Month: March 2016

My 90 year old Scottish Nanna and I used to watch Billy Connolly together. She absolutely loved his humour, but hated his liberal use of the F-word. An article in the Times this week stated that swear words no longer pack the punch they used to and that the F-word is no longer the Class A swear word it used to be.

It’s interesting the way different families approach swearing and the house rules they have surrounding it. When I was growing up, my parents didn’t swear and consequently I would never have dared swear in front of them. Even when I swore with my friends as a teenager, I would feel a little guilty at the thought of what my parents would say if they were to hear me. When I had left home, however, the odd mild swear word started creeping into my Mum’s vocabulary and it sounded quite shocking to me. This did coincide with my Dad divorcing her, so that probably had a lot to do with the need to use the odd, ‘bloody’ here and there, usually followed by ‘man’ in her case.

Listening to radio 4 a while back (much to daughters’ disgust), woman’s hour was discussing the use of swear words in the home and they had a mum from both camps in the studio: one who swears liberally in front of her kids and one who doesn’t. It made me reflect on my views. When the girls were younger, I never swore in front of them, I would just get Tourettes when they had gone to bed. It was as if I had been saving up all the frustrations of the day and the best way to express them was though swearing. You’ve got to admit, there’s nothing like a few choice swear words to really get things off your chest. “Fuck off!’ just packs a far bigger punch than, ‘go away!’.

Now the girls are older, I don’t allow them to swear in the house, but I do find myself using the odd mild expletive in front of them. When they are at school, my language is far more flowery, but I am sometimes caught out when I forget that one of them is off school sick and I have to shout a sheepish, ‘sorry’ up the stairs.

When I was at my Mum’s last week, she told me off for the use of the F-word in my blogs. I reminded her of how her mum used to tell Billy Connolly off by wagging her finger at the telly. When my daughters read my blogs out loud, as they sometimes do, they won’t say the swear words and they say, ‘muuum’ and give me a disapproving look. Yeah, I think to myself, as if YOU don’t swear!

The other thing about swearing, is that I think it sounds worse coming from the mouth of someone else, than it sounds coming from your own. When I hear friend’s swear in front of their kids it can sometimes make me cringe and that’s when I really start to examine where my principles lie. I do know that I need the word, ‘fuck’ in my life. I could not live if, ‘bloody hell’ was banned from our vocabulary. ‘Shit’ is a no-brainer, as is ‘bollocks’ and surely no-one can get through the day without a few, ‘oh buggers’ here and there. One word I NEVER say is the C-word. So you see, I do have some principles, Mum 🙂

I would love to get your thoughts on this subject. Please let me know what side of the fence you are sitting on. Hopefully not on it, as that would really fucking hurt!

I’ll leave you with a swear word that partner and I have made up and though I say it myself, it is pure genius. It can be played around with like a word game and used in a multitude of situations. Just not in front of our kids:

Buggeryfucknuts
Nuttybugfucks
Fuckingbugnuts
Fuckerybugnuts
Nutteryfuckbugs
Fuckingbuggerynuts….

Keep playing for excellent stress relief 🙂

     Dame Sue ‘Rock God’ Ion

Do you ever come across something, that has good intentions, but winds you up almost as much as a Kim Kardashian selfie…well, ok maybe not that much. For me, it’s the primary school lunchbox police. Uuurrggghh!! Even thinking about them makes me mad. An extremely well meaning PTA mum generates an e mail stating that, for a whole month, lunch boxes are being examined (judged) and unsuitable items will be removed. There is an attachment listing healthy lunchbox items. It’s a Sunday night and I either have none of these in my cupboard or the kids would rather eat their own toenails, so I have already failed. The second problem is that the well meaning parent, let’s call her Christine, has stipulated no chocolate. I examine our biscuit box – every single one contains chocolate in one form or another: a drizzle, drops, the whole bloody thing drenched in it. I opt for the bar with a drizzle of 80% dark, organic chocolate with a ponsey pattern on it, left over from Christmas. My thinking being, that Christine will appreciate the ‘organic’ element and she’ll go easy on us. This, along with a ham sandwich (cheap, processed, but I bet it slides through Christine’s net) a packet of breadsticks (obviously no crisps allowed) and an apple – the apple is lobbed in as a Christine pleaser and will return home, slightly more bruised and floury, but otherwise untouched. 

At school this afternoon, daughter 4 is walking in front of me. What’s that on your bum? I ask her, putting my head rather embarrassingly close and sniffing, in that way that Mums do. There is a large, dark brown solid patch, spread across the rear. That’ll be the chocolate from my biscuit, she says, I had to sit on it when the inspection took place, so that no one saw it. I’m incandescent with rage. 

