Seven types of mum you’ll meet in the playground/ playgroup…

Seven types of mum you’ll meet in the playground/ playgroup.

1. The piss-head one.

Roughly 70 per cent alcohol in her veins at all times. If you need a rant about your husband being a tosser, your kids being little shits or your family being arseholes, she’s there waiting with a triple measure gin and a punchbag. Carries a hip flask. Everyone’s seen her tits.

2. The hippy one.

The one that uses wipes made from angel wings and fairy dust and only feeds her baby organic, pureed green gloop that makes you feel bad for chucking a couple of Wotsits at your child and calling it ‘baby-led weaning’. Terrible wind. Stinks. Wears paisley.

3. The know-it-all one.

She’s read the books so she KNOWS. EVERYTHING. She’ll tell you what you’re doing wrong with a smile on her face than doesn’t quite reach her soulless eyes. Nobody likes her. Secretly has marriage problems and a hairy muff.

4. The ‘my kid is perfect and I love everything about my life’ one.

Don’t be fooled by what she posts on Facebook, she’s losing her shit like the rest of us. Probably on Prozac.

5. The immaculate one.

HOW. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK is she wearing full make up, heels and clothes without food stains or creases at 9am when I’ve not even brushed my hair and my breath smells of farts? Cries herself to sleep at night.

6. The career one

Don’t know, never seen her. Loves PowerPoint more than her kids.

7. The soulmate one.

You’d still be mates even without the kiddies. You’ve laughed, cried and got angry together. You know what each other is thinking with just a look and you generally dislike other people’s kids but think your own are awesome. Delusional outsiders but don’t give a shit.

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A poem to my boy on his first day of school…

My darling boy,
When I first saw you on the hospital screen,
You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I watched you wriggle and jiggle around,
I stared and held my breath, without making a sound.
For there, right then, my heart belonged to you,
I knew it alway would, I felt a love so true.
You entered the world and screamed out loud,
The start of a journey that’s made me so proud.
I’ve watched you grow and I’ve seen you change,
Loving each step as we enter each stage.
I’ve listened in awe as you’ve told me your plans,
To become a vet, a road sweeper, a gardening man.
I know whichever path you choose to take,
I’ll be there by your side, make no mistake.
You’re handsome, you’re clever, you fascinate me,
So many amazing moments there have been to see.
So as you head to school for your very first day,
These are the words I really want to say.
I love you so much my darling boy,
You make my world amazing, you fill it with joy.
Have a great day, son, the best there has been,
And I’ll see you at the school gates at three-fifteen.

Summer Holiday Blues

 

Six weeks off; amazing, great!
It’s only the last five you’ll fucking hate.
You’ve done everything in week one, you filled your days,
With crafting and baking, it was gone in a haze.
The house is a tip now and you can’t see the floor,
But it’ll soon pass, there’s only five more.
Week two draws in and you wake filled with dread,
What do we do now? My head is a shed.
A family day out, a lovely idea!
It pisses it down with rain, pass me a beer.
Three weeks in and you’re going mad,
You didn’t think finding shit to do would be so bad.
You’re nagged and you’re moaned at more and more,
Can we? Can we? Can we? It’s becoming a bore.
Week four can fuck off, this is the worst,
Just over half way and an empty purse.
You’ve been uniform shopping and you’ve spent all your cash,
And all you want is a night on the lash.
Week five is strop week, you’ve heard and seen it all,
Get them in bed so you can stare at the wall.
Week six and more moaning that there’s nothing to do,
And you hide behind the fridge door mouthing ‘fuck you’.
But inside you’re smug, smug as can be,
Because it’s back to school next week, you’ve survived – yippee!!

 

Who seriously has an issue with a mum kissing their kid on the lips?

So, here we go again. More mum bashing. This time Victoria Beckham is in the firing line for giving her five-year-old daughter a birthday kiss on the lips.

Although the mum of four has received a lot of support, with thousands of mums now sharing snaps of themselves kissing their children on the lips, she’s also faced backlash from the internet’s parenting police who find it ‘disgusting’, ‘weird’ and ‘wrong’. Since when was kissing your child on the lips a controversial act? I kiss my four-year-old on the lips all the time (my 14-week-old less so, because he’s a bit drooley). It’s so normal in our house that I was shocked when people began calling her out on it, it’s even been sexualised, with people saying they look like lesbians. What absolute, utter rubbish.

What kind of world do we live in where someone can look at a photo of a mum giving her daughter a kiss and think that? I find it weird that people find it weird. And the only time it’s wrong, in my opinion, is when my kid’s face is covered in Nutella or beans (no thanks), or when I’ve managed to find the time to put make up on and I don’t want him ruining my lipstick (step away, son, you can kiss the cheek but not the pout).

It’s a sweet, innocent picture showing the bond between mother and daughter. I’m sure Vicky B has more important things to worry about than what others think of her parenting, but all the same, leave the woman alone!

PS I tried to get a photo of myself kissing my son to go with this feature… he told me I could only have a kiss if he could have an ice lolly. Maybe Harper did the same, but unlike my son, she got her lolly?

