Wednesday, 16 April 2014

How to Know When Your Garden has been Toddlered...

A strange thing has been happening to my garden the past two years... Something very odd. And bright. And loud. And shitty. And annoying.

Yes. It appears my garden has been 'toddlered'. In fact my entire summer has been bastard-well toddlered.

And yes. This is a term. Just as being 'ginned' is also a term. (Don't look at me like that.)

Here's how to tell:


  1. Your elegant adult bistro table has been given a toddler makeover. No longer is it for supping prosecco in the evening sun... NO. Now it's been bejazzled with playdoh, had a gentle soil-based re-spray and one of the neighbourhood cats has taken a shit in the centre of it.
  2. Remember when used to have decorative stones... PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... *pauses for a moment to cry and re-compose* PAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
  3. Any exposed patch of soil is fair game for a snack... Your lovingly-prepared homemade dinners - F@*K NO.  This pile of plant debris and worm excrement - HELL YES. Think about that...
  4. Every night an army of ninja eagles will take it in turns to fire enormous curly turds at the slide you just cleaned. Luckily baby wipes are remarkably effective at removing even the curliest shit... Toddler or otherwise. 
  5. The amount of time you spend setting up your own private aqua park is directly relevant to how long they spend playing in it. A good hour of modern water-based engineering will probably buy you five minutes before they decide they'd rather eat some crisps and watch Peppa-the-arsehole-Pig. 
  6. Play-sand has been sent down from Satan himself to break the weaker parents amongst us. Remember. This is why summer is such a good time for outdoor alcohol. 
  7. Also - you'll find play-sand underneath your boobs until September. And you'll be changing toddler nappies of the self exfoliating kind until then too...
  8. They will wait until the moment you have got comfortable and commence operation PPF. (Paddling Pool Floater) if you're not quick enough one of the cats will fish it out and begin playing keepy-uppy with it on the white decorative stones...
  9. Your paddling pool is year round. It says on the box. Yes. It does. IT DOES. *downs gin*
  10. Long shorts are the way to go now. Even in the privacy of your own garden, the world will not thank you for wearing shorts that ride up inside your actual vagina.
  11. Tanning oil plus toddlers does not work. Your life is P20 now. And shoulder-only tans. Live with it.
  12. The best game will always be the one that involves the most BBQ ash. Mixed with water. And sand. And your dignity. And gin.

#YourGardenHasBeenToddlered
#YourLifeHasBeenToddlered
#YourLifeisGin
#Gin





Thursday, 10 April 2014

My Mummyhood Body

I'm bastard-well proud of my Mummyhood body,
It's wobbly and wonky and flabby.
It's fair to say my trunk, is carrying a little too much junk,
But overall I don't feel too shabby.

My hips have spread,
my boobs are dead,
and my bum's more a pasty than peach.
My hair's like straw,
my feet are still sore,
and my cellulite starts at my knees.

My wrists don't work,
I'm too stiff to twerk,
I look like I've been punched in both eyes.
My waist has gone,
I can no longer wear a thong,
there's some serious thunder in my thighs.

Praise be to spanx,
I owe you many thanks,
for hiding my muffin top in my vagina. (or something)
My tum takes too much room,
but it's better than my womb;
it's fair to say it's hardly 'designer'...

My back bloody aches,
my hair colour's a mistake,
my stretch-marks come out in the sun.
Everything sags,
including my eye-bags,
It ALL points south once you're a mum.

But I'm still shitting proud of my Mummyhood body,
With its battle-scars and lumpy bits all in.
It's curvy and quirky and some parts flap in the wind,
And mostly I'm held together with gin*.

*gin and cake and gin

#MummyhoodBody
#gincakegin
#gin



Monday, 7 April 2014

WallyBubba's Expert Guide to Time-wasting....

It should never be taken for granted quite how much time an accomplished two-year-old can waste. If they know you are in a rush or under any kind of time pressure whatsoever, they will double their efforts (or technically 'lack of effort') immediately. And whilst smiling. Wankers.

