kids Archives : Me, Annie Bee.

Sorry kids – Mummy’s a Halloween Grinch!

Anna — Mon, 22 Oct 2018 18:48:55 +0000

Autumn is here! The nights are drawing in early, the leaves are crisp, there’s a chill in the air and a distinct rise in door to door begging and minor vandalism… My name’s Anna and I’m a Halloween Grinch! There, I’ve said it. As far as I can recall, I’ve never really done Halloween. I have a fuzzy memory of trick or treating in Germany – we lived there, we didn’t just travel all that way for the amazing chocolate – and then watching a particularly scary episode of Metal Mickey but that’s it. Though I have been to a few fancy dress parties as an adult, I was never the sort who went clubbing so you wouldn’t find me at 42nd Street* on All Hallow’s Eve dressed as a ‘sexy zombie nurse’ or some such other contradiction. I don’t know where this Grinchiness comes from. Maybe it WAS that episode of Metal Mickey. Maybe living on an estate where most kids knocking on the door in the dark, adorned in a bin liner chanting ‘trick or treat’ actually translated to “Give us a quid or we’ll kick your head in” makes me cautious. Maybe its because I’m a child of the 80s. I was bought up in the era of the public service adverts telling me not to play on train tracks, not to climb pylons, not to go and see puppies and most definitely NOT to take sweets from strangers. Yet, here we are, once a year telling our children that strangers aren’t a threat just this once. Go! Knock on doors, make a mild threat and accept sweets from those unknown to us. They have a pumpkin THEY MUST BE OK. As you can see, my cynicism of the whole event runs deep. As a fatty who freezes at the sound of the doorbell ringing unexpectedly, it is more than an annoyance when people arrive unannounced and THEN expect me to share my sweets! Not on your Nellie tiny ghoul! I assumed that as Rory and I aren’t fussed about this faux ‘celebration’ our children wouldn’t be either. It seems I was quite wrong, unfortunately. Aoife is a marketing dream and, since she was 4, has made me dress her as a witch ready for ‘all the trick or treaters’ to come. She gets giddy once the pumpkins hit the shops and revels in the orange and black tat that hits the shelves. Now, as an adult of 40 years old, I’m starting to find myself wondering whether I should actually enable this desire she has. I will paint her face green once again and get a bowl of sweets at the ready – reluctantly. Maybe we COULD carve a pumpkin together? It wouldn’t HAVE to go outside the front door. Maybe some spooky lights WOULD look cute. A Halloween wreath might look nice on the door and Halloween crackers, well….. WAIT Balls to that. Fairy lights, door wreaths and crackers?! I see what you’ve done here Halloween, I’m on to you! We will just wait the extra 55 days until Christmas thanks. THAT’S a celebration I can get on board with. *a notoriously rank nightclub in my home town in the North East. This post is part of Write Club, hosted over at the fabulous You Have to Laugh! To read more Halloween: before and after kids posts click on the badge where you’ll find musings from A Life Just Ordinary Mom of Two Little Girls, The Mum Conundrum The Incidental Parent ENJOY!

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A little bit of history repeating.

