Wednesday, 23 July 2014

To Bump or Not to Bump...?

What is the big f@*king deal with wearing a bikini whilst preggo?

Flashing some belly…?

Exposing some baby-harnessing exterior uterus flesh…?

I'm not suggesting skimpy swimwear as the attire of choice for all weathers, supermarket trips and the occasional wedding/christening, but whilst on the beach… by the pool… chilling with a alcohol-free ceveza *lets out a small alcohol-free wail* on a sun lounger… what is the big deal?

Seriously.

For the first time since I had stomach muscles (And a functioning pelvic floor. And a sensibly proportioned labia. Oh the memories…) I can don swimwear without having to suck in the stretch-marked bi-product of my first womb invader. I can position myself on a sun-bed without having to first work out the exact trajectory where my rolls of tummy flab will be least offensive and my boobs are at an adequate hoisted level so as not to put my entire torso in shade. Frankly, it's liberating.

I'd be sunbathing bastard-well topless except that a courtesy of a Spanish mosquito my right breast now has what looks like an additional nipple, and I'm fairly sure no-one can handle the sight of my flappy mozzy-bitten preggo-bangers down at the beach bar and enjoy their calamari without wincing. So I'll save them that experience… And believe me when I say anything other than vertical means enough side boob for everybody. Ample armpit breasts for everyone. EVERY. ONE.

So unleash the bump ladies. Don't be shy. Bust that blossoming-baby-bundle out of it's lycra prison and into the open air for all to see… Because next year we'll be back to the support tankini, poking sections of vagina back into our long shorts with a Calippo, in a shit hat and preying for the days of the roll-free preggo-bulge… Do it... DO. IT.

Also. Not in anyway related to this post but if I see one more f@*king loomband minion on Instagram I will be forced to stab out my own eyes. Just so you all know.

#unleashthebump
#preggobangers
#bumpbumpbump



Friday, 18 July 2014

Shit. The Toddler's Got a Tan...

Shit. The toddler's got a tan.
Believe me, this was not my plan...
No matter how much I rub and squirt,
The lotion's just repelled by her perma-dirt.

I put on a t-shirt, she rips it off,
Along with her nappy right down to her crocs.
She's like a naked turdy missile seeking the sun,
The only thing that's white is her little toddler bum.

Hats are a universal toddler conspiracy,
Sent by the Parenting Gods, just to to take the piss out of me.
I've tried caps, velcro straps, even a bastard panama...
She only keeps one on when she's posing for a shitting camera.

I douse her in '50', I don't miss a spot,
But I've still ended up with a teak-coloured tot.
I should be upset, but all I can do is whine...
Now her bloody tan lines are better than mine!

So shit. The toddlers got a tan.
I admit I'm the world's worst SPF-wingman.
'I am the twatty failure of an angry lotion monitor',
And I'd literally tear out a kidney for a large gin and tonica.



#tonica
#toddlertan
#tonicatan 
#pregnancysucks 

Saturday, 12 July 2014

How to totally win at parenting on a #pregnant #toddlerholiday in Spain

It may have escaped your attention that I've been rather quiet over the past week or so… which is mainly down to being in toddler hell, I mean on toddler holiday, in Spain with the entire Wally contingent… and also down to the lack of gin. AKA - my personality.

I am no stranger to the perils of the toddler holiday *shudders in memory of the turdy plane toddler and other ice cream related tales of anger…* , but this one is being carried out with a rather inconvenient uterus tenant and with WallyBubba almost an entire year older. And wiser. And faster. And shittier.

So. Here's my tips to get through without the gin. Let us start from the beginning…



