Eyes

Got a comment about my chubby faced cherub? Sat Cap it by adding a comment below...

"...Look into the eyes., look into the eyes. Don't look around the eyes,
look into the eyes. Aaaand....you're under...."

And to raise the hit count of another few desperate bloggers, hit this link to make their Saturday

The Daughter-Less Excursion

Invited out for a birthday surprise picnic yesterday - and went Boo-less. Turns out doing so feels marginally more odd than it does to attend an event pants-less, covered in Greek yoghurt, suspended from a car aerial.
With my return to work only 81 days, 7 hours and 43 minutes away (me? bovved?), Betty's Nan is at the helm every Thursday, leaving me to shower at my leisure, apply make up while not driving and emit a puke free odour. Kerchiiiiing!!

Me time.....I had a restful breakfast and a lovely cuddle with Boo. I pointed and laughed at people on Jeremy Kyle and spent a good half hour picking my nose, I mean...clothes. It was relaxing. It was calm. It was weird.
Then. As with all relaxation that passes amazingly fleetingly through the stumbling catalogue of ill advised arrangements I try to call 'My Life', my chill time came to a grinding, screeching, steaming halt. Turns out that you can't just switch of your Mummyness as soon as the sweet promise of a babysitter comes a knocking. Basking in the excitement of my selfishness, I had neglected to prepare portions of food/clothing/nappies, to remove and assemble buggies/prams/car seats and had not set aside time to share specific instructions on the use of said equipment with the assigned carer. I realised this when Dave's Mum arrived: at 10.30. I was going out little over an hour later.

What followed was a series of events that can only be described as unspeakably atrocious. After preparing all the Boo sponsored paraphenalia, I had exactly thirteen minutes in which to shower, dry, dress, make up and get out. Consequently, my hair went unwashed, my rapidly shaved legs bled profusely from several 'chunk removed' skin punctures, and massive orange tide marks of foundation were slapped indiscriminately about my chops. Workin' it girlfriend.

Remembering I needed to extract my house key from the vice-like ring on which it has lived unpeturbed for three million years, I heaved, strained, bent and snapped my fingernails to torn, bleeding nubs, as the time I should have left the house toddled off dejectedly to the event without me.
After checking Nan was clear on the instructions for the thirteenth time, I piled into my car, pulled out of the drive, left the estate, then drove back onto the estate, back up the drive and piled back into the house to collect the gift I forgot.
Then, en route to Manchester, flashing lights and a soft repetitive beeping cheekily signalled my total lack of petroleum spirit and, simultaneously, entry to the final chapter, the 'End Of Level Boss' of my hysterical meltdown. Because this wasn't any old empty tank. This was a 'there's about to be a fuel tanker strike and people are queuing for hours in order to fill their tanks' empty tank. Bizarrely, in an incidence of unnerving good fortuned, I found a petrol station at which I had to wait only seventeen minutes to throw money I haven't got at this end of the tax year stroke of political genius to which we have all succombed. I love my life.

I screeched on two wheels into the multi-storey car park, now running thirty five minutes late. Upon noticing the ticket barrier I slammed on the brakes to snatch my access pass, then tried to kid myself that the white hot, burning ache in my neck was absolutely not a prime example of self inflicted whiplash.

Trying to calm my racing nerves, I parked up and took a breath. I had arrived.
This was a picnic. This was a picnic where everybody 'made stuff' to bring. Cause I can't 'make stuff' without at least one of my consumers involving a court of law, I decided to 'bring stuff'. And because I'm lazy, my 'bring stuff' was pop (and water and juice for the killjoys who don't want to contract aspartame induced neuroendocrine disorders). Choosing pop was a stroke of genius, until I had to shamble clumsily, in unseasonably ridiculous twenty degree sunshine and an ill fitting bra, carrying eleven bottles of weighty and threateningly fizzy liquid about the slick, polished, be-suited land of the brand new MediaCity.
Brushing my sloshing bottles past a studio ready, non plussed Alan Hansen, I continued to sweat profusely as I made my way out to the grassed area on which my friends sat in the warm, afternoon sun; drinking, laughing, chatting.

I plonked down on the grass. With no Boo to blame, I surveyed my blood stained legs. My greasy hair. My creosote swiped grid. My trampled nails. My harrassed demeanour.
And the fact that someone else had brought drinks. #?*"£#?

Thank God I don't smell like puke for once.
It's so refreshing to stink of good old terror induced sweat for a change.

March Sunshine

First session of baby massage, a pot of fruit and bottle of chilled water picnic, then a snooze in the pram as we wander the park in the gorgeous March sunshine.

How absolutely not even a little tiny bit rubbish is her life?

Pretty Please With A Mahoosive, Juicy, Gratitude Laced Cherry On Top

Yeeeeehaaaa! I've been nominated for something! You know what this means, don't you? It means I'VE LANDED. With all seven of you.

Let's be honest. In fact, let's be brutal. No one reads this blog.  Not really. The only people that will vote for me are my husband, Mum, Dad and sister. That's where you come in, Nan.

Ah! Wait!! Now, I know you're not much of a techno-bod. You haven't got a computer. Use mine. Oh come on! I can feel you shaking your little permed head already telling me you don't know what to do and that an online pervert will steal your bank details and sell you drugs if you you log on. Okay, so I can't vouch that won't happen, but get this. Just think how you'll be able to BRAG TO NANCY about how, at EIGHTY YEARS OLD you have USED THE INTERNET! Watch her chew on that while she's putting her bins out. BOOM.
Got your attention now haven't I? Okay, so now you're listening - I have put together some INCREDIBLY SPECIFIC instructions on how you (or any other intelligent/kind hearted/pitying soul - nudge, nudge, wink, wink) can vote for me quickly and easily - because I'm such a selfless, giving human being. You're very lucky to know me. Never forget that. Especially when you're deciding if you can be bothered filling the damned thing in at all.

You'll make me DEAD, DEAD happy, and help stop me cutting quite such a tragic figure in the voting polls come the count up. I also promise that if you (or any other intelligent/kind hearted/pitying soul) votes for little underdog me, good stuff will definitely happen to you (them)*.

