Saturday, 13 September 2014

#ToddlerRage... The truth, the signs, and what happened to my hair-straighteners...

We've all experienced the #ToddlerRage,
The violence, the wailing, the biting…
The super human strength of a tiny-tantrumming-two-year-old, 
Is a truly impressive sighting.

We all know the warning signs of #ToddlerRage,
The sobbing, the whining, the pleading.
Then Mummy takes a left hook to the fanny or the face,
And either way, someone ends up bleeding…

You've said NO to the TV, and NO to the sweets,
You know this is going to cost ya'…
The park was a disaster, the journey was worse,
And a badly-timed-toddler-poo just got you barred from Costa.

So we should all be wary of the #ToddlerRage,
With its screaming, and scratching, and floor-flops.
It can happen to the best of us - anytime, anywhere;
At the playground, the supermarket, and bus-stops…

So heed my words about the #ToddlerRage,
Protect your dignity, your eyes and vagina.
Soft-play, ice-cream and Frozen on DVD...
And you too can be a #ToddlerRage-Survivor.

#ToddlerRage
#gin

My hair straighteners - the victim of #ToddlerRage...

Friday, 5 September 2014

A letter to my baby brother...

Dear WallyBoy AKA 'Frog',

Firstly, I'd like to express my disappointment that you are not a girl. But given this is not entirely your fault, I'll let you off. And have Daddy whipped for this. With his own kidneys.

Secondly, as I've been on the outside of that same uterus for over two and a half years now, I thought I'd impart some wise words to you, so you won't have the learn the hard way as I did. This world is not easy… they try to make you eat something called 'broccoli' and apparently it's not polite to play with your turds whilst they are leaving your body... I know right… *rolls eyes*... It's tough out here, but stick with me kid and we'll make it through... stick with me…


  • Stay in there for as long as possible. It's always f@*king raining out here and I've just had my bath crayon privileges removed after sharting during a particularly exciting episode of Octonauts while naked on the sofa. Bastards. 
  • Once you are on the outside you get to enjoy boobs. They're awesome.
  • If you're going to vom, always aim for the eyes, hair and/or mouth. I've heard Mummy actually prefers it. 
  • Insist on picking out your own clothes and NEVER leave the house without bunches and a fairy wand. 
  • Shoes should never match. I don't know which twat decided to sell them in pairs… 
  • Just as you are about to leave for the day, THIS is the optimum moment to shit. AKA 'The Shit Window'.  
  • Don't EVER let Daddy dress you. You'll soon find out why. Unless you enjoy looking like a c@*t.
  • Daddy is the weak one. A simple smile and he's your bitch for life… If you sense you're losing him, use your toe-nails to lacerate his face. Like gang tagging. 
  • Mummy is harder, but using a combination of cake and something called 'gin' you can pretty much get her to do anything. 
  • If she isn't playing ball, I find a swift stamp/punch combo to the vagina usually does the trick... 
  • Never let the folks get too much sleep. Makes them too chirpy. You get more biscuits when they're virtually dead from the face down.
  • There is no such thing as 'too long' at the playground. If you're getting tired, head for the swings and remind Daddy that THIS SWING DON'T PUSH ITSELF BITCH. 
  • With regards to ice cream, if you can lift it with one hand, it's not big enough. 
  • Whatever anyone tells you… the answer is yes. You can ride cats.
  • Your hands may be small, but with some careful nail-nibbling you can turn those beauties into serious grippers/weapons… YOU decide when the hug is over. YOU DECIDE.
  • Once you discover chips, you too will understand there is really no point in vegetables. No matter how hard they try to hide them in your omelettes. YOU'RE NOT AN IDIOT.
  • Unicorns are real and one lives in the downstairs toilet. 
  • Together we will be able to f@*k this joint up so badly, Mummy won't remember what her living room ever used to look like…
  • Also. never let Mummy sit on the sofa. I don't know why. Just don't.
  • They'll lie and tell you it's fun, but do not let them take you to IKEA.
  • And finally, always laugh at your own farts. Especially in the bath… I like to call them Barts. 

See you in about three months. I'll have a wand and chips ready for you. And remember if you do displease me, I can swap you for a Kindle Fire on eBay at any moment… Just saying. 


Much love,

Your big sister WallyBubba.



