Why aren’t my kids perfect??

On numerous occasions since becoming a mum I’ve found myself wondering why my children weren’t always doing what the books and society say they ‘should’ be doing. Why don’t they always behave in an  impeccable way?!

Pre kids, when you saw a child having a public meltdown it was easy to think what a spoilt child they must be, to provoke that complete screaming fit over the mere fact they ate half a packet of crisps and then got mega angry because you gave them the wrong flavour (despite the fact they chose that pack in the first place) they must usually get everything they want, when they want it. Only when you become a parent yourself do you realise how wrong that assumption is.

Our children are not spoilt, we make an effort to stand our ground when we feel needed so they don’t always get their own way, so why does my child still go batshit crazy when someone presses the pedestrian crossing button before him?!

I recently read an article about how your baby should sleep at their age. As soon as I opened it I knew it would piss me off as sleep isn’t something that comes freely in this house, however I continued to read regardless (probably another crap choice caused by sleep deprivation anyway)

The ‘experts’ say that by 4 or 5 months your child will start sleeping through the night but “if you are really unfortunate they will still wake at 6 months -ouch-” I felt like shouting at the bloody page ‘Try your child waking virtually every night for 3 fricking YEARS love, screw you and screw your 6 months!!” But still found myself asking, well why doesn’t my baby sleep through the night yet? Why isn’t he perfect?!

“At around 6 months your child will begin to sit up independently” – sit up?!? He’s only just mastered a little roll you buggers, why is he so behind?!?!

Why does my baby not drift off and ‘self soothe’ himself into a blissful sleep? What’s more, why doesn’t that damn tranquil turtle we spent a fortune on peacefully lull him into a deep slumber? (Probably because we’ve never left him to self soothe and the sleepy, stoned looking turtle is shoved in a basket in the corner of his room, but that all comes back to being a shit parent, a thought for another day…)

Why do we have to rock our baby to sleep? As we pace the room and he gets increasingly frustrated at being held we know it’s not really working out for either of us but you’re too bloody knackered to attempt to change it to something else.

Why does Middle F get up before the birds in the morning?! Why isn’t he perfect and sleep in until a reasonable hour such as 7 instead of getting up between 4 and 5 am on a regular basis? Why is it that one morning he’ll happily get up with his dad but then wait until I’ve had the shittest, most desperate nights sleep of all and insist it’s his mum that does the 4am wake up call by beginning to scream the joint down the second I don’t spring out of bed?!

Why does our 3 year old not sit perfectly when we go out for something to eat (once in the bluest of blue moons) but instead is all over the place like a fart in a thunderstorm and attempting to do headstands in the seat? (cue looks of disapproving smug mums sitting alongside their own perfect children who are silently supping up their cabbage soup)

Why do my children begin to make paper aeroplanes out of their colouring sheets provided by the restaurant to launch across the table (probably to land in smug mum’s cabbage soup) and use their crayons as handy stirrers for their juice? Middle F put good use to the sharpened pencils provided by Harvester by discovering they made a perfect tool for sticking in raisins to pick them up and eat them. Creative.

Why don’t my children sit down and always play calm and educational activities? Perfect children wouldn’t run around the house having mental wrestling fights wearing nothing but pants (if you’re lucky) and finding it hilarious to try and pull each other’s willies.

Perfect children would choose ‘nice’ songs to sing such as nursery rhymes or the alphabet, not change the words of every song possible to ‘poo’ ‘fart’ ‘willy’ and ‘bum’ (personal family favourite is the lyrics ‘Watch me work, work, watch me nay nay’ replaced by the words ‘watch me fart, fart, watch me fart fart’ -very catchy)

If my child were perfect they would love all our home cooking. ‘Wean them onto your food instead of pouches for extra flavour’ they say, ‘Cook your own dishes and they will be more open to a range of foods’ they say…..I slaved my bollocks off over the cooker lovingly preparing home dishes for each of my boys, stored neatly and labelled carefully in the freezer….my eldest son’s diet now consists mainly of pasta (plain no sauce) cucumber, tomatoes and raw carrot.

Why isn’t Big T perfect at choosing what to wear for the day? When he has perfectly fitting trousers in his drawer and well fitted Clarks Doodle plimsolls by the door, why does he insist on wearing jack-up faded jogging bottoms with holes in the knees (not in a cool way) that are swinging around his ankles, teamed with a too small t-shirt (need a clear out but haven’t had time to get round to being the perfect housewife) and a pair of chavvie Lonsdale trainers (picked up cheap for playing on school field).

Why does Middle F insist on turning bedtime into a crazy, manic circus? A perfect child would calmly lie down and listen to an audio book after their story, instead he loves every minute of the book (frequently choosing one and then when you reach the end insisting he didn’t want that one and chooses another) but then uses his mattress as a gym mat for somersaults and headstands followed up by shouting renditions of ‘daddy finger’.

Other perfect children sit beautifully at nursery in Circle time, why is it reported in that my child is doing roly polys around the circle nearly breaking his neck?

Why were other children singing songs like Humpty Dumpty with the other nursery children but Big T used to sing ‘Come on ladies, come on ladies one pound fiiiiiiish’ when social media was going through the craze of  watching the singing fish monger?!

When I set up large buckets of water with ladels, cups, saucers and teapots in the garden on a hot day for the boys to have a big cook up and civilised tea party with all the water, why did they end up having a mass water fight resulting in a saucepan being lobbed across the lawn hitting one of their legs?!

We are often left wishing that our children would behave in certain ways because it’s what they are ‘supposed’ to do, or sometimes it’s because their ‘imperfections’ make life really shitting hard some days.

I have come to realise that my children  may not always do what is socially acceptable, but Little B has a killer smile and even in his short 7 months has a love for life like nobody else I’ve ever met,  Middle F has so much character and spirit I’m not quite sure what to do with it and is flipping hard work, but is so loving with his bush baby eyes, he gives the most amazing love filled cuddles a child could ever possibly give, and Big T is so sensitive and kind that when I get out of bed, after a rough night, looking like the shittest of all shits and a total wreck, he tells me I look beautiful and I know that he means it. When I wore my swimming costume for the first time post birth and it looked so horrific and tight it nearly cut off the circulation at the top of my thighs, he saw I looked conscious and told me he thought I looked really lovely (he definitely couldn’t have meant that one)

So in my eyes, screw what literature says about what my children should be doing and screw those SMOS and their pity smiles, because I’ve come to the conclusions  that my kids are pretty perfect after all, they’re pretty damn perfect at acting their age.

……Although still wouldn’t give a good nights sleep a miss…….just every once in a while…..