  • Firstly. Forget everything you ever thought you knew about toddler holidays. Without the gin numbing this shit is about to get serious. Last year's 'hat gate' has absolutely nothing on the moment in the check-in queue that your toddler realises they can outrun you*begins twitching* …be afraid… be very afraid… (and bring donuts)
  • Thank the living f@*k lords for airport soft play. Your first opportunity to sit down in a month. With a pasty. 
  • Look as pregnant as possible while looking for a seat/table/place to perch whilst waiting for the plane... Then get paranoid as you board and suck that uterus back in until you are verging on concave.
  • During the flight convince yourself that everyone is enjoying your child's 47-verse rendition of 'wheels on the bus' by not making eye contact with ANYONE. This is a good time for the remainder of those donuts. And Pringles. And sniffing the person in front of you's gin. Which is definitely not creepy or weird at all. 
  • Thank you Jesus of Pregnancy (actual person) for sending us mere mortals the gift of the Trunki. The saviour of toddler owners internationally at baggage carousels across the world. We bow to you. And later will make a little shrine with some leg hair and saliva and a pack of Peppa Pig stickers in your honour. That is all.
  • Your attempts to look floaty and serene once you've arrived at your Spanish end-location will only ever come off as sweaty in too much fabric in need of chips and dry shampoo.
  • You know that one storybook you couldn't be arsed to pack because they never want to read it anyway and it weighs more than the actual sun...? Yeah. You idiot.
  • That moment when the toddler finally gives up the epic 20-hour fight against sleep and climbs into their buggy to pass out... Also known as the 'get in' hour (fist pump/high five optional). Aaaaaannndddddd relax. At this point consider another 'gin sniffing'. 
  • Mildly inappropriate alcohol consumption doesn't actually count on holiday... You said two glasses of wine a week. And you've stuck to that. By replacing the word 'week' with 'dinner and/or lunch'. (Or breakfast.)
  • Shit. Those swimming lessons have not only reversed your 2-year old's fear of water. They've turned her into a kamikaze water ninja. Ready to do battle with a partly chewed swim-nappy at any time…
  • All routine and bed time has gone out of the window. They live only for eating, sun and naked rock pool action. 
  • Yeah. And it can escape its cot now. F@*kballs.
  • If you attempt to sit down and read a 'mag-a-zine' at any point, it's like a red rag to a tiny greased-up crazy-haired bull... They will commence operation pool-side-poo-party and they will defend their area to the death with their zoodle.
  • You can choose shoes or hats. You will never get both on them at the same time. This is Spain. Not f@*king Oz. 
  • Spanish potty training has been going AWESOME (please apply appropriate level of sarcasm here) - our swimming pool is about 11% toddler urine and there are about three restaurants we've permanently left a mark on... Still. Due to the effect of damp Lycra on my ever increasing preggo-ness, I don't swim now. And it's not my bath water so f@*k it. #backtonappies 
  • Also - increasing waistline is absolutely ALL down to preggo-ness and absolutely not in any way connected to early morning donut consumption. Ot midnight churros sessions. 
  • How can one child eat that much melon...? And produce that much shit. I don't know whether to be concerned or impressed...
  • Note to self. Hunt down the person who invented toddler dungarees and have them stabbed to death in the face with blunt toddler cutlery. Same applies for whoever put buttons on the back of this dress.
  • It's lucky I'm already knocked up because today the toddler hurricane hit critical mass out at lunch, and mine and the nearest three tables' ovaries actually sterilised themselves. #truestory 
  • And finally. None of us will ever speak again of the 'Nemo Incident'. Despite repeated attempts to rescue Nemo, there are only so many times that actual human lives can be risked to salvage a 2-euro plastic orange fish from a cliff face. And in our own ways we've all said goodbye and come to terms with the loss. Mostly with donuts. 



#theNemoIncident
#gin
#toddlerholiday

Monday, 30 June 2014

The Rage. The Violence. The Shame… Surviving a Day at Peppa Pig World...

I write this weary and battle scarred from the safety of my living room...

For only three days ago I joined a club of elite toddler keepers... As I too, survived a day at Peppa Pig World. *flinches and starts inadvertently singing the Bing Bong Song* 

As a whole the toddler seems unaffected, in fact, she thought it was the best shitting thing that had ever shitting-well happened to her, and I have no doubt that via a series of lengthy counselling sessions and excessive Jaffa Cake consumption I will recover… slowly…

But let we warn you fellow toddler owners, do not take the Land of the Pig lightly… take heed of my words and join me as a PPWS - Peppa Pig World Survivor… (I expect there'll be a badge in the post with some gin and a letter of congratulations from Jesus any day now.)

Here is my advice:

En route, don't make the toddler angry and certainly don't mention the mother-chuffing balloon ride… you will NEVER hear the end of it… even when you've left… *goes to happy place*… When you arrive allow some extra time to cry and eat crisps as the toddler demolishes your perfectly packed picnic within 3 minutes flat.

And all before 10.15am.

Also. Stay strong and do not let them have a fruit shoot. It's like liquid crack for under 3's… and make them impossible to catch or keep clothed…


Consider your route around the rides carefully… and pick the ones with the smallest queues. Because toddlers are officially ALLERGIC to any form of queuing… There were points where I wanted to die, there were points where WallyBubba became inconsolable as forced to wait to mount a gyrating dinosaur for an entire 10 MINUTES. Quite frankly, if the lady with the height-checker had turned us away I would have f@*king cut her.

Plus. I would just like to point out that a pregnant lady on a gyrating dinosaur is neither necessary nor dignified… (Yet surprisiingly enjoyable.)


Additionally - there is a point on the Windy Castle ride where u realise that it's really shitting high. And spinny. And that up-chucking your latte onto either your own toddler, or the excited faces of the ones waiting their turn below is probably going to ruin the magic for them... a bit. Avoid milk products for the duration.