Here's how to vote -

1. If you are not already at my blog home page as you read this, you will need to type www.myfunnymummy.org into your internet browser address bar (the long white box near the top). You will arrive at the blog home page - if you weren't already there.
2. On the right hand side, you will see a pink logo 'BiB - Brilliance in Blogging 2012'. Click that.
3. This will take you to the BritMums voting area. Scroll down the page you can see until the pink 'Vote' button is visible on the right. Click it.
4. Scroll down to category 11 'Vote for your favourite blog for the Laugh! Award'. My Funny Mummy is selection number 14 (in the right column).
5. Tick the circle beside My Funny Mummy then scroll down to the 'Done' button at the foot of this page.
6. A new screen will appear - 'Thank you for completing this survey'. All done.

Enjoy that? I know! It is all rather exciting filling it in; in fact, I'm sure you'll be just gasping to do it again. However. Calm yourself.
This process can only be completed on a computer once during any 'log on'. If you close the computer down, restart it and head back to the internet, then this procedure can be followed again. Now, do you see what I do for you? Every time you log on to your computer, you can enjoy filling your Easter holidays with a dose of daily voting fun. Who needs nice weather when you can sit inside staring at a laptop?

Don't say I never give you nowt

*Don't come crying to me if they don't - it was a figurative thing. But I'll think you're dead nice and I'll love you loooong time. I can guarantee that one. 

Man vs Fish

Since becoming a mother I have developed super human tendencies which surpass all levels of brilliance and splendidness I commanded before Boo appeared. 

I hate fish. They're slimy. They're slippy. They smell.

They make up rumours about you and try to steal your dinner money. 

(That is not me making rumours up about them by the way; it's actual fact.)

But. In light of my new found nerves of steel I decided (alright - I had to cause Dave forgot) to FILLET A PIECE OF FISH FOR MY DAUGHTER. Uh-huh. That's right. Little old me vs a massive, slippy, slimy, stinking cod. Bleurgh.

We lined up for the weigh in. 

The silvery Cod registered at a small but mightily smelly 150g. 

I tipped the scales at a nervous but determined 3,000,007g. 

Press reports of the plucky underdog set to face the grisly gill-toting destroyer abound - but I drowned out all the frenzied media attention with complete concentration on my torturous training regime. Nothing would disturb my focus. 

With Rocky music blaring tinnily from our kitchen radio (it's not DAB), I pushed my training to the absolute limit. From sniffing a frozen fish finger, to gargling caviar; from stroking a goldfish to snogging a stingray - you name it, I've physically and mentally prepared every fibre of my being for any underhand tactic that arrogant aquatic scoundrel might splash at me.

Then. It was upon me. My daughter needed feeding. It was fillet time. 

I went in hard - small, newly sharpened knife from the wood block thingy straight into the white stuff. THUMP! Shuffling the blade about in the body, I located a long bone. I gouged underneath it and began to heave it up. But suddenly THWACK! A blow to the nose as a painfully fishy fragrance hit my nasal cavity. I pressed on wrestling doggedly with the tiny bone I had rooted out. POW! 

Splattering fish guts all over the kitchen worktop, out came the spine. Then CRUNCH! Ooooo! A low blow from the cod as it flipped over to reveal it slimy silvery skin. I staggered back, reeling from the impact of such a stomach churning sight. But composing myself, I swiftly hit back. BANG! A right hook with the knife floored the vicious vertebrate once again. Tugging heroically at the slippy skin, I began to panic. Oh God!! No purchase!! CRACK! He swiped at me again with another gust of ghastly odour. I heaved. A dizzying nausea rippled my ailing core. It was slipping away from me. I was on the ropes. Then I realised what was needed. Time to get down and dirty.
I lurched in fearlessly, bare handed, and tore, scratched and ripped the Codfather fin from fin. KA-POW!! BAP!! OOF!! SMASH!!
The FISH HAD BEEN FILLETED.

The spineless, gutless, scaleless wonder lay defeated on the cold granite work top.  The crowd went wild. Hoisted aloft by the jubilant throng, I sailed through waves of confetti, cheers and chants. 'Another One Bites The Dust' blared deafeningly from a loudspeaker, accompanied by a sea of foam (fish) fingers waving in my heroic honour.
I am a champion. Brave beyond brave. A valiant, daring, admirably plucky little lady who fought the odds to satisfy this...

She has turned me into a warrior.
VENI, FILLETI, VICI.

I FILLETED A FISH.

One Small Step For Man

(NB: Please read yesterday's post prior to this - Sun 25th March)

Just look at that. Look at her. Who the hell thought up this contraption? It's another 'toy' somebody's given us.
toy (noun)

1. an object, often a small representation of something familiar, as an animal or person, for children or others to play with; plaything.

2. something that serves for or as if for diversion, rather than for serious practical use.

I know. GENIUS!! Not for 'serious practical use'? 'Serves as a diversion'? You're not kidding. I get nothing done once I stick her in this. It is HIL-AR-I-OUS! She hangs there just staring at me, skidding round in her socks while I swing her about on the stupid dangly string thing. Like one of those walking bird puppets. She doesn't laugh or smile though; she's busy focusing on mastering the thing, but I can tell she completely loves it. She a very physical baby, so it just suits her down to the ground. I swear she'll become a gymnast or want to join a circus one day. Sometimes she cries because she can get the hang of it. She's so keen, bless her. I leave her in it while I do a few jobs round the house; it's good practise. Once she's been in it a while she starts shaking her legs about and swinging all over the place. She looks like she's recreating the moon landing, floating about all gravity-less and slow motiony. I have actually doubled over crying with laughter on the kitchen floor. Her expression is brilliant. She doesn't know what to make of it, but you can tell she is having an absolute ball.

This is her life. Fabulous!

Dance For The Puppet Master

Just look at that. Look at me. Who the hell thought up this contraption? It's another 'toy' she's managed to find.
toy (noun)
1. an object, often a small representation of something familiar, as an animal or person, for children or others to play with; plaything.
2. something that serves for or as if for diversion, rather than for serious practical use.


I know. You tell me. A plaything? How do you play with that? Why would you play with that? Not for 'serious practical use'? You're not kidding. I hang there like a right wally, skidding round in my socks while she swings me about on the stupid dangly string thing. I have no desire to join a circus. I've told her time and again, death defying physical feats are not my bag. I'm a thinker. A sharp mind. An entrepreneurial innovator. I blatantly refuse to become some acrobatic, trapeze wielding brat. But still she presses on with the training. It's not a two minute affair either - I'm suspended in that bloody saddle with it chafing my ample thighs and my legs going completely dead while she empties and fills the washing machine. You can see some of it at the back there. No shame. She just stands there waving a handful of dirty undies around, encouraging me to jump about. I wriggle and strain to try and free myself, to little avail. Then she starts laughing her head off. What an idiot.


