Category: Stuff that just happens

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 in our usual spot outside Waitrose this morning (I’m beginning to wonder whether I should start a whole new blog site: observations from a Waitrose car park) the dogs are getting their usual constant attention and adoration, while I am feeling left on the shelf, when two girls walk into the supermarket wearing their pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers, much to the surprise and amusement of the other shoppers. This reminded me of a post made by one of my Facebook friends last week, where she commented how she had turned up to her son’s early morning Saturday swimming lesson, only to realise that she was still wearing her pyjama top. What made her post even funnier was the fact that it transpired that the person next to her was wearing her pyjama bottoms. All this talk of how disgusting it is that parents are turning up at the school gates in their nightwear, but it goes to show how easily it is done. I remember when partner popped out to our local supermarket one evening and it was only when he was at the checkout that he realised he was still wearing his slippers. The girls were mortified in case one of their friends had seen him. He wasn’t bothered at all! Another time, I popped into our Tesco Metro and bumped into a friend, who was looking decidedly embarrassed and very pleased to see me: I’ve forgotten my purse, she said to me and then in a hushed tone: and I’m in my pyjamas. I only nipped out for a few things, can you lend me a tenner? 

So all this goes to show, that none of us should have been at all surprised by the mamas in pyjamas at Waitrose this morning: it’s called, ‘leisure wear’ and the boundaries are blurred. I have to say, however, I personally would draw the line at onesies. 

I felt the need to reflect on WBD – my first year without a child at Primary school for some time. I did 12 years of primary school WBD’s, so I feel it’s worth a few moments’ reflection. 

Those of you who have read my blog: Own Clothes Day, will know that WBD and I have not always been comfortable bedfellows. So it was with much amusement that today I was an observer and not a participator. My first observation was to work out what WBD stood for. I saw it written in a couple of Facebook posts before I worked it out. At first, I thought they were referring to the accountancy firm that I use, who have the same abbreviation. It did occur to me fairly quickly, however, that Harry Potter has little to do with tax. Once I had worked this out, post after post came streaming in, with photos of Hermiones and Harry Potters still seeming to be top of the WBD pops. 

Number 1 friend had been moaning about the fact that her son’s school had given strict guidelines on what was and wasn’t allowed this year – presumably to prevent lazy parenting. These new rules would have f***ed me right over, as a Shrek onesie would no longer be allowed. What schools need to understand is that it isn’t being lazy sending your kid in as Wally, with a red and white striped t shirt and their sister’s glasses, it’s called survival. 

Back to Facebook and I was amazed and impressed at the efforts that had been made. That is, until it got to this afternoon and I realised that the kids who looked incredible, had their photos displayed by proud mummies on fb faster than Mills and Boon publish books. By the afternoon, the quality of effort was showing a marked deterioration: am I the only mother who cheated on WBD, a mother had posted, adding: he went as a footballer with the Liverpool FC Annual tucked under his arm…well it’s a book isn’t it? Then came the photo of the two children holding a toaster and a hairdryer, with the caption: forgot to make a costume…so they’re going as pages 89 and 165 of the Argos catalogue. This, is genius. The final post I saw was of a child dressed brilliantly as a super cute ballerina with dog ears and whiskers and a nose painted on her face. The fb post read: Dogs don’t do ballet. Aaah, I thought, how cute. She’s obviously been put in the ballerina dress as an easy option for mum and has insisted on having her face painted as a dog – that’ll teach the mother for shirking, I smiled to myself. I then looked closer at the photo and saw that she was holding a book titled: Dogs Don’t Do Ballet, and the effort suddenly appeared very real. 

So I have spent all day feeling in awe and relieved, that I no longer have to compete with the creative brilliance that clearly exits in this country. I was feeling rather smug about it, until Daughter 4 just came to me and said: it’s World Book Day tomorrow, Mum. My heart sank into my slippers and I felt a cold sweat coming on, but I’m not going to dress up, she continued, I can’t be bothered. 

I now don’t know whether to feel relieved or guilty that my WBD negativity has obviously rubbed off. 

By the way, just to prove that, at some time in the distant past, we did all try:

I’ve worked out Pippi Longstocking, far right, but haven’t got a bloody clue who the other two are. Any ideas?

Partner is hanging his twenty third pair of knickers on the airer this morning. So many pairs of knickers, he’s muttering to himself. Well, we have to wear knickers, I say, curtly and anyway, your pants take up more room on the airer than our knickers do. 