There'll be points where you need to rest, sit down for a few seconds, and generally regain energy (and the will to live), which will result in the toddler laughing in your face and running full pelt into the Muddy Puddles splash pool. Fully clothed. Wielding a half consumed cheese sandwich and a fruit shoot belonging to an unsuspecting school child… I've found the best way to deal with this is to place them on an inanimate object from which they can't get down for a few moments.. and breath… and eat chips.


When Peppa arrives for one of her twice daily appearances, anything goes. It's every parent for themselves. I face-elbowed a granny and punched a five-year-old in the throat to get to the front. Once there I held ground by growling at people as WallyBubba bit them.

The victory was small but worth it.


The shop the size of a city at the end is designed to break you now that you're weak... I had planned to buy her a balloon, perhaps a pencil topper or a bookmark… I came out with WallyBubba dressed as a mermaid, a year's supply of playdoh and a f@*king unicorn. 

Still.

We made it.

And considering that due to pregnancy hormones I could have laughed, burst into tears, or bottled someone at any moment, I think I did pretty well.

Even without the gin…

#PPWS
#BingBongSong
#gin






Thursday, 26 June 2014

Hints to Husbands of Pregnant Wives… #dontsaygin


  1. If she can't see her vagina, neither can you. Stay away baby-making-penis-of-womb-doom. 
  2. Don't congratulate your balls. It's not funny.
  3. No. You can't touch her breasts. Because a thousand tiny razors are slicing through her nipples… Do it again, and you will get cut.
  4. When you're asked to rub her back, you better channel Hans the Swedish God of Hands and go to shitting town on those ligaments.
  5. There can never be too much cake. Even when she says she doesn't want cake, you should ensure you have emergency cake. And carry hobnobs about your person whilst out and about. 
  6. Falling asleep before her is basically divorce grounds.
  7. Snoring will result in you being stabbed. 
  8. Your area of the sofa has been dramatically diminished. To the floor.
  9. When she says yes. She means no. But if you then accept her no, she will be upset that you no longer see her as a yes person. Which is the same as calling her fat. You bastard. Why are you struggling to grasp this?!? 
  10. Failing that. Any time you can't think what to say; run her a bath. With candles. And bubbles. And magic fanny-mending fairies. 
  11. Last resort. Punch yourself in the face. It'll make her feel better. 
  12. When you signed the marriage certificate, you signed away your right to even look like you've noticed her pregnancy farts.
  13. The above also applies to leg shaving… or lack of…
  14. You only get the end bits of the garlic french-stick now. Just so you know.
  15. You should be sympathy-sober, sympathy-fat and sympathy-doing-the-f@*king-housework from now on. 
  16. Don't tell her she's glowing. Buy her a KFC Bargain Bucket for one and watch as she cries tears of joy into the secret recipe coating. 
  17. Whatever you do…if you value your skin… and penis… don't mention gin. 
  18. And finally... Any man who reads this and comments 'poor bastard' in regard to my husband should be reminded that throughout the 9-months of sheer hell I am enduring which will culminate in a human battering-ram thrusting its way out of my already battle-weary uterus, his contribution was to have sex. So, unless you've shat a marrow with a face and fingernails you can't f@*king comment. Just saying. 


#dontsaygin
#snorestabbing
#facemarrow 

Monday, 23 June 2014

Mummy Misses.... (An Angry Pregnant Poem from a Toddler Owner)

Mummy misses that Friday feeling,
And getting totally nobbed in the pub.
Mummy misses those random nights,
Where you end up singing Spice Girls in a club.

Mummy misses lazy Sundays,
And strolling at her own pace in the park.
Mummy misses having an actual waistline,
And hips that stay in-line without stretch marks.

Mummy misses relaxing mealtimes,
And playing catch with someone who can ACTUALLY THROW.
Mummy misses wearing proper makeup,
And clothing that's not dappled with Cheerios.

Mummy misses matching underwear,
And seeing her vagina without using a mirror.
When Mummy says NO, she means bastard NO,
And she can't make that any bastard clearer.

Mummy misses magazines and mascara,
And having time to actually get bored.
But luckily Mummy is f@*king awesome; 
Did I mention Mummy won a mother-shitting award!

(Sorry, just had to get that in there... As I am now officially an award winning funny lady! #BiBs2014)



#BiBs2014
#MummyMisses

Thursday, 19 June 2014

Things I'd forgotten about how shit it is to be pregnant.

Yes.

That's right blog followers and fellow wonky vagina owners… this is my rather unsubtle way of telling you all that WallyBubba #2 is in progress and already reached the ripe old age of 14 weeks of womb time.


