Dear Diary 16th April 2017

Date: 16/4/17

Number of times I’ve been called Mum: 3215

Number of fights broken up: 42

Dear Diary… More and more lately, probably because its half term I’ve been wondering how the pigging hell anyone ever gets anything done once they’re a parent? Every single second of the day someone is calling me. If I walk upstairs you can guarantee someone will call me. I’ve literally just walked away from them, what can possibly have happened in those 12 seconds? Really. Then I forget why I went upstairs in the first place. How am I supposed to look at little lady’s drawing, look at OH’s changing around of a room, shut teens door to stop the stench and look for Xbox controller batteries for little man all at the same time?! I swear they think I can though. And then…and then? When I get a bit hair offish OH says I’m a moody cow. Typical.


The kids have driven me round the twist. They’ve literally hung off my leg all day, surely at 7 and 4 they should be able to find something in that bedroom full of toys to play with without dragging me away from my endless piles of washing? But no.

They’re bored.
They want a drink.
They want something off the shelf.
They want a drink.
They can’t find Lego Batman.
They want a drink.

It’s Easter there’s chocolate everywhere and they can’t find a thing to do. What is going on? I’m sure at their age I was hiding under my bed with a stomach ache having eaten a whole egg in one go and waiting for the inevitable almighty telling off I was ripe for.


I thought today was going to be a day where I had to have one of those awkward conversations with the kids.

“I don’t want to die Mum”

Came from Little Miss in the back of the car. Oh crap, how do I put it? “Well everybody has to….” I started to say.

Little Man: “You won’t die til you’re old. Or get hit by a car.”

Little Man : “Yeah then you’d be squashed dead. All over the road.”

Little Miss: “Look Mum there’s a McDonalds over there, I want a Happy Meal.”

Annnnnd that was the end of that conversation. Think I got out of that one quite nicely thankyou.


I don’t think the kids are all that impressed with my singing capabilities. Dancing round the kitchen to Love is a Battlefield and singing into a tin opener attracted some ‘god you’re embarrassing Mum’ looks. Good job the teen wasn’t there. He would have spontaneously combusted from the absolute shame of having such a saddo for a Mum. Like that time at I went to a work do with Mum and she got up to dance to Status Quo. Always that same cringy dance and air guitar – for the love of god – with Bob the van guy.


OMG the little lady was quiet for a while today. Suspiciously quiet. When I checked there seemed to be nothing untoward going on. Maybe my own paranoia? Nope. Big nope. I should have learned by now to always trust my instinct. On getting her changed for bed, the realisation came that orange felt pen was covering the lower half of her body. Like some sort of half-human half-Oompa Loompa mash up. “Why did you do that?” I asked. “Just wanted to see what it looked like” she said like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. I tried the good old baby wipes. Wouldn’t come off. Tried showering. Wouldn’t come off. Tried alcohol gel. Wouldn’t bloody come off. I’ve resigned myself to having a half orange kid for a while.

 

julie-x-2

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