Time for big school

It’s a big week for Leo this week. On Friday he will have his final day at nursery before he has the summer off in preparation for big school. He’s totally ready for it, because, as he keeps telling me, he can count to 23, wipe his own bum and write L-E-O, what else does he possibly need to know?

I’m not ready though. I feel panicked that time is running out. How is he already four and going to school? When did that happen? I feel like I blinked and he went from being a gargling, bouncing baby to a mass of long limbs and attitude. My baby boy is no more. He went for a trial day at school last week and buggered off without even waving bye. I went back to school to have my dinner with him (actual school dinner, on a plastic tray, with a ball of mashed potato and pudding with custard) and he sat with his new-found friends, came and told me he’d finished and once again, buggered off. I felt like screaming ‘WHY DON’T YOU FUCKING NEED ME ANY MORE?!?!’ and crumpling into a weeping heap on the floor, but I didn’t think it was appropriate in a school hall full of under 11s.

Leo has gone to nursery since he was nine months old. When I first took him I had to take baby milk and he didn’t even wear shoes. He still had two naps a day and two teeth. Now, when I pick him up, he’s usually racing around the garden on a bike or a scooter, giggling and covered in whatever he’s eaten that day (do nurseries just feed them orange stuff that stains?)

Come September I’ll be dropping him off at school each morning and we can’t even be late (we are ALWAYS late for nursery). Leo is adamant that we must be there ‘at the dot’. He’s so excited and I’m excited for him, but at the same time I want to hang onto my baby boy forever.

I recently asked Leo his thoughts on going to big school as part of a magazine feature.

Here it is:

What are you most excited about?

When I get to go in the big garden where the older children are because there is a balance beam. I am looking forward to wearing my uniform because I think it might be cool.

What do you think you’ll do in your classroom?

I’m going to do the register, which is when you make sure everyone’s here, like at nursery. After register we have to go and play. I will play mums and dads and Paw Patrol. I will be a boy Skye off Paw Patrol, with wings. In mums and dads I am the dog. I’m always the dog. We will do history which is what happened in the olden days and we’ll learn about Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom.

What else will you learn about?

I will learn everything. My favourite thing to learn about is dinosaurs and ears.

What will you have for your lunch?

Mashed potato and nothing else. I don’t like mashed potato.

Is there anything you’re not looking forward to?

Nothing. I am looking forward to everything at school because there is nothing to be afraid about.

And there we have it. I’ll blink again and he’ll be a stroppy teenager. The joy.

Review of Bridlington’s new £25 million leisure centre

 

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Yesterday we were invited to the new Bridlington Leisure Centre to review the facilities and the ace new splash pool there.

I tried my hardest not to get my hair wet and I’d stupidly put mascara on thinking I’d just, at the most, get in the water up to my waist. NO. I looked like a drowned rat when we’d finished. If you’re thinking of heading here, and I’d really recommend a visit, bare in mind that calling it a ‘splash pool’ is the understatement of the century. It’s proper splashy. They should have called it ‘The Proper Splashy Pool’.

Here’s the verdict that matters….

Leo’s verdict:

“I thought the pool was really good because it was splashy and the water guns were the best because I could get people. I liked the water slides and there were two big ones and one was orange and one was red and the red one was the best because it went faster than the orange one and I liked it going fast because I’m brave because I am four now. I could climb the steps by myself and you have to wait at the top until the light goes green like on the green man on the roads.

I did some somersaults in the water and it was fun because I had my goggles on and I didn’t even need my swimming vest on because I’m getting good at swimming. My favourite bit was splashing in the pool because I was allowed to splash and nobody even told me off. Next time I go I’m going to make porridge soup in the baby bit but I won’t splash any babies because that’s not very kind and they might cry and that would be sad.”

Tens truths about British holiday parks

Ever taken the kids to a holiday park? We did, this weekend. If you’ve ventured into this dangerous territory, you’ll know the following to be true:

1. People with shit tattoos go to holiday parks.

2. There’s loads of kids called Chardonnay, and they always get told to ‘fucking pack it in’ by their parents.

3. The people doing actual camping in actual tents are really aggressive. ‘Yes, I’m wearing a fucking towel on my head to the restaurant, I’m fucking camping, you prick.’

4. The kids entertainers are all either wannabe actresses with overly backcombed hair or overweight 20-something men that should have considered a different career path.

5. It always rains, but who gives a shit? Just stick on your anorak and shut up moaning.

6. There’s loads of people with dogs, just standing around.

7. It’s London prices for a pint of beer. Dick Turpin wore a mask, not a fucking elephant costume.

8. The kids have an amazing ability to stay awake until way past their usual bedtime, giving you time to relax with a double g&t (which you took out a small mortgage for) and the evening’s entertainment (ego-maniacs pratting about in costumes).

9. There’s loads of horny teenagers, who have been dragged there by their parents because they are too young to stay home alone. They meet with other horny teenagers in the arcade to lie about how many times they’ve had sex and other cool stuff.

10. If an activity is free, it’s going to be rammed, and you’re going to get pissed off.

BUT… the kids think it’s AWESOME and, in the days leading up, it is a spot on bribing/ threatening tool to make them behave, so we’ll continue to go each year.