*pauses for mixed reactions of happiness, hopelessness, uncontrollable wailing (my own) and outright astonishment* 

Obviously. I'm happy. I'm over the shitting moon. But it's fair to say that baby number 2's ability to bring infinite joy has been slightly jaded. Mostly by knowledge... I KNOW how shit pregnancy, birth, babyhood, toddlerhood and my uterus are now, and I'm still f@*king doing it again. Yes. OVER THE F@*KING MOON. 

So, with the wonders of pregnancy conveniently blotted out up to now, I can't deny the symptoms are catching up with me again. So naturally it's time for an inappropriate and offensive blogpost listing all the things that are truly shit about pregnancy:

  • You can't stop eating Pot Noodles. No matter how dirty they make you feel inside. 
  • The really shit parts of your personality (or lack of) are exposed due to the lack of alcohol... #true. 
  • You're exhausted, but at 3am your body says F@*K YOU SLEEP. I NEED A WEE, A PACKET OF MINI CHEDDARS, SOME AFTER EIGHTS AND AN UNNECESSARY SERIES OF ANGRY SIGHS.
  • The yellow arches are your new best friend. You're ashamed. But yes. You will be going large on that McLunch thanks very much oh mystic giver of breaded chicken McLumps…
  • You don't quite look pregnant yet, you just look like you really like pies. And McLunches… oh… (shit)
  • You have to listen to annoying fruit analogies. My baby is not an avocado... Unless you know of an avocado that grows to weigh 7lbs and tears through vaginas using a combination of its teeth and kung fu. 
  • The area previously known as your ankles has begun to merge successfully with your calves… and instead of lower legs you now instead have very long knees. Shorts really aren't for you now. *whispers* but then, they never were…
  • Also, what the f@*k has happened to my belly button…?!
  • You've noticed how much prosecco your friends really drink. In heels. Selfish twats. 
  • Plus now you're pregnant, all your friends will announce amazing birthday parties, trips abroad, hen-dos, weddings and loads of other stuff you're invited to be farty, sweaty and spherical at. Awesome. 
  • In the last three months, the most exciting thing you've done is eat a medium rare steak on your wedding anniversary followed by an entire camembert. Which you ate using only your face. #rebel 
  • You've lost all ability to hoover, dust or cook… yet you can muster the strength for John Lewis's baby department no problem. Your life is filth and takeaways now. Until the baby comes… when it's filth, takeaways and faeces. 
  • You should be sprinting after your daredevil toddler… but instead you are fairly busy puking in a bin. (This should be the moment that puts you off Pot Noodles… instead you come up fancying one again… #grim) 
  • You know you're becoming angry, unsociable and unreasonable, but this doesn't stop you sending your husband out at 10pm for a Yop and a packet of pork scratching. This is all his fault after all.
  • Oh gin.... *le sigh*



#byebyegin
#byebyepersonality
#hellofilthtakeawaysandfaeces





Saturday, 14 June 2014

Daddy. You Awesome Bastard.

Dear Daddy,

First of all, Happy Father's Day. And thanks for being a pretty awesome bastard.

Secondly, (and I feel really shit that I'm the one to break this to you), I've recently found out that Mummy has been sending you Father's Day cards for the last couple of years and doing some kind of weird left-handed-writing thingy to pass it off as my signature… Treacherous skank. Although considering I spend most of my days barking at plastic ladybirds and eating pears without removing the cores, it shouldn't really surprise you that I can't yet sign my own name… In fact it's amazing I'm typing this really…

But anyway. I digress.

I wanted to take this opportunity to assess your Daddy-ing over the past year and offer some useful tips and advice for next year's assessment:

  1. When I take the time out of my busy schedule to make you a personalised pirate hat, I expect you to f@*king wear it. The same goes for the pasta bracelet I gave you at Easter which you've conveniently 'not found an occasion for'... I'm watching you.
  2. I do not accept your version of hide and seek: I am always the seeker, I get to look where you hide before finding you, and you get to look surprised. That's just the way it is. 
  3. Please leave the melon hedgehogs to Mummy in future. I think you know why. 
  4. 'I'm tired', 'my back hurts' and 'it's 3am in the morning' are not acceptable excuses for getting out of Daddy-Horsey-Ridey-Time. When I say the word, you WILL drop onto all fours, let me whip you with headless Iggle Piggle and ride you like my own personal mechanical bitch. 
  5. I can see your hair. And that's the main reason I don't want you anywhere near mine. 
  6. I now know the 'National Croissant Shortage' you told me about last week was A LIE. And I plan of having you beaten for this. That's right… I know people. 
  7. Now I'm two and a half, I think we both know who would win in a 'fart-off' Father. That's right, the student becomes the master… 
  8. Touch my scooter while I'm scootering again and I will f@*k you up quicker than a brand new pot of Play-doh. 
  9. Don't ever grow a beard again. I literally shit myself for three days straight last time because I thought you'd put your head on upside down without realising. 
  10. Also. You should know that when I grow up I want to be Batman. 