Anna — Tue, 16 May 2017 10:07:36 +0000

Firstly I’d like to start by saying SORRY MUM. When I was younger I idolised my parents, they were the most fantastic people in the whole wide world. The people I looked up to most. When I was around 7 I used to wear my dad’s old jacket (even though my grandma said everyone would think I was a lesbian for wearing a man’s coat – Seriously, who says that?) It was a grey, average jacket but it made me feel happy because it was my dad’s jacket. I used to take my mum’s old make up and daub my face in blue and lilac eye shadow and frosted pink lipstick and blusher. They were (and still are) the most amazing people in my life, they were funny, they knew EVERYTHING, they did things like go to ‘dinner dances’ which sounded REALLY exciting and like something I would totally do when I grew up (I never have). They threw amazing New Years Eve parties, like the ones you see on Christmas films where people dance in the living room. They were FAB. Thing is, they were my parents so, at times they were a bit…..naff too. I recall being about 8 and there was this woman called Sonja, my mum was a childminder and used to look after her daughter. Sonja worked in London doing something amazing and exciting (to my 8 year old brain), she had massive curly hair, she wore amazing clothes, a lot of pink. I’d go to her house to ‘chat’ and she’d talk to me like I was a grown up. I think she even gave me her old clothes. SHE WAS SO COOL. Now with hindsight I realise she wasn’t talking to me like I was an equal, she was humouring me and I probably did her head in ‘chatting’ with her but I just remember her seeming so…..EXCITING! In reality she was just different to my parents. She didn’t have to tell me off, set rules or any of that boring stuff. I didn’t want her to be my mum or anything weird like that, I just thought she was really cool, I felt so grown up and I’d totally be like her one day. Today Aoife watches me put my make up on sometimes and tells me my lipstick looks pretty and can she have some and I have to say no because daddy wouldn’t like it, the day I put lip tint on her (a very pale one) he was most unimpressed. She likes to go running with Rory and run errands with him. Aoife looks up to us, she thinks we’re the most amazing people in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD. But. Rachel is a parent at Aoife’s school, she’s a friend of mine. She’s really lovely, she’s got a lot of hair, she can drive, and Aoife thinks she’s a cool mum. It’s happened, we’ve gone full circle. In the same way that 8 year old me was drawn to a cool, more exciting mum with a lot of hair (I wonder if the hair is a thing?) Aoife is being drawn to a cooler, more exciting mum than me and you know what? It kind of smarts. On Thursday Rachel is taking Aoife to school for me and then Aoife is going there after school. She is positively giddy and witters on about it. I asked her “Why are you so excited? Are you excited to be going to play with George?” “Well yeah a bit” she replied “But I’m more excited to see Rachel” “Oh” I’ve even been sacked off from reading at school because she’d rather read with Rachel. I thought I’d done a good job of being a cool mum, I clearly haven’t. Even Seth thinks she is cooler than me and calls her ‘Mummy’. It’s all just a little bit of history repeating. I’m just going to secretly hope that one of Aoife’s classmates will think I’m the cool, exciting mum instead. If you like what you read then please consider nominating me for ‘Fresh Voice’ in the BiBs 2017.

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Weird stuff my kids do

Anna — Mon, 23 Jan 2017 06:00:34 +0000

Sometimes I sit and I think. I remember the days before children, my shallow, empty existence with a tidy house, organised life, variety of conversation topics and nights out in abundance. Then I look at my babies, sitting there, looking like butter wouldn’t melt, one of them eating the food in order of what they like least to best whilst the other tips it all on the floor because it tastes better from there and I think to myself… My children do some really weird shit. They can’t let the coasters be on the table. The coasters are ‘in the way’ if they’re on the table.They have to be on the floor instead. Ideally scattered. Not at Grandma’s though, at Grandma’s they stay on the table. If we go outside and it’s dark they have to squeal or make loud noises. They can’t use their inside voices when you’re on the phone or having a conversation but go virtually mute when you want information from them. They think running in circles is pure entertainment. It’s hilarious. Scientific research tells me this is the case to age 6 at least. They run nonstop laps in the house but as soon as they leave the house they can barely move. They spin in circles until they’re dizzy, fall and smack their heads off something then get up and do it again. They don’t like the food on their plate but the exact same food on your plate is fair game. They are tired but they won’t sleep. They turn off the light and close their bedroom door then have a hissy fit because the light is off and the door is closed. They stand on stuff, like a car or a box just because it’s there, they couldn’t walk round it or move it. They just stand there. On it. They eat a vast array of foods at school but only pasta and sauce will do at home. They believe there is a ‘wrong’ type of pasta and sauce despite it being exactly the same as the one before. They remember that time 3 months ago when you said “we’ll go to the park on *insert date 3 months from now* but they ‘forgot’ you asked them to put their shoes on 3 minutes ago. They tip stuff, just because. They don’t hear you ask them to tidy up toys but they hear chocolate being quietly opened in a different room, through closed doors. What weird stuff do your children do?