I spot Christine across the playground. Standing next to her is her daughter, slurping on an Innocent smoothie. I feel an incredible urge to go marching over, look her straight in the eye and say: Christine. That innocent smoothie you have so smugly given your child is not so innocent after all. That little carton is absolutely rammed with sugar, equivalent to 3.5 Krispy Kreme Original Glazed Donuts and while your daughter is going to be jumping around like a Duracell bunny any moment now, in 20 minutes she’ll feel like a bag of shit and be giving you merry hell! 

Instead, I pity Christine. After all, she has good intentions. However, as I glance at her ample breasts and wide buttocks, I can’t help wondering where all the confiscated food goes. 

 

It was when the young, teenage girl turned to me in a state of panic and almost touched her nose to mine and shouted at me: it was you, when I was explaining that I drive a white van and a calm perspective is what’s needed, when I realised that the white van child abduction media frenzy is getting out of control. We teach our children to run, we teach our children to seek out a busy place, we teach them to be aware of what is going on around them. We must also teach them perspective. In the middle of the social media storm, perspective is hard to grab hold of, but we must, for the sake of our children. For the sake of their freedom and so that they don’t live in a state of fear. 

The media love the white van story. When something else more newsworthy comes along, they will drop it like a stone. Today’s headline is tomorrow‘s chip paper. The fear will also fade. Is it the White Van Urban Myth that has been documented in Australia, America and Sweden? Nobody is calling anyone a liar. Fear is real, but we cannot let it overrun us. 

Don’t be paranoid, be aware. Paranoia grows from and will fade with that fear. Awareness must stay with us all, at all times. So, we must teach our children not to be afraid of every white van that passes them on their way to school – this will exhaust the poor loves, consume them, as every other car is a van and at least every other van is white and men get in and out of white vans to go to work and sometimes men get out of white vans and run, just like you or I jump out of our cars and run, because we are late. We must teach them to be aware: heads up, shoulders back, no headphones, no shortcuts. Walk with a friend if you can and laugh, chat – but don’t be afraid. Be aware. 

I get paranoid as a mum, but we must give our children the correct tools to equip themselves for everyday life, not just for life in the middle of a media storm. Otherwise, this is when our children are most at risk. 

MadHouseMum is founder and chief instructor at Oaks Martial Arts. If you are interested in learning about how we teach this EVERYDAY awareness to children and adults, please e mail: alison@oaksmartialarts.com

Dear Parent God,

Please forgive me for lying to my children about the fajhita mix that was in the cupboard on Friday night, because I couldn’t be bothered to use it, so they had pizza,

Please bless the fact that I gave them broccoli with their pizza.

Please forgive me for hindering my child’s creativity, by regularly asking her to stop singing because it gives me a headache,

Please bless the fact that I do run her to her singing lessons every week.

Please forgive me for not always giving my full attention when I am asked a question about their homework and for discovering that I not only have zero patience, but zero ability on most topics,

Please bless the fact that their big sister helps them when I ask her to.

Please forgive me for quite often wanting to throttle my children,

Please bless me for making do with shouting at them, loudly, instead.

Please forgive me for groaning when the kids ask me to play Monopoly,

Please bless me for giving it a shot.

Please forgive me for not separating lights and darks washing and turning daughter 2’s white jeans grey,

Please bless me for doing at least a load of washing a day, getting it dry and distributed back to the correct person within 48 hours.

Please forgive me for not wanting to watch another gym show in the sitting room,

Please bless me for watching it anyway.

Please forgive me for sometimes finding the gap between cup of tea time and glass of wine time, too long,

Please bless me that I don’t drink gin for breakfast.

Parent God, I ask all of this in the name of guilt ridden parents everywhere,

AMEN

 

Listen up ladies, gather round. Glad tidings I bring to you and your minge: THE FULL BUSH IS BACK!! Throw out your razors, wave goodbye to the Veet. No more wranglings over the full Brazilian or the runway. No, my friends, your pubes can grow forth and multiply with pride and you will be on the cutting edge. Topiary is no longer required. Wear your carpet outside your bikini with pride: YOU ARE A FASHIONISTA! 

So, you heard it here first. Mourn the porn with scorn: high maintenance with a creepy pre-pubescent edge – surely no one really likes popping their bits in paper pants, for wax to burn and for the memory of the pain of that first elastoplast being pulled off by mummy to come back. 

No more humiliating rash at the edge of the cozzie during the Aqua tots class, because you haven’t got time for the professional job and the baby has used up all your money on nappies and the extra prams you don’t need. Let it all hang out, girlfriend. 

WEAR YOUR BUSH WITH PRIDE 🌳

Happy International Woman’s Day