Love you. Until next year…

WallyBubba 

xxx

To Bump or Not to Bump...?

What is the big f@*king deal with wearing a bikini whilst preggo?

Flashing some belly…?

Exposing some baby-harnessing exterior uterus flesh…?

I'm not suggesting skimpy swimwear as the attire of choice for all weathers, supermarket trips and the occasional wedding/christening, but whilst on the beach… by the pool… chilling with a alcohol-free ceveza *lets out a small alcohol-free wail* on a sun lounger… what is the big deal?

Seriously.

For the first time since I had stomach muscles (And a functioning pelvic floor. And a sensibly proportioned labia. Oh the memories…) I can don swimwear without having to suck in the stretch-marked bi-product of my first womb invader. I can position myself on a sun-bed without having to first work out the exact trajectory where my rolls of tummy flab will be least offensive and my boobs are at an adequate hoisted level so as not to put my entire torso in shade. Frankly, it's liberating.

I'd be sunbathing bastard-well topless except that a courtesy of a Spanish mosquito my right breast now has what looks like an additional nipple, and I'm fairly sure no-one can handle the sight of my flappy mozzy-bitten preggo-bangers down at the beach bar and enjoy their calamari without wincing. So I'll save them that experience… And believe me when I say anything other than vertical means enough side boob for everybody. Ample armpit breasts for everyone. EVERY. ONE.

So unleash the bump ladies. Don't be shy. Bust that blossoming-baby-bundle out of it's lycra prison and into the open air for all to see… Because next year we'll be back to the support tankini, poking sections of vagina back into our long shorts with a Calippo, in a shit hat and preying for the days of the roll-free preggo-bulge… Do it... DO. IT.

Also. Not in anyway related to this post but if I see one more f@*king loomband minion on Instagram I will be forced to stab out my own eyes. Just so you all know.

#unleashthebump
#preggobangers
#bumpbumpbump



Shit. The Toddler's Got a Tan...

Shit. The toddler's got a tan.
Believe me, this was not my plan...
No matter how much I rub and squirt,
The lotion's just repelled by her perma-dirt.

I put on a t-shirt, she rips it off,
Along with her nappy right down to her crocs.
She's like a naked turdy missile seeking the sun,
The only thing that's white is her little toddler bum.

Hats are a universal toddler conspiracy,
Sent by the Parenting Gods, just to to take the piss out of me.
I've tried caps, velcro straps, even a bastard panama...
She only keeps one on when she's posing for a shitting camera.

I douse her in '50', I don't miss a spot,
But I've still ended up with a teak-coloured tot.
I should be upset, but all I can do is whine...
Now her bloody tan lines are better than mine!

So shit. The toddlers got a tan.
I admit I'm the world's worst SPF-wingman.
'I am the twatty failure of an angry lotion monitor',
And I'd literally tear out a kidney for a large gin and tonica.



#tonica
#toddlertan
#tonicatan 
#pregnancysucks 

How to totally win at parenting on a #pregnant #toddlerholiday in Spain

It may have escaped your attention that I've been rather quiet over the past week or so… which is mainly down to being in toddler hell, I mean on toddler holiday, in Spain with the entire Wally contingent… and also down to the lack of gin. AKA - my personality.

I am no stranger to the perils of the toddler holiday *shudders in memory of the turdy plane toddler and other ice cream related tales of anger…* , but this one is being carried out with a rather inconvenient uterus tenant and with WallyBubba almost an entire year older. And wiser. And faster. And shittier.

So. Here's my tips to get through without the gin. Let us start from the beginning…