So without further a do, here's WallyBubba's Guide to Time-wasting for Modern Toddlers:


  1. Each morning insist on choosing your own clothing. From the dress-up drawer. Don't ever back down. Ask yourself what Rapunzel would have done.... That's right - a swift punch to the vagina and unrelenting demands to be dressed as an Elf. On a side note - no matter what Mummy says there is absolutely NO upper limit on how long you can *brush your teeth (*suck your toothbrush)
  2. During breakfast, be sure to ask only for fruits not in season/unavailable in the UK. Tell that bitch to kumquat up your Weetabix else you'll have her skin removed and made into hat. 
  3. No, you didn't ask simply for 'Peppa', you were very specific that you wanted the one with the fishpond. And you'll be pissing on the sofa until that happens. 
  4. Whilst out on a walk with Mummy/Daddy or another large human, be sure to pause and comment on the weather every minute or so. It's very important to remind adults that's it's 'rayyyyyyyyyneeeeeeeennnn' continuously incase they forget. Or try to leave the house without you wearing your welly-boots again. *rolls eyes*
  5. If asked to walk quickly or 'hurry up', stop immediately and find interest in a stone, patch of dirt or your own naval. Sit on the floor and prod at it for at least five minutes. 
  6. Push your own buggy. They like that.
  7. Refuse to enter any shops which don't sell toys. They like that too. 
  8. Upon entering a toy retailer, be sure to grab the toy trolley and fill it with all the things you wish Mummy would buy you. When that cold bitch refuses to buy you the complete Octonauts set, tantrum until you throw up. Then roll in it.  
  9. At dinnertime, be completely adamant that you want sausages. When the sausages arrive, go bat shit crazy and demand pizza. Once the pizza arrives, decide you hate pizza. Ask for raisins. Once Mummy starts crying, decide you want sausages after all. Eat them whilst laughing at her tears. 
  10. Also, for at least one day a week decide that you wish to eat all food without actually touching it. Takes a while but eventually they just give you a cake. 
  11. Any time you are about to leave the house, wait until the last moment... and release a turd the size of your own arm. Also known as Operation 'Kraken'. 
  12. Hide all the shoes. That'll f@*k with them. 
  13. Never let them remove your pink blanket of power... *whispers* it's how you get your strength... 

#everydayisginday
#gingingin
#operationKraken


Tuesday, 1 April 2014

The Mother's Day Reality Check...

Ok.

I don't want to sound like a bitter, twisted, old gin-lush (although I'm mostly proud of being all these things) but I think we can all be fairly honest about the myth that is 'Mother's Day'...

It's supposed to be a celebration of motherhood. But what it mostly is, is an opportunity for you to be crushed by immense disappointment at the point where you're most vulnerable... with wine.

So whilst we're all still dwelling in misery, here's some of the realities of Mothering Sunday for us all to cry over:


The Dream : A lie-in.
The Reality : The bastard shitting clocks go forward.

The Dream : Beautiful flowers (yes, ones that have a little card and are actually not from a reduced bucket outside a petrol station) and some posh chocs...
The Reality : A limp, slightly chewed daffodil that smells of fox piss and a twix.

The Dream : Expensive champagne.
The Reality : Wine. From Aldi. In a mug. With a straw for you to blow your own bubbles into.

The Dream : A bath.
The Reality : A quick rub under the arm-pits with a baby-wipe while the cats groom the marmite from behind your ears...

The Dream : A posh lunch.
The Reality : A Pot Noodle with the water already poured in. With a Thomas the Tank Engine fork.

The Dream : To feel beautiful and worshipped by your family.
The Reality : You receive a portrait of you with a beard from the toddler. Plus - you just found an actual piece of of human shit in your fringe.

The Dream : Lavish gifts.
The Reality : A pasta necklace and a card made out of a sock. And your own tears.

The Dream : To wear an actual dress. Without leggings.
The Reality : Bras hurt. And yes. It is possible for your actual skin to fuse with your spanx.

The Dream : A day of relaxation where you don't have to lift a finger...
The Reality : Someone's pissed on you. And you're so twatted gin comes out of your nose when you laugh.

