The Fourth Stooge...

Sitting in my mismatched PJs watching Kevin McCloud over dialogue a shack in the Cotswolds which has been rendered in chicken feathers and lit by fireflies, I am slowly attempting to file 2000+ photos of my children. Presently their cherubic faces and cheeky grins are commonplace and a mere handful capture a glimpse of the chaos life has become since these tiny bulldozers of poop, puke and pee have arrived. At this age wonky teeth, cow lick fringes and quirky attire are all 'cute'. However fast-forward 8 years to a child stood sulkily posing for a picture which has been organised via text message and is long overdue and features a parents final attempts at dressing a mini adult, hell-bent on refusing to smile or give anyone a rare peek at a personality that is slowly making way for teen angst and hormonal terrorism.
Recently I hit an age milestone known as old, my 'darling' little brother thought that he would attempt to get one back at me for the years of psychological abuse he had endured from me as a child by posting photos of me from the 80s (the shittest decade ever). As a child my mother choose to be frugal with most things, she grew fruit and veg, made clothes from scratch and unfortunately chose to practice her hairdressing skills on my brother and I.
I vaguely remember a special haircutting tool, also known as a mixing bowl, being used in an attempt to create a smooth edge to my cow licky mop, resulting in a spherical haircut reminiscent of Moe from the Three Stooges. Sadley our family photos survived storage, damp conditions and my parents divorce only to reemerge at boyfriend and parent introductions and family events after the Sherry had been merrily consumed by vindictive relatives. As a teen I vowed to rid the albums of any photo of me in a C&A classic with a bowl cut and a Camilla sized overbite, but negatives appear to be untraceable, and the photographic diary of a geek child still remains.

Life with Kids

Screenplay for a day in the life of a TV mother

Enter right hand stage a perfectly kempt woman in her mid-30s, with twins upon her size 10 hips, unchanged since her sickness free 40week pregnancy and 4hr caesarean birth.

She sweeps across the room approaching her handsome shaven and suited husband who has laid the table with toast and tea and is reading the morning paper, she kisses him on the cheek and puts both of the golden haired, smiling children in their pristine highchairs.

As they all quietly tuck into their breakfast of scrambled eggs, croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice the babies coo and giggle as their Father plays peek-a-boo around the broadsheet.

Lights dim.

Switch to stage two

Screenplay for a day in the life of a real mother

Enter from right hand stage a 20-something mother of two, wrestling a 6 month old who is gnawing at the oversized polyester maternity jumper that is still the only thing that fits after having spent the past three years pregnant or in labour, a toddler with a nose crust resembling a map of Italy follows along behind clutching a Winnie the Poo toy which appears to have survived an apocalypse.

As she trudges across the kitchen, kicking a washing basket full of lasts nights laundry, her husband dressed in clothes that a tramp appeared to have thrown away last decade, lounges against the kitchen counter drinking coffee and eating the crust from a four day old loaf of bread. Their eyes lock for one moment, he nods and the toddler head butts him in the groin and runs away gleefully shouting, ‘catch me daddy’.  The wife asks him to take the dustbins out and they stop for a split second to look at each other, leaning closer as if to kiss, however with a brief peck on the ear from her husband, the mother lunges to retrieve a dog chew toy from the baby whilst he wriggles around on the kitchen floor and the husband dashes out the back door.

Fin

As a teen I had never intended to have children, they appeared to me, to make women look older than their years and caused them to speak in shrill, panicky voices. Their husbands looked lost and on occasion desperate in the same way my dog looks when we come downstairs to let him out in the morning after 8 hours of not having a wee to find a large puddle and a shredded basket. I realise now that I was very perceptive, children could be used to herd cattle or to rehabilitate petty criminals, four nights with a teething baby would be enough to rival a weekend at a high security prison. However something changes you when you have children, grown men join in the excitement of ‘The wee-wee dance’ after a two year old finally learns to use the potty in place of the living room carpet to do their business. Women find themselves discussing cut teeth and first words over coffee, wearing last year’s fashion, accessorised in baby sick and felt tip pen in place of the new SATC movie, and Grandparents can now find a new way to tell you how you should be living your life as a responsible parent/adult… 

Fizzy Drinks are Evil...

How many young girls dreamt of becoming a stay at home mum as a child?? None, I can assure you, my dreams were full of 'I want to be the first...' and 'When I grow up...' I wanted to be the first woman on the moon, the first female F1 driver and when I grew up I wanted to have my own candy floss machine, so far none of the above has happened and I am more disappointed with the latter than the careers which see you wearing a giant babygrow and peeing in a tube by choice.

Having two children under school attending age takes the term 'Stay at home mum' to a completely new level. Mornings sat in front of the telly at breakfast debating with a toddler why Daddy pig cant fit in a tent with Mummy, Peppa and George are the opening credits to my day, followed by Playdoh, Finger painting and 'Fairies', repeat throughout the day with the occasional venture into the local town with the house packed into a holdall that resembles the size of a third child, and this is my working week.

As most of my close friends could tell you I am about as child friendly as razor wire, how I have been allowed to rear two babies is beyond me but then again it appears anyone can have kids nowadays and be voted Mum of the Year by Foxy Bingo players, I mean all us aspiring mothers look up to the likes of Katie Price (voted for in 2012) and Stacey Solomon (2011) for parenting tips and the latest fashions...

