Just another day…
Best tweet I’ve seen this week:
“I see Kim has got her twat out…no not Kayne, the other one.”
Kim and her ‘post baby’ bod, taken pre-pregnancy, no doubt. We all have to make ourselves feel better after we’ve had a baby. For some, it’s taking comments from husband, mum, checkout assistant, like: you’re doing well losing your baby weight. For others it’s booking a personal trainer, while your boobs are still tellingly leaking milk through the lycra. For most of the sane minded mums it’s: I’ve just given birth so fuck off and leave me alone with your talk of diets and the gym. Pass me the cake. For Kim, it’s: look at me! Look at me! Adore ME, love ME. I’m sick of the sodding baby getting all the attention.
To be honest, if you lean forwards, naked, in front of your bedroom mirror. Push your boobs subtly together, take your legs slightly apart, push your bum out and suck in, you too can create that desperate ‘look at me’ image. A little touch to your hair and a flick of the head will finish it off. But don’t try this at home, as you run the risk of your kids walking in and thinking mummy’s now completely lost the plot and husband walking in and thinking it’s his birthday.
I don’t know about you, but I find that I am happy with my tummy when I am lying down and happy with my boobs when I am standing up – but not happy with both in either position.
Well, they say you can’t have it all in life. So I’ll take my bod standing up or lying down and do the best I can with it, depending on my mood. One thing is for sure, I’d rather support Donald Trump’s presidency campaign, than get my twat out on Twitter.
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
Sitting at daughter 4’s parents’ evening, I keep getting vague whiffs of Haddock Chowder. Can you smell Chowder, I ask her, in a hushed tone. What’s Chowder? She replies. Fish! I whisper. I had it for lunch and it seems to pervade everything. I keep sniffing at my jumper. I notice that it is covered in (non molting) dog 1 and dog 2 hair. I feel rather shabby, in contrast to the teachers, who have all made a real effort. How can they be so positive at 8 o’ clock at night? Saying the same half truths, over and over again. She’s so enthusiastic (won’t ever shut the f**k up). I have nothing but admiration for their style. As they are talking to me, I find myself wondering what they are really thinking. I try not to be too demanding – nobody wants to be that parent. The Latin teacher has a dreadful cold and I spend the appointment worrying about shaking his hand – it’s a busy week next week and I can’t take any chances.
I was slightly nervous about meeting the science teacher, on account of some homework she had set before Christmas. Daughter 4 had announced that she was going to make a sperm cake for science. What’s a sperm cake? I enquired, wondering whether, despite having conceived four children, I had missed out on something. It’s a cake in the shape of a sperm, she replied, matter of factly. She googled ‘sperm’ to get the correct shape. I hovered over the computer as she did so, just in case. Eurrggh, that’s disgusting, she said, staring at photos of real sperm. Why don’t you scroll down a bit, I suggested helpfully and look for a cartoon shaped sperm, it will be easier to make into a cake. Once made, it looked rather good: covered in carefully rolled Royal white icing. When she came home that evening, I asked her what her teacher had said about the cake. She didn’t say a lot, daughter 4 replied. Well, what did other people’s sperm cakes look like, I continued in a tiger mother fashion – did someone else make a more impressive sperm cake and if so, I want details. No one else made a sperm cake, she said. Other people made models of other types of cell. So why did you choose to make a sperm cake, I ask in a trembling voice. Because I wanted to, she replied, somewhat defensively. Oh shit, I thought to myself, the teacher is going to think we’re freaks.
The science teacher beckons us over and I give her a firm handshake and look her straight in the eye, feeling that the best way to approach this is head on. The teacher gets straight to the point: while your daughter is doing really well in her written assessments, her last practical fell slightly short. I was about to launch into an apology, when in the next breath she turned to daughter 4 and said: you have lots of sisters, don’t you? I wondered where this one was going. Perhaps they can help you with criteria next time. I thanked her and left, onto the next appointment, but still wondering whether the teacher’s juxtaposition of comments was intentional.
The Sperm Cake
What are little boys made of?
Bundles of energy without fail
Following Spiderman’s trail
That’s what little boys are made of
What are little girls made of?
Of cunning and guise
To find ways to entice
That’s what little girls are made of
What are teenage boys made of?
A smell very male
And conversation fail
That’s what teenage boys are made of
What are teenage girls made of?
Stuck to a device
Without heeding parental advice
That’s what teenage girls are made of
MadHouseMum©
To Mummies everywhere. Cherish every moment, time flies.
Things were fine,
My mother said
Until you got
That double bed.
It’s just confirmed
My awful fear
That you will marry soon
My dear.
You are no more
My little lamb
Whom I was pushing
In that pram.
You’ve grown beyond
A teenage grot
And now you’re going
To tie the knot.
I studied mother
With despair
And noticed that
Her auburn hair
Showed little streaks
Of silver grey,
I knew what she was
Trying to say.
But as she pulled me
To her knee,
The time had come
To struggle free.
MadHouseMum©
Looking ahead to Mother’s Day tomorrow, I thought that I would share with you some quotes from my daughters, taken from the past week. Those of you with small children, who are non-judgemental and who think that you are a princess and quite simply beautiful – please enjoy and cherish those moments, because they don’t last. If you don’t believe me, read on!
Daughter 1: Even mum looks better than me today. Oh and apparently that was a compliment.
Daughter 1: You are looking more and more like Granny B every day. Apparently that was a compliment too and yes, my mum is, as I’ve mentioned before (blog: Three Way Mirror) a glam gran, however, I am not yet 73.
Me, as daughter 3 is pointing her new Polaroid camera at me: don’t take a photo of me now. Daughter 3: no, I’m not going to. I don’t want to waste it.
Getting ready for a rare night out, daughter 4: what are you wearing, Mum? I’ll choose ‘cos you can’t look over 40.
Daughter 1 drops some hand cream on the floor as she is slathering it on: you can have that Mum, she says.
All I can say is this: having teenage girls around you keeps you on your toes (which must be painted, of course).
Daughter 3 – judging me