The Dream : To not feel disappointed.
The Reality : The realisation that this is as good as it's ever gonna get... but you actually f@*king love that conchigelle-based-bangle and alcohol is better out of a mug anyway.


#ginmug
#mothersday




Wednesday, 26 March 2014

Thank You... A MADs Poem... (contains alcohol...naturally)


Thank you ALL for getting me to the finals of the MADs,
Thanks for crying with me, laughing and re-tweeting.
Thank you for letting me bang on about my uterus all day,
Thank you Tanqueray for helping with the healing...

Thanks to my downstairs loo for giving me 5-MINUTES BASTARD PEACE.
Thank you to my husband for putting a lock on it.
Thank you to CBeebies for my 4 o'clock sit down,
Thanks to Peppa for distracting her while I scoff chocolate...

Thanks very much to Spanx for separating my legs from my actual arse.
Thank you secret underwear for hiding my boob-sags.
Thank you twitter and facebook for being my 5am blurry-eyed friend.
Thank you lovely Instagram for filtering out my eye-bags.

Thank you to my daughter for being a f@*king awesome little dude.
Thanks for the hours you spend playing with that tea-set.
Thank you little lady for all the blogging material you provide,
And thank the shitting universe she can't read yet...

So thanks to every one of you who enjoys my random rants,
Thank you for every comment, every tweet, every grin.
Thanks to everyone who tells me my blog makes them pee their pants,
Let's just say I owe you all a gin.


#ginformums
#thankyou



Thanks so much to everyone who voted to get me on the shortlist for 'Most Entertaining Blog' in this year's MAD Blog Awards. 

Now I need you votes to WIN (and make me feel less guilty about all the cake, gin and toblerones...), so please take a few seconds to follow the link below, enter your name/e-mail and then use the drop down menu to select 'Just a Normal Mummy' in the Most Entertaining Blog category (last one on the form):


http://www.the-mads.com/vote/




Monday, 24 March 2014

Mother's Day According to the Toddler...

Ok Mummy.

Let's talk 'Mother's Day'.

Let's get a few things straight for next weekend shall we...

Firstly.

It's not your day. It's mine. You're only a Mummy because of ME. Ergo - MY DAY. Buy me shit.

You've had your fun. If you think for a second I haven't spotted you on facebook during the seventh verse of The Wheels on the Bus, you're wrong. I see you. I see EVERYTHING. Like Jesus.

So. Here are my requirements on this, the other day of the year celebrating my birth:

  • I want a unicorn.
  • And some chips.
  • I'd suggest some kind of unicorn-based-chip-transport to kill two birds with one stone...
  • On a side note. Please put some bloody mascara or lipgloss on when we go out from now on. I saw that 'no make-up selfie' you put on Facebook this week. I threw up in my mouth a little bit.
  • No. I won't give you a life in candy crush so stop shitting asking.
  • At bedtime, I wish to not only pick the story, but also decide in which order we read the pages. 
  • I should like to spend any time I'm not eating surrounded by balls. Of all colours. Except orange. F@*k you orange. 
  • Please cut the crusts from my sandwiches. Just before I refuse to eat them anyway. And demand a sausage. 
  • When I tip the beaker before it reaches my mouth showering myself in drink that's because that's the way I BASTARD WELL LIKE IT OK.
  • Sniff my arse in public again and I'll have your kidneys removed with spoons and made into shoes. 
  • From now on I should like to go swimming at least once a day.... And by swimming I mean wear my swimming costume and arm bands to the edge of the pool and then scream the second my foot touches the water before leaving clung to your neck like a agoraphobic koala. 
  • I shall now be moving everywhere via the medium of 'Ballet'. When things get ugly around the house, I shall also be using Ballet as a martial art to put shit back in line. 
  • Don't touch my hair again. (The kidneys-spoon-thing from earlier applies to this too.
  • Also. I hiss now. The cats taught me. 
  • can wear hats, I just choose not to. You, however, should not wear hats. Just saying.
  • You were mistaken. My version of 'Dinkle, Dinkle, Little Start' is clearly far superior... But I forgive you. Because you're pretty. And bring me pizza.
  • Oh yeah, and Daddy says yes, he got all your very unsubtle hints about wanting something Mulberry shaped by way of a Mother's Day gift from me, but he's gone with my suggestion of some Mummy Pig socks and a Curly-Wurly. Thank me later. I got your back. 