#barts

Monday, 1 September 2014

My madder fatter angrier 2nd pregnancy diary

Week 25. 

*Entering the home straight… darker, cakier times*

It's day 175 and I've begun eating cake before 10am... And by 10am, I mean continuously. With no hands. And just my face. (and by cake I mean left over pizza and/or chocolate…

The toddler isn't being helpful. Mostly, she's 'blacking up' with Weetabix and sneaking up on our cats with glitter glue while I cry into a chocolate twist dreaming of thin-ier, gin-ier times...

Yes. It's fair to say things are beginning to go downhill.

After the short-lived joys of the second trimester (my nails grew a bit and I could walk without looking like a foetus was about to fall out of my vagina at any second) I'm now entering the glamorous world of bacne, pubic/leg hair I could French Plait from my belly button to my ankle, and my husband only wanting to have sex with me with the lights dimmed and one eye open sort of squinting in another direction… That's right folks. I've almost hit the third trimester.

The interesting thing about a second pregnancy is that other than your direct family and a few select friends you emotionally blackmail and give cake to, NO-ONE GIVES A SHIT. Your friends stop calling, the Facebook likes for your posts about cankles and tingly finger tips have wilted into obscurity and Instagram does not have any love for your restless leg syndrome... So what if your uterus is releasing another human being, social media simply does not give a f@*k second time around while there are videos of cats and ice-bucket-challenges to look at. 

It also doesn't help that instead of doing pilates, eating bulgar wheat and keeping on top of the housework as I promised myself I would second time around, I've been ordering pizza, occasionally rolling to the kitchen to get more ice-cream/another pie, and occasionally tipping bleach down a toilet... On the plus side, the toddler has become completely independent and now knows how to operate the DVD player, flush the toilet and order her own personal cheese pizza through the Dominos app on the iPad… #winning... Sadly she's also taken to shitting underneath the dining room table and prodding it with a Barbie, but you can't have everything can you…

So.

There it is.

My second pregnancy and all its joys so far. It's not been beautiful, I have picked up a lot of pre-dinner toddler logs and for anyone who was thinking of asking, YES I'M F@*KING SURE IT'S NOT TWINS BUT THANK YOU FOR THAT SENSITIVE AND HIGHLY ORIGINAL COMMENT.

*clears throat and regains composure while eating another Twix*

Yep. I'm just going to have to face it; it's just me, my dodgy pelvic floor and mid morning cake-pizza now.

xxx

#midmorningcakepizza
#gintimes
#3rdtrimester



Not Another Mummy Blog

Thursday, 21 August 2014

I'm No Good With Willies.

I thought I would write a little poem,
about my impending new-baby joy.
And announce that this ever-expanding WallyBump,
will be a beautiful, bouncing Wally-Boy.

Yes, we're joining the squad of the scrotum;
officially members of #teamblue.
We're part of the penis-gang, the brigade of the balls,
I haven't got a bastard clue what to do…

Up to now I've only mastered vaginas,
being a proud owner of one of my own.
With fannies I'm fine, (although I've totally ruined mine…),
this is my first time as a pee-pee chaperon.

We've gently broken the news to WallyBubba,
who said the scan looks like a disgusting frog.
'He's not sharing my bath, my highchair, or my room,
he'll have to sleep outside like a dog.' 

So this is my little poem,
about the arrival of my own WallyMan.
You might think I'm silly, I'll just be no good with a willy,
but I can't wait to have one in the WallyClan.


#nogoodwithwillies
#wallyclan
#didntevensaygin



Wednesday, 13 August 2014

Pants Are Officially Dead To Me.

Yes.

I'm rapidly approaching that stage in pregnancy where underwear serves no useful purpose, whatsoever.

Pants are pointless.

Bras are futile.

Pants and bras together are some like kind of elaborate torture device attacking either end of my ever-expanding uterus. Simultaneously. In cotton-blend.

Pre-preggo WallyMummy would live it up in matching bra and knickers and everything. I know. Just like a real girl... Or one of those ones from telly... Or dreams… Or Narnia.

Frankly, these puppies were well past the 'hoistable' stage once the last milk vampire was finished with them… but following yet another expansion; my areolas are now the size of doughnuts, and the texture of lego… a little beyond the smoothing abilities of a standard M&S t-shirt bra.