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If I were a Lego man…

 

 

  1. The ‘Smug’ look

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The look you give when your child might not sleep through the night, nor ‘self settle’ like the other SMOS’s children, but they have just laughed at their brother’s fart for the first time. Major milestone achieved.

2. The polite smile

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Used when someone asks if you’ve tried putting your child to bed later when you comment that they get up between 4 and 5am…(of course I fricking well have)

Also used when a SMOS suggests to a breastfeeding mum on little sleep that she should start using formula so her baby is more ‘satisfied’.

3. The ‘Get your hands off my child’ look

 

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How you look when some little shit floors your child at soft play.

4.The ‘I will do this if it kills me’ look

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When you’re bloody determined to prove to the smug mums walking around Asda that you’re 100% in control of your children, and their eyes are deceiving them when they think they see them disco sliding on their knees down every aisle wiping grannies out…

5. The ‘I think I’m so stressed I’m going to die’ look

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How you look by the time you leave the house for the school run…

6. Zombified. That is all.

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How you look once you’ve returned to the house after doing the school run…

Also applicable for the morning look after doing hourly night feeds….

7. The ‘Well groomed’ and ‘Yummy mummy’ look

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How you’d like to look when you just ‘pop’ to Asda child free for a little browse….

8. The ‘Ned Flanders’ look

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How you actually look when you just ‘pop’ to Asda child free for a little browse… (Although if I’m being generous perhaps swap facial hair for leg hair)

9. The ‘I’d give anything’ look

 

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What you’d give to be able to have 5 minutes to take a dump on your own…

10. The ‘I’d REALLY give anything’ look

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In fact, sod just your right arm, you’d give both.

11. The ‘SWAT team’ look

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What you need to wear to separate the chaos when from the other room you hear “I’ll be the red one and you be the blue one” followed by “Those Mighty Morphing Power Rangeeeeeers…”

12. The ‘Ooooooooooh shit’ (literally) look

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When your pantless child tells you that they’ve done a poo and they have a pooie bum….but you can’t find the poo itself….

13. The ‘I’m totally the bomb’ look

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How you feel when you’re out in public amongst a load of smug mums and your 3 children are behaving impeccably. Living. The. Dream.

14. The ‘I don’t give a shit’ look

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When the clocks go back an hour and one of those SMOS posts a status on Facebook saying that it didn’t effect their children’s sleep at all. That’s wonderful for you. And I mean that. Honestly.

And finally….

15. The ‘God DAMN I’m a fricking licking superhero’ look

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When you’ve got through the day juggling 3 children single handedly and nobody has died. Yet.

 

 

 

 

Park life.

After a bit of consideration (but not much) I have come to the conclusion that going to the park with small children is crap.

The parks I’m referring to can be split into loosely two categories; those with large open spaces and those with swings and slides. Both as crap as each other to visit but for differing reasons.

You get invited for a picnic in a large park. You think to yourself ‘Oh yes, what a lovely idea, we can all sit and have a civilised healthy picnic comprising of neat little sandwiches and vegetable sticks, our children can potter happily around us looking delicately at little bugs and making daisy chains. We can then follow this up with a meander through the grounds and look at the ducks whilst standing a safe distance from the water….’ And so on.

This is NOT the reality.

The minute you arrive you look around at the large open space, you then glance back in the car to your 3 year old, 5 year old and a baby and think ‘This was a shit idea.’

Being completely British about it you are totally determined to enjoy your picnic and soldier on. Before you’ve even left the car park your 3 and 5 year olds have gone on total strike from holding anything and the single buggy housing the baby only has a small basket, so you find yourself grappling with the buggy, two large balls (scented ones no less) a bag, a pair of small sunglasses and a One Direction lunchbox slung casually over one shoulder. But you can do this because it’ll be totally worth it.

You unpack the picnic and blanket (the blanket which isn’t a ‘proper’ picnic one so the wet ground soaks straight through) and offer the food to the children. Food consumed equals a carb fest of sausage rolls and copious amounts of crisps, not a veg in sight. The children stay for approximately 30 seconds before starting to explore.

Events that unfold include beating a tree with a large stick, running as far as possible to go and shut the gate on a road which is frequently used by cars, jumping down into a ha-ha and climbing the wall the other side which is just waiting to crack your head open, beginning to climb a concrete staggered wall which just keeps getting higher and heading hell for leather for a road. A road that has a parked car with windows down and a young couple screaming obscenities at each other. Nice and child friendly then.

Open spaces just invite kids to bolt. They are not lovely, they are knackering. Little park flowers look pretty but you spend your life asking your child not to pick them and could they please step off the flower bed and walk around it like everyone else’s child is managing to do. You point out a little bug that’s tootling across the path and then regret it as your child stands on it to get a better look. You are responsible for an animals death, you are a crap person.

You change tack and show your children a frisky squirrel scampering across the path, they instantly chase it and scare the shit out of it, you’re probably now responsible for the death of a second animal.

Ice lollies are a lovely idea, well, they should be but they’re not. They begin to melt because your child is too busy bug killing and flower picking to remember to lick it. It spreads across their face and dries, leaving their hands and head in a sticky mess, you then realise that you have no wipes. Your child then has a humongous meltdown because they’ve eaten half the lolly but they want a ‘big one’ again.

Ducks. Ducks are good. They are sweet and quacky and kill a bit of time. That is until you reach the pond and it has an open edge, it looks rank and deep and is full of manky fish that are coming to the surface looking hungry. You think you can cope with this until your child gets all excited and starts moving in a rapid and unpredictable manner right by the edge of the water, forget the squirrel, you are now full on shitting your pants that they will fall in and you will have to follow them into the disgusting, rat infested (I imagine) water with those rank fish. Your child is steered away from the pond. Ducks are not good.

These parks have dogs. Dogs that wander around looking menacing and sniffing around your child’s arse while they scream totally petrified that they are about to be eaten. Dogs are not good.

Country parks are not good.

Then you take them to parks with swings and slides.

‘Can we go to the park mum?’

You think ‘Oh yes, that’ll be a nice thing to do, fresh air, lots of fun to be had on those soft and safe slides and swings….’

This is NOT the reality. You reach the park and glance around at the ‘fun things’ to do and think ‘This was a shit idea.’

There is always an assortment of metal death traps on offer. A huge slide with hundreds of steps that just scream out ‘Climb me….then lose your footing and split your chin open.’ They have those things they sit on and rock backwards and forwards, then move their head forwards at the same time as the object and smack their chins on it.

The Firemens pole is great. Your child either attempts to launch themselves straight down it or tries to lower themselves carefully but in the process painfully whacks their balls on the pole whilst clinging on.