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You’ll never walk alone (with a toddler)

Anna — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 06:00:35 +0000

One of the THE most stressful part of my day is the walk home from school. It’s not far, a mile, it’s a slight incline all the way and it’s like being dragged about by a herd of rampaging wildebeest! It starts in the playground while we wait for Aoife, Seth sits on the floor in the mud. Sometimes he might have a little lay, a small roll around. I take a snack to try and keep him on his feet. He has been known to pick it off the floor and eat it. Then he has a little crawl in the mud, he is more than capable of walking but crawling is more fun. Interestingly he never crawled before he could walk. Once Aoife has been gathered the fun really begins. As we walk home he will stop to carefully select a stick, a few steps later he will discard that one for a bigger one, a few more steps and that one will be cast aside for what can only be described as a tree trunk. Thankfully with this windy weather of late there have been so many sticks to choose from. So many. Today he found a fantastic stick and proceeded to do his best Basil Fawlty impression on a complete strangers car! I try dragging him away but I swear his arms stretch. Next, I physically have to wrestle him from a pile of dog shit that he so desperately wants to stand in and I’m clearly the worst mummy for not letting him leap in it. Every puddle is stood in, every pile of leaves walked through and every grass verge traipsed on whether they’re in our line of walking or not. He has to touch every post and electricity box at a certain point on the way home. I sigh with despair knowing they’re probably covered in dog wee, hey, maybe even human wee. He has a little lie down on the way up the hill, every 5 metres maybe. When we are actually walking between rests he is turned around, back to back with me, facing back down the hill. My arm is constantly being wrenched out of its socket. He is blessed with a strength beyond his two and a half years, he possesses the strength of Thor Bjornsson! We get to the main road waiting to cross, he likes to tease the drivers, making out like he is going to step out in front of them. Obviously it won’t happen as I have a firm grip of him. Finally there’s a break in the traffic “let’s go” I say, Seth spots a stone he really needs, I trip over him, Aoife trips over me, we all land in a pile back on the curb and wait for another lull. Once we successfully start crossing he must stop in the middle of the road to jump a bit (as you do) or to watch the bus that’s heading directly toward us. “Bus!” he declares with glee. As we round the corner he attempts, sometimes successfully, to dehead some lovely rosebushes. I mean they were really lovely, the man in the house there puts a lot of time and effort into them. I should probably buy him some new roses… There are a few more piles of dog poo to fight over then we’re on the home stretch. He sticks his hand in the wheel of the neighbours 4×4, covers his hands in filth and then goes for a sprint finish. Once we get to the front door he says “ding dong” wanting me to lift him up to the bell. I look at him standing there. God knows what on his hands, in his hair, over his cherubic little face. “Not a chance”. The Tale of Mummyhood

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What kind of Mum are you?