My muffin-top has become a full blown cake-plateau. There is no knicker line that flatters spherical. And anyone who thinks their post-pregnancy perineum will so much as let them utter the word 'thong'  has got a nasty surprise awaiting them.

My arms no longer have the strength to reach around my back and unclip anything. It's like I'm channeling a toddler trying to thread a shoelace through a piece of macaroni. It's never gonna happen. We're just wasting time, pasta and fine motor skills...

Things are made even worse by the fact that each time I sit down my thighs now spread out to the circumference of the sun, and my stupid womb-overhang won't allow for any kind of leg crossing. My only available seated position is sumo-squat. And on behalf of pregnant women everywhere I would like to very much thank nature for this flattering and beautiful pose. Almost as dignifying as the birth itself, but with slightly less vagina on show. Hopefully. 

So. Next time you see a pregnant lady waddling her way down the street with her dimply-bangers flapping in the wind… think of this post and have some f@*king sympathy.

And enjoy thongs while you can.

Because soon your vagina will just say no.

And your labia will eat them.


#pantsaredead
#pregnancysucks
#willhappilysellababyforagin



Friday, 8 August 2014

Potty Training Manoeuvres No Human Person Should Ever Have to Endure.Ever.

We have begun the dreaded potty training...

The precision learnings of the 'pot that shall remain nameless'...

The pee-pee-poo-festival of the potty-pot-pot-pot-pot…

Yes.

That glamorous phase of toddler parenting where you once again get up close and personal with your child's bodily fluids and functions, and once again taste the shit of a human... Daily…

It's a phase that strikes fear into the hearts and souls of parents everywhere and carries with it the burden of being responsible for your child. Nappy-less. Able to poo, pee and fiddle freely. In public. Sometimes on pavements. Or other toddlers. Or Alsatians. But mostly you.

There are many things humans shouldn't see with their actual eyes… death, destruction, famine, your toddler's faeces smeared across your new cream carpet and a large section of your pets… but so far here's some of the things I've learnt on my potty-journey, which I now impart to you:

  1. Don't be tempted to wipe your face with the back of your hand whilst breaking into a sweat half way through a particularly hefty poo disposal… #turdbrow. 
  2. Letting them carry their pee-filled-potty to the toilet themselves is risky… attempting to wrestle to off of them whilst they are carrying it will result in a golden shower for two. (Not the sexy kind.
  3. There are only so many Dettol wipes and kitchen rolls one person should use in their life time. And yep, you just smashed your quota in the last four minutes. 
  4. You've been to buy pants. You've followed all the advice; carefully allowed the toddler to select the ones they want, encouraged them to admire their new bottom-cotton in the mirror, praised and cheered as they've pulled them on in the morning… and now you can only look on as your toddler pisses through them like a f@*king polka-dotted tea strainer. 
  5. If you haven't noticed it… it hasn't happened… until your husband arrives home and it can be both his fault and problem. #toddlerloginthecorner 
  6. Bushes and hedgerows are your new best friend. Respect them, hug them, talk to them even... then pour your toddler's freshly squeezed urine all over them. Beautiful. 
  7. Car journeys aren't. 
  8. Your child-less friends will probably be a little bit taken a back when they pop round for a cup of tea, and your two-year-old curls one off in the living room potty just as they're tucking into a toffee crisp. Apparently they think it's disgusting or something…?! Weirdos. 
  9. You'll never be so bored of the sound of your own voice asking if they need a wee… each time you say it a little bit of your soul actually rots away, and your vagina cries. #truestory
  10. DO NOT (in a desperate attempt to leave the house somewhere near on time and pretend it's all going FINE AWESOME BRILLIANT) tickle them until they start to wee everywhere and hopefully sort of catch some in a bucket and/or glass. 
  11. *whispers* Sometimes… we all just let it dry…

#thankmelater
#withgin
#turdbrow



Tuesday, 5 August 2014

Preggo-insomnia...

Welcome to the land of preggo-insomnia,
Where things are sweatier, 
and hungrier, 
and sometimes extra vomit-ier.
Night times are spent rolling in a stuffy duvet spin;
one leg out...
one leg in...
it won't f@*king matter until you're thin.
The second you get comfortable, 
your bladder decides it's full,
Then your tiny vagina-passenger 
punches the shit out of your uterus-wall.
It seems there's no position 
where your body will let you sleep,
With itching bits, 
humungo-tits, 
leg cramps and tingly feet.
Your easiest option is left hand side
and even that's a chore,
As you sit awake for hours 
watching your bastard husband snore…
So welcome to the joys of preggo-insomnia,
With its nightmares, 
and its panicking, 
and occasional hypochondria.
You may just have to face it; 
you just can't f@*king win,
So suck it up and focus on that first post-natal gin.