#thisiswhyginwasinvented
#MothersDay
#GinDay





Monday, 17 March 2014

'Twatty-Toddler-Hour' and Other Tales from the Terrible Twos...

Since turning two, WallyBubba has been going through what can only be described as a period of 'change'.

She has slowly been developing a rather serious, and potentially harmful (to others), coming-of-age condition known as 'Toddler-Bastard-Hood' or TBH to us in the know... *shudders*

This condition is no joke.

NO laughing matter.

(Well, occasionally... when you start laughing those slightly hysterical laugh-tears whilst rocking a bit and trying to go to your happy place...)

It effects over 90% of toddlers and is known to change even the sweetest, kindest and politest of one year olds into total 'shits'. (technical term)

It's not all bad news; if caught early, the symptoms may be reduced using copious amounts of gin and moderate wailing/chocolate consumption. But it's important that parents have all the information possible in order to recognise the beginnings of this horrific disease.

Please refer to the tick list below so that together we can work together to eradicate TBH and unite in a Hendricks/Toblerone haze...


Key symptoms:
  1. Your child spends at least one day a week refusing to eat anything other than cheese. Angrily. With a spork. 
  2. Baths. Remember those...? Well. They don't occur without you bleeding anymore... 
  3. Your child asks to go to the playground. Upon arrival, your child insists this is a huge misunderstanding, and that they in fact HATE the playground. They then beat you in the face with one of the toddler swings in order to ridicule you in front of some tutting old people and some smug mummies who are wearing actual lipgloss. (This is how you know you are not one of them...
  4. No matter how many times you say their name, they ignore you... until you break... Once you're weak, then they spit on you and help themselves to a packet of fruit wriggles from the change bag while you cry...  
  5. Any attempt to calm them following a tantrum results in someone*, somewhere losing an eye and/or their sanity. *you
  6. The lack of afternoon nap means you hit a 3-o-clock slump which I now refer to as the 'twatty-toddler-hour', where literally NOTHING can appease them. They stamp on rabbits, hurl raisins at moving vehicles, and eat entire wax crayons without chewing. Then promptly take a shit in the middle of the floor and blame you for it. Obviously. 
  7. There will be no nappies or socks after midday. And if you think they are ever wearing a hat ever again then you clearly don't value your skin. 
  8. When things get really bad, we (me, the Ninky-Nonk, Lola, the scuttlebug and a pair of Daddy's shoes....) are subjected to an angry tea party. Where each of the participants is forced to eat wooden cake and drink tea until WallyBubba BASTARD WELL DECIDES YOU'RE FINISHED. It's fairly traumatising once you enter the third hour... *sobs a bit* 
  9. Never, ever, EVER put Charlie and Lola on without first asking if there was a preference. You. IDIOT. Now you have to watch Peppa F*@king Pig back-to-back for a month.
  10. They keep asking to do crafts. But become totally inconsolable when they realise their annoying chubby little toddler hands can't hold the paintbrushes properly... They also lie about NOT eating paint. Whilst eating paint. Wankers. 
  11. When they stare at you... you now know it's because they are collecting pieces of your soul for Mordor... and this scares you... a lot. You're very thankful for all the gin now...

#TBH
#Twatty-toddler-hour
#gin


Wot So Funee?

Friday, 14 March 2014

Rugga-Tot

We've got ourselves a Rugga-Tot,
Her kit's as white as snow.
And everywhere that Daddy goes,
Her mini-England strip's on show.

We love our little Rugga-Tot,
She'll grow up supporting the Lion.
Despite her objection to all types of vegetable,
I see cauliflower ears on the horizon...

We've bred a little Rugga-Tot
Daddy's sure she won't be late...
At developing her back line and passing skills;
He's already enrolled her as England No.8.

So, we've got ourselves a Rugga-Tot,
Her tackling brings Daddy joy...
Something tells me if we have another baby,
He might be hoping for a boy!