Anna — Mon, 09 Jan 2017 07:00:16 +0000

As a blogging sort I spend a lot of time procrastinating writing. With deadlines looming there’s absolutely only one thing to do – a quick ‘Which DC character are you?’ quiz (Batman of course). Obviously, in the spirit of equality I must then do a ‘Which Marvel character are you?’ quiz (Thor – URGH, No one wants to be Thor) and then a ‘Which female superhero/villain are you?’ (Harley Quinn). As you can tell, I love a good quiz, I always have. It started with the Just Seventeen ‘What kind of friend are you?’ and spiralled from there. In homage to my love of quizzes, I decided to create my very own. So *drum roll* here it is, the one, the only, totally legit… WHAT KIND OF MUMMY ARE YOU? You hear your child shout “Mummy” for the 73rd time that morning, you: A) Reply “Yes darling?” B) Mutter “FFS” under your breath then “yes?” C) Shout “I’m changing my name and not telling you what it is” and stick a beer in the fridge to chill. It’s a rainy, Saturday afternoon, the kids are climbing the walls, you: A) Do some crafting? You always have glitter, glue and pompoms in case of emergency. B) Go to the park? It may be raining but there’ll be no queue for the swings and no OPC. C) Put them in front of the TV? They can enjoy Cbeebies while you drink gin in the kitchen and remember when Saturdays were about shopping for clothes. You finally get a babysitter so you can enjoy date night, you: A) Stay at home? You’re a family, you only do things as a unit now. B) Go for a meal? You spend the whole evening talking about the kids and call the babysitter to check they settled. C) Hammer the shots? You’re free! You’ll deal with the fall out tomorrow when the kids are climbing all over you. Your child wants a friend round for a play date, you: A) Spend time planning a themed play date? Creating games, outfits and even themed food, all homemade of course. B) Make a floor picnic? Maybe play some sedate party games too. C) Buy a couple of pizzas? Drink wine downstairs whilst trying to ignore the banging and crashing upstairs as they clearly trash your house. Your child’s school PTA needs helpers, you: A) Sign up for a variety of stalls? You’ll sell all your raffle tickets AND make enough cakes to single-handedly stock the cake stall. B) Start with the best of intentions? You’ll plan to be parent A but in reality you’ll reluctantly sign up to help at the 11th hour after the third, desperate, email has been sent from the PTA. C) Employ avoidance tactics? You spend a fortnight dropping your child off with the stealth of a ninja – avoiding all eye contact with PTA members and hiding behind trees. You’ll spend the school fayre having a pub lunch. Answers: If you answered mostly A – Congratulations, you’re a fantastic mum, you have your child’s best interests at heart. You love them with every breathe you take and they know that. If you answered mostly B – Congratulations, you’re a fantastic mum, you have your child’s best interests at heart. You love them with every breathe you take and they know that. If you answered mostly C – Congratulations, you’re a fantastic mum, you have your child’s best interests at heart. You love them with every breathe you take and they know that. You maybe drink a little too much though… We should meet up sometime! Cheers.

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The hardest thing about being a parent..IMO

Anna — Tue, 03 Jan 2017 21:29:49 +0000

Order is restored! Or at least something resembling order is restored. Aoife is back at school, Rory is back at work and Seth is watching Toy Story 2 back to back whilst dressed as Buzz Lightyear. Standard. Having been a lazy bum and taking a couple of weeks away from blogging and shameless self promotion I’m a bit tired so I decided to ease myself back into it gently and go for a Top Ten. Here’s the Top Ten things I found hardest about becoming a parent, or more specifically a Mummy for that’s what I am. Child Birth Yes, I know this is obvious but I didn’t read past week 33 in my ‘How to be pregnant’ book. It wasn’t all “oh my gosh, I peed myself…no wait my waters broke”…*scream like a banshee*….baby after 30 mins. It took days, neither child was in a hurry. It was painful, I sparkled, I cried, I was rude to the midwife, it was undignified, it was exhausting! Shitty Nappies Again yes, I’d HEARD about them but nothing. NOTHING can prepare you for an explosive, up the back, out the sides shitty nappy. The one where you have to hold legs in the air, cut baby out of the vest and wipe all at the same time.It’s on their hands, it’s on their feet, at least it’s not on….no way, how did it get there? IT’S ON THEIR HEAD. IT’S IMPOSSIBLE. Not laughing at ‘not good’ behaviour Obviously the biting and wall drawing isn’t a laughing matter, but the sass. Well, as much as I don’t admit it to Aoife, it’s HILARIOUS. Like the time Rory asked her to pick something up, she replied “Give me a minute woman”. Or the time I put her on the naughty step and took away her treats. “Will I still have food & water?” “Yes” “Oh I’ll be fine then”. Sometimes you just have to walk away and laugh. Without them knowing of course. Sneezing Coughing, laughing, crying, sparkling, running, dancing, jumping. All not just hard, almost impossible! Appreciating the things that are important to them Instead of being a destroyer of dreams and imagination, you have to appreciate every leaf/pine cone/stone/receipt placed into your bag because it’s “really beautiful” or “magic” or “stone”. It’s so hard to not point out your dismay at your handbag or pocket being full of snotty tissues and detritus. Being a parent ALL THE TIME. It’s nonstop! Even if you get some time away you think about them and talk about them. If you don’t think about them then you think how you should take it easy as you’re going to have to go home and be up with them in the night. If you have the kind of children that sleep through then you’re still thinking about looking after them with a hangover. The parenting just doesn’t stop! Finding a babysitter. When you announce you’re pregnant with your first child all your friends will tell you how excited they are and how they’ll babysit. LIES. As soon as baby arrives it becomes “I’ll babysit when they sleep through” then “I’ll take them to the pub at 18”. It’s not like the Babysitter Club books I read as a child!! Guilt Mummy Guilt/Daddy Guilt, call it what you want. It’s intense! Before children I didn’t do guilt but childbirth brings this whole new emotion. Every decision you make leads to a feeling of guilt. Everything you say leads to a feeling of guilt. Every time you leave them, every time you don’t. Every time you tell them off, every time you don’t. “I am too hard on them, I’m too soft on them, I’m abandoning them , I mollycoddle them” OH MY GOSH. I will also put crying in here. I have cried so much more in the last 6 years than I ever did in my previous 32! I have even cried at Four Weddings and CSI. Dealing with your body and mind It changes so much, at first it feels like it’s not your own. It gets big, it starts to behave differently. If you’re breast feeding it can feel like it’s completely someone else’s. It gets fatter due to ‘baby weight’, loneliness, sadness, boredom, habit. Your mind can be vicious, making you question everything. Making you paranoid. Making you feel bad about you and your parenting. Mix the two together and it’s a pretty rough time. I’d love to say you deal with it like this….but I still don’t have an answer. Baby groups/School playgrounds URGH. All these other Mummy’s just being amazing, looking fantastic and coping. They breastfeed so well, they look amazing, their children behave, some of them have actual jobs as well as being a mum. Their children love Baby Einstein and only listen to Beethoven, in fact, give Sebastian a toy piano and he can compose a tune, HE’S ONLY 8 MONTHS OLD! They never look harassed and have never dropped the F-Bomb in front of their children. When you’re tired, feeling fat and lonely THIS is one of the hardest things, this leads me to Pretending OK, I know I said Top Ten but I don’t like to conform. Being a parent is pretending all the time. We pretend we’re coping, we pretend we know what we’re doing, we pretend we’re happy with our smock dress, we pretend we’re not comparing ourselves to every other parent we see, we pretend every single minute of parenting is a breeze. It’s a tough act to keep up. We should all probably drop the pretending and then my Top Ten would be a legit Top Ten. Aside from all that, this parenting lark is a piece of cake.