#preggosomnia
#postnatalgin
#vaginapassenger
#gin


pssst… for any of you lovely pregnant ladies - Mumsnet is launching Bumpfest on 27th September; it's first annual one-day event for all things birth and baby. Click through for info and ticket details. 

Friday, 1 August 2014

The #ToddlerHoliday Come-down...

So.

You've survived another toddler holiday… *twitches a bit*

And you're expecting your knighthood summons in the post any day now. (Obviously).

And just when you thought holidaying with your toddler couldn't get any worse... You arrive home… Depressed… Exhausted… Sweaty (Pregnancy Glow)... And get punched in the face with the reality that is your tantrum-throwing-icecream-demanding-turd-slinging-shit-storm of a two year old who's been the centre of attention for way toooooooo long.

It's very quickly dawned on my that my 3-week Spain-cation has had a drastic effect on the WallyBubba. She's become completely uncontrollable. A complete diva. And I had fairly little control of her before hand if I'm honest... But scarily she's actually becoming bored of the iPad, the ice-cream promises and the nakedness... In fact she believes this is now the norm and any attempt to NOT follow lunch with nappy-free-Calippo-jazz-hands-time is met with swift headbutt to the throat and/or round house kick to the vagina. (and nappy-free-Calippo-jazz-hands-time…)

She's a shit. A smiling assassin. A wolf in Disney Little Mermaid clothing…

Let me lay-out the key changes for you:


Morning Time:

Pre-holiday - Wake-up, brush teeth, brush hair, get dressed, head for breakfast… sorted.

Post-holiday - Mummy is awoken by the recently familiar sound of the toddler demanding freshly baked croissants and home made apricot jam for her and her troop of airplane toys, brought in on the back of a mountain goat riding a rainbow. She won't be brushing her teeth/hair anymore because that would be f@*king ridiculous. And no. She won't be wearing the simple skirt/t-shirt combo you've selected for her today, she'll instead be fashioning a toga from one of the curtains, and pairing it with one of her Ugg boots, a tiara and your lipgloss. Thanks.

Out & About:

Pre-holiday - Buggy travel, the odd shop-related tantrum, generally appeased by playground trips, iPhone sessions and the odd biscuit…

Post-holiday - I hate Peppa Pig. Your iPhone and your general face bores me. Slides are for wankers. Thanks for bringing me to this shop; I've picked out all the shit I need, handed it to the lady behind the till and told her you'll be over in a minute. Also. I'll be travelling everywhere via the medium of naked, interpretive jazz-flamenco from now on. Just so you know. 

Mealtimes:

Pre-holiday - A solid rotation of pizza, sausages, omelettes and desperation, interspersed with sandwiches and fruit… Bland, boring, but varied enough to keep me from crying into my salad…

Post-holiday - Chips. Melon. Ice-cream. And Attitude… if those melon 'hedgehogs' aren't cut just the way she likes them and brought to her by a spanish waiter who provides her with a continual supply of ice-cream following her expert recitals of the phrase 'Ola', the shit will hit the pink-€1-hand-fan. Every ten minutes she must leave the table to check the sea is still there. Without shoes. Naturally.

Bedtime:

Pre-holiday - Milk, bath, cuddles, storytime… (wine).

Post-holiday - F@*k You. I am Wally-Juanita. The Nappy-Removing-Flamenco-Ninja of the West. Quiver as I fart naked in my bed and laugh in the face of sleep…. Mwahahaha. I don't give a f@*k if it's past 8pm, put me in a pretty f@*king dress and take me out to dinner you hussy.

*Side-note* Think I may have followed through with that fart… Probably all the melon. You should clear that up. Quickly.


So… with some careful reintroduction of routine, structure and order we will slowly get back to 'normal'… or I could go crack open the suitcase-rioja, hide in then unfathomable pile of holiday-washing, stay very still and quiet, and just wait for the pregnancy pixies to come and do all the housework/parenting for me. Yeah. I'll do that. That'll definitely work. Definitely.

