Art and Craft

It is Sunday morning. Betty is plonked in front of the telly gawping at a conga style marathon of startlingly unstimulating pig people and I pretend that the mountain of skiddy undies spilling from the washing basket is homely; endearing even, if you overlook the particularly crusty ones. I sit, first brew of the day in my hand, picking chunks of hard skin off my feet and flicking them across the living room, listening intently for that skitter as they career across the laminate and settle themselves under the coffee table or armchair. Everything is well with the world.
Then.
All of a sudden.
I remember.
There is a birthday tomorrow, this selfish sod is one of the ones we see regularly and cannot ignore, and we are poor. Bugger.
So, eye to eye with financial ruin, I brace, haul myself up off the settee and...DO SOME ACTUAL PARENTING.
I know - and I'm not even blagging it. I'm talking proper. Like, THE TELLY GOES OFF.
Up roll my sleeves, out come the paints and in slip the gritted teeth.

Coloured card, glue, giggling, crayons, excitement, tissue paper, fascination, glitter and many smudges later, I surface from five minutes of creativity with my offspring, reeling at the discovery that this quality time lark is unnervingly seductive. Sucked in by this horrifically warm, fuzzy feeling of engagement with my daughter, I dally further along the Parenting Hall of Fame, investing another heartwarming five, nay, ten minutes, in our shared artistic thriftiness.

Post Traumatic Swimming Disorder

We go swimming - weekly-ish.
The Poop loves it - I don't. But we still go. I file these visits away in the 'God Aren't I Such A Self-Sacrificing Good Bloody Two Shoes Of A Mother' cabinet so I can wheel out these acts of wholesomeness on the days when I just want to stick Boo in front of Button Moon all day.
Having never been averse to a paddle, I often find myself wondering exactly why I hate going swimming with my daughter quite so much.

Is it due to the fact that Betty usually slips, to what I envisage will be certain death, across the sodden, verruca toting tiled floor at least thirteen times times during the nine seconds she's barefoot on it?
No, that's no biggy.

Pardon?!

While the ferocious rate at which The Poop's language is developing is great, even better is the fact that she is getting a good handful her new vocabulary wrong. Initially, her speech was disappointingly clear, understandable and correct. However, now that the volume of new words she assimilates on a daily basis has reached such a substantial level, her need to hone and perfect pronunciations has been surpassed by her desire to TELL EVERYONE ABOUT EVERYTHING. God knows where she gets that from. Anyway, rather than correct her, it is infinitely more hilarious not only to allow it to go on, but to  perpetuate it by using such terminology yourself. Yes, it may stunt your child's development, but it is dead funny.

Egg Hunt

By Betty Briars

Today, I entered into the age old practise of the Easter Egg Hunt. Or the Mum Suddenly Thinks It's Okay To Eat Stuff Off The Floor O-Thon.  As you may be new to this custom, I have decided to give you a run down of how things might pan out for you. You'll need small chocolate eggs, a novelty basket and a will to win.

(Futile bunny ears optional)

1) Prepare at the starting line with a few limbering stretches and a eggceptionally cheesy  smile  to throw off any stoney faced competition.

2) A pose with the sponsors to show willing (spraying of champagne to follow).

3) And...they're off! (Well, the  serious competitor is. The spectators by the back door are have been left in my lightning fast wake. Talking about Friday's Corrie.) 

Jewels

I like beads. In necklaces, bracelets, brooches. Chunky ones; fine ones. Ones made out of wood and glass and metal. The janlier the better.
This interest in dangly adornments stemmed from when I thought I'd try being a A Hippy. Turned out that after a few shoeless months picking gravel and shards of bus stop out of my trotters I realised that I was, in fact, not Joss Stone, but a slightly overweight idiot wearing one earring and an air of working class desperation.
So back on went the mules, off came the irritating smirk of serenity and finally I began to try and drag a much needed brush through my matted locks.
But the jewellery stayed.
And two years ago, atop my prenatal bump, swung many a chinking, jangling, shiny collection of all things decorative.

Recently however, as those who know me in real life will testify, I have been noted to hang markedly less junk from my personage.
Here's why.

          

Ladies

There are some lovely women in my life. Truly magnificent examples of ladykind of whom I am incredibly proud. Strong and vibrant and real. Women who tell you and help you and love you - and mean every single word. Until they ring you back the next night because they've spent all day thinking of a better answer.

I am surrounded by women who can make a joke and take a joke and sometimes, just plain and simple are the joke. And find it funnier than anyone else.

My ladies are not ones that would stand out in B&Q or Tesco. They don't ever seem to win races or promotions or favours. They are just ladies that stand out as good. Against the backdrop of life.

Elastic Fantastic

It is here.
I have waited seventy five weeks for this moment.
Five hundred and twenty five days have crawled teasingly past; 12600 hours have edged painfully along; 756000 minutes have dragged tauntingly by; and on every single follicly challenged one of them I have remained patient, resilient, focused and unwavering in my longing for and pursuit of THIS VERY DAY.
(to really appreciate my trepidation, revisit this post and this one)

Get. Your. Peepers. Around. T-H-A-T.

A PONYTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIL!!

What do you mean you can't see it?! IT'S RIGHT THERE.

With a pink bobble around it.