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

The School’s Calling

It’s a phonecall you hate getting, next to Unknown number, seeing the school’s number on your phone screen is terror inducing. All sorts goes through your mind. What’s happened? Who’s hurt? What have they done?

I’ve had various phonecalls in my time and inspired by a conversation with an old friend (who sadly I don’t get to see anymore, life gets in the way) I thought I’d share some of them.

Gone Bananas

There was the time the school called to tell me my eldest had had a slip and fallen on his face. Thinking he’d tripped over someones foot or something – I once broke my wrist when someone stuck their foot out in front of me, you can read about it here – I made my way to the school only to find he’d slipped on a banana skin. I shit you not. I thought this particular mishap was reserved for cartoons and comedians. Apparently not.

Holey Crap

“Could you come to the school please? Your son has a puncture wound” A puncture wound? A PUNCTURE WOUND? “Oh Jesus Christ he’s been stabbed” I screech to the other half. “Right that’s it, I’m going to get him and I’m never, ever letting him go to school again.”

I get to the school where I’m greeted by a stoney faced 6 foot 20 Headmaster. I’m only 5’2 so I already felt like a naughty kid caught professing their love for some scroat or other by permie marker in the bogs. “Where’s my son?” I start to ask before he sits me down to tell me that in fact he hasn’t been stabbed but the dozy sod had actually been climbing trees to retrieve a football and fallen on a metal fence. Cringe. Then he leads me to a very quiet teenager who appears to have taken great interest in his trainers. Out we traipse not saying a word other than to thank the Headmaster for letting me know.  Off to the hospital we drive for a 48245 hour wait in A&E where they ask a million questions – quite rightly – and send him off with a dressing on and a dressing down.

Harry Flopper

“Could you come to nursery please? Your son has had a fall and has a head injury.” There I was with a 3 month old baby clamped to my chest wondering what on earth had happened. I sent the other half to go and get him as I knew he could run faster than my podgy arse could. My son came back with a bandage on his head and an ice pack. I don’t know what I was expecting from a ‘head injury’ but it was worse than I thought. My poor little man had a flipping great big split in his forehead and blood running down his face. Off we drove the hospital where he had glue and steri – strips to stick it all back together. We tried to make light of it being his Harry Potter scar but it’s not so much lightening bolt as big fat rain cloud. When we asked him how he’d done it he told us he was trying a show a girl how fast he could run, couldn’t stop himself in time and ran headfirst into a brick wall. So basically showing off for the ladies, sign of things to come?! Bloody great.

Oh Nuts

“Could you come to the school please? Your son has had a um, knock to the um, private area” “Right, some little shit has kicked our boy in the balls Jon. You better get to the school and sort it” I was at work. Seething into my latte. Waiting impatiently for him to come back and tell me what had gone down. Turns out it was an accidental knock to the nads. He got in the way of a flying foot. They have a tendency to do that feet, especially when attached to a 7 year old boy it seems. All checked over the other half traipses home to resume his game of Fifa. Bugger me if an hour later they weren’t  back on the phone “could you come to the school please? Your son has had a bump to the head” “Jon, get down the school again love, someones tried to cave his skull in this time” all I can hear is the sound of the Xbox controller hitting the deck as he exhales VERY loudly and legs it out the door again. Reporting back the fella tells me he caused his own head injury, not by impressing girls this time but trying to retrieve his pencil and smashing the back of his head on the table on the way back up. No matter how many times you scream “watch your head” at a kid it never, ever sinks in.

Sixth Non-sense

‘We’d like to make an appointment with you to discuss your son’s progress in sixth form.’ says the chirpy receptionist, knowing full well a bollocking is coming my way in the near future. I wasn’t wrong. “we have concerns that maybe sixth form isn’t for him” says the scary teacher sat in front of me. She then goes on to tell me that she doesn’t think it’s the path he’s destined for as I squirm in my chair feeling like I’d rather be ANYWHERE but here. “He really isn’t putting any effort in and we get the feeling there’s a million other things he’d rather be doing (lying in bed being the main one. Probably.) so we think it’s best he revisits his thoughts about his future and let’s us know where we go from here” accompanied by ‘the look’ that makes you feel like a completely useless parent from Knobsville. I really wanted to tell her to shove it up her arse – purely for the look – but I didn’t, I was very adultish. I looked at him, he was very interested in a poster on the wall funnily enough. Think it might have been something about not sharing dirty daps. He blurted out something that vaguely resembled English which I took to mean “I hate sixth form” and so there and then on that day he left. Just like that. I swear she high fived herself. And off we drove back to Knobsville. Via the Jobcentre.