This is my life. Ridiculous.
BB 

Scream If You Want To Go A Tiny Bit Faster

These customisable Sat Nav units are genius.
He's soooo dreamy...

Think of a better caption? Please add it below.

And if you can'T stop running off at the mouth about other people's stuff, click this link to chunner on till your heart's content...

Crimi-Nail

Officially time to get it checked out.

Oh - you don't like feet? Well, you definitely shouldn't have looked at that then.

I had ingrowing side portions of it removed two years ago. I could have had it removed totally, but as the doctor said at the time, in peep toe shoes this would look quite unsightly. He was right. This look is devastatingly attractive and infinitely more alluring. I often catch Dave staring longingly at its crumbly suckable-ness. 

Post surgery, it has lived a flaky, repugnant, albeit undisruptive life in my shoe. Come flipflop weather I drown it in dark nail varnish, then when that crumbles off, I wap a big plaster on it. However.

It has recently reverted to it's self harming, destructive, ingrowing ways. Both top corners pierce deep, infection prone wounds into the bullied skin below. I grit my teeth and wrestle with the bugger every couple of weeks to stay on top of its mischievous tendencies. Eyes watering, armed with sharp nail scissors, I hack away at my curly talon, extracting tiny segments of meanness until I have to stuff a few pieces back in to stem the subsequent bleeding. 

So, I hobbled it into the doctors and parked it under his nose.

"Take it off." I demanded pointing at my yellowing tormentor. 

Inspecting it from every possible angle (and salivating elatedly throughout), the Doctor swung on it a bit, poking and prodding it here and there. 

"It's not ingrowing." he announced irrationally, still fondling it's pallid, ridged surface.

"Now...I hate to undermine your authority, but, actually, it is. I know this because, despite my lack of formal medical training, I do understand the term 'ingrowing'. It means 'growing into'. And that nail, my friend, is very much growing into my toe. Fact."

"No. It isn't." he said, still disconcertingly teasing it's coarse edges.

"So what - my toe is growing into my nail then? Talk sense man." I said, as I whipped my toe from his incoming lips.

"You've gone and got yourself a fungal nail infection." he drooled creepily

Gone and got myself? Should have kept the receipt. "So it's a Crimi-Nail then? Like on the advert?"

His un-media savvy face looked blankly at me and started typing out a prescription which he then thrust, breathlessly, into my hand. "It is a fungal nail infection. Take these daily for three months and it will correct itself. Surgery is not necessary."

I hobbled from the surgery pleased with a diagnosis, and utterly freaked out that I had just become some sort of fetish enabling tease. Clearly, a good quality curly nail is rather more captivating, attractive and tempting than I had given it credit for. Beauty is indeed, in the eye of the beholder. Or in this case, the eye of the unprofessional weirdo.

So if you gazed upon my brittle, powdery, sallow nail with revulsion, well, shame on you. That's some top shelf toe action I gave you right there. You are eternally welcome.

Baby Group

After threatening to socialise with others Mums for six months, we finally went and subjected others to our company.

Clearly a carefree, childless singleton (jealous? Moi?) set the timetable, with classes starting at 6am. Alright 8am. Alright, alright - just trust me; it's bloody early, like 9.30am or something. I would do well to get just me there for half nine, but with Boo in tow that is a pipe dream that would take weeks of training and the focus of an Olympic athlete to achieve. Maybe I should set it as a personal goal? Or maybe I should stop being such a nerd and keep hanging around in my PJ's till 11am until I have to go back to work? Hmmm. Which to choose...

We arrived half an hour late for the class that began at 1.30pm. Bustling in, arms filled with Betty, a bulging changing bag, handbag and keys, I introduced myself to the group, reeling off some nervous, unthinking white noise for a few moments, until I heard myself utter the phrase "...then I realised I had to get my piles treated".  As the other mothers recoiled in united horror, I searched for something to break the silence. Still holding Betty, I hastily introduced her, sharing her name, age and where we are from. I then noticed I had been holding up the changing bag, rather than my daughter, pointing at that throughout. Still, I bought the bag as Betty was born, so much of the information was factually accurate. Except the bag is called Alan.
Settling ourselves on the edge of the hippyish circle of adults and tots on the floor, a few well meaning mothers winced as I eased my derriere to the tiled floor.
"The cold will do your...'condition' the world of good." one older, nodding woman asserted.
Excellent. I've always wanted to be known as The New One Who's Got Piles.

After such a colourful entrance, I spent the rest of the session trying my damnedest to blend into the background, hence this post is not being accompanied by a photograph of Betty or I at the group - I did not want to add a more sinister twist to my already dubious reputation (The New One Who's Got Piles And Takes Pictures Of Our Children Without Expressly Seeking Our Consent).

Alan.

The session was fine. Babies played, women chatted, I tried to shut up and not be weird. Sitting listening to tales of labour and weaning and sleeping was the perfect foil to allow me to silently assess the abilities of similar aged infants in the group and pitch them against Betty's capabilities. This is really why I went (don't worry; I had suddenly come over all friendly and outreaching and maternal). I wanted to see what other six month olds were up to and measure my daughters development against these. Turns out, unsurprisingly, that my rolling over, sitting up, babbling, weaning, giggling BB is an absolute legend. And despite the best efforts of most women in the room, she refused to smile at them.
A highly intelligent, un-eager to please, socially inept little madam. Chip off the old block.
Never been prouder.

Poo In The Toilet

Subjected ourselves to another episode of unashamed broad daylight extortion at the Dunelm Mill cafe. £2.05 for a pathetically tight-arsed portion of Victoria sponge cake. Downing a pot of black tea to calm my nerves after allowing myself to be seduced by the mere whiff of butter cream, I fed Betty and remembered she was due for a bum change. I left for the loo as my nan collared a woman wiping the table opposite and began to outline the three hundred and seven ways £2.05 could be better spent.