#Mummyjusthopesforgin
#Rugga-Tot


All the Small Things - MummyNeverSleeps

How to Know When Your Garden has been Toddlered...

A strange thing has been happening to my garden the past two years... Something very odd. And bright. And loud. And shitty. And annoying.

Yes. It appears my garden has been 'toddlered'. In fact my entire summer has been bastard-well toddlered.

And yes. This is a term. Just as being 'ginned' is also a term. (Don't look at me like that.)

Here's how to tell:


  1. Your elegant adult bistro table has been given a toddler makeover. No longer is it for supping prosecco in the evening sun... NO. Now it's been bejazzled with playdoh, had a gentle soil-based re-spray and one of the neighbourhood cats has taken a shit in the centre of it.
  2. Remember when used to have decorative stones... PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... *pauses for a moment to cry and re-compose* PAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
  3. Any exposed patch of soil is fair game for a snack... Your lovingly-prepared homemade dinners - F@*K NO.  This pile of plant debris and worm excrement - HELL YES. Think about that...
  4. Every night an army of ninja eagles will take it in turns to fire enormous curly turds at the slide you just cleaned. Luckily baby wipes are remarkably effective at removing even the curliest shit... Toddler or otherwise. 
  5. The amount of time you spend setting up your own private aqua park is directly relevant to how long they spend playing in it. A good hour of modern water-based engineering will probably buy you five minutes before they decide they'd rather eat some crisps and watch Peppa-the-arsehole-Pig. 
  6. Play-sand has been sent down from Satan himself to break the weaker parents amongst us. Remember. This is why summer is such a good time for outdoor alcohol. 
  7. Also - you'll find play-sand underneath your boobs until September. And you'll be changing toddler nappies of the self exfoliating kind until then too...
  8. They will wait until the moment you have got comfortable and commence operation PPF. (Paddling Pool Floater) if you're not quick enough one of the cats will fish it out and begin playing keepy-uppy with it on the white decorative stones...
  9. Your paddling pool is year round. It says on the box. Yes. It does. IT DOES. *downs gin*
  10. Long shorts are the way to go now. Even in the privacy of your own garden, the world will not thank you for wearing shorts that ride up inside your actual vagina.
  11. Tanning oil plus toddlers does not work. Your life is P20 now. And shoulder-only tans. Live with it.
  12. The best game will always be the one that involves the most BBQ ash. Mixed with water. And sand. And your dignity. And gin.

#YourGardenHasBeenToddlered
#YourLifeHasBeenToddlered
#YourLifeisGin
#Gin





My Mummyhood Body

I'm bastard-well proud of my Mummyhood body,
It's wobbly and wonky and flabby.
It's fair to say my trunk, is carrying a little too much junk,
But overall I don't feel too shabby.

My hips have spread,
my boobs are dead,
and my bum's more a pasty than peach.
My hair's like straw,
my feet are still sore,
and my cellulite starts at my knees.

My wrists don't work,
I'm too stiff to twerk,
I look like I've been punched in both eyes.
My waist has gone,
I can no longer wear a thong,
there's some serious thunder in my thighs.

Praise be to spanx,
I owe you many thanks,
for hiding my muffin top in my vagina. (or something)
My tum takes too much room,
but it's better than my womb;
it's fair to say it's hardly 'designer'...

My back bloody aches,
my hair colour's a mistake,
my stretch-marks come out in the sun.
Everything sags,
including my eye-bags,
It ALL points south once you're a mum.

But I'm still shitting proud of my Mummyhood body,
With its battle-scars and lumpy bits all in.
It's curvy and quirky and some parts flap in the wind,
And mostly I'm held together with gin*.

*gin and cake and gin

#MummyhoodBody
#gincakegin
#gin



WallyBubba's Expert Guide to Time-wasting....

It should never be taken for granted quite how much time an accomplished two-year-old can waste. If they know you are in a rush or under any kind of time pressure whatsoever, they will double their efforts (or technically 'lack of effort') immediately. And whilst smiling. Wankers.