Have you ever been called to the school?

julie-x-2

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday

I Woke Up This Morning

I woke up this morning,
Looked like Ozzy Osbourne.
My hair was well scary,
My mascara left on.

The kids came in screaming,
Over whose toy it is.
All I could think of,
Is “What fresh hell is this?”

I’ll go for a pee now,
With an audience of two.
It’s not even funny,
Someone get me a brew.

Go down to make breakfast
and find the homework.
Dig out my straighteners
to look less like a berk.

Where the hell have the shoes gone,
Always running amok.
They’ve buggered right off now,
Along with one sock.

Leg it out the door fast.
For another school run.
Going nuts on their scooters…
“Please don’t fall on your bum!”

Rock up at the school doors,
With minutes to spare.
It’s started to rain too,
So I mumble a swear.

I lug both the scooters home,
Getting smashed in the shin.
I musn’t throw them in a bush.
Is it too early for gin?

I waltz through the front door,
And fling off my shoes.
I start on the cleaning,
But I’d rather a snooze.

I fill up on coffee,
So I don’t fall asleep.
Get on with the washing,
From this 70ft heap.

I might get 5 minutes,
To sit on my bum.
Before I rush off again,
For another school run.

julie-x-2

Various Vacant Valentine’s

Having chatted to my son’s girlfriends Mum (stay with me) and her telling me how lovely my son is to her daughter as her first boyfriend and with Valentine’s soon to be upon us it made me think about the types of boyfriend I’ve had in the past. It didn’t all go well for me (although I am happy now) as I’m sure it didn’t for many others…

Mr First Love

The one who broke your heart for the first time. The one that made you cry snotty tears on your Dad’s shoulder for weeks til he got fed up and told you to stop bloody whinging or he’d go round and kick his scrawny little arse. You cried every time you heard sad songs on the radio and he’s the one that made your Mum say “there’s plenty more fish in the sea” and you’d scream “but I wanted him, I hate everyone. It’s so unfair.”

Flounce.

Door slam.

“Stop slamming the bloody doors.”

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Mr friends with benefits

Not actually a boyfriend but that one ‘friend’ that you occasionally fell into bed with after a few too many cocktails. The one you probably had a secret crush on for years and so you put in 10/10 for effort (except that, never that) in the hope they’d wake up one morning and see that you’re the love of their life. Unlikely if you wake up looking like Worzel Gummidge on a bad hair day. He’s happy getting his rocks off and you’ll do.

Mr Nice

The guy who can’t do enough for you, buys you endless flowers, teddy bears and chips on his way home from work but if you’re anything like me and don’t have a romantic bone in your body then it will start to grate after a while. You face the task of telling the poor sod that it’s not him it’s you. You’re not ready for a relationship blah, blah and feel like the world’s biggest bitch.

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Mr should have been

He asked you out, you said no because he has a crap curtains haircut or something and by the time you realise that actually you fancied him all along, he’s seeing someone else (cow) you finally give up on him dumping her and find someone else only to find him single again and so it goes on. Maybe you ended up with him, maybe you didn’t.

Mr out of your league and a bit of a twat 

He’s in a cool band, he’s all piercings, tattoos and awesome hair. Women throw their knickers at him. You can’t believe he’s chosen you to go out with. It’s great. Until you start to hear the rumours about him seeing other girls and him even parading them in front of you like you’d clap and say “good show,old bean”. One day when you see through the pretty face you’ll realise he was pretty much an arsehole all along.

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Mr only after one thing

He took you to the cinema or for a nice meal (probably to Pizza Hut but we’ll let that slide) he’s walked you home, he goes for the kiss then it all goes a bit Pete Tong. He suddenly turns into a frigging octopus. Slimy…erm…tentacles all over the place. A few slaps later and he’s all offended. He bought you an extra bowl of onion rings for God’s sake. Surely he should get something in return? Sod off mate and don’t come back.

Mr I can’t tell the truth to save my life

He’s a natural born liar. He’s not just economical with the truth, he tells massive whoppers. He tells you on the phone he’s out having a ‘messy’ night with the lads when you can quite blatantly hear the Eastenders theme tune in the background. He says he can’t come over because he’s broken his leg playing football but 3 days later he turns up with sod all wrong with his leg. He’s visited Mars and his aunt is Lady Gaga. Bloody weirdo.

How many of these have you met? Any others you could add?

julie-x-2