You basically spent the whole time down there preserving life and preventing your child from killing itself.

That bin your child licked and got the shits afterwards? That was in a park. That swing that your child walked in front of and it hit them in the chops? That was in a park. The last dog turd you stepped in? Park again. That see saw that your child asked you to read what was written on it and when you looked it said ‘Your mum’s a fat bitch’ and ‘This park is f****** shit’? Park again.

So next time someone asks you to go to a park and you think it would be a lovely thing to do, just remember it’s not. Parks are totally and utterly crap. Worst day ever.

However it can be good to try and guess the function of the odd random park item that appears in the local play area, one of my favourites being this green thing that can only be described as resembling a woman’s contraceptive coil. Such fun.

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Nobody told me…

There are some things to do with parenthood that people love to share and let you know. That first pregnancy you ever have, everyone is busting to tell you how little sleep you’re going to have and how to put your child to bed.

There are other things however that nobody bothers to tell you, things that actually really matter when you become a parent.

  1. Nobody told me just how hard that first bit is. You’re not just ‘a bit sleep deprived’ or have slight ‘baby brain’ you are whole heartedly, totally and utterly, blown into a complete mental haze. For 9 months you’ve prepared yourself (or so you thought) for this little bundle of joy to arrive, totally unaware that NOTHING can really prepare you. The feeding is constant, you feel like every tiny sap of energy and life is being sucked out of you quite literally. You take up secret eating of flapjack in the cupboards (which by the time you’re on baby 2 or 3 you hide in a carrier bag in the cupboard so your toddler doesn’t clock eyes on your booty). The baby cries, it has colic, you spend hours an evening pacing the bedroom with a windy, colicky baby just wishing with all your might that it would just peacefully drift off to sleep. You trot along to baby groups to meet other mums, some of which delight in telling you how well their baby sleeps, you look at them politely, finding yourself for the first time thinking ‘Shut the fuck up’ but smile (with your mouth only, no eyes involved as you don’t mean it) and tell them ‘well done’. You leave feeling like crap because you must surely be doing something wrong. Although as a friend correctly said, nobody is going to tell you how hard it is because they’d be cruel to, to sit you down when you announce your happy news and say ‘Look love, for the first 12 weeks you’re not going to know your arm from your arsehole and you are going to look like shit on a stick’ so instead, they congratulate you and tell you how wonderful it is. And it IS wonderful, but shit it’s hard too.

2. Nobody told me how much hate you can have for a creaky floor board and a barking dog. There’s not many things I hate in life but have grown to have very strong, negative feelings towards anything that creates a lot of noise when my children are asleep. I want the world to sleep when my kids do, for everything to be silent so you don’t stir the lions in their den. Especially the sodding dog next door, he’s rigged our house I swear, waits for the children to sleep then heads straight outside to dump and shout about it. I hate that dog.

I’ve mastered a route out of Little B’s bedroom door to try and avoid the creaky floorboard. It’s not even a particularly old house, what business has a creaky floor board got hanging around there?! No business. I hate that floorboard.

3. Nobody told me that a trip to Sainsburys alone feels as good as a night out on the lash with your mates. That it becomes your new place to ‘browse’, that you spend hours looking at the different types of bin liners on offer just because you can. That you walk up and down aisles feeling free and then find yourself smiling like a weirdo so have to check yourself and try to look normal again.

Nobody told me that you spend a lot of time wishing that you had just half an hour to yourself, even 10 minutes, that you look forward to taking a shite just so you have some time alone, despite the fact that 9 times out of 10 you are joined by a little person that walks in and says ‘Are you doing a poo mum? Can I see it?’

Nobody told me though, that once you finally get that time, that long awaited time, a morning away from your kids, you miss them like hell and can’t wait to see them again.

4. Nobody told me how much of a shit hole your house turns into. That inside you is a domestic goddess desperately trying to bust out and keep an immaculate, tight ship, but instead you are manically running round on a daily basis attempting to hoover a bit and put toys away. You jump up in excitement when you see how well your baby’s fine motor skills have developed as he picks up a small item off the floor, only to realise it’s some piece of manky food from a few days ago. Winner.

5. Nobody told me how much seeing your child in an assembly or nativity will crumble you. Yes they tell you you’d be proud, that much is obvious, but not that seeing your child in an oversized shirt with a tea towel attached to their head with an elastic band will literally kill you. That you sit there trying to stop yourself dissolving into a blubbering mess as they walk around the stage like an Egyptian 29 times, covering the same small circle, following a star. They’ve got stamina, I’d have given up on that bloody star 2 laps in.

6. Nobody told me that when your child starts school your biggest worry isn’t whether they achieve academically but whether they have friends. That it hurts the hell out of you to think of your child alone in the playground. That you even consider just happening to stroll past the field fence at lunchtime to make sure they’re OK, and then you remember you’d probably be arrested for hanging around school grounds staring through fences like a child predator.

Nobody told me that I wouldn’t even be able to handle taking my child for his first school dinner as just the thought of him queuing up with his tray, food segmented out with the ice cream scoop of mashed potato on one half and cup of grapes in the other, made me well up like a nutter whilst still at home. That was one for his dad.

7. Nobody told me that your child might still not sleep through the night at 3 years old, and therefore may continue to not sleep through for many years to come. That your nights become like a carry on film as you and your husband trudge up and down the landing in and out of various beds and bedrooms throughout the night. Sleep deprivation at birth is a given, sleep deprivation still at 5 and a half years later is taking the piss slightly. We did however have more children so that much I’ll take responsibility for…

8. Nobody told me that poo would become my life. That you’re either changing a poo nappy, cleaning it out of pants or potty, longing for one yourself or finding it in unexpected places. Once I could smell it very strongly, checked everywhere, or so I thought. Sat down to feed Little B and only at the end of the food did I notice that I was indeed sitting next to a well formed nugget on the rug. Slightly ‘scuffed’ so knew it had been knocked along the way. Just counted my lucky stars that I hadn’t sat in it. I was so knackered I would have started to wonder if I’d actually laid it myself.

9. Nobody told me how shit you’d feel if you shouted. That sometimes your children push every button going and you manage to stay calm for so fricking long and in the end you break because they’re just not listening. For the rest of the day you feel like you’ve ruined their life. You’re a shit mum who got angry.

One day I was in a hurry to get to work and get everyone out of the door but the boys were having a huge jolly, Middle F was chucking toast over his shoulders left right and centre and Big T found it hilarious. Give them their due, they knew how to  liven up breakfast time and did it all whilst belting out a merry tune. After many attempts to hurry them along and get out of the door I shouted at them to stop singing. What kind of mother tells their children to stop singing?!? A tired one, desperate to get to work. But nobody tells you about that bit.