So without further a do, here's WallyBubba's Guide to Time-wasting for Modern Toddlers:


  1. Each morning insist on choosing your own clothing. From the dress-up drawer. Don't ever back down. Ask yourself what Rapunzel would have done.... That's right - a swift punch to the vagina and unrelenting demands to be dressed as an Elf. On a side note - no matter what Mummy says there is absolutely NO upper limit on how long you can *brush your teeth (*suck your toothbrush)
  2. During breakfast, be sure to ask only for fruits not in season/unavailable in the UK. Tell that bitch to kumquat up your Weetabix else you'll have her skin removed and made into hat. 
  3. No, you didn't ask simply for 'Peppa', you were very specific that you wanted the one with the fishpond. And you'll be pissing on the sofa until that happens. 
  4. Whilst out on a walk with Mummy/Daddy or another large human, be sure to pause and comment on the weather every minute or so. It's very important to remind adults that's it's 'rayyyyyyyyyneeeeeeeennnn' continuously incase they forget. Or try to leave the house without you wearing your welly-boots again. *rolls eyes*
  5. If asked to walk quickly or 'hurry up', stop immediately and find interest in a stone, patch of dirt or your own naval. Sit on the floor and prod at it for at least five minutes. 
  6. Push your own buggy. They like that.
  7. Refuse to enter any shops which don't sell toys. They like that too. 
  8. Upon entering a toy retailer, be sure to grab the toy trolley and fill it with all the things you wish Mummy would buy you. When that cold bitch refuses to buy you the complete Octonauts set, tantrum until you throw up. Then roll in it.  
  9. At dinnertime, be completely adamant that you want sausages. When the sausages arrive, go bat shit crazy and demand pizza. Once the pizza arrives, decide you hate pizza. Ask for raisins. Once Mummy starts crying, decide you want sausages after all. Eat them whilst laughing at her tears. 
  10. Also, for at least one day a week decide that you wish to eat all food without actually touching it. Takes a while but eventually they just give you a cake. 
  11. Any time you are about to leave the house, wait until the last moment... and release a turd the size of your own arm. Also known as Operation 'Kraken'. 
  12. Hide all the shoes. That'll f@*k with them. 
  13. Never let them remove your pink blanket of power... *whispers* it's how you get your strength... 

#everydayisginday
#gingingin
#operationKraken


The Mother's Day Reality Check...

Ok.

I don't want to sound like a bitter, twisted, old gin-lush (although I'm mostly proud of being all these things) but I think we can all be fairly honest about the myth that is 'Mother's Day'...

It's supposed to be a celebration of motherhood. But what it mostly is, is an opportunity for you to be crushed by immense disappointment at the point where you're most vulnerable... with wine.

So whilst we're all still dwelling in misery, here's some of the realities of Mothering Sunday for us all to cry over:


The Dream : A lie-in.
The Reality : The bastard shitting clocks go forward.

The Dream : Beautiful flowers (yes, ones that have a little card and are actually not from a reduced bucket outside a petrol station) and some posh chocs...
The Reality : A limp, slightly chewed daffodil that smells of fox piss and a twix.

The Dream : Expensive champagne.
The Reality : Wine. From Aldi. In a mug. With a straw for you to blow your own bubbles into.

The Dream : A bath.
The Reality : A quick rub under the arm-pits with a baby-wipe while the cats groom the marmite from behind your ears...

The Dream : A posh lunch.
The Reality : A Pot Noodle with the water already poured in. With a Thomas the Tank Engine fork.

The Dream : To feel beautiful and worshipped by your family.
The Reality : You receive a portrait of you with a beard from the toddler. Plus - you just found an actual piece of of human shit in your fringe.

The Dream : Lavish gifts.
The Reality : A pasta necklace and a card made out of a sock. And your own tears.

The Dream : To wear an actual dress. Without leggings.
The Reality : Bras hurt. And yes. It is possible for your actual skin to fuse with your spanx.

The Dream : A day of relaxation where you don't have to lift a finger...
The Reality : Someone's pissed on you. And you're so twatted gin comes out of your nose when you laugh.