I arrived at the toilets and set about the usual door + pram juggling which involves my hands, feet, elbows, knees, forehead and, very occasionally, teeth. Today, having used my every extremity to wedge open two sets of doors, upon facing the third, I slipped my tongue through the handle and tied it in a knot. Whipping my head back to make it open, I was greeted by an ungodly sight. Poo in the toilet.
No. Not poo in the TOILET. Poo IN THE TOILET. Everywhere. Three or four stinking little whippies of it scattered about the floor. Toilet bowl overflowing with balled up dry skiddy loo roll portions. The frothy acidic stink lunged desperately out of the door I was chocking open. I swiftly untied my tongue from the handle and went to report the butt clusters to a member of staff.

Scraping violently at my eyeballs with car keys, in the hope of relieving my memory of the horrific faecal smeared scene, I return to my Nan. After relaying the whole defecatory disaster to her, incredulous and appalled, but ever so slightly proud of the gossip, she turned to a nearby cafe patron.
"Ay! Ay! Love. Yeah, you - listen to this. Now tell her."
With the stranger's blank face staring back at me attentively, I felt compelled to oblige. While retelling the tale of the 'Poo In The Toilet', I embellished here and there. The sense of satisfaction on seeing the woman's nose wrinkle to the point that it inverted was only topped when she spat spittle soaked chunks of her pain au chocolat into a napkin. When you've just remortgaged your house to facilitate the purchase of what is essentially a small blob of puff pastry, only a story of blockbusting filth could ever merit parting with that gem of sugary goodness.
Jobbie done.

6 Months

Betty is exactly six months old today. We celebrated this milestone by going to Baby Clinic for a weigh in. I know. Wild. You should've seen us the first time she rolled over. Celebrated by standing in the Post Office queue. Those mentalists really know how to PAR-TAY.

To commemorate Boo's half year, we decided to turn up for the clinic early. We usually rack up at 3pm and blend right in with the other last minute waifs and strays who shuffle in wearing their pyjamas and yesterday's puke in their hair. But not today. Today we were cruising with a wholy different crowd. This bunch are not only on time, but are there BEFORE BABY CLINIC OPENS. I actually want to hurt these people. Not only are their Mum and baby body clocks finely in tune - they also sport matching, designer labelled, fresh smelling, neatly pressed togs. They work the geeky vibe, but in a cool, preppy way, like their in a Gap advert. I'll give 'em a gap. Right where their teeth used to be. One kid actually brought in an apple for the nurse. Swot. I had a root round in my pocket but all we could rustle up was an old Maoam. Is strawberry flavour one of your five a day?

Betty's Red Book.
Presented by the NHS, not Michael Aspel. 

I dumped Boo's naked rolls of cute on the screaming scales and shielded my eyes as the arrow span aggressively round in the window, dizzying itself sadistically before coming to rest wearily at the 9kg mark.
If you follow the bottom of this chart - 'Age in weeks/months' - to 6 months, and up the side axis to 9kg, you see that BB resides at around the 94th percentile for her weight. This means that of children her age, 93% will weight less that her. It means that only 6% of those considered 'normal' are heavier than her.
It means she's on the B-I-G side of M-A-S-S-I-V-E.

Betty is the weight of an average 1 year old. At this rate, at 5 years old she'll be the weight of an average 10 year old. At 8 she'll be the weight of an average 16 year old and at 10 she'll be the weight of an average 20 year old. We'll end up on Jezza Kyle and all my jibing and quipping about fat kids crying on telly will come back to bite me on the bum. Like my daughter will if we don't start to curb her indiscriminate chomping.

*saves post while trying to ignore niggling desire to Google 'Infant Gastic Band'*

Mother's Day

As a kid, I used to ask my Mum on Mother's Day (considerate like), when it was 'Children's Day'.
"Everyday is Children's Day." she would say with a smile. This would go over my head, until one day at about thirteen years old, I discovered the passive aggressive vocal slight of hand that is sarcasm, and in turn a new found respect for her.
A million years later, my own first run at Mothering Sunday turned up.

I am known for my high expectations of, trivial stuff like morals aside, pretty much everything: British summers, my clueless attempts at anything culinary, £2 tops from Primark, post 'The Office' stuff starring Ricky Gervais. This tendency, when combined with my over active imagination, means I spend much of my life exuding a disillusioned, thwarted air and feeling permanently put out and let down by the general goings on of the world. The previously inaccessible land of Mother's Day is an occasion which I imagined as being a gift strewn, overindulgent, self self self extravaganza of complete adoration, interspersed with overwhelmingly poetic acts of love and gratitude. Don't get me STARTED on the international public holiday that is MY BIRTHDAY. And for this my very first Mummy Day, with my lady bits still in tatters, I was expecting the Bayeux Tapestry of love-ins to be woven in my deserving, 'she should go down in history' honour.
So, did the earth move?

It was all very pleasant. Gorgeous card from my daughter (see yesterday's post) and a fancy breakfast, but unfortunately, there were bottles to make. Beautiful weather, but there were nappies to change. Lovely pressies, but there were toys to tidy away. We saw my Mum. We saw Dave's Mum. We had a stew for tea. It was a nice Sunday.
See. Gone and done it again.

I headed to bed, accepting that I would not be ending the day with a telegram or marching band. Stomping about in disappointment with my bad mood sailing head on into the stormy eye of my own self loathing, I stopped myself. I went and gazed upon my sleeping daughter. I stroked her perfect cheeks, I smelled her freshly bathed curls and kissed her beautiful lips. And I realised. I still craved the monumental fuss.

Yesterday was my first Mother's Day, and after my usually ridiculous imaginings of what could have been, the most enduring present I received will be yet another lesson in learning to be a mother. No matter whar my future centre of attention days bring, they will never top the everydays I spend chasing after my girl and watching her grow. No present could never top having a happy, healthy, beautiful daughter.*

*Though I wouldn't exactly mind if, just occasionally in the future, she chose to make a massive fuss of me, special occasion or otherwise. Fortunately, she's young, she'll learn. Either that or she'll turn out like that really annoying little kid I used to know who was forever asking about 'Children's Day'.
Stupid selfish genetics.

Mother's Day

To My Mummy


Happy First Mother's Day


You are the best Mummy in the whole of all the world. You are funny and nice and pretty and kind.
If there was someone I really liked and I wanted to do something for them I would probably make them turn into a Mummy just like you. Then that would mean that they would be a really special person, and lots of people would love them very very much. You give the best cuddles out of anyone and I really like to laugh at you when you dance around and sing stuff like the song about Grandad's van. 
I wish that one day I can grow up to be just like you.