  • Firstly. Forget everything you ever thought you knew about toddler holidays. Without the gin numbing this shit is about to get serious. Last year's 'hat gate' has absolutely nothing on the moment in the check-in queue that your toddler realises they can outrun you*begins twitching* …be afraid… be very afraid… (and bring donuts)
  • Thank the living f@*k lords for airport soft play. Your first opportunity to sit down in a month. With a pasty. 
  • Look as pregnant as possible while looking for a seat/table/place to perch whilst waiting for the plane... Then get paranoid as you board and suck that uterus back in until you are verging on concave.
  • During the flight convince yourself that everyone is enjoying your child's 47-verse rendition of 'wheels on the bus' by not making eye contact with ANYONE. This is a good time for the remainder of those donuts. And Pringles. And sniffing the person in front of you's gin. Which is definitely not creepy or weird at all. 
  • Thank you Jesus of Pregnancy (actual person) for sending us mere mortals the gift of the Trunki. The saviour of toddler owners internationally at baggage carousels across the world. We bow to you. And later will make a little shrine with some leg hair and saliva and a pack of Peppa Pig stickers in your honour. That is all.
  • Your attempts to look floaty and serene once you've arrived at your Spanish end-location will only ever come off as sweaty in too much fabric in need of chips and dry shampoo.
  • You know that one storybook you couldn't be arsed to pack because they never want to read it anyway and it weighs more than the actual sun...? Yeah. You idiot.
  • That moment when the toddler finally gives up the epic 20-hour fight against sleep and climbs into their buggy to pass out... Also known as the 'get in' hour (fist pump/high five optional). Aaaaaannndddddd relax. At this point consider another 'gin sniffing'. 
  • Mildly inappropriate alcohol consumption doesn't actually count on holiday... You said two glasses of wine a week. And you've stuck to that. By replacing the word 'week' with 'dinner and/or lunch'. (Or breakfast.)
  • Shit. Those swimming lessons have not only reversed your 2-year old's fear of water. They've turned her into a kamikaze water ninja. Ready to do battle with a partly chewed swim-nappy at any time…
  • All routine and bed time has gone out of the window. They live only for eating, sun and naked rock pool action. 
  • Yeah. And it can escape its cot now. F@*kballs.
  • If you attempt to sit down and read a 'mag-a-zine' at any point, it's like a red rag to a tiny greased-up crazy-haired bull... They will commence operation pool-side-poo-party and they will defend their area to the death with their zoodle.
  • You can choose shoes or hats. You will never get both on them at the same time. This is Spain. Not f@*king Oz. 
  • Spanish potty training has been going AWESOME (please apply appropriate level of sarcasm here) - our swimming pool is about 11% toddler urine and there are about three restaurants we've permanently left a mark on... Still. Due to the effect of damp Lycra on my ever increasing preggo-ness, I don't swim now. And it's not my bath water so f@*k it. #backtonappies 
  • Also - increasing waistline is absolutely ALL down to preggo-ness and absolutely not in any way connected to early morning donut consumption. Ot midnight churros sessions. 
  • How can one child eat that much melon...? And produce that much shit. I don't know whether to be concerned or impressed...
  • Note to self. Hunt down the person who invented toddler dungarees and have them stabbed to death in the face with blunt toddler cutlery. Same applies for whoever put buttons on the back of this dress.
  • It's lucky I'm already knocked up because today the toddler hurricane hit critical mass out at lunch, and mine and the nearest three tables' ovaries actually sterilised themselves. #truestory 
  • And finally. None of us will ever speak again of the 'Nemo Incident'. Despite repeated attempts to rescue Nemo, there are only so many times that actual human lives can be risked to salvage a 2-euro plastic orange fish from a cliff face. And in our own ways we've all said goodbye and come to terms with the loss. Mostly with donuts. 



#theNemoIncident
#gin
#toddlerholiday

The Rage. The Violence. The Shame… Surviving a Day at Peppa Pig World...

I write this weary and battle scarred from the safety of my living room...

For only three days ago I joined a club of elite toddler keepers... As I too, survived a day at Peppa Pig World. *flinches and starts inadvertently singing the Bing Bong Song* 

As a whole the toddler seems unaffected, in fact, she thought it was the best shitting thing that had ever shitting-well happened to her, and I have no doubt that via a series of lengthy counselling sessions and excessive Jaffa Cake consumption I will recover… slowly…

But let we warn you fellow toddler owners, do not take the Land of the Pig lightly… take heed of my words and join me as a PPWS - Peppa Pig World Survivor… (I expect there'll be a badge in the post with some gin and a letter of congratulations from Jesus any day now.)

Here is my advice:

En route, don't make the toddler angry and certainly don't mention the mother-chuffing balloon ride… you will NEVER hear the end of it… even when you've left… *goes to happy place*… When you arrive allow some extra time to cry and eat crisps as the toddler demolishes your perfectly packed picnic within 3 minutes flat.

And all before 10.15am.

Also. Stay strong and do not let them have a fruit shoot. It's like liquid crack for under 3's… and make them impossible to catch or keep clothed…


Consider your route around the rides carefully… and pick the ones with the smallest queues. Because toddlers are officially ALLERGIC to any form of queuing… There were points where I wanted to die, there were points where WallyBubba became inconsolable as forced to wait to mount a gyrating dinosaur for an entire 10 MINUTES. Quite frankly, if the lady with the height-checker had turned us away I would have f@*king cut her.

Plus. I would just like to point out that a pregnant lady on a gyrating dinosaur is neither necessary nor dignified… (Yet surprisiingly enjoyable.)


Additionally - there is a point on the Windy Castle ride where u realise that it's really shitting high. And spinny. And that up-chucking your latte onto either your own toddler, or the excited faces of the ones waiting their turn below is probably going to ruin the magic for them... a bit. Avoid milk products for the duration.