10. Finally, nobody told me how much I’d think on a daily basis about how much I’d want to protect them. Nobody told me that one of the things that scares me even more than something happening to them is something happening to me. That may seem selfish but it’s because if it happened to me then it’s them that would feel the pain.

Nobody told me that I’d drag my sorry ass down the landing 10 zillion times, wishing that my child slept and that they didn’t need to call me at that time. But when they curled up on my lap, all bendy and folded in like a cat, that I’d have a slight panic about the day they couldn’t fit on my lap anymore. The day when they get too big and I have to ask them to come to me and not the other way around.

Nobody told me that it wouldn’t just be my children not wanting to leave home, but that I’d look at them and crap my pants about the day they say that they want to go. That my little boys, with smooth cheeks and only tiny fair hairs on their legs may one day be covered in body hair and tower over me and no longer climb on my lap because other than not fitting, it would be slightly awkward.

Nobody told me that parenthood would totally and horrendously FRY me, that I’d look like crap, wear a dreadful out of date wardrobe and that it would make me behave like a swan- look calm enough on the surface but be paddling like shit beneath the water.

But most of all, nobody told me just how really flipping amazing it would be. 💙💙💙

Twas the night before school…

The night came before Big T returned to school. 2 whole weeks I had to sew up the hem on his school trousers, still not done and hanging on the stair gate, 2 whole weeks to sort the bag of stuff for charity which was still spread throughout the house, 2 whole weeks to collect up, sort and label the stuff I want to sell at the NCT sale THIS Saturday which takes a million years to do and still not done (the last sale of kiddie stuff I did brought in a grand total of £4.60, an amount not to be sniffed at if you ask me) however much fun was had by all instead of jobs that needed to be done.

Middle F had started to move away from the Lego storage box hat slightly and on a couple of occasions his ‘toy’ of choice to take out in the car was the family plastic pee bottle, not ideal.

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The night before school return I lay in bed feeling really jealous of the famous ‘4 month sleep regression’. Never before did anyone warn me that I’d be jealous of of another child’s regression in sleep. However I figured that in order to ‘regress’ from something, you needed to be half decent at it in the first place, to have something to regress from. Little B is one of many wonderful things, but a sleeper he is not. He too had 2 whole weeks to pull some really shocking nights when I had half a chance of staying in bed a bit longer in the morning, but decided to save his real, shit hot, all-nighter for the night before school. Love. Him.

We have now made the heart wrenching move of shipping him out to his own room, at over 5 months we could not shoe horn him into his basket any longer so it was finally time for ‘operation own room’. He didn’t  like it. I didn’t  like it. However I needn’t have pined after him for too long as after him waking at 9, 10, 11, 12 and 1 with me feeding and settling him, I’d lost the will to live and dragged my sorry arse, and his, back into my room.

After waking hourly, by 4am he had enough of milk and was straining for a poo. Fair play to him, it is uncomfortable to sleep when you desperately need a dump, the boy had other things on his mind. Especially when he was struggling to go. This then triggered ‘operation help to poo’ which consisted of massaging and leg cycling. So there I was, 4am with the light on my phone like a medical treatment light, massaging his tummy (it’s all about the clockwise motion) and doing bicycle legs with his chubby little pins. At last we had lift off and a poo was done. Rejoice. I then began feeding him again whilst reading random crap on my phone about Ash from Diversity’s ‘incredible, unrecognisable new look’ (which was merely a hair cut and a bit of facial hair) and all about cage diving with great whites (which I decided I would completely and utterly SHIT my pants doing, so that was a no go. Good to see that ‘shark activity’ was at its highest at the moment though and that they were out in force being ‘playful’ that day. Good times.)

The next morning I felt, and looked, like a bag of shite. Big T was excited about returning to school which was great and enjoyed poking a hole in his bread to give it a ‘bum hole’ which was the highlight of Middle F’s morning. Even bread needs to poo too.

Middle F had been watching Fireman Sam that morning, still seeming oblivious to the fact that there must be some dodgy connection between Station Officer Steele and Elvis (I’m guessing SOS has probably had untoward advances towards Norman Price which were stumbled upon and discovered by Elvis) otherwise there is no way on this earth he would keep Elvis employed, and not on capability, or Norman out of the young offenders institution. There lies the behaviour of a man with a sordid past.

Middle F went into role play, putting out fires left right and centre with his trusty equipment, the centre of his potty for a hat and a straw for a hose. The poor relations dressing up kit.

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We loaded up the buggy and set off for the school run. Middle F quickly found a big fat stick to be his new hose and jacked in the straw. He had some serious fires to tackle now and meant business.

The school’s headteacher often stands on the gate to see people out and do a polite meet and greet. I usually fly past her like a bat out of hell whilst chasing after Middle F but not that day. This time he decided to stop in front of her, waving and shaking his stick at her body whilst shouting out his own language in a very forceful manner. It was all a bit awkward as she commented on the size of his stick and I muttered something about it being a hose whilst rounding him up and moving him on. This was then repeated as we walked down the path to a dear little old lady who looked a little nervous to say the least. Immediately had flashes of him accidentally doing a bit of granny bashing as he got over zealous in the wielding of his hose. Thankfully managed to coax him back into the buggy eventually by saying we need to fight a fire quickly and he needed to board the engine.

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Got to the pedestrian crossing where it is Middle F’s priority to be the one who presses the button first. Alas that day was not his and he crossed the road dragging his stick on the ground and muttering under his breath in disgust that the moment didn’t belong to him.

Once returning from the nursery run I sat on the sofa looking around the room and thinking how it looked as though we’d literally been burgled from all the crap all over the floor.

I started to wish that I had a magic cleaning thing that cleared up all the mess or wish that I actually liked coffee because if I did a coffee would have been good right then to keep me from falling asleep standing up and dropping on my arse… But then I thought that if I really and truly had one wish, just one wish,  it should probably just be to have a child that sleeps…..or maybe one that comes with the cleaning thing as a free gift too….

 

The Law of Sod.

Sod’s Law seems to come into play at least once on a daily basis in my house. All those other mums out there are milling around calmly, looking all in control and on the ball whilst I fly by the seat of my pants the majority of the time.

Here are  just a few of my most recent examples of Sod’s law which show just how fantastic I am at juggling all my balls at one time…

  1. I thought I was doing bloody great at multi tasking by putting Little B in a sling to do jobs, ended up wrapping him too high, (having to stick with it as he was shattered and crying and needed to sleep) so had no choice but to sit down for his entire nap with my chin in the air looking at the ceiling.