Have a lovely day. I (well, with lots of Dad's help) will do all I can to make it really nice for you. I'll try to not cry when I'm getting tired or hungry, but I can't make any promises - sorry. I will try my best to grow out of this.
I love you absolutely lots
Your baby, Boo xxxxxxxxxxxxxx


P.S Dad loves you alot. He's nearly as good as you at writing on my behalf. He helped me decide on these words because I told him I wanted to make you smile, and he knew these ones would do the trick. He was right. 

Virgin Media

Current TV: "Keeping your finger on the pulse"
Sometimes.

To snigger and quip at other people's expense, visit this link...

Churning

Bored?

Why not look after a six month old while hacking your way through a particularly violent episode of food poisoning?

The bubbling, heaving, aching, retching explosions will leave you on the edge of your (loo) seat. Wiping both ends frantically while shaking viciously will whip you into a white/poo knuckled frenzy to remember. And the fun doesn't stop there. Bending down to pick up your 320lb baby will bestow a lightheaded, purple faced hue of loveliness that even the most ardent adrenaline junkie rarely sports. Changing her nappy while you painfully fill your own is a sadistic twist of irony, which, without your wits about you, could easily go unnoticed .

So next time you find yourself at a loose end, grab yourself a stray infant and think to call upon this feverish ecstasy of weird smelling, hallucinogenic infirmity. It'll certainly add something any otherwise insignificant afternoon.

The Park

The pressure is on for me to pull something impressive out of my parenting bag, what with us edging ever closer to Mother's Day. Of course, the fresh energy I have injected into the childcare provision I offer is in direct response to Betty's developing abilities and maturing awareness and most certainly not for the due acknowledgement of her Dad, who will be at the helm of all present buying for the forseeable.

Now Boo can sit up, I decided to completely mess with her grasp of gravity and blossoming balance by sticking her on a swing. We went to the park because I am a really efficient, do gooding, impressively together Mummy. Sadly, the park was empty so the general public were not able to witness my epic proportions of maternal brilliance. I instead readied my camera to capture such notable parenting.

Please smile Boo. People are watching.

Despite all my "wheeing" and "wooing", BB was fairly nonplussed with the swing in general. She was far more interested in a blob of dog poo on the floor. Don't get excited. It wasn't white. Kids eh. Easily pleased.
A few other parents and grandparents arrived with their sprogs, and I did the knowing "hiya". The "hiya" that says "Aren't we absolutely brilliant people and fine, upstanding, park patronising citizens?".
Undeniably, it was a good look - little baba on the swing while proud Mum coos and laughs and takes photos. Until I noticed that caught up in the unfamiliar feeling of credibility, Boo had lost her boot and sock, and was sitting on a swing, on a cold March afternoon, barefoot. I wondered why that last woman didn't return my "hiya", instead muttering something about "dragged up".
Scrambling Boo's sock back on, we arrived back at the car, the shoeless incident tarnishing what had been a strikingly Blue Peter moment. I had to redeem myself.

Rather than head straight home, I went to one of our local Children's Centre and booked myself onto this...

Bouquets, jewellery, teddies and chocs all gratefully received...

Getting Nearer...

In case you haven't noticed, I'm not a 'glass half full' sort of girl. I'm more a 'glass contents completely evaporated before I even put the bloody thing to my lips and now someone's flicked a dead fly in the bottom of it' sort of gal. Most happy people (or losers, as I like to call them), think of me as a miserable, moaning, bad tempered wretch. No. I'm a realist. Aimless smiling is for wimps and weirdos.
So when my boss called today to discuss my return to work in June, I realised that my maternity leave is officially over. Yes, I do know it's only March. But the two full months that remain between now and my return to the rat race will be spent dreading, ruing, moaning, fearing, whinging and worrying about going back, or lamenting, aching, yearning, mourning, pining and grieving for the time off that has passed. I will purposely not enjoy another single second of the time I have left with my beautiful daughter. Futile? Senseless? Wasteful? No.

God, I have to explain everything to you, don't I? Treat me. Keep up for once.
If I self sabotage my last fourteen weeks with Betty by stressing that I will return to work incapable of assuming my old role, by scolding myself for all the things I should have done with her while off and by agonising about leaving my daughter in the care of others, then I will be adequately prepared for the road ahead. By the time I return to work I will be a jibbering, quivering, nervous wreck; a careworn, haggard, fatigued shell of my former self. Fingers crossed. Then - returning to work - a doddle.
And as an additional bonus I will probably, as a by-product of all this worry, become a harder, terser more arduous human being, who even less people wish to be around. Good. Most people get on my nerves.

So, welcome to ninety eight days of super strength, special brew carping on, nit-picking and a generous portion of overall dissatisfaction with the world and his wife. Though, to be honest, it'll probably be much like the previous one hundred and ninety three posts on here.

Oh did I not mention? I'm thinking of renaming the blog My Churlish Grating Irritable Mummy.
No? Oh. Felt sure that'd catch on.

Toys

We were recently given a Mothercare voucher for Betty. We haven't bought her many toys ourselves, what with

a) us being proper dead tight

b) her previously only being capable of sleeping, eating and firing off corking sacks of excrement

c) Dave being unemployed and consequently us being totally, utterly, completely brassic and not having enough money for petrol, bills, food, breath... 

So what to buy her...a picture book? Building blocks? Stacking rings? Er...HELLO?! What century do I think I'm living in? I can't BELIEVE I said a book!! OMG My God. Totes embarrassment. I am sooo LOL-ing out loud in a well fashionable, text speaky, down-with-the-kids sort of way.

Anyway, we saddled up our pony and cart and rode our out of touch toy tastes down to the play emporium. Wandering in, wide eyed, I was agog. Not a Whip and Top in sight. We set about the aisles with our wish list. Domino Rally? Nope. Lights Alive? No way. Count Duckula? Not a chance. They'd never heard of Fashion Wheel. I kid you not. Idiots.
Instead we were greeted by a toy mp3 player. A toy laptop. A toy Kindle. A toy I can PUT MY IPHONE IN so Betty can get her hands on real technology just that little bit quicker. Is it me, or is that absolutely soul destroying? Why are kids playing with little versions of adult gadgets? Five year olds should be bounding manically round a cul-de-sac, happily toying with the possibility of breaking their neck on a Pogo Ball. They should be colouring in with a big bag of felt tips or playing Mr Pop against a plush Roland Rat (I didn't have many mates). Okay, so it's not 1986 - but they should be whiling away their days in an equally frivolous, pointless manner.

