Dear Diary 27th April 2017

Date: 27/4/17

Number of times I’ve been called Mum: 4832

Number of fights broken up: 20

Dear Diary…Mum and I went to see the Sister Act Musical in Cardiff Millennium Centre. ‘Twas amazing. At the end there was an explosion of shiny foil pieces showering down on us. It was late when I got home so I crawled into bed in my vest top & bra, only in the morning I woke up with one of the gold pieces in my cleavage and the colour had rubbed off so am now sporting gold boobies. Awesome.


I offered to take the kids out for tea. Anywhere they wanted. They chose Morrison’s cafe?! After work I nipped home to pick them up walked into Morrison’s only to spot Little Lady’s trousers on backwards. Tell the OH off through gritted teeth and he sulked while I scoffed my Macaroni Cheese. Turned out kids eat free with an adult meal so it was £10 for the 4 of us. My kids are a lot of things and now frugal is one of them.


Walked into the kids bedroom to tidy only to find shit on the carpet. WTAF though. Who and why? Little Lady has been known to do it in a Lego storage head before but that was a good while ago when she was potty training. On closer inspection (I get the best jobs) turns out it was not, in fact, shit but blobs of mashed up banana. Since both kids had been moaning they were hungry just before bed (standard) they’d had half a banana each. Only ‘nobody’ did it. That bastard again. My money is on Little Lady though because it was also on her duvet cover. Funny that.


Went to a kids party today. You either love them or hate them. I hate them. Well most of them, some aren’t so bad. This one though was really bad. Not the fault of the Mum who threw it at all but my daughter sat on my lap and refused to move the entire time (apart from to shove chocolate mini rolls in her gob at buffet time) on 2 occasions I tried to strike up conversations with people, on both occasions I was blanked. So there I was stone dead from embarrassment and shunned into the deepest darkest corner of no friend-dom with a clingon, not even Let It Go would shift her. Or the Spider-Man that jumped out of the curtain.  To make it worse I looked even more weird when rescued via messages back and fore from a friend and giggled like a pillock to myself. It’s in those moments you realise that those people really don’t matter. I tried. I failed. I moved on. But there will always be the ones who have your back when you really need it.


Really must remember to empty out the naughty snack rubbish from my car door pocket. Telling the OH I’m eating lots of salad in attempt to lose weight and be healthy isn’t going to wash when he finds 10 Haribo wrappers hidden under the shammy or a Galaxy bar the size of my youngest child in the glove box. Rookie mistake that, am most ashamed of myself.


OH isn’t feeling well. Does he naff off to bed to rest and recuperate? Does he hell. He’d rather stay downstairs sighing and moaning and telling me how much he’s dying. And being grumpy. Good god man just go to bed. I wouldn’t need telling twice I can tell you!


julie-x-2

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

Dear Diary 5th September 2016

As I no longer keep a ‘proper’ diary – well I do but it’s at the bottom of my handbag with pen marks and a random raisin stuck to it – I’ve decided to start a blog version instead. It won’t be as interesting as my teenage one then again my teens weren’t all that exciting if I’m honest I was a bit of a goody two shoes.

Dear Diary…this week I have realised that you should never get complacent and think that now she’s 4 your daughter will stop being quite so mischievous. Big fat metaphorical V sign behind my back to that one from her. Once I start running that washing up water it’s like a red rag to a bull and she’s off on her next adventure.

She covered her face in SuperStay 24 hour foundation that did NOT bloody want to come off. I had to take to Twitter to ask for help with removing it. How on earth do you shift something that doesn’t want to come off and you don’t have makeup remover? Coconut oil that’s how. Learn something new everyday. I Googled ‘on top of roof storage’ but the prices were sky high. Turning into my Dad I am. I swear.


Just when I got over the shock of her making herself biscuit coloured she goes and does something worse. It’s a Saturday afternoon, I’m sat at work having just got myself a coffee and thinking how amazing it is that I can drink it in peace. Pahaha. Pahahahahahahaha. Phonecall from the other half. “Little lady’s hair is falling out in handfuls, what the hell do I do?” So coffee gets poured out and I get home as quick as you like to find that the ‘hair that’s fallen out’ looks suspiciously neat and tidy. Like it’s been cut. Oh god…vague recollections flood my brain of a half listened to conversation with darling daughter about how she was playing hairdressers. “You know Mum, cut, cut, cut.” Only she wasn’t pretending was she? She’d found that pair of hairdressing scissors I bought on impulse and hid in my knicker drawer goodness knows how long ago.


It didn’t end there. Ohhhh no. She covered her whole leg in red glittery nail varnish the very next bloody day. Next time you think she’s with OH and OH thinks she’s with you? Check. For the love of God check. It’s highly likely that she’s painting her face with the eyeshadow you bought for best. Only it’s not ‘best’ now is it? It’s like the mashed up poo coloured Play – Doh version of eyeshadow. Not sure that’s gonna cut it at the party on the weekend.


I have a party to go to. Not a horrific softplay, kids battering crap out of each other on a massive sugar rush kind of party. An actual real life adults party. Not a swingers jobby mind you, just a fun Birthday party. A PARTY? What the frigging hell am I meant to wear? What do people wear to parties these days? Oh, this could all go so horribly wrong. What if I underplay it and everyone thinks I’m a scruffy cow and ask where Wayne is? What if I overplay it and get looks from everyone wondering who ‘the slag in the corner’ is? So many things to think about. Do I wear heels and risk falling on my face or wear flats and feel as though I couldn’t be arsed really? I’ll wing it. What could possibly go wrong…

 

 

 

Julie x (2)