The end.

*Passes out*







#ToddlerRage... The truth, the signs, and what happened to my hair-straighteners...

We've all experienced the #ToddlerRage,
The violence, the wailing, the biting…
The super human strength of a tiny-tantrumming-two-year-old, 
Is a truly impressive sighting.

We all know the warning signs of #ToddlerRage,
The sobbing, the whining, the pleading.
Then Mummy takes a left hook to the fanny or the face,
And either way, someone ends up bleeding…

You've said NO to the TV, and NO to the sweets,
You know this is going to cost ya'…
The park was a disaster, the journey was worse,
And a badly-timed-toddler-poo just got you barred from Costa.

So we should all be wary of the #ToddlerRage,
With its screaming, and scratching, and floor-flops.
It can happen to the best of us - anytime, anywhere;
At the playground, the supermarket, and bus-stops…

So heed my words about the #ToddlerRage,
Protect your dignity, your eyes and vagina.
Soft-play, ice-cream and Frozen on DVD...
And you too can be a #ToddlerRage-Survivor.

#ToddlerRage
#gin

My hair straighteners - the victim of #ToddlerRage...

A letter to my baby brother...

Dear WallyBoy AKA 'Frog',

Firstly, I'd like to express my disappointment that you are not a girl. But given this is not entirely your fault, I'll let you off. And have Daddy whipped for this. With his own kidneys.

Secondly, as I've been on the outside of that same uterus for over two and a half years now, I thought I'd impart some wise words to you, so you won't have the learn the hard way as I did. This world is not easy… they try to make you eat something called 'broccoli' and apparently it's not polite to play with your turds whilst they are leaving your body... I know right… *rolls eyes*... It's tough out here, but stick with me kid and we'll make it through... stick with me…


  • Stay in there for as long as possible. It's always f@*king raining out here and I've just had my bath crayon privileges removed after sharting during a particularly exciting episode of Octonauts while naked on the sofa. Bastards. 
  • Once you are on the outside you get to enjoy boobs. They're awesome.
  • If you're going to vom, always aim for the eyes, hair and/or mouth. I've heard Mummy actually prefers it. 
  • Insist on picking out your own clothes and NEVER leave the house without bunches and a fairy wand. 
  • Shoes should never match. I don't know which twat decided to sell them in pairs… 
  • Just as you are about to leave for the day, THIS is the optimum moment to shit. AKA 'The Shit Window'.  
  • Don't EVER let Daddy dress you. You'll soon find out why. Unless you enjoy looking like a c@*t.
  • Daddy is the weak one. A simple smile and he's your bitch for life… If you sense you're losing him, use your toe-nails to lacerate his face. Like gang tagging. 
  • Mummy is harder, but using a combination of cake and something called 'gin' you can pretty much get her to do anything. 
  • If she isn't playing ball, I find a swift stamp/punch combo to the vagina usually does the trick... 
  • Never let the folks get too much sleep. Makes them too chirpy. You get more biscuits when they're virtually dead from the face down.
  • There is no such thing as 'too long' at the playground. If you're getting tired, head for the swings and remind Daddy that THIS SWING DON'T PUSH ITSELF BITCH. 
  • With regards to ice cream, if you can lift it with one hand, it's not big enough. 
  • Whatever anyone tells you… the answer is yes. You can ride cats.
  • Your hands may be small, but with some careful nail-nibbling you can turn those beauties into serious grippers/weapons… YOU decide when the hug is over. YOU DECIDE.
  • Once you discover chips, you too will understand there is really no point in vegetables. No matter how hard they try to hide them in your omelettes. YOU'RE NOT AN IDIOT.
  • Unicorns are real and one lives in the downstairs toilet. 
  • Together we will be able to f@*k this joint up so badly, Mummy won't remember what her living room ever used to look like…
  • Also. never let Mummy sit on the sofa. I don't know why. Just don't.
  • They'll lie and tell you it's fun, but do not let them take you to IKEA.
  • And finally, always laugh at your own farts. Especially in the bath… I like to call them Barts. 

See you in about three months. I'll have a wand and chips ready for you. And remember if you do displease me, I can swap you for a Kindle Fire on eBay at any moment… Just saying. 