The Dream : To not feel disappointed.
The Reality : The realisation that this is as good as it's ever gonna get... but you actually f@*king love that conchigelle-based-bangle and alcohol is better out of a mug anyway.


#ginmug
#mothersday




Thank You... A MADs Poem... (contains alcohol...naturally)


Thank you ALL for getting me to the finals of the MADs,
Thanks for crying with me, laughing and re-tweeting.
Thank you for letting me bang on about my uterus all day,
Thank you Tanqueray for helping with the healing...

Thanks to my downstairs loo for giving me 5-MINUTES BASTARD PEACE.
Thank you to my husband for putting a lock on it.
Thank you to CBeebies for my 4 o'clock sit down,
Thanks to Peppa for distracting her while I scoff chocolate...

Thanks very much to Spanx for separating my legs from my actual arse.
Thank you secret underwear for hiding my boob-sags.
Thank you twitter and facebook for being my 5am blurry-eyed friend.
Thank you lovely Instagram for filtering out my eye-bags.

Thank you to my daughter for being a f@*king awesome little dude.
Thanks for the hours you spend playing with that tea-set.
Thank you little lady for all the blogging material you provide,
And thank the shitting universe she can't read yet...

So thanks to every one of you who enjoys my random rants,
Thank you for every comment, every tweet, every grin.
Thanks to everyone who tells me my blog makes them pee their pants,
Let's just say I owe you all a gin.


#ginformums
#thankyou



Thanks so much to everyone who voted to get me on the shortlist for 'Most Entertaining Blog' in this year's MAD Blog Awards. 

Now I need you votes to WIN (and make me feel less guilty about all the cake, gin and toblerones...), so please take a few seconds to follow the link below, enter your name/e-mail and then use the drop down menu to select 'Just a Normal Mummy' in the Most Entertaining Blog category (last one on the form):


http://www.the-mads.com/vote/




Mother's Day According to the Toddler...

Ok Mummy.

Let's talk 'Mother's Day'.

Let's get a few things straight for next weekend shall we...

Firstly.

It's not your day. It's mine. You're only a Mummy because of ME. Ergo - MY DAY. Buy me shit.

You've had your fun. If you think for a second I haven't spotted you on facebook during the seventh verse of The Wheels on the Bus, you're wrong. I see you. I see EVERYTHING. Like Jesus.

So. Here are my requirements on this, the other day of the year celebrating my birth:

  • I want a unicorn.
  • And some chips.
  • I'd suggest some kind of unicorn-based-chip-transport to kill two birds with one stone...
  • On a side note. Please put some bloody mascara or lipgloss on when we go out from now on. I saw that 'no make-up selfie' you put on Facebook this week. I threw up in my mouth a little bit.
  • No. I won't give you a life in candy crush so stop shitting asking.
  • At bedtime, I wish to not only pick the story, but also decide in which order we read the pages. 
  • I should like to spend any time I'm not eating surrounded by balls. Of all colours. Except orange. F@*k you orange. 
  • Please cut the crusts from my sandwiches. Just before I refuse to eat them anyway. And demand a sausage. 
  • When I tip the beaker before it reaches my mouth showering myself in drink that's because that's the way I BASTARD WELL LIKE IT OK.
  • Sniff my arse in public again and I'll have your kidneys removed with spoons and made into shoes. 
  • From now on I should like to go swimming at least once a day.... And by swimming I mean wear my swimming costume and arm bands to the edge of the pool and then scream the second my foot touches the water before leaving clung to your neck like a agoraphobic koala. 
  • I shall now be moving everywhere via the medium of 'Ballet'. When things get ugly around the house, I shall also be using Ballet as a martial art to put shit back in line. 
  • Don't touch my hair again. (The kidneys-spoon-thing from earlier applies to this too.
  • Also. I hiss now. The cats taught me. 
  • can wear hats, I just choose not to. You, however, should not wear hats. Just saying.
  • You were mistaken. My version of 'Dinkle, Dinkle, Little Start' is clearly far superior... But I forgive you. Because you're pretty. And bring me pizza.
  • Oh yeah, and Daddy says yes, he got all your very unsubtle hints about wanting something Mulberry shaped by way of a Mother's Day gift from me, but he's gone with my suggestion of some Mummy Pig socks and a Curly-Wurly. Thank me later. I got your back. 