Then among the stacks of Nuclear Reactor Experiment, the rows of Economic Recovery Kit and the shelves of Political Reform Roleplay, there flickered a tiny flame of innocence.

The good old phone on wheels. Praise be to God. And its eyes waggle up and down when it rolls. Bob on.

Netmums United Kindmums Campaign

My Funny Mummy - part of the Netmums United Kindmums Campaign.

Hands

How GOOD are hands?! Seriously, what GENIUS thought up these uncanny devices? Steve Jobs? I'm just dipping my toe in the water with the capabilities of my mitts, but these things just BLOW MY MIND. If you haven't got any, or like my Mum, you've got all complacent and blase about them, I'm going to remind you how ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT they are.


1) Hands can pick stuff up. And you DON'T EVEN HAVE TO TELL THEM TO. You don't have to shout "Pick up" at them or press a certain button or unlock them with keys or a code. They just GO - EXACTLY WHEN YOU WANT THEM TO. It's like they're hard wired to your brain or something. Pure magic.


2) Hands can also put stuff down. This sounds pretty low key but it is fantastically useful if used in tandem with point 1.


3) Hands can grab stuff. Toys - yep. Dummies - no problem. Hair - you betcha. They're not like magnets, you can go for ANYTHING YOU WANT. Even neck skin. Drew a bit of blood from Dad last week. He wasn't happy, but he seemed to accept I'm just a beginner with the things. I'm bound to have a few teething probs (and don't get me started on teething probs).


4) Hands can wave at stuff. Alright, alright, I know: so can feet, but I challenge you to wave your feet with the same nonchalant grace and carefree ease as you can a hand. I kicked myself in the head trying - you know why? Cause they're feet. Wouldn't have happened with a hand.


5) Hands can type. If it wasn't for my dinky digits, you wouldn't be sat here now, soaking up my pearls of wisdom. You'd be doing Sunday stuff like ironing or washing the car or doing some DIY. Instead, you're being enlightened. You're welcome. 


I have a considerable journey to make in order to truly get best value from my phalanges, but I look forward to snatching, scribbling, pulling and tearing my way up the steep learning curve ahead.  
So here's to hands. An unsung legend in their own purchase providing lunchtime.
BB xx

EYFS My Eye

"'So the five months column? Ah. Yeah. What we got here?
Recognises own name...rolls over (one way)...Are you taking the wee-wee?
I'm sitting mate. Unaided. Put that in your grid and smoke it."

Head here for more...

Rummaging Again

When I sleep well, I sleep well - upside down over a bonfire, suspended my metal hooks through my nostrils, naked on a galloping hedgehog - yep, Zzzzville. But when I sleep badly - HORRIBLE.

I am currently experiencing some sort of night on, night off shift pattern of terrifyingness. But I'm not really asleep. Worryingly, I'm just lying there, half in dream, half out, semi-consciously generating a collection of harrowing, haunting hallucinations.
Hey, hey...brain. Can we rearrange this appointment of mental-ness so that it happens during the day, when I am thinking straight, so I laugh at your preposterous suggestions and get on with my day? Cheers.

My most palpitation inducing delusion centres on Betty and the thought that she has, at some point in the night, made her way from her cot into our bed. Like any parent, I'll be the first to tell you that for five months, my daughter is advanced, however Indiana Jones she is not. Quite. And she has NEVER slept in our bed,  not even for ten minutes. Yet on an almost nightly basis I wake either sat bolt upright or standing beside our bed, frantically tearing the sheets from the mattress in pursuit of our BB. Dave has been woken three times in the last week to me staring down at him with panic-stricken, blood-shot eyes, gasping fast, shallow breaths as I aggressively tear the pillows from under his slumbering cranium. Not a happy chappie. In fact, I'd be as bold as to say that the night I also grabbed a handful of his hair was probably his least favourite example of my divorceable behaviour.

Last night was probably the worst for me personally. I woke with my hand wedged fast down the gap between the top of the divan and the headboard, grabbing and grappling at the wallpaper behind, manically rummaging again. The beauty of this particular horror lay in the fact that I must have been hunting for Betty down that minuscule gap for some time, as I woke to the arm being completely swollen and devoid of ANY blood, while also sinking my teeth into the edge of the headboard - seemingly to distract from the pain of the pinched, squeezed, deadened arm. Safe to say extracting my lifeless limb woke my spouse, who does not, certainly at three in the morning, seem to see the funny side. Though to be fair, I'm with him on this one.

Little tip: even when each terrifying 'episode' has subsided, the lingering heightened stress levels sweeping your unsuspecting body do not, contrary to popular belief, encourage a speedy return to Snooze City. Just sayin'. In case you fancied it.
And, cerebral carnage aside, you'll get SICK of remaking the bed.

International Women's Day

Yeah! Come on! International Women's Day! Grrr!

As a new mother, and a new mother of a daughter no less, today should be marked.

So what's the plan guys? Oh. We just do our own thing? Don't you want me to wear pink or have my face painted or put my bra over my clothes or somat? No? Where's the symbolic bit then? Oh. Subtle. Understated. Gotcha. 

In fact, so understated is this momentous event, that I actually learned of it exactly six minutes before I started writing this blog post - and it's now 20:15.

So. How to acknowledge this day?

Ooh. I know. I'll seize the remote control from Dave. Cause I CAN. (Provided he's not watching something that is far more important than anything I could ever want to watch.)

Man Utd in Europe. Live on Channel Five. Triumphantly I sat, for two whole hours, and watched every single kick, throw, catch and volley of that ball. I watched not for myself, but for the countless women who will have gone before me; for the wives, the girlfriends, the sisters and the nans of yore who longed to witness the cut a thrust of the beautiful game but were confined to the kitchen or nursery. With each pass, I felt my confidence in this inspired, admirable, selfless endeavour soar.  By full time, God, it felt so good. Really empowering. I knew I'd made a difference. I knew I'd played my part.

I can now retire to my slumber, safe in the knowledge that I put aside my own needs to contribute  meaningfully to what has been a special day for lady kind. As you can clearly see, I am now a shining example of a strong, worldly, socially conscious woman who is amply equipped to raise an empowered, confident, assured young girl of my own.

Aww, come on. I found out it was International Women's Day at 20:15 - what more do you want.