There'll be points where you need to rest, sit down for a few seconds, and generally regain energy (and the will to live), which will result in the toddler laughing in your face and running full pelt into the Muddy Puddles splash pool. Fully clothed. Wielding a half consumed cheese sandwich and a fruit shoot belonging to an unsuspecting school child… I've found the best way to deal with this is to place them on an inanimate object from which they can't get down for a few moments.. and breath… and eat chips.


When Peppa arrives for one of her twice daily appearances, anything goes. It's every parent for themselves. I face-elbowed a granny and punched a five-year-old in the throat to get to the front. Once there I held ground by growling at people as WallyBubba bit them.

The victory was small but worth it.


The shop the size of a city at the end is designed to break you now that you're weak... I had planned to buy her a balloon, perhaps a pencil topper or a bookmark… I came out with WallyBubba dressed as a mermaid, a year's supply of playdoh and a f@*king unicorn. 

Still.

We made it.

And considering that due to pregnancy hormones I could have laughed, burst into tears, or bottled someone at any moment, I think I did pretty well.

Even without the gin…

#PPWS
#BingBongSong
#gin






Hints to Husbands of Pregnant Wives… #dontsaygin


  1. If she can't see her vagina, neither can you. Stay away baby-making-penis-of-womb-doom. 
  2. Don't congratulate your balls. It's not funny.
  3. No. You can't touch her breasts. Because a thousand tiny razors are slicing through her nipples… Do it again, and you will get cut.
  4. When you're asked to rub her back, you better channel Hans the Swedish God of Hands and go to shitting town on those ligaments.
  5. There can never be too much cake. Even when she says she doesn't want cake, you should ensure you have emergency cake. And carry hobnobs about your person whilst out and about. 
  6. Falling asleep before her is basically divorce grounds.
  7. Snoring will result in you being stabbed. 
  8. Your area of the sofa has been dramatically diminished. To the floor.
  9. When she says yes. She means no. But if you then accept her no, she will be upset that you no longer see her as a yes person. Which is the same as calling her fat. You bastard. Why are you struggling to grasp this?!? 
  10. Failing that. Any time you can't think what to say; run her a bath. With candles. And bubbles. And magic fanny-mending fairies. 
  11. Last resort. Punch yourself in the face. It'll make her feel better. 
  12. When you signed the marriage certificate, you signed away your right to even look like you've noticed her pregnancy farts.
  13. The above also applies to leg shaving… or lack of…
  14. You only get the end bits of the garlic french-stick now. Just so you know.
  15. You should be sympathy-sober, sympathy-fat and sympathy-doing-the-f@*king-housework from now on. 
  16. Don't tell her she's glowing. Buy her a KFC Bargain Bucket for one and watch as she cries tears of joy into the secret recipe coating. 
  17. Whatever you do…if you value your skin… and penis… don't mention gin. 
  18. And finally... Any man who reads this and comments 'poor bastard' in regard to my husband should be reminded that throughout the 9-months of sheer hell I am enduring which will culminate in a human battering-ram thrusting its way out of my already battle-weary uterus, his contribution was to have sex. So, unless you've shat a marrow with a face and fingernails you can't f@*king comment. Just saying. 


#dontsaygin
#snorestabbing
#facemarrow 

Mummy Misses.... (An Angry Pregnant Poem from a Toddler Owner)

Mummy misses that Friday feeling,
And getting totally nobbed in the pub.
Mummy misses those random nights,
Where you end up singing Spice Girls in a club.

Mummy misses lazy Sundays,
And strolling at her own pace in the park.
Mummy misses having an actual waistline,
And hips that stay in-line without stretch marks.

Mummy misses relaxing mealtimes,
And playing catch with someone who can ACTUALLY THROW.
Mummy misses wearing proper makeup,
And clothing that's not dappled with Cheerios.

Mummy misses matching underwear,
And seeing her vagina without using a mirror.
When Mummy says NO, she means bastard NO,
And she can't make that any bastard clearer.

Mummy misses magazines and mascara,
And having time to actually get bored.
But luckily Mummy is f@*king awesome; 
Did I mention Mummy won a mother-shitting award!

(Sorry, just had to get that in there... As I am now officially an award winning funny lady! #BiBs2014)



#BiBs2014
#MummyMisses

Things I'd forgotten about how shit it is to be pregnant.

Yes.

That's right blog followers and fellow wonky vagina owners… this is my rather unsubtle way of telling you all that WallyBubba #2 is in progress and already reached the ripe old age of 14 weeks of womb time.


*pauses for mixed reactions of happiness, hopelessness, uncontrollable wailing (my own) and outright astonishment* 

Obviously. I'm happy. I'm over the shitting moon. But it's fair to say that baby number 2's ability to bring infinite joy has been slightly jaded. Mostly by knowledge... I KNOW how shit pregnancy, birth, babyhood, toddlerhood and my uterus are now, and I'm still f@*king doing it again. Yes. OVER THE F@*KING MOON. 