I’m not sure that men ‘get’ knickers. They don’t understand the intricacies involved in buying them and then the heartfelt choice over what pair to wear in the morning. We don’t just have one size fits all pants like they do. No, our lives are so much more complicated than that: period knickers and within that category depends on what day of the month it is, big knickers, for when we know they will not be seen by anyone (however, we’ve all been caught out on that choice more than once in our lives), a thong to avoid the vpl, or  alternatively the flesh coloured ‘very unflattering but sheer’ knickers that ride up your bum and give a wedgie – that no one can see because that’s the point of them, the body shaper control knickers if it’s a fat day, the knickers husband bought for you last birthday that are really impractical and the lace makes you itch, but you haven’t worn them for a while and it has been mentioned, the crotchless knickers – for no other reason than the dog ate the crotch (see blog: crotchless knickers)…lets be honest, the list goes on*

Us females take all these decisions in our stride every morning, but I don’t think a man could cope with the range of options and choices available to him. 

When daughter 4 was born, my younger sister came round and whereas most people bring a card and a cute present, she came and emptied out my knicker drawer. Get rid of those, she said, flinging knickers over her shoulder. My stitches haven’t even healed yet, I remonstrated with her. You can’t have these, she carried on without remorse, chucking another pair out. What are you thinking? She scolded me, throwing big, grey knickers onto the floor, you’ll never get another baby wearing those monstrosities. I don’t want another baby, I wailed, those knickers are my best form of contraception. Please can I keep them, I pleaded. Finally, she finished and stood back looking pleased with herself. I peered into the drawer and looked at the five remaining pairs. You haven’t even left me a pair for each day of the week, I said. You can’t be trusted with any more than that, she retorted. Stick the kids in the car, we’re going knicker shopping!

*Please feel free to add 

Partner mentioned wattle∗ and not three days later, Caitlin Moran is talking about it in the Saturday Times at the weekend. I’m a great believer in things happening for a reason and this cannot simply be a coincidence – there are darker forces at work here. I had no concerns about my wattle, I wasn’t even sure that I was sporting a turtle neck, but they have both now got me looking. 

Partner’s comment was in relation to his, you can hide a lot of things about being old, he said, but you can’t hide your wattle – unless you wear a scarf, he added, knowledgeably. Paranoia then set in – were his comments actually aimed at both of us? I hot footed it into the downstairs loo, where the natural light that floods in is like the second coming – you can’t hide anything in that downstairs loo. It’s the loo you drag kids into who are itching their scalp or their bum. I examine myself carefully. When I was a teenager, my younger sister told me to do exercises on my neck every time I applied my moisturiser: you’ll be glad of that advice when you’re older, she said as a nine year old in the know. Thirty years on, peering into the mirror, poking at my neck, I’m feeling quite pleased that I listened to her. 

I return to partner, confident that I am currently wattle free. Well, he says, as he looks at my smug face, you may not be part of the wattle club yet, but the way you were peering into that mirror, I reckon you should get your eyesight checked. I reached into the under stairs cupboard and threw a scarf at him, let’s walk the dogs, I said bruskly and I suggest you cover yourself up. 

*wattle: A wattle is a fleshy bit hanging from the neck (but not mine)

Ok, so hands up and admit it – who else lives with: The Cursory Wipe? Come on, it can’t just be me…is it? Sitting on the loo, you glance around the bathroom and spot some grime on the tiles in front of you. Pee done and you give the tiles a cursory wipe. Kids off to school in the morning, packed lunches made, you give the kitchen a cursory wipe. Into the conservatory to water the dead cyclamen that was reduced to 89p because it was dead, but you thought you could save it anyway and you spot the dust on the top of the sofa – you give it, yes, you guessed it – the cursory wipe. This makes my cleaning skills extremely superficial. Half term is now over, a time when I could have made more of an effort to clean, but the kitchen cupboards finished me off early on in the week and now it is Wednesday and we’re well into another term of cursory wiping. 

Now I wouldn’t accept this half hearted attempt at cleaning when daughters do their chores. I run my finger across surfaces and peer into the showers as if I am the Queen Bee of cleaning, but somehow I myself manage to get away with the CW. 