Much love,

Your big sister WallyBubba.



#barts

My madder fatter angrier 2nd pregnancy diary

Week 25. 

*Entering the home straight… darker, cakier times*

It's day 175 and I've begun eating cake before 10am... And by 10am, I mean continuously. With no hands. And just my face. (and by cake I mean left over pizza and/or chocolate…

The toddler isn't being helpful. Mostly, she's 'blacking up' with Weetabix and sneaking up on our cats with glitter glue while I cry into a chocolate twist dreaming of thin-ier, gin-ier times...

Yes. It's fair to say things are beginning to go downhill.

After the short-lived joys of the second trimester (my nails grew a bit and I could walk without looking like a foetus was about to fall out of my vagina at any second) I'm now entering the glamorous world of bacne, pubic/leg hair I could French Plait from my belly button to my ankle, and my husband only wanting to have sex with me with the lights dimmed and one eye open sort of squinting in another direction… That's right folks. I've almost hit the third trimester.

The interesting thing about a second pregnancy is that other than your direct family and a few select friends you emotionally blackmail and give cake to, NO-ONE GIVES A SHIT. Your friends stop calling, the Facebook likes for your posts about cankles and tingly finger tips have wilted into obscurity and Instagram does not have any love for your restless leg syndrome... So what if your uterus is releasing another human being, social media simply does not give a f@*k second time around while there are videos of cats and ice-bucket-challenges to look at. 

It also doesn't help that instead of doing pilates, eating bulgar wheat and keeping on top of the housework as I promised myself I would second time around, I've been ordering pizza, occasionally rolling to the kitchen to get more ice-cream/another pie, and occasionally tipping bleach down a toilet... On the plus side, the toddler has become completely independent and now knows how to operate the DVD player, flush the toilet and order her own personal cheese pizza through the Dominos app on the iPad… #winning... Sadly she's also taken to shitting underneath the dining room table and prodding it with a Barbie, but you can't have everything can you…

So.

There it is.

My second pregnancy and all its joys so far. It's not been beautiful, I have picked up a lot of pre-dinner toddler logs and for anyone who was thinking of asking, YES I'M F@*KING SURE IT'S NOT TWINS BUT THANK YOU FOR THAT SENSITIVE AND HIGHLY ORIGINAL COMMENT.

*clears throat and regains composure while eating another Twix*

Yep. I'm just going to have to face it; it's just me, my dodgy pelvic floor and mid morning cake-pizza now.

xxx

#midmorningcakepizza
#gintimes
#3rdtrimester



Not Another Mummy Blog

I'm No Good With Willies.

I thought I would write a little poem,
about my impending new-baby joy.
And announce that this ever-expanding WallyBump,
will be a beautiful, bouncing Wally-Boy.

Yes, we're joining the squad of the scrotum;
officially members of #teamblue.
We're part of the penis-gang, the brigade of the balls,
I haven't got a bastard clue what to do…

Up to now I've only mastered vaginas,
being a proud owner of one of my own.
With fannies I'm fine, (although I've totally ruined mine…),
this is my first time as a pee-pee chaperon.

We've gently broken the news to WallyBubba,
who said the scan looks like a disgusting frog.
'He's not sharing my bath, my highchair, or my room,
he'll have to sleep outside like a dog.' 

So this is my little poem,
about the arrival of my own WallyMan.
You might think I'm silly, I'll just be no good with a willy,
but I can't wait to have one in the WallyClan.


#nogoodwithwillies
#wallyclan
#didntevensaygin



Pants Are Officially Dead To Me.

Yes.

I'm rapidly approaching that stage in pregnancy where underwear serves no useful purpose, whatsoever.

Pants are pointless.

Bras are futile.

Pants and bras together are some like kind of elaborate torture device attacking either end of my ever-expanding uterus. Simultaneously. In cotton-blend.

Pre-preggo WallyMummy would live it up in matching bra and knickers and everything. I know. Just like a real girl... Or one of those ones from telly... Or dreams… Or Narnia.

Frankly, these puppies were well past the 'hoistable' stage once the last milk vampire was finished with them… but following yet another expansion; my areolas are now the size of doughnuts, and the texture of lego… a little beyond the smoothing abilities of a standard M&S t-shirt bra.

