Monday. Three weeks ago. As Smudge was getting changed out of his suit after work I said
“How would you feel about us having another baby?”
As his jaw hit the floor I am pretty sure his testicles leapt back up in to his body.
“HAVE YOU GONE MENTAL?!”
“I think you should do it” said my friend (who did go for a third baby) swishing her third large glass of red wine about (or fourth – we don’t remember) at the cheese and (predominately) wine party we went to the following weekend.
“I mean” she continued “How long were you actually mental for with the last one?”
“Badly? About a year I suppo-”
“A year! Easy! You can do that again! Just break it down in to monthly chunks!”.
Hmmm. The host topped up my glass again and in my wine-fuelled mind that was it, I was definitely going to convince Smudge it would be a great idea to have another baby. I’d google and then print images of vasectomies gone wrong and leave them scattered about the house amongst chinese take away menus.
Two weeks later and I am googling images of Chucky and obese, saggy boobed women and taping them to the fridge. In 2 weeks I have not slept for longer than 2 hours at a time. It is like having a newborn. My patience is like a tiny thin elastic band stretched around the whole wide world. It’s at snapping point. I am at snapping point. The cuplrit is Alex. It is chuffing hard work being a parent. Screw it. This post is about HANNAH. It is chuffing hard work being a mum.
Something needs to give. And it’s probably going to be a row of synapses in my brain and then the car when I hurl a brick at it in sleep deprived madness.
This Monday the postman arrived a bit later than normal. Rather than hear me through the door doing my normal 9.10am booming ranting banshee cry of
“YOU NEED TO GET DRESSED RIGHT NOW OR MUMMY IS GIVING AWAY THE TV TO THE TRAMPS!”
He approached the car, looking very nervy and twitchy (wimp) at 9.18pm when I was shoe horning a half naked Alex (he wouldn’t get dressed. I was making a point) into the car seat with my knee. And he handed me a parcel.
“Hmmmm. Is it a bomb?” I think. “Have I really hacked off my family that much because I am so tired and cranky?”
But no. I opened it up whilst the kids were strapped in their car seats and getting angry that I wasn’t being the perfoming car monkey I normally am in the morning in the theatrical pretence to get them to playschool. They looked like manic little parachuters whose chutes wouldn’t open, strapped in to a three point harness, arms flailing about. But it was MY parcel, it had MY name on it and it wasn’t from my mum.
What could it be?
It was a gift from God herself is what it was. I opened this.
Look at what God sent me!
Well, maybe not God. But near enough. I don’t often do reviews of products, but I was asked to do a review of products by Riverside Lifestyle for Mothers’ Day (fellas and lesbian lovers of other lesbians – it’s next Sunday on the 10th BTW. BIG FAT NUDGE) and I ripped open this package in a lavender lust frenzy.
Mothers’ Day. That’s what Mothers’ Day should be about. Being right proper meanly selfish if you want to, telling yourself what an awesome mother you actually are (your kids are clean, watered and are not throwing stones at old people in the street) and not giving in to niggles and doubts and guilt trips about how you “should be doing more”. Fester in a trough of bubbles, in silence, stuff your face with chocolate and NOT HAVE YOUR CHILDREN SPOIL IT. Lock the bloody bathroom door.
In my house of testosterone and willies and blue things and bogies and people laughing at trumps and potty training minatures saying to me
“LOOK AT HOW BIG I CAN MAKE MY WILLY MUMMY!”
my hands will soon be smelling of something other than 1001 carpet cleaner. Or bum wipes. The aroma that will fill the house will be feminine and floral, and not of sweaty feet.
Don’t get me wrong. I adore all 3 of the men in my life – they are my life. And without them I would be 100% lost and a totally broken woman. But sometimes, as women, on Mothers’ Day maybe (hint BIG FAT HINT), just every now and then (like maybe for a SPECIAL DAY IN MARCH) we think it is lovely to have something which is just for us.
I would urge anyone looking for a last minute Mothers Day gift (they won’t tell on you) to look here TRUST ME SHE WILL LOVE YOU FOR IT
Oh ps, the creme de la fat free creme. The woman in your life will love you even more because the jam is calorie free. I know this for a fact because there are no calories listed on the back. So, like a cake from a cake shop (no listed calories),there are NO calories because they simply are not listed and therefore do not exist. And everything needs to be listed these days. So, rather than add calories to it by smearing it on a massive, buttery croissant, I plan to just scoop it out with my finger and eat it like that.
Happy Mothers’ Day you mothers!
This post was sponsored by Riverside Lifestyle. (ps, the jam bit? Probably not true)