I recently found myself starting to watch The Wright Stuff, a topical issues show presented by a self obsessed male with a mullet and three Z list celebs who have obviously collectively only ever managed read a Sun newspaper from cover to cover. Their sole aim is to come up with a witty one liner that sets the world to rights, a kind of Loose Women meets Jeremy Kyle at a discotheque and nine months later this show is their illegitimate lovechild. Anyway, I had obviously had little in the way of actual adult contact that I  had begun to keep the shows number on speed dial in my mobile phone in the hope that one of the discussions they might have would enable me to voice my opinion and have a whole two minutes of adult conversation, albeit on LIVE TELEVISION! After a whole two minutes spent voicing my opinions on the idea that 'Fizzy Drinks are Evil' I had the sudden realisation that I really need to get out more often and am now scouring the job ads like a woman possessed.

The F-word...

Children and their Parents are great sources of entertainment. Whether you are watching your own family or another (with permission and not behind a hedge at the local park...) there will always be a moment of 'Ha Ha Ha'. From the little girl whom I once overheard telling everyone in the local public farm 'this place smells like S***' to the little boy who chose the moment he was in the queue for the toilet to announce to all that 'Daddy has a big willy, doesn't he mummy?' and to the parent who is attempting to explain where babies come from to a four year old in the local coffee shop.
All of these moments are hilarious, because they are not you. However on the rare occasion my daughter does choose to be hilarious and embarrassing all in one moment I am always caught off guard and end up blushing my way through awkward conversation with a 2 year old. For instance my daughter is still attempting to speak like a normal articulated individual and not a smurf with a speech impediment so certain words always make for an awkward silence where I desperately wrack my brain for the word she is trying to say in the hope that the actual word isn't something she has overheard from one of us. In the past Duck has been Cock, Sit = S***, Tent = Tits and Stuck = F***... leading to a very awkward moment when the monster asked to go on a Bob the Builder ride in Asda that resulted in her screaming (pronounced with Fu) Stuuuuuuuuuuuuuck over and over nearly causing an Age Concern charity collector to collapse in shock, needless to say Bob the Builder is now off limits. 

Public Transport

Leaving the house with two small children needs little comparison to a moon landing mission.  After having changed, fed, changed again and put my daughters shoes on the right feet for the umpteenth time, then fought my way past the dog, I can breathe a sigh of relief upon fastening both the monsters into my car and then curse (quietly) that I have left my wallet on the stairs, so I fight my way back past my ‘scrappy doo wannabe’ dog and leave the house once again, wallet firmly about my person. In the car we drive the shameful mile and a half into town and make for a space with enough room to angle both tots out of the car and into the buggy, without decapitating either of them or causing grievous bodily harm to either of the vehicles we are parked between. Sounds like a horror house roller coaster ride to most parents who dare to leave the house without their significant other. BUT nothing could prepare me for the terror that is public transport…

After the initial running around and mental torture of a 2yr old repeatedly singing  the self remixed version of Twinkle Twinkle little baa baa sheep, I have a 12 wk old cocooned in a front carrier and the tot in the spare buggy daring to do the impossible, walking into town to visit the post office and then braving the public petri dish that is disguised as a bus journey.  

Arriving at the bus stop in good time the queue is already longer than the dole line on payday and I have the sudden realization that those ‘clever’, ‘no step’ buses appear to not to exist on this route which sole purpose is to service most of the rinse and tartan brigade as well as those who had kids before learning to drive (or acquire their own home…) I attempt a single handed buggy collapse, epic fail, which results in a screaming baby who has been woken by the constant leaning over and whispered promises of being skipped if it doesn’t F***ing fold down whilst the cherubic daughter clutches her Peppa Pig handbag and looks at passers -by as if to say ‘Im only with her because Nanna is at work’. Eventually a young mum takes pity on me and offers to put the buggy on the bus with the promise that ‘she knows how I feel’ , really then why haven’t you learnt to drive yet, but could secretly marry the girl and have more of her kids out of gratefulness for her help. Upon paying the £1.70 I could have put towards a cheap bottle of plonk to get over the initial shock of public transport I sit the toddler next to me and attempt to pacify a now screaming baby whilst reassuring my daughter that her fantastic idea to catch a bus really is the highlight of my week…little did I realise that leaving the bus is like dismounting a bucking bull at a Texas Rodeo. We reach our stop and I attempt to drag the buggy out of the midget proof buggy store and fling the safety catch in the hope that it will pop up like some miraculous fairy godmother offering a white knight and steed to transport us over the bus threshold, but as you’ve guessed this ‘aint’ my ruddy day! A less tartan and more plaid 70 something assists with the buggy whilst my daughter decides to face plant off the edge of the ‘also midget proof’ bus seat in front of the entire congregation of public transport worshippers. Several apologies later and a few choice words muttered about the F***wit bus driver I am at the kerbside reassembling the pushchair and my dignity before scurrying away to dig out the gin and anti-bac wipes to try and scrub out the memory of the terror of todays little outing.

Kids Tv

Can anyone explain to me why Peppa Pig creators have decided to play havoc with my OCD and mess with the alliteration continuity of the characters names as follows: Peppa Pig, Rebecca Rabbit, Edmund Elephant, George Pig!!! WHY??! Could they not think of a boys name beginning with P? Was Peter just not fitting enough that they had to disrupt the balance of the universe by naming the lad George... as you can probably deduce from my ramblings children's TV is not on my wavelength I am not accepting of peculiarities or lack of imagination when it comes to storylines, characters, etc. For example there is a character on a show called Team Umizoomi who has 'Pattern Power', a power which emits from her twee outfit which in actual fact has nothing to do fashion design or sewing but is in fact to do with sequences of repetition. However I can see their dilemma with trying to make a sing-song power ballad out of 'Sequences of Repetition'.

Being a mum...

No-one ever tells you before you get married and have kids that you automatically acquire the following job titles to add to your imaginary mum/wife CV which has no real career value and I can guarantee they won't get you an executive position at Canary Wharf :

Events Manager

Cleaning Operative

Head Chef

Bank Manager 

Personal Assistant

Physician

Psychiatrist