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2. We were running late for school and Middle F decided to walk the whole trip backwards, just what you need when you’re in a hurry, especially down dog shit alley…

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3. I tried to communicate with Middle F to decipher what he wanted for dinner and he insisted on doing it with the toilet bin on his head. I couldn’t make out a thing he was saying other than a few muffled noises and echoing shouts…

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4. Middle F wanted to watch a DVD,  Little B was tired and crying through desperation to sleep. I thought I was totally in control and would put the DVD on quickly first so that I could concentrate on getting  Little B to sleep whilst my other son was busy and safely watching TV. However he decided to ‘choose’ the DVD with the toilet bin back on his head so couldn’t  see a fricking thing and the whole process took hours…cue baby meltdown…

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5. I had one clean, sterile dummy left. Chuffed that I was so organised and had it ready to go on the side, I  grabbed it and gave it to little B. He spat it straight out in anger, directly into the potty of wee that Middle F had just that second filled…

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6. I needed to make an Easter bonnet with Big T for school, I thought I had enough resources and knew there was a chick left over from last year somewhere. After a mega rummage, I couldn’t  believe my luck when I actually found the last chick….and then saw that the poor bugger looked like this…

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7. The Easter bonnet needed to be re-thought, I decided to plump for a nest job made out of painted string dipped in PVA glue and wound round a balloon. It looked the dog’s bollocks and I even did it whilst my baby was napping in a sling on me AND cooking the dinner. BOOM!

Big T got so excited the next day to see it and thinking it was dry, he popped the balloon. It was not dry. Shit.

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8. Plan B…needed something other than the string nest to go on the bonnet…Big T had the idea of an egg box (bloody good idea) he came running through from the kitchen, clutching it in his sweaty little palms and accidentally dropped the whole thing. One egg landed on the rug/mat and the other on laminate flooring. Middle F wanted to investigate the commotion and walked straight into the egg on the floor, skidding all over it repeatedly like Bambi on ice, 2 minutes before leaving for school. God. Help. Me.

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9. Middle F went through a phase of always wanting to wear a hat. That’s fine, although the hat he chose wasn’t  actually a hat, it’s the lid of a Lego storage box that doesn’t remotely stay on. Just perfect for walks in Hanningfield reservoir and Sainsburys…

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Was pleased however to walk into the kitchen and discover he was keen to share it…

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10. I sat down to breastfeed, switched the TV on, had my drink right beside me, was good to go. Prepared for anything. I began to feed, so couldn’t move, and was just beginning to  feel a little smug that I’d even remembered the remote control this time. I went to change the channel and discovered that although Middle F was able to park his fire engine anywhere in the whole entire room that morning, he decided upon a spot directly in front of the TV sensor so was stuck watching this pretty face for half an hour instead…

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There would be hundreds more examples of Sod’s Law that happen under this roof, and out of it, all the time.

Those ‘Holy Crap’ moments that are your ‘laugh or cry’ moments, your ‘fight or flight’ moments that leave you deciding whether to deal with it head on or run a million miles away from the chaos. Luckily I hate running and have only done it a couple of times since Sixth Form, where I fell flat on my face in front of a packed bus stop and building site running for a bus. I grazed my knees at 17 years of age. I then found out that the bus wasn’t even mine. Another example of Sod’s bloody law.

One of the other few times I’ve run since that was when I caught Moddle F after running across that road and floored us both on the pavement followed by him peeing all down my coat.

Not sure running is for me, so therefore better stick around still trying to master the ‘in control’ look, might have some success after 18 years perhaps…..??!

 

Cars and kids.

Car journeys with small children – box up a whole load of stress and nightmarish situations, stick them on 4 wheels that move and you have your journey.

To begin it’s all about preparing for your trip and getting in the car. This is how the preparation begins:

You: Can you please have a wee (said 1 million times)

Child(ren): I don’t need one.

You: Can you please try.

Child(ren): but I don’t need one.

You: Ok how about we both go? Look, I need to go…

Child(ren): I don’t need a wee so I don’t need to try.

With the 3 year old you get desperate and embark on pretending to drive the ‘toilet train’ calling out ‘All aboard’ and ‘Who wants to board the toilet train?! – first time it’s ever done it works, they bloody love it. Second time not interested and look at you like you’re an embarrassment.

You finally accept that maybe, just maybe, they are right, they know their own body and they really and genuinely don’t need to go.

Load up the car, all get in and belt up, start the engine.

Child: Mum, I need a wee.

Brilliant. Fantastic. All out and back in the house. Still, at least on this occasion it was called before you left the drive so happy days.

Then comes the shoe/coat meltdown. Little people like to either wear as many clothes as humanly possible or as little. If they dress themselves for the garden, they don just about every item they own, usually a totally random array of stuff. If needing to dress for an’outing’ in the car they like to go in shorts and t-shirt if possible, whatever the weather. You end up surrendering to the toddler protest, who is making out that clearly their coat is acid coated and burns their skin upon contact. You ditch the coat and shoes in the foot well of the car and carry your child to their seat.

By this point in our house Middle F realises that Big T has brought a completely wicked toy into the car with him.

Rookie boy error- he’s spent such a long time performing the coat/shoe hoo ha that he had none left to find a toy for the journey, however his older brother used the time wisely to potter around and locate something totally awesome to take along.

Cue next protest as your small child demands what they would like to take on the journey, usually taking the form of something crap that you know you binned that morning. Such as the Macdonalds toy from yesterday’s HappyMeal. Bollocks. (I’d like to point out here that we choose the option of ‘milk’ for their HappyMeal drink which instantly cancels out any of the other rubbish that they’re eating)

Although not always desirable I’ve got to admire Middle F’s stamina, he once travelled the distance from Chelmsford to Colchester with the sick bowl on his head. Not a massively long journey but long enough to show grit and determination when all you can see is a distorted view through a manky bowl. Who needs the shitty Macdonalds toy now when you have a sick bowl to keep you entertained?!

On Good Friday we made the journey to Norfolk to visit family. All started well other than Middle F developing a temperature the night before and was clearly feeling really rough. Nearly at our destination and we hit bank holiday traffic. Now there’s one thing worse than having a car full of little people on a long(ish) journey, and that’s having a car full of little people in gridlocked traffic.

Little B begins to scream, he screams so much he begins to sweat, Middle F starts saying his tummy hurts and his head is on fire as his temperature soars again.

We are in standstill traffic.