#thisiswhyginwasinvented
#MothersDay
#GinDay





'Twatty-Toddler-Hour' and Other Tales from the Terrible Twos...

Since turning two, WallyBubba has been going through what can only be described as a period of 'change'.

She has slowly been developing a rather serious, and potentially harmful (to others), coming-of-age condition known as 'Toddler-Bastard-Hood' or TBH to us in the know... *shudders*

This condition is no joke.

NO laughing matter.

(Well, occasionally... when you start laughing those slightly hysterical laugh-tears whilst rocking a bit and trying to go to your happy place...)

It effects over 90% of toddlers and is known to change even the sweetest, kindest and politest of one year olds into total 'shits'. (technical term)

It's not all bad news; if caught early, the symptoms may be reduced using copious amounts of gin and moderate wailing/chocolate consumption. But it's important that parents have all the information possible in order to recognise the beginnings of this horrific disease.

Please refer to the tick list below so that together we can work together to eradicate TBH and unite in a Hendricks/Toblerone haze...


Key symptoms:
  1. Your child spends at least one day a week refusing to eat anything other than cheese. Angrily. With a spork. 
  2. Baths. Remember those...? Well. They don't occur without you bleeding anymore... 
  3. Your child asks to go to the playground. Upon arrival, your child insists this is a huge misunderstanding, and that they in fact HATE the playground. They then beat you in the face with one of the toddler swings in order to ridicule you in front of some tutting old people and some smug mummies who are wearing actual lipgloss. (This is how you know you are not one of them...
  4. No matter how many times you say their name, they ignore you... until you break... Once you're weak, then they spit on you and help themselves to a packet of fruit wriggles from the change bag while you cry...  
  5. Any attempt to calm them following a tantrum results in someone*, somewhere losing an eye and/or their sanity. *you
  6. The lack of afternoon nap means you hit a 3-o-clock slump which I now refer to as the 'twatty-toddler-hour', where literally NOTHING can appease them. They stamp on rabbits, hurl raisins at moving vehicles, and eat entire wax crayons without chewing. Then promptly take a shit in the middle of the floor and blame you for it. Obviously. 
  7. There will be no nappies or socks after midday. And if you think they are ever wearing a hat ever again then you clearly don't value your skin. 
  8. When things get really bad, we (me, the Ninky-Nonk, Lola, the scuttlebug and a pair of Daddy's shoes....) are subjected to an angry tea party. Where each of the participants is forced to eat wooden cake and drink tea until WallyBubba BASTARD WELL DECIDES YOU'RE FINISHED. It's fairly traumatising once you enter the third hour... *sobs a bit* 
  9. Never, ever, EVER put Charlie and Lola on without first asking if there was a preference. You. IDIOT. Now you have to watch Peppa F*@king Pig back-to-back for a month.
  10. They keep asking to do crafts. But become totally inconsolable when they realise their annoying chubby little toddler hands can't hold the paintbrushes properly... They also lie about NOT eating paint. Whilst eating paint. Wankers. 
  11. When they stare at you... you now know it's because they are collecting pieces of your soul for Mordor... and this scares you... a lot. You're very thankful for all the gin now...

#TBH
#Twatty-toddler-hour
#gin


Wot So Funee?

Rugga-Tot

We've got ourselves a Rugga-Tot,
Her kit's as white as snow.
And everywhere that Daddy goes,
Her mini-England strip's on show.

We love our little Rugga-Tot,
She'll grow up supporting the Lion.
Despite her objection to all types of vegetable,
I see cauliflower ears on the horizon...

We've bred a little Rugga-Tot
Daddy's sure she won't be late...
At developing her back line and passing skills;
He's already enrolled her as England No.8.

So, we've got ourselves a Rugga-Tot,
Her tackling brings Daddy joy...
Something tells me if we have another baby,
He might be hoping for a boy!


#Mummyjusthopesforgin
#Rugga-Tot


All the Small Things - MummyNeverSleeps