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It’s the most wonderful time of the year…

Anna — Thu, 22 Dec 2016 15:04:26 +0000

Christmas is my favourite time of year, definitely my hap-happiest season of all. I watch too many made for TV Christmas films and aspire to romance that doesn’t exist that way, to live in a lovely lodge type home in Perfectville USA where everyone knows everyone and it snows at Christmas. To have garlands round the open fire, a Christmas tree in every room and throw amazing Christmas parties. Oh a girl can dream. We may not have parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting or caroling out in the snow. Aside from our dying tree (it looks OK from afar, like outside) we are Christmas ready. Our bakes have been baked and our makes made. Gifts have been sent to the big man to see if we’re good enough to get them back. Aoife has broken up from school and both children are getting suitably giddy. Trev the turkey will arrive tomorrow, as will my parents, Rory will be off work and we will start a fun few festive days with lovely events, friends, family and good cheer. Hearts will be glowing as loved ones will be near. As I will be busy with all these holiday greetings and gay happy meetings when friends come to call, and wine, my little blog will be taking a break until New Year. But before I smother myself in eggnog and dive into a vat of rum (let the festivities begin!!) I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you. This year has been one of parenting ups and downs, mountains – ups and downs, running – ups and downs. It’s been an up and down kind of year and yet you’re still here. Although I’ve been at this for 11 months my blog still feels pretty new and I feel like a total noob, despite that, folk have still been reading and, for the most part, enjoying so thank you for taking the time out of your life and bothering to read what I write. My family and I wish you the most Merry Christmas and prosperous New Year. I hope yours is a time filled with good company, peace, joy, love and wine (or whatever it is that makes you truly happy). See you in 2017!

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Sweet child o’ mine.