And anyway, it was a European match. Priorities people.

Unemployment

Olive anyone..?

Unkempt

Still not had my hair cut since Betty.
Trimmed the week before she was born and self dyed six times, curled/straightened daily and hacked at  occasionally with a pair of orange handled kitchen shears. Routinely buy four bottles of shampoo to treat frizzy, dry, damaged and brittle elements of rebelling barnet.

Styling by Phoney & Lie
(I.E. - I did it - not a popular high street salon chain) 

Oh shut up. It's long, no one sees the ends. And my haircuts are free.

When I was a hippy at uni, carefully honing my splendidly punchable adult self, I spent three years in flip flops regardless of weather or season. I also only ever wore one earring. I know. Blame Joss Stone. However my idiotic studentlyness did, fortunately, result in dry, peely, cracked feet - one of the best things that has ever happened to my body. Sure, the pile of thick yellow skin scales I leave at the foot of the chair I've been sitting in might not be the calibre of soft furnishing most aspire to, but you can usually pass them off as dropped flakes of muesli. And occasionally I have myself, mid chomp, mistaken them for dropped flakes of muesli...

I have presently discovered the once rare stray beard hairs that have always sprouted haphazardly from various evil follicles of my neck and chin have decided to hit the steroids. In line with the dawning of Mummydom I have, overnight seemingly, germinated a lush garden of the spiky little buggers. Managing to offend every unfortunate eye that happens upon them, these coarse, dark bristles, when set against my pasty, anaemic complexion, stand out like a poo in a glass of milk. But every cloud: they come in dead handy if you ever run out of pan scourers. Down there for dancing.

Currently, my eyebrows look like they are after picking a fight with Liam Gallagher's, my ingrowing toenail is intent on repeatedly abusing its host and my old belly button ring skin now doubles up as an extra option when the teatowel holders are full.

I am a physical wreck. Oh well.
Thank God I've got my classy, graceful, refined, poised, charming, modest personality to fall back on.

Destroying

FRU7RM9TAUTD - It's Monday. I'm tired. Just ignore this.
Hm. Betty has recently discovered some of the many functions of her hands. "What has she been up to?" I hear you cry in your ones and, very ocassionally, twos. Penning captivating sonnets? Sculpting exquisite pottery? Fashioning magnificent topiary? Maybe next week. For now she has developed her own version of the electronic 'Bop It' game.

Grab It
Betty has learned to swipe at all manner of gubbins - toys, bowls of cereal, decorative candles, hair straighteners, loaded staple guns, hot mugs of tea, carving knives, cooling irons, shards of broken mirror, simmering pan handles, spinning lawnmover blades, vats of volcano lava. Clearly piercings and scolds are the new black.

Drop It
Like it's hot. And as you've heard, it usually is. Having laminate flooring with a weaning baby seemed like a good idea, until she decided to throw everything we own AT IT.

Pull It
Is it attached to a living, sensing, feeling thing? Yes? Well of course, send it on over - she'll gladly have a good tug at it for you. Hair, sprouting from a head, or even better, from more sensitive follicle dwellings such as the nose, ear or chest (on her Dad - I swear) would be Boo's bell pull of choice. Though skin, eyelids, lips and nipples are all fair game. Ooh while you're here, you haven't recently happened upon my septum, have you?

Rip It
"Is that a fifty pound note?"
"Of course not! We've never owned one."
"Well what is it then?"
"Erm...*walks over and gathers scrumpled green sawdust from the ground*. Oh bugger. It was a fiver."

Fact: All foldable, readable, spendable materials make workable confetti, yet crucially important work based documentation can be shredded the most finely.
Betty Briars - happily solving your daily conundrums.

Punch It
Betty is an 18lbs 9oz force of ill coordinated, excitable, clumsy brawn. A potent combo. Clubbing herself in the mouth, ear and head are currently routine aspects of her daily playtime. If you're one of those selfish people who avoids pain and in particular, are a fan of owning eyes, stay well away.

BB's parental example is not that of two nimble, elegant, twinkle toed characters. But my God - she has taken the Briars penchant for the merciless obliteration of all unguarded stuff to a whole new level of  indiscriminate ruin. Bring on the crawling.

HILarious...

You guys just CRACK ME UP.

Supermarkets! Who thought of that?! Man, they are FUN-NY!! Mum took me into one called 'Tesco' today. What a hoot! They have these little streets right, set out in identical rows! Honest to God! And they fill the streets with boxes and jars and tubs, set out in sections of the same stuff! Tears were just streaming down my face!!

Then Mum just starts PICKING STUFF OFF THE SHELVES and PUTTING IT ON THE TROLLEY! Swear down! Just grabbing a bag here or a packet there and just CHUCKING THEM IN! What is she like?! The thing was piled high with stuff. I thought my sides would ACTUALLY  SPLIT when she threw that huge bag of crisps on the top! She was loving it, really playing to the crowd. Fair do's though, he was a beltin' gag. Then she gets to the till and takes ALL THE STUFF OUT OF THE TROLLEY, then PUTS IT ALL ON THE CONVEYOR BELT THING! Well, I couldn't breathe! I actually couldn't get my breath. Then, just when I started calming down and composing myself, get this right: she puts all the stuff INTO PLASTIC BAGS, then BACK INTO THE TROLLEY!! I was hurting myself at this point. Absolute gold.

Sadly, she then went and took it all out of the trolley AGAIN and put it in the boot of the car, which I though was over egging it. Ruined it a bit there. Milked it. The best comedians always leave 'em wanting more. 

Still a decent set though. She can be a right good laugh my Mum if  you catch her on form. 

Haaa....crisps....genius....

Heard the one about me and Mum walking around Tesco?
Kills me every time that one.
Classic

Child Prodigy Comin' Thru

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Johannes Brahms. Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. Betty Briars.

Water recorders - the drum and bass of the future. Word.

Torment

Went visiting today.
Saw my friend Claire and her two boys; three and eight months. A couple of 'firsts' for me with Boo - time in a non family member's home, and being in the company of other young children. Clearly, an accident waiting to happen. So, question for you. Did she:
a) Cry none stop for all of the two hours we were there
b) Poke both children, quite forcefully, in the eye, rendering them both temporarily blind and thus understandably terrified of her every move for the remainder of the visit
c) Poo so excessively while sat on my knee that the faeces leaked out over the top of her nappy and stained all over one leg of my jeans, the dribbled off them and hit the fabric of Claire's new settee (which was delivered, like, YESTERDAY).