I blame my lack of attention to detail on my early forays into cleaning with number 1 friend, when we momentarily worked for a cleaning agency to supplement student grants. On a 3 hour job, we had an agreement with each other, that we would go in and do an hour’s cleaning and on the dot of 60 minutes the kettle would go on and we’d raid the client’s cupboard for food. This worked like a dream and so set my standards at a fairly low level for future life. 

The bottom line is, that the CW actually works. If the house is fairly tidy, if the weekend papers have been folded, if the shoes have been shoved in cubbyholes and if there are a couple of vases of fresh flowers sitting about, then you get away with it. Add a candle and/or a room diffuser into the mix and you are laughing. 

So go on, be honest. Put your hands up and say, without fear of repercussions: I admit to being a slave to the cursory wipe.

I didn’t have a hope in hell of being healthy this week. Yesterday was an inset day. Daughter 1 had friends around to bake. I love the fact that she is 16 and doesn’t have friends around to have orgies and take drugs, so I actively encouraged it. My only stipulation was that she used up the bananas that have been rotting in the fruit bowl for two weeks. She had ticked that box before her friends arrived and produced a loaf of banana bread. Hot and delicious straight out of the oven, partner and I couldn’t resist. Over half was gone by lunch time. No problem, as her friends arrived and spent the afternoon baking marshmallow cookies and ice cream cake. That was still only Monday. On Wednesday it is daughter 3’s birthday. She has requested a salted caramel cake, pain au chocolats for breakfast and Dominoes for tea. I am going to buy her cake this year. I didn’t feel guilty until I was flicking through last years’ photos and saw that I had created a cricket pitch, complete with stumps. I can’t remember what had possessed me. Daughter 1 reminds me of the year that we ate all her birthday cake, without her having had any. I am reminded of this regularly and I have no defence – I just like cake. On Thursday it is number 1 friend’s birthday and tradition has it that we have cake in the office. On Friday it is step daughter’s 21st. She isn’t actually going to be here, but just imagine if she was! 

We have summer bodies and winter bodies, partner remarked, helpfully, as I was expressing my worries to him about our week of excess, and Summer is months away, he continued, reassuringly. 

We had to go to Homebase to buy a new loo brush (see blog: Loo Brush) Men in fluorescent jackets were building a display, on top of which was perched a deckchair. It must be in the sale, I said excitedly to partner, as I had wanted one last summer. I’ll ask how much it is. This is the Summer display, the man told me cheerily, we’ve got 24 hours to build it. 24 hours, I repeated to partner. Summer is coming sooner than we thought. 

I’m flicking (reading for those who are short on time) through the Saturday Times and I stumble across Family Favourites in the Weekend section. Simple recipes for tasty weekend lunches: Spiced aubergine and pumpkin-seed muffins and roasted vegetable galette, to name but two. What the f**k is a galette? Am I not middle class enough? Does this woman know what my weekends consist of? Kids, dogs, walk, work, wine, collapse.

Then, I realise that ‘this woman’ is Annabel Karmel…that’s THE Annabel Karmel, who I was a slave to when my kids were babies. THE Annabel Karmel, who made me cook peanut butter cookies and avocado mush. This is the woman who I was in awe of throughout the terrible two’s. A woman who had the ability to make me feel empowered and emancipated in the same breath, as I gazed at the photos of her and her children in neat little pinnys in a spotless kitchen. I bought her books, I read her books, I have given her books to Oxfam. Now, she pops up in my free middle class paper from Waitrose. I guess this means that I haven’t actually moved on in 15 years. Except that I have. I feel totally alienated by the words: ‘galette’ and ‘wrap each gougon in a piece of Parma ham’. You are having a giraffe, Annabel. My kids had Waitrose Economy Gougons tonight and I considered that ‘posh’. They were excited by the fact that I combined these with fresh green beans.

‘As our lives get busier, many of us stick with what we know and trust when it comes to cooking’ – yes, Annabel my Hun: economy mash and Richmond sausages and my kids think it’s Christmas.

I could feel like a failure. Here was a woman who was a part of my baby past. Without her, I wonder whether my kids would have ever been weaned. Yet now, I feel alienated by words like: ‘mini tartlets’ and ‘chicken rösti’. I am a Spag Bol and filled pasta woman, Annabel and I feel that we have moved on at different tangents, reconvening via a freeebie.

It was Pizza last night, Annabel, but you know what: I don’t care. I am the brazen hussey of the parent world and you are the foodie queen…actually no, I do care. Rösti respect Annabel…I’ll go and google it.