Anna — Mon, 12 Dec 2016 13:41:18 +0000

In 2010 I was pregnant, I would have told you that if my child were a girl she wouldn’t always wear pink, if it were a boy he wouldn’t always wear blue. I would have told you that my child would always show good manners. My child wouldn’t have a snot encrusted face. My child wouldn’t have massive public meltdowns. My child and I would have an amazing, love fuelled relationship. My child and I would do many different activities every day. My child wouldn’t watch TV. My child would never be mean. My child would never act spoilt. My child would be a kind child who recognised that they were blessed with a loving family and a lovely life. Here I am six years down the line. Mine is the child who likes to lay down in the middle of the street, maybe even eating stones. Mine is the child who scooched along the floor on his back and got stuck under a clothes rail in Primark. Mine is the child trying to hold the hands of strangers to take them home. Mine is the child constantly looking for a means of escape. Mine is the child telling me how unfair I am because her pillows are all wrong. Mine is the child kicking the bath because we had the audacity to ask her to have a shower. Mine is the child who threw the biscuit across the playground because I bought the wrong one. Mine is the child who looks like their wardrobe exploded at them. Mine is the child eating yogurt covered raisins from the wet floor. Mine is the child who speaks to me in a way I would never dream of speaking to my parents even at this age. Mine is the child walking away from me when I ask for a hand. Mine is the child wearing clothes inappropriate for the season. Mine is the with pasta sauce in their hair at least I hope it’s pasta sauce. Mine is the child who doesn’t stop all day, every day. Until we need to be somewhere then he barely starts. Mine is the child who bites in anger. Mine is the child who walks under my feet so I trip up in public, usually in front of people. Mine is the child who ignores what I say in public leading me to talk in that low, whisper type voice that means business but is still dutifully ignored. Mine is the child having a tantrum because I have no snacks left. Mine is the child who makes other people look up from what they’re doing to see what the commotion is about. I am the mum often looking harassed. I am the mum, sometimes exhausted even though her children should be sleeping through. I am the mum who often wants the earth to open up and swallow her. I am the mum who tries hard to placate her children and make sure they don’t spoil your day. I am the mum who constantly reminds her children not to be mean. I am the mum who tries to encourage her children to have manners and be respectful to others. I am the mum who can feel your judgemental glare. I am the mum who sometimes feels like she isn’t coping at all. I am the mum who sometimes looks like she is letting her children run wild but is actually carefully selecting her battles. I am the mum who sometimes hurries home so she doesn’t cry in public. I am the mum who sometimes feels alone. Mine is the child who smothers me with kisses and cuddles. Mine is the child who tells me I’m the best mummy ever. Mine is the child who tells me they’re sorry they were naughty. Mine is the child who declares family time is the best time. Mine is the child who is still learning how life works. Mine is the child who makes my heart swell with pride simply by existing. I am the mum who forgets childhood is short and lets what others think bother her too much. I am the mum blessed with two beautiful, funny, clever, fiercely independent children. I am the mum lucky enough to snuggle up with her children and watch Mickey Mouse for the 50th time in a day. I am the mum who cries laughing at the funny things her children do. I am the mum who, probably, wouldn’t change a thing. Mine may be the child who often behaves in ways I swore they never would but I am the mum who now realises that childhood isn’t for practising to be a grown up. Mine are also the children who can’t stand still long enough to have a photo taken together.

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Lessons I have learned. Well, some of them.