13 things they don’t tell you when you’re pregnant with baby number two/ things you should have realised:

1. You used to think you were tired all the time. HAHA. Baby number two is going to make a stint in Guantanamo Bay look like fucking Butlins.

2. Pelvic floor… fucked. Don’t laugh, you’ll wet yourself.

3. Stomach muscles… fucked. Don’t wear a bikini.

4. Social life… fucked. Nobody wants to babysit a four year old and a baby at the same time.

5. Nappies are expensive. Were they this expensive four years ago? Or does this child just shit more than the first one?

6. Baby milk is expensive. Wonder how you’ve managed to wrack up 50 quid in Tesco with naff all in your basket? It’s baby number two’s fault.

7. You still need to look after the first child you gave birth to. Even if you’ve been up all night with baby number two, baby number one is still going to be waking you up at 6am to tell you he’s pissed the bed and he wants to play dinosaurs and he wants you to be the mummy dinosaur and he will be the baby dinosaur and he wants his breakfast right now but not toast because he doesn’t like toast any more and not cereal because cereal isn’t what baby dinosaurs eat.

8. Cereal is all mummy dinosaurs eat.

9. Your first child will inevitably feel a bit left out and start doing stuff for attention when baby number two is crying – ‘look what I can do mummy, I can put my todgy between my legs’, ‘look what I can do mummy, I can kick this ball at the window really hard’, ‘look what I can do mummy, I can spin around really fast without even falling over’.

10. Your washing basket will never, ever be empty again. There’s dirty pants circa December 2015 at the bottom of mine.

11. You’ll start to see going to the toilet on your own as a real luxury; a lonesome toilet break is the equivalent of an afternoon in a spa.

12. Nobody comes to see your second child. They came to see your first one – what do you want? Blood?

13. Remember the memory box you’ve got in the loft? The one with a million things to show your first born when he’s older; a newspaper from the day he was born, cards you received on his arrival, scan photos. You can’t be arsed the second time round.

Wedding dress shopping with my fiancé

This weekend, in a rather unconventional move, I took my fiancé with me to choose my wedding dress. Yes, some of my friends were horrified, “you can’t do that!!!” one shouted at me. When I asked her why, she told me it’s bad luck. Well, we’ve had a hell of a lot of bad luck since we got together and we are stronger than ever, hence the whole getting married thing. I didn’t see that a stupid, age-old superstition was going to make much difference. Not only that, but he is my best friend and his opinion counts more than anybody else’s, it made so much sense to me to take him, almost stupid not to.

We headed to a boutique in York and I picked out three dresses before heading to the fitting rooms with an assistant.

The first dress I tried on, I knew I didn’t like as soon as she began forcing it over my child-bearing hips. More so, I knew Jon would hate it too, it just wasn’t me. But, because the lovely assistant seemed to think it would suit me and because I like wasting everyone’s time, I stood patiently while she tugged at the ribbons holding in my fat bits. I looked like an overweight mermaid; one that should spend less time flirting with sailors on rocks and more time swimming. I stepped out of the fitting room and before the curtain had fully gone back, Jon was shaking his head, “no way,” he said. Alright dick-head, at least be subtle.

So back in the fitting room I once again stood patiently while she released me and I could breath again. Meanwhile, I could hear Jon dishing out fashion advice to other brides-to-be like Salford’s answer to Gok Wan – “it looks lovely Lisa, but do you feel confident?” I heard him say. Jesus. Who am I marrying? “We don’t get many men in here,” the assistant told me, “a few dads, but never grooms”. And it occurred to me, there bloody well should be. Jon’s always one for an honest opinion and I could tell the other soon-to-be wives appreciated a man’s view on what she would be wearing for her big day.

The second dress I tried on, although beautiful, wasn’t me either. It was too floaty and as Jon said, I looked like a fairy. So dress number three, I loved. I came out and Jon’s face lit up. I spent ages twirling around in it in front of the mirror before deciding that we’d leave for lunch, have a think and come back. Jon was hungover as hell from our gin-drinking session at home the evening before and was desperate for a panini.

“Is it the one?” he asked me when we left. “I think so, but I really wanted you to cry when you saw it,” I told him. “Darling, I’m so hungover and dehydrated, I couldn’t force out a single tear even if I wanted to,” he replied. So, we spent the next hour discussing ‘the dress’ before heading back to the boutique for me to try it on again. Back in the fitting room with the dress on, I felt something was missing. I don’t want to give away what it was but once I’d added that something, I knew it was the dress for me. I headed out of the fitting room and, thanks to him having rehydrated with a bottle of Evian and a Coke from Greggs, or perhaps because I’d moaned about it, I got my tear. “You look beautiful” he told me welling up, and I wanted to cry too. “SOLD,” I told the assistant. More tears from Jon once he’d seen the price tag and we were on our way with one beautiful wedding dress.

“When I woke up this morning I didn’t think I’d be buying my wedding dress,” I told him on the way home. “When I woke up this morning I wanted to fucking die,” he replied. True love, right there.