My muffin-top has become a full blown cake-plateau. There is no knicker line that flatters spherical. And anyone who thinks their post-pregnancy perineum will so much as let them utter the word 'thong'  has got a nasty surprise awaiting them.

My arms no longer have the strength to reach around my back and unclip anything. It's like I'm channeling a toddler trying to thread a shoelace through a piece of macaroni. It's never gonna happen. We're just wasting time, pasta and fine motor skills...

Things are made even worse by the fact that each time I sit down my thighs now spread out to the circumference of the sun, and my stupid womb-overhang won't allow for any kind of leg crossing. My only available seated position is sumo-squat. And on behalf of pregnant women everywhere I would like to very much thank nature for this flattering and beautiful pose. Almost as dignifying as the birth itself, but with slightly less vagina on show. Hopefully. 

So. Next time you see a pregnant lady waddling her way down the street with her dimply-bangers flapping in the wind… think of this post and have some f@*king sympathy.

And enjoy thongs while you can.

Because soon your vagina will just say no.

And your labia will eat them.


#pantsaredead
#pregnancysucks
#willhappilysellababyforagin



Potty Training Manoeuvres No Human Person Should Ever Have to Endure.Ever.

We have begun the dreaded potty training...

The precision learnings of the 'pot that shall remain nameless'...

The pee-pee-poo-festival of the potty-pot-pot-pot-pot…

Yes.

That glamorous phase of toddler parenting where you once again get up close and personal with your child's bodily fluids and functions, and once again taste the shit of a human... Daily…

It's a phase that strikes fear into the hearts and souls of parents everywhere and carries with it the burden of being responsible for your child. Nappy-less. Able to poo, pee and fiddle freely. In public. Sometimes on pavements. Or other toddlers. Or Alsatians. But mostly you.

There are many things humans shouldn't see with their actual eyes… death, destruction, famine, your toddler's faeces smeared across your new cream carpet and a large section of your pets… but so far here's some of the things I've learnt on my potty-journey, which I now impart to you:

  1. Don't be tempted to wipe your face with the back of your hand whilst breaking into a sweat half way through a particularly hefty poo disposal… #turdbrow. 
  2. Letting them carry their pee-filled-potty to the toilet themselves is risky… attempting to wrestle to off of them whilst they are carrying it will result in a golden shower for two. (Not the sexy kind.
  3. There are only so many Dettol wipes and kitchen rolls one person should use in their life time. And yep, you just smashed your quota in the last four minutes. 
  4. You've been to buy pants. You've followed all the advice; carefully allowed the toddler to select the ones they want, encouraged them to admire their new bottom-cotton in the mirror, praised and cheered as they've pulled them on in the morning… and now you can only look on as your toddler pisses through them like a f@*king polka-dotted tea strainer. 
  5. If you haven't noticed it… it hasn't happened… until your husband arrives home and it can be both his fault and problem. #toddlerloginthecorner 
  6. Bushes and hedgerows are your new best friend. Respect them, hug them, talk to them even... then pour your toddler's freshly squeezed urine all over them. Beautiful. 
  7. Car journeys aren't. 
  8. Your child-less friends will probably be a little bit taken a back when they pop round for a cup of tea, and your two-year-old curls one off in the living room potty just as they're tucking into a toffee crisp. Apparently they think it's disgusting or something…?! Weirdos. 
  9. You'll never be so bored of the sound of your own voice asking if they need a wee… each time you say it a little bit of your soul actually rots away, and your vagina cries. #truestory
  10. DO NOT (in a desperate attempt to leave the house somewhere near on time and pretend it's all going FINE AWESOME BRILLIANT) tickle them until they start to wee everywhere and hopefully sort of catch some in a bucket and/or glass. 
  11. *whispers* Sometimes… we all just let it dry…

#thankmelater
#withgin
#turdbrow



Preggo-insomnia...

Welcome to the land of preggo-insomnia,
Where things are sweatier, 
and hungrier, 
and sometimes extra vomit-ier.
Night times are spent rolling in a stuffy duvet spin;
one leg out...
one leg in...
it won't f@*king matter until you're thin.
The second you get comfortable, 
your bladder decides it's full,
Then your tiny vagina-passenger 
punches the shit out of your uterus-wall.
It seems there's no position 
where your body will let you sleep,
With itching bits, 
humungo-tits, 
leg cramps and tingly feet.
Your easiest option is left hand side
and even that's a chore,
As you sit awake for hours 
watching your bastard husband snore…
So welcome to the joys of preggo-insomnia,
With its nightmares, 
and its panicking, 
and occasional hypochondria.
You may just have to face it; 
you just can't f@*king win,
So suck it up and focus on that first post-natal gin.