Anna — Mon, 05 Dec 2016 09:00:00 +0000

Six years ago I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of our first-born (she was late already) and the start of a new and exciting chapter to my life. The chapter where I become a stay at home mummy (or SAHM as we call it in the business). I’ve mentioned before I didn’t have a career and had I gone back to work I would have literally just been paying for childcare so it made sense to stay home. I couldn’t wait, it was going to be a piece of cake after all. Six years down the line I still love that I am home with my babies but I’ll admit being a SAHM is like finally getting invited to that party you really wanted to go to only to discover previous attendees embellished the truth and it wasn’t always as cool as suggested. Here is what I have learned. It’s not all lattes, croissants and lunch dates. All your friends work so you’ve no one to meet up with besides, with not working comes not earning. You accept yourself as a SAHM and deal with it but you consider yourself the exception, other SAHMs are terribly boring and talk about their children and dull stuff like that. People don’t really like to ask too many questions about how you are as you actually are a SAHM and your answers will be about your children and other terribly boring things like that. You feel you have to justify yourself a lot. “I’m lucky enough to be able to stay home with my children” or “I don’t work but I’m not claiming benefits paid for by you”. Firstly It’s not luck that I don’t have to work, Rory has worked bloody hard over the years to be able to make this happen and secondly there’s nothing wrong with claiming benefits anyway, I contributed for years before I stopped working. It’s not all baking cakes. It can be but that just leads to huge weight gain, type 2 diabetes and your taxes covering my healthcare. People forget you have other interests than children and so forget to talk to you like an educated individual with opinions outside of poo and Cbeebies. You forget yourself that your brain once did other stuff and forget that you’re an educated individual with opinions that some might consider valid or at the very least interesting. If someone asks what you’ve done with your day you struggle to come up with important sounding tasks. Somehow watching Masha and the Bear and keeping a small human alive doesn’t seem like a good enough answer. It’s really hard to exercise with a small person around, they hang off your leg and get in the way. It’s pretty lonely, your friends have jobs, their work wardrobe isn’t covered in snot or food and knowing they’re being treated as actual people makes you positively green with envy. People think that because you don’t work you’ve got nothing to do and so can help out at everything. You don’t get a day off, life is like a portable office. ‘Crafting’ is so much messier than you ever imagined it could be. You stop caring that the floor needs hoovering. Your five-year old is probably your best friend and you start to act like them. The idea of going back to work when littlest is at school is both exciting and really bloody scary. You realise you have absolutely no transferable skills, the knowledge you do have is well out of date and you probably SHOULD have got a career rather than a job before children. Even the shittest days are actually pretty fabulous when you have a glass of wine and think about it. You are one of the luckiest people you know because a lot of people would love to be in your position. The Tale of Mummyhood

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Like raking leaves in a hurricane.

Anna — Wed, 16 Nov 2016 12:09:53 +0000

Before I had Aoife I was very house proud. We didn’t have the biggest house, it was clean and tidy but not soulless and clinical. I’ll admit that one of my proudest achievements after having Aoife was maintaining a clean and tidy house (I aim pretty low as you can tell). I didn’t obsess about it, I didn’t use valuable mummy daughter bonding time to do it. I just managed to keep on top of it. I was winning. Then Seth happened. Despite all my good intentions my house hasn’t been tidy since. It’s just a constant, low level mess, like a visual version of white noise and I can’t bear it. There’s always a greasy hand print or scratch up a wall. There’s always a sock or random item of clothing lying around. The curtains are always bunched up from where he has watched the neighbours coming and going. Half the toys are under the couch along with a sippy cup and half eaten apple from who knows when. There’s always a bit of train track in the middle of the room or bits of torn magazine on the floor. There is always crumbs from torn up brioche or scrunched up crackers. Food apparently tastes better when eaten via the floor. Lord only knows where the handset of my landline is. There’s always a wet patch from spat out drinks. There’s always something for me to fall over. This is all after I’ve attempted to tidy, Seth just follows me, like a small tornado, destroying everything I’ve tidied. It drives me mad. My conservatory isn’t a haven of tranquility where I can enjoy the peace of an evening, it’s a toy store. As I settle down on an evening to chill out all I can see, where ever I look is toys and ‘stuff’, their idea of tidying up is to shove everything to the edge of the room. But how long before trains, queen Elsa, beads and greasy hand prints are replaced with phones, tablets, size 11 boots, stinky sports kits and the lingering stench of Lynx or Impulse? How long before I’m sitting in a lovely tidy house, enjoying the peace tranquility of my conservatory* because my babies aren’t part of it anymore, creating that constant low level of mess, the constant low level noise, that high level of joy and love?** It doesn’t bare thinking about. Ours maybe an untidy house but it’s a happy house. *That conservatory will obviously be in the South of France where I will get over the lack of children pretty darn quickly! I jest, of course. **Most of the time…..

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