clubbing in a community centre...

I've found the ultimate bridge between my pre and post children life.

It's called Clubbercise.

It's an exercise class disguised as a very early night out clubbing.

But instead of being in an actual club, it's in a community centre.

And instead of pulling your own moves, you are following a routine demonstrated by a buff, overly-tanned instructor wearing a luminous T-shirt with the slogan 'you sweat and I glow' on it, who screeches 'I LOVE THIS TUNE, I'M GETTING GOOSE BUMPS!' down his Madonna headset every five seconds. 

But other than that it's exactly* like clubbing.

And they play 90s dance music.

And you get free glow sticks.

AND you can buy a whistle for a quid.


On top of that (wait, there's more?) you don't feel like shit the next day, there's no impending sense of doom about who you might have tried to get off with or why you've got a foot print on the back of your t-shirt. 

But the best part is that, unlike clubbing when I used to roll in at the time I now get up with my children, Clubbercise finishes at 8pm so I could, if I wanted, be in bed by 8.20.

Now, try telling me that isn't the sensible future of going out? 

*It's not even a bit like clubbing, not even going to a really shit club. 

Sunday 11 October 2015

Week 209- White walls, marmitey hands and living in squalor...

Cleaning is like Groundhog Day in our house since my son's learnt to walk.

He basically follows me round the house emptying cupboards, upturning boxes of Lego or spitting out mouthfuls of grapes that he's been storing in his cheeks for anything up to a record two hours (including a nap.)

I reach the end of cleaning the house only to turn round and see a small trail-of-destruction grinning at me, and around we go again.

I want to be all, 'they're just children, let them have fun' about it.

But really I would like to put my children in a Pope-mobile-style container in the middle of the front room whilst I cleaned round them, then rush them out the house, one under each arm like a couple of rugby balls, before they had chance to touch anything. 

I Pinterest the fuck out of white, calm, Scandinavian-inspired houses, and wonder if one day I might be brave enough to paint anything white. 

We attempted it on one wall, which is now a collage of marmitey hand prints.

I imagine myself, all- glass of something that cost more than £4.99 from Aldi in one hand, and an award-winning book that doesn't involve a detective or have pictures in it in the other; sitting on a white sofa, illuminated by white walls that hang an eclectic mix of original prints. 

The rug wouldn't be hiding a selection of Lego pieces ready to tread on with bare feet.

And the remote control would be where I put it down, instead of hidden with a variety of other 'treasures' in the cupboard under the sink.

This is, I realise, just a dream, at least for the next few years anyway.

So until that time I shall just learn to embrace the squalor.

And carry a bottle of Detol spray around with me on a holster at all times. 

Sunday 4 October 2015

Week 208- shouting, running and Corrie on catch-up...

My 18-month-old son can say, ‘mummy.’

It’s definitely mummy.

Not mumma.

Or mmmmmm.

As of two days ago, it is mummy.

The first time he said it I squeezed him so hard that he hit me over the head with a piece of Duplo.

I just thought, ‘here we go. We can now start communicating.’

And we have.

As he has very quickly realised that when he shouts, ‘MUMMY!’ I will come running in a way I didn’t so much when it was just noise.

He will peg it into another room, both arms firmly raised above his head and bellow, ‘MUMMY!’, to which I drop whatever I’m doing and appear at the door to see he’s just trying his new found power out for size.

Fair play to him.

If I found a word that would make people do what I wanted 24/7 I’d probably be yelling it too.

This would all be fine, except my daughter has realised she’s got competition.

It used to be that she acted as my son’s mouthpiece. She would second guess what he wanted and be like, ‘he doesn’t like your cooking mummy, he just wants pasta and pesto’ or ‘he’s crying because he wants to watch Frozen,’ or ‘he wants you to give me some sweets mummy, that’s why he’s upset,’ etc etc.

But now I have two children shouting my name from the moment they wake up.

All I hear is ‘ MUMMY, MUMMY, MUMMY!’ on loop like some kind of bad trip.  

And they very rarely actually want anything.

Please let him learn some more words so that I can at least shout back, ‘WHAT IS IT THIS TIME? CAN’T YOU JUST DO IT YOURSELF SO THAT I CAN FINISH WATCHING CORRIE ON CATCH-UP?’

Then we’ll really be communicating like a proper family.