#preggosomnia
#postnatalgin
#vaginapassenger
#gin


pssst… for any of you lovely pregnant ladies - Mumsnet is launching Bumpfest on 27th September; it's first annual one-day event for all things birth and baby. Click through for info and ticket details. 

The #ToddlerHoliday Come-down...

So.

You've survived another toddler holiday… *twitches a bit*

And you're expecting your knighthood summons in the post any day now. (Obviously).

And just when you thought holidaying with your toddler couldn't get any worse... You arrive home… Depressed… Exhausted… Sweaty (Pregnancy Glow)... And get punched in the face with the reality that is your tantrum-throwing-icecream-demanding-turd-slinging-shit-storm of a two year old who's been the centre of attention for way toooooooo long.

It's very quickly dawned on my that my 3-week Spain-cation has had a drastic effect on the WallyBubba. She's become completely uncontrollable. A complete diva. And I had fairly little control of her before hand if I'm honest... But scarily she's actually becoming bored of the iPad, the ice-cream promises and the nakedness... In fact she believes this is now the norm and any attempt to NOT follow lunch with nappy-free-Calippo-jazz-hands-time is met with swift headbutt to the throat and/or round house kick to the vagina. (and nappy-free-Calippo-jazz-hands-time…)

She's a shit. A smiling assassin. A wolf in Disney Little Mermaid clothing…

Let me lay-out the key changes for you:


Morning Time:

Pre-holiday - Wake-up, brush teeth, brush hair, get dressed, head for breakfast… sorted.

Post-holiday - Mummy is awoken by the recently familiar sound of the toddler demanding freshly baked croissants and home made apricot jam for her and her troop of airplane toys, brought in on the back of a mountain goat riding a rainbow. She won't be brushing her teeth/hair anymore because that would be f@*king ridiculous. And no. She won't be wearing the simple skirt/t-shirt combo you've selected for her today, she'll instead be fashioning a toga from one of the curtains, and pairing it with one of her Ugg boots, a tiara and your lipgloss. Thanks.

Out & About:

Pre-holiday - Buggy travel, the odd shop-related tantrum, generally appeased by playground trips, iPhone sessions and the odd biscuit…

Post-holiday - I hate Peppa Pig. Your iPhone and your general face bores me. Slides are for wankers. Thanks for bringing me to this shop; I've picked out all the shit I need, handed it to the lady behind the till and told her you'll be over in a minute. Also. I'll be travelling everywhere via the medium of naked, interpretive jazz-flamenco from now on. Just so you know. 

Mealtimes:

Pre-holiday - A solid rotation of pizza, sausages, omelettes and desperation, interspersed with sandwiches and fruit… Bland, boring, but varied enough to keep me from crying into my salad…

Post-holiday - Chips. Melon. Ice-cream. And Attitude… if those melon 'hedgehogs' aren't cut just the way she likes them and brought to her by a spanish waiter who provides her with a continual supply of ice-cream following her expert recitals of the phrase 'Ola', the shit will hit the pink-€1-hand-fan. Every ten minutes she must leave the table to check the sea is still there. Without shoes. Naturally.

Bedtime:

Pre-holiday - Milk, bath, cuddles, storytime… (wine).

Post-holiday - F@*k You. I am Wally-Juanita. The Nappy-Removing-Flamenco-Ninja of the West. Quiver as I fart naked in my bed and laugh in the face of sleep…. Mwahahaha. I don't give a f@*k if it's past 8pm, put me in a pretty f@*king dress and take me out to dinner you hussy.

*Side-note* Think I may have followed through with that fart… Probably all the melon. You should clear that up. Quickly.


So… with some careful reintroduction of routine, structure and order we will slowly get back to 'normal'… or I could go crack open the suitcase-rioja, hide in then unfathomable pile of holiday-washing, stay very still and quiet, and just wait for the pregnancy pixies to come and do all the housework/parenting for me. Yeah. I'll do that. That'll definitely work. Definitely.

The end.

*Passes out*