So, with the wonders of pregnancy conveniently blotted out up to now, I can't deny the symptoms are catching up with me again. So naturally it's time for an inappropriate and offensive blogpost listing all the things that are truly shit about pregnancy:

  • You can't stop eating Pot Noodles. No matter how dirty they make you feel inside. 
  • The really shit parts of your personality (or lack of) are exposed due to the lack of alcohol... #true. 
  • You're exhausted, but at 3am your body says F@*K YOU SLEEP. I NEED A WEE, A PACKET OF MINI CHEDDARS, SOME AFTER EIGHTS AND AN UNNECESSARY SERIES OF ANGRY SIGHS.
  • The yellow arches are your new best friend. You're ashamed. But yes. You will be going large on that McLunch thanks very much oh mystic giver of breaded chicken McLumps…
  • You don't quite look pregnant yet, you just look like you really like pies. And McLunches… oh… (shit)
  • You have to listen to annoying fruit analogies. My baby is not an avocado... Unless you know of an avocado that grows to weigh 7lbs and tears through vaginas using a combination of its teeth and kung fu. 
  • The area previously known as your ankles has begun to merge successfully with your calves… and instead of lower legs you now instead have very long knees. Shorts really aren't for you now. *whispers* but then, they never were…
  • Also, what the f@*k has happened to my belly button…?!
  • You've noticed how much prosecco your friends really drink. In heels. Selfish twats. 
  • Plus now you're pregnant, all your friends will announce amazing birthday parties, trips abroad, hen-dos, weddings and loads of other stuff you're invited to be farty, sweaty and spherical at. Awesome. 
  • In the last three months, the most exciting thing you've done is eat a medium rare steak on your wedding anniversary followed by an entire camembert. Which you ate using only your face. #rebel 
  • You've lost all ability to hoover, dust or cook… yet you can muster the strength for John Lewis's baby department no problem. Your life is filth and takeaways now. Until the baby comes… when it's filth, takeaways and faeces. 
  • You should be sprinting after your daredevil toddler… but instead you are fairly busy puking in a bin. (This should be the moment that puts you off Pot Noodles… instead you come up fancying one again… #grim) 
  • You know you're becoming angry, unsociable and unreasonable, but this doesn't stop you sending your husband out at 10pm for a Yop and a packet of pork scratching. This is all his fault after all.
  • Oh gin.... *le sigh*



#byebyegin
#byebyepersonality
#hellofilthtakeawaysandfaeces





Daddy. You Awesome Bastard.

Dear Daddy,

First of all, Happy Father's Day. And thanks for being a pretty awesome bastard.

Secondly, (and I feel really shit that I'm the one to break this to you), I've recently found out that Mummy has been sending you Father's Day cards for the last couple of years and doing some kind of weird left-handed-writing thingy to pass it off as my signature… Treacherous skank. Although considering I spend most of my days barking at plastic ladybirds and eating pears without removing the cores, it shouldn't really surprise you that I can't yet sign my own name… In fact it's amazing I'm typing this really…

But anyway. I digress.

I wanted to take this opportunity to assess your Daddy-ing over the past year and offer some useful tips and advice for next year's assessment:

  1. When I take the time out of my busy schedule to make you a personalised pirate hat, I expect you to f@*king wear it. The same goes for the pasta bracelet I gave you at Easter which you've conveniently 'not found an occasion for'... I'm watching you.
  2. I do not accept your version of hide and seek: I am always the seeker, I get to look where you hide before finding you, and you get to look surprised. That's just the way it is. 
  3. Please leave the melon hedgehogs to Mummy in future. I think you know why. 
  4. 'I'm tired', 'my back hurts' and 'it's 3am in the morning' are not acceptable excuses for getting out of Daddy-Horsey-Ridey-Time. When I say the word, you WILL drop onto all fours, let me whip you with headless Iggle Piggle and ride you like my own personal mechanical bitch. 
  5. I can see your hair. And that's the main reason I don't want you anywhere near mine. 
  6. I now know the 'National Croissant Shortage' you told me about last week was A LIE. And I plan of having you beaten for this. That's right… I know people. 
  7. Now I'm two and a half, I think we both know who would win in a 'fart-off' Father. That's right, the student becomes the master… 
  8. Touch my scooter while I'm scootering again and I will f@*k you up quicker than a brand new pot of Play-doh. 
  9. Don't ever grow a beard again. I literally shit myself for three days straight last time because I thought you'd put your head on upside down without realising. 
  10. Also. You should know that when I grow up I want to be Batman. 


Love you. Until next year…

WallyBubba 

xxx