I’m leaning back from the front seat like a contortionist attempting to locate Little B’s dummy and offer it to him, whilst slightly rocking his car seat and trying to hold my phone blaring out white noise relatively close to his ear. Every 30 seconds poor Middle F says that his belly hurts and he wants me to ‘drub’ it for him. I start sweating and develop Tourettes in my head which takes the form of constant swearing (commonly a little like ‘Shitty, shitty, shit fuck’) followed up with wanting to shout abuse at every driver like ‘Why the bloody hell are you letting someone else out in front of you, you over considerate bastard! We have no time for kindness here, just get moving and block the bugger out!’

Never in your life have you been more tempted to drive straight across a field just so your car is moving again. You begin manically pointing out pigs and birds to try and distract the children, when there are no animals in sight you resort to trying to spark up a conversation by marvelling at how big the Sainsburys building is. Desperation.

The traffic moves on, the screaming subsides,  slightly curing the Tourettes, and you return to a half normal parent again with less angry thoughts.

We don’t have much luck with our car CD player and frequently get them stuck in there. How long each one will be in is anyone’s guess, it’s a lottery. Most unfortunate jam for me was when the children’s ‘Summer Disco’ CD became lodged and we had to listen to ‘Hey Baby’and ‘Mambo number 5’ on repeat for weeks. My sanity was gradually being sapped from me with every journey.

Most unfortunate jam for me looking like a crap parent was when Rhianna became stuck and lyrics such as ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down’ were being blared out of the car with the kids in tow. Had to curb those after that following a few looks from disapproving pedestrians.

The journey back from Norfolk was slightly better however Little B did begin crying again pretty soon into it and was rapidly vamping up the volume to his pleas for help. We pulled over so I could feed him in a rubble area beside a playing field. It was totally pissing it down but the boys needed a wee. Thank god for the wee bottle. Used by the two eldest males in the car Middle F wanted a piece of the action and tried to pee in it too. Such fun.

We could have parked anywhere in the large area where there were no cars, but without thinking parked directly next to the only other one there for us to breastfeed and take it in turns to pee in a bottle. Usual activities for the other driver to see I’d say.

You’re extra lucky if travel sicknes doesn’t raise its head too, that can be a right pain, especially when you discover that your resident sick bowl has a crack across the bottom.

Big T and Middle F like to have a chat in the car about what they can see enroute. Big T told me on one of our short trips that he just saw a little old lady do a ‘skillful trick’ with her old lady trolley by flipping it over then whipping it back again. Think it was more a poor old dear getting in a scrape with her shopping aid on a windy day, but like the fact my son saw it more as a lady with a few cool tricks up her sleeve.

You can always add the children arguing in the back to extend the joys of travel. One good one recently went as follows:

Big T: you are Willy Wonka (ANY excuse to say ‘willy’)

Middle F (cross):  no I’m Fireman Sam.

Big T: no you’re Willy Wonka

Middle F: no I’m Fireman Sam

….and on it went….

Big T loved finding out that the whale in Free Willy was in fact called ‘Willy’, one of the funniest pieces of information ever. Fact.

To some, car journeys don’t bother them. They could drive to the other end of the country and more with a car full of kids and happily sit back and enjoy the ride. To me, it often includes at least a degree of stress and at a few ‘Holy crap, shittery, shitty shit!’ moments.

I saw a guy the other day who I think had the right idea, he was a fully grown adult bombing it along the pavement alone on his push along scooter. Wind in his hair, Not a care in the world, now that I believe is the way to travel.

Living. The. Dream.

 

 

Sleep is for wimps…and that’s me.

Cosleeping is the big taboo. The thing that people bloody love to harp on about and tell you not to do.

Comments are banded about by SMOS (smug mothers of sleepers) where they look at you with their pitying eyes that say ‘I have everything under control and you clearly don’t, you hippy, weak, Earth mother’

Favourite comments tend to be the following:

“Ooooo they’ll be in your bed forever”

-for a while potentially yes, but forever?! Can’t see my 16 year old man son with a hairy chest and chin climbing in bed next to me and snuggling down (flipping hope not anyway because as much as I love them I’m not up for that)

“They’ll never sleep through the night”

-little update here, my child doesn’t sleep through the sodding night now! Not even close! I’m a shadow of my former self through sleep deprivation so if I need to scrape my ass through the night by getting him in bed then so be it!

“You’re making a rod for your own back”

-yes I’m good at making those, I make one when I run to him every time he cries, another one when I let him have a dummy for too long, I make a really strong rod when I rock him to sleep every night, in fact, my back is so flipping stable from all these rods, just please refer to me as the ‘Super rod making Mother of all shite rods’ from now on…

Cosleeping is so frowned upon by these SMOS that if they had it their way there would be a support group for all us cosleepers to attend, like Alcoholics Anonymous. I’d go along, wait my turn and say “Hello my name is Inadequate Mum, and I’m a cosleeper…” To which everyone would politely clap and congratulate me in making the first step for my recovery.

I’ve always thought that if you never, ever have your child in your bed it’s probably for one of the following reasons:

  1. You have a child that sleeps
  2. You have a child that sleeps
  3. You are superhuman
  4. You have a child that sleeps.

You have to survive in life and needing sleep is part of survival. Little B will normally go in his bed at the start of the night and then once awake for the first feed he usually jacks that in. Although to be fair I don’t put up much of a fight.

Once fed (auto correct changed ‘once’ to ‘mince’, maybe that’s where I’m going wrong and mince should be fed instead) I go to place Little B in his bed again, a little like a rare steak, he usually has a ‘flash’ in the pan and quick as you like he’s back out and in bed with me.

When I commented to the health visitor that at 5 months he still feeds every two hours and sometimes every hour she asked me if he really cries for milk and that’s why I feed him. Errrrrm, nope, he wakes, shuffles around, my sleep deprivation alarm fires up in my head “Shit, shit, shit, he’s awake! Quick feed him instantly so we can all sleep again!” and that’s how we roll. Bish, bash, bosh, another rod is made.

Every cosleeper will adopt the most ridiculous, uncomfortable positions as you have the ‘How to cosleep safely’ leaflet going round in your head that you were given when you gave birth. You end up with 2 inches of mattress space while your tiny human being has 2 metres. You have a  dead arm, boob permanently out and both your knickers and pjs lodged firmly up your arse but you Do. Not. Move. You must not stir the beast. Even when you are busting for a wee you actually lie there seriously considering the fact that it seems more appealing at that moment in time to piss the bed rather than wake your baby.