If you read this blog often, you wouldn't be surprised to hear she did all three.
In fact, she actually did NONE of these things. No, seriously. Not a one. I swear.

She was smiley. She was calm. She was interested. She was an absolute little star.

So why would I now take the time to dream up such preposterous scenarios to share with you? Look, Betty is not a still child. Betty is not a clean child. Betty is not a gentle child. I drove to Claire's (late as ever) armed with swathes of muslin cloth, 306 nappies, a mini first aid kit and as ready as you can ever be for your mental health to be severely compromised. And on the way there, just a fifteen minute car journey away, I dreamed up all of the above scenarios and imagined what I might do/say and indeed how much it could potentially cost me if Boo decided to let loose.
Fortunately today I only had to make a payment in apologies to my little girl, for thinking the worst. Yet it made clear to me the daily psychological torment my daughter's mere presence taxes on my worried mind as she has, in just five short months, reduced me to a cerebrally distrurbed, jibbering wreck who has clearly run out of sense, reason and sanity.
Wibble.*

*Blackadder. No? Just me then.

Tag, You're It

This blog has few followers. I wear my fingers to nubs at this keyboard on a daily basis and I know there's probably just lovely little you, reading this right now, who in fact other than me, has read it at all. Because you're DEAD NICE. And intelligent. And you've got great taste. And you make my heart a little bit excited when I find out you stopped by. So thank you.
Anyway, when I saw a chain letter, chinese whispery, question answery thingy doing the rounds among other far more popular Mummy bloggers I felt all left out and sad and dejected. I even toyed with ASKING someone to pick me, but decided that was just a pill of utterly pathetic loneliness that I was not yet quite ready to choke down. This week.

But then. PRAISE BE TO GOD. That little BEAUTY Natalie over at Wibbly Wobby Me  finally tagged me in this little game that's doing the rounds!
Yippeeee...(she cries into the empty, hollow, echoing darkness).

The Rules

• You must post these rules.
• Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post, and create 11 new questions for the people you tag to answer.
• You have to choose 11 people to tag and link them on the post.
• Go to their page and tell them you have linked him or her.

1. If you could be any animal in the whole world what would you be and why?
I'd be a hyena. They live in hot climates, they laugh all the time and they really irritate other animals, so you wouldn't get lots of busy bodies/charity collectors/trip or fall reps (wildebeest ones) mithering you all the time.

2. Say you're a member of the opposite gender for a day- what would you do that you don't normally?
I would grow a big bushy beard, read a Haynes manual about my car, take it to a garage then, leaning on the bonnet and smoking a tiny roll up cigarette, moan about "crank shafts" and "cam belts" and "head gaskets" while pointing and nodding and huffing. And be taken seriously.
Then I'd perform a three point turn in only three points, leaving the garage for my appointment with a dart board, a tankard of real ale and a packet of beef crisps, and spend the evening winning arm wrestles while spouting 'mother-in-law' gags.

3. What is your biggest pet peeve?
Where to start...? Walking into someone else's fart, people who say 'textses' instead of texts, dogs in handbags, teenage "issues", Gillian McKeith, people who remember to put their bins out, people who insist on putting my bins away, pets in cages/tanks, Dale Winton, fat people in tracksuits, fat people crying about being fat on telly, not being on holiday, Starbucks being really expensive but always having manky seats, scratched CD's, nobody reading my blog...

4. Do you sleep with the bedroom door open or closed?
Open - so that at a split second's notice, I am able to dance naked, aggressively and with wild abandon about my landing, jangling my cellulite ferociously, should a burglar ever need shooing away.

5. If you could see just one musical artist in concert who would you pick?
Nope. Can't pick just one. It would have to be a festival of 90's boybands with numbers in the title:
5ive/911/East 17/A1/98 Degrees/3T supported by The Hoff

6. You're going on a road trip- which celebrity would you take along for the ride?
Absolutely Derren Brown. You could watch him work, pick his brains and get free stuff. And then, even if you hated each others company and had a rubbish time, he could make you thing it had all been brilliant.
All that or Charlie Sheen. Winning.

7. Who is your hero?
Lenny Henry's agent.

8. What is the most daring or dangerous thing you’ve ever done?
I abseiled from the 42nd floor of a Chicago skyscraper with my hands tied behind my back while eating a impressively large packet of dates, wearing only my underwear. Oh no. Hang on a minute...that wasn't me. Think it was in a film.
I did once mowed the lawn in flipflops though.

9. Which one of the Seven Dwarves from Snow White would you be?
Happy. But I'd be really, really, really abrupt, abusive and bad tempered just to mess with people's heads. This would also serve to stir Grumpy into fits of incandescent rage, forever condemning him to his new title: 'Sectioned'.

10. Where is the most beautiful place you've ever been?
It's a toss up between the Grand Canyon and the loo - when you are ABSOLUTELY DESPERATE.
No, actually nothing beats that relief when your back teeth are floating.

11. If you had to paint the front of your house a primary colour, which one would you choose?
I would paint it yellow - to reflect the notion of calm, soothing tranquility. Cause you'll find none of that stuff behind it.

Oo oo my go, my go! Okay...
1. What is your favourite word? Why?

2. How would you like to be remembered?

3. Define 'smile'.

4. You're locked in a refrigerator. Discuss.

5. If you were a room in a house, which would you be and why?

6. Where do you feel most at ease?

7. In a fight, who would win: clergyman or ombudsman?

8. Painting or photograph?

9. You have to pick: bird poos on you or accidentally swallow a small insect?

10. Share a quote to live by.

11. Do you really want to answer another question?

If so a) What is your mother's maiden name?* (b) Where do you keep your bank details?*

*And so I don't get shot, can I just say, please do not provide these because, well, it's a joke and it'd just be ABSOLUTELY BLOODY STUPID TO.

And I am tagging these lovely little gems...

• Mummy Rates It
• Nearly Everything But The Kitchen Sink
• Romanian Mum in London
• And Then There Were Four
• The Baby Wife
• Actually Mummy...
• Four Little Boys And A Mummy
• Life Happens. Then Write.
• Tales From The Sticking, Picking and Finger Licking Years 
• Love Being A Mummy To Two
• Mundane Glamour

Enjoy! x