One of my favourite activities when doing a million night feeds is to go on my phone, often browsing hopefully through Google searches such as ‘ How to make your baby sleep’ and ‘Turn your nights around in 5 easy steps’ and thinking how much is that frigging sheep named Ewan again?! Then you return to Facebook and be disappointed that everyone’s not up posting exciting and humorous statuses at 3am. Where is everyone? Why the bloody hell are they doing?! Oh yes. Sleeping.

Waking in the morning you are so sleep deprived you don’t know your arse from your elbow. This weekend I saw a mark on my, otherwise clean, trousers so went to the bathroom to sponge it off. In my knackered haze I used the boys ‘bum sponge’ to do the job, removed it perfectly, hygiene is always my top priority.

Middle F has just turned 3 and doesn’t sleep through the night either. For well over a year we slogged it out in his room every time he woke, sitting with him in the chair instead of in our bed, and returning him to his bed once we’d cuddled him back to sleep. We have now very successfully regressed with him too, as when he calls his dad goes through and gets in his bed with him, we effectively have 2 cosleepers going on here (now reconsidering my point about how they won’t cosleep forever…maybe it’s possible)

In the middle of the night I frequently ponder if anyone has actually died from sleep deprivation. I reckon they have, they must have. Sleep deprivation can surely kill you. I told another mum (whose child slept through at 8 weeks) that Big T started sleeping through the night at 2 and a half, she said ‘Wow that’s amazing!’ to which I had to say, ‘Years, two and a half YEARS not weeks’.

Still, he could pretty much poo on request from a really early age (very impressive) so you win some you lose some I guess.

Middle F is now 3 and we’re still waiting…

Anyway, to all those SMOS out there I’m glad that you have a child that sleeps because you never allowed them in your bed (I’m jealous) and I’m glad that your child won’t be getting in with you when they are 18 or calling you through to their room (unlike my boys) however I’m having to stick to the principle that cosleeping isn’t such a sin after all. I’m pretty sure that with all the guilt thrown at parents in life, one thing I won’t have to feel guilty about (when I’m an old lady pushing an empty buggy around town with Fireman Sam in because I no longer have children to look after) is that I cuddled my children when they needed comfort most. I never left them to feel scared and cry it out but made them feel safe in my bed when they wanted to be there.

Ultimately bringing my children into bed is 100% a selfless act, all about their well being and attending to their every need and has absolutely NOTHING to do with my mental health….or will to survive….or total desperation to gain as much sleep as possible and prevent MY cortisol levels from rising too high……honestly.

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Shoe poo

You know the day is potentially going to be slightly ropey when there has been a poo accident by 7am, not just any poo accident, but one laid in a Fireman Sam onesie no less. Without the faithful pants to catch the offending item it’s anyone’s guess where that bad boy has ended up by the time the onesie is undone.

Mid hair dry the poop was reported in and needed to be dealt with. I ran a bath for Middle F and found him playing with the duplo, standing with legs parted as if, well, as if he’d crapped himself poor lad. Luckily the onesie was made of a fleece type material and so a bit of ‘friction’ had been created thus keeping the turd in place. That was a game changer, Fireman Sam saved the day yet again.

All cleaned up and ready to roll, Middle F scarpered back downstairs and I resumed the blow dry. 5 minutes later he returned looking a little concerned saying “Come and see this.”

Now, when a 3 year old needs you to see something it could be one of a thousand things, but the majority are things to be wary of. I entered the living room but at first could see nothing out of place, nothing other than the usual early morning shit tip that looks like we’ve been burgled already. Then I noticed it. The DVD player had the tray open ready to change the film, only instead of the usual DVD in place there was a puddle of apple juice. Sticky, aromatic apple juice, the type that when it dries you can’t tell if it smells like fruit, piss or a little vomitty.

When I calmly pointed out that under no circumstances should anyone now change the DVD other than an adult and that a drink should not have been that close to the TV anyway, Big T defensively explained that Middle F told an adult exactly where he was putting his drink and the adult said it was fine. That’s great, been caught out in that frantic moment where your child asks you something when you are busy looking for a very important item and you just agree because you have no idea what they’re talking about. So we had said that was a good place for the juice. Brillo.

Mopped up and ready to move on we began the next phase of getting dressed, feeling bad that my child had donned a pair of ‘jack up’ school trousers yet again because I keep forgetting to fish out and name the longer pairs. We had time to squeeze in a quick sesh of reading the phonics/words Big T needed to practise for school, he still couldn’t read the word ‘plop’ without creasing up. I admit though, that word is a bit funny.

Manically scrapping around for shoes I find Middle F’s by the back door. It’s at that moment I remember that they’re by the back door because he stepped in dog shite yesterday and were waiting to be cleaned. It all gets even more exciting now dog crap’s involved. Shit. Shit. Shit. Literally.

Not having time to embark on poo picking from deep boot tread, I dash to the car to find his wellies. Back on track. Loaded up and off we go.

Big T was dropped at school and phase one was complete. Walking home Middle F was cross that he couldn’t traipse through the grass and potentially pick up more dog turd, so had a good few manic screams to air his lungs. Spotting a trail of bright green snot running down his lip I reached for a tissue- no tissue- doesn’t every adequate mum carry a mass of tissues?! The fluorescent slug momentarily had to stay.

Upon return to the house I began the poo pick, ideal tool for the job was a kebab stick. Nice pointy end for removal of even the smallest grains along with a good length to keep as much distance as possible between the poo and me. Everything then smelt of poo. It had locked onto my nasal hairs and now everywhere I went I smelt poo, I probably was the one who smelt of poo and that was why I couldn’t escape it. Mind you, I would have been lucky to escape the aroma as it felt that’s all I’d been dealing with all morning.

Nearly ready to go I suggested to Middle F that he had a wee on the potty. He was up for that and sat down. Try successful, I went to get a piece of kitchen roll and anti bac only on return to find Middle F with his head down the loo. I asked him to please remove his head from the toilet to which he matter of factly stated that he had made his hair wet. Perfect.

I packed up little B to begin phase 2, the nursery drop off. Middle F waited at the front door whilst I got him and when I went to open the door I found him on his front with his nose pressed against the door mat. After the shoe poo experience I pointed out that is probably not somewhere he wants to be shoving his nose.

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Arriving at nursery, Middle F refused to get out of the car. He began by lulling me into a false sense of security whilst I undid his belt and then like a bat out of hell he’s everywhere.

With the agility and skill of a gibbon, he frolicked from one seat to the next before I could catch him, remnants of poo shoe and poo particles being deposited all over the car no doubt. If it was like that salmonella advert (but for dog shite instead) where they highlight all the places invisible raw chicken ends up around your kitchen from your hands, there would be highlighter all over the bloody car I’m sure.

Eventually I caught the springy little fellow and took him in. Phase 2 complete.

I came home for a clear up. Not sure quite what to do with Big T’s dragon. Despite it being decapitated and clearly bin worthy, he refuses to let it go. He’s asked if we can erect a shelf  just to store the headless beast. Jolly as he looks, not sure that’ll be happening…

 

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After a quick sort out I turn the TV on to find Jeremy Kyle. Headline for the day being, “I slept with my mum’s milkman’s cat and now I’ve fathered an alpaca.” (or something similar) and it really hit home that the morning hadn’t really been that bad after all.

 

School Run

I’ve always heard the term ‘school run’ used on a daily basis however never really comprehended why it’s called a school ‘run’ and not a ‘walk’. Now I know. It’s because you’re always running so bloody late that even if you manage to keep your pace at a brisk walk, your child is having to run like a bat out of hell beside you.

I think it’s true what they say, the closer you live to school, the later you are. One minute you’re sitting in the living room trying to wrestle a pair of shoes onto one child, persuading another to brush their teeth and trying to stop the third from crying as he’s ready to nap, and the next minute you check your watch and chuck everything on the buggy ready to go. Well you would, only now Middle F has removed his shoes and refuses to wear a coat in temperatures of -7 and Big T has busily returned to his latest art project and is trying to reach the glue.

It’s absolutely vital that by the time you cross the threshold of the school gate you have returned to a family scene with utmost composure, perhaps have enough breath to hold a conversation with your children and pass the odd joke between you and chuckle. Your school aged child must now be calmly walking beside the buggy and your 3 year old sitting calmly within it, perhaps singing a sweet nursery rhyme, not being remotely bothered that it’s strapped in and unable to roam…wouldn’t want to appear that you don’t have 100% control over this situation after all.

Every Wednesday Big T and I chant his number bonds on the way to school. On the surface I may look like a pushy parent using every given opportunity to support and progress his mathematical skills. In reality, we are supposed to practise them on a daily basis ready for him to be tested once a week, however we forget all week until the day itself, and just before leaving think ‘Holy crap! Those bloody, shitting number bonds!’ and then we panic revise in the 5 minute run to school.

When we reach school it’s the mass handover of school goods as Middle F is unleashed and makes his bid for freedom into the school trees to find his daily stick. Managed to persuade Big T when he had chapped lips from the playground that the best thing for it was nipple cream, so there we are as he is supposed to be going through the classroom door, liberally applying nipple cream to his lips. I’m sure that’s a normal thing to do.

I just about manage to persuade Middle F to stay in the buggy on the way to school on the promise that he can walk home. He gallops off like a gazelle as I jog with the buggy and Little B, narrowly dodging the copious amounts of dog turd on the way. Middle F has the time of his life, wielding his stick around, doing Power Ranger moves right beside shiny cars making me shit myself that he’ll end up giving them a hefty scratch. I find myself calling out ‘steady’ as he takes off to quickly- who calls out ‘steady’ to their child!?? Isn’t that what you say to an excitable animal?!

It’s always a case of attempting to juggle 100 million balls at once, or in this case just 6. Prior to leaving one morning, I managed to at one point be breastfeeding Little B, have Middle F sitting on my shoulders playing the tambourine and have Big T sitting beside me reading his school book, all whilst I applied mascara. Why was there nobody here to see this?! I thought. Boom! Or at least it was boom worthy until Middle F slipped, dropped the tambourine on Little B, my mascara shot up my forehead and Big T was pissed because he thought I wasn’t listening.

Oh how far I’d fallen. Luckily I knew exactly what had happened to ‘Hungry Floppy’ as we’d had that one twice before so knew precisely what shenanigans he’d got up to on that camping trip. Close shave.

Middle F likes to run straight across roads when walking to and from school so currently have him on a training road safety course (run by me).

Today he shot straight across a road  (thankfully a quiet residential one) before I could grab hold of him. I think I lose one of my nine lives every time he does it instead of him due to the heart attack I endure with each kamikaze dash. On the other side I managed to grab hold of him and in slow motion get my foot caught in the buggy, being smooth and totally in control of the situation I floored us both onto the pavement in the process. I’d skinned a couple of my knuckles but thankfully he was unharmed. I picked him up to check him over and when I put him down discovered that he had done an almighty wee all down the side of my coat. Would have been ok if it was wipeable but being stuffed with feathers it wasn’t.

The last bit of the wee soaked walk with a screaming toddler felt like a million miles.

Getting extra paranoid a couple of days ago about an itchy head I thought I’d treat it for lice. I checked all the boys hair, nothing, no itching from them either but figured what harm could a bit of lotion do?!  At 7am the lotion was generously applied, thought there was no point scrimping on this sort of thing so filled my boots and on it went. I combed it through vigorously but no lice or eggs to be found, not one creepy little bugger was lurking there after all. Grateful for the false alarm I went to quickly wash it off before the school run, plenty of time. Well, there would have been if I could get the bloody stuff off my hair.

FOUR washes later and it was still like rats tails. Beginning to feel a bit panicky I thought I’d get out and dry it, I’m sure all will be fine then. Time was ticking getting closer to needing to leave for school and the boys were still running around half dressed popping in and out of a den they’d built, laughing about wiggly willies.

I then dried it. And dried it, and dried it, but it wasn’t actually getting ‘dry’ and hung round my head like an oil slick. There was a dusky cloud forming in the room as Little B was lying on the bed, I crapped myself I was gassing him out so quickly stopped and opened a window. Big T asked if I’d also washed my feet with the lotion, when I replied no, he said that may be a problem and there will still be lice there. Helpful chap.

Still looking as wet as when I’d started I had to abandon ship and scrape it back for the school run, was going for the ‘fresh out the shower after my morning workout’ look and completely didn’t pull it off. Did however pull off the ‘greasy, rank and fresh out a deep fat fryer look’ quite nicely.

Wanted to tell everyone I saw on the run what had happened so they understood my new look, any stranger needed to know, perhaps just a little point at my head saying ‘Nit lotion’ would suffice, could put it with a jesty tut and a roll of my eyes as if to say ‘Oh silly me’…

Got home, hadn’t told a soul.

Clearly needed to sort it as it’s one thing stepping out with freshly washed hair in the morning,  but quite another if you return to the school gates 6 hours later and it still looks soaking wet. Thankfully with a bit of help from Dr Google and some baby shampoo, normality was restored before afternoon pick up.

Next time I may wait to find evidence of lice before treating my head, or even splash out on the more expensive lotion if I’m really pushing the boat out.

Treat. Your. Self. Boom boom.