Sunday, 22 January 2017

The F****** Annoying Fives.

The terrible twos, the tyrannical threes, the fearsome fours. Sound familiar? They're cutesy names given to phases in a child's life to illustrate how god damn awful they are when they reach that particular age. Each new phase is worse than the last.
"Oooh terrible twos is nothing! Wait until they reach the tyrannical threes!" Is the type of thing you'll hear when you become a parent. Much like when you're pregnant and mention that you can't sleep - "oooh wait until they're born! Then you'll know what tired REALLY means!"

But do you know a phase I've never heard of? The stage my child is going through now. The one I've had to name myself because it appears that no-one has ever dared to mention it, never mind name it.

The fucking-annoying fives.

I have never IN MY LIFE met a creature who can grind my gears more than my five year old at present.

Do you have a question that you've always pondered the answer to? Is there life after death perhaps! Ask my five year old. He's a little know it all with an answer for everything.
Only yesterday did I get screamed at, full frontal in the face because the number 6 that was in bold black print in front of me WAS NOT A SIXXXXXX! because in my 32 years of life and after gaining a bachelor of science degree, I have not yet grasped the shape of a number 6. Not like my five year old who is working within the early years foundation stage and should have been born with 666 on his head.

Do you ever get the feeling your child isn't listening to you? When they get to the FA Fives they'll make sure you're more than aware they couldn't give a shit about anything you say. They'll talk over you, give a pained expression when you do speak, and then ask you the same question again that you've just spent 30 minutes answering. OR they will do my favourite thing at the minute (NOT) and blatantly place their hands over their ears as you speak.

Assholes


Maybe you're drinking your way through the terrible two's at present and think you know what it's like for a child to press all of your buttons. Perhaps you do. But a FA Five also knows how to press your buttons. And then some. And never fucking stops. Ever.
I'm pretty sure this is why they have to go to school. I can hardly survive a weekend of this back chatting, shit giving creature. Never mind a full week!

If you're a person who always blames yourself for things then you'll feel right at home when your child reaches five. Because you'll be blamed for EVERYTHING!
You'll be minding your own business in the kitchen when your child screams from the lounge because they tripped over a cushion on the floor that they "Told you to move!" And "You made them trip!"
Actually YOU told THEM to move it but they were too busy putting their hands over their ears and telling you it wasn't a cushion. It was a rock, and their only chance of survival in all this imaginary lava that was flooding the entire lounge.

Asshole.

So if the rumour is true, that each stage is worse than the last (and so far I'm kind of convinced), then who knows what the sixes will be like! And god help me when we reach the puberty stage. One can only imagine the grief.
So far, the only thing in common that each stage has, is that they continue to look like angels when they sleep. And you continue to feel guilty for your reactions to them through the day. And you continue to promise that tomorrow you will be more tolerant.

HA!

Wednesday, 21 December 2016

The Wobble

Today I had a wobble.
I haven't wobbled in a while.
But today I well and truly wobbled.
A wobble by the way is when you need the world to stop for a while, so you can hop off, perhaps travel back to good times when you enjoyed spontaneous drinks in the pub with friends, or even had a bath without someone shouting the name you now go by, 'Mum'.
I think the wobble was initiated by my five year old screaming all round Sainsbury's because I wouldn't buy his grumpy ass a blind bag (a shitty bag that costs the world and has a surprise toy in it that's never the toy they want and causes a strop to ensue.)
The wobble was more or less in full force by the time I got to the self service check out and was trying my best to scan a bastard coupon that got me £4.50 off my shop; with the 5 year old still screaming, now joined by his 2 month old sister, and a shop attendant who was supposed to be there to assist me yet was leisurely chatting to another shopper.
By the time I got home I was ready to quit this 'mum' thing. I didn't know who I was anymore. Whenever I turned round there was someone behind me. Someone telling me to look at something, or someone crying. I was a rope being pulled In a tug of war between two siblings. I had never felt more lonely in my entire life.
The wobble does that to you. Makes you feel like the only mother on this earth despicable enough to actually want 'alone time'
Time to just be the person you once were. Time, so that for 5 minutes you don't feel like a fat frumpy fuck who does nothing but nag.
The wobble may tempt you to tell your partner. But how the hell could they understand? If anything the wobble makes you resent them. Because they get to be 'them' without another set of limbs hanging off them. And by voicing your feelings brought on by the wobble, you will only sound irrational, ungrateful and like a massive twat.
Which is what I did. Obviously.
And do you know what? I'm not bothered! I'm GLAD I wobble! Because without it I wouldn't get to have that moment of clarity which comes an hour or so later. Tonight it came in the form of a smile. As I stared in to space, daydreaming of Leonardo Dicaprio coming and sweeping me off my feet, I glanced down at my 2 month old kicking away in her cot. She had apparently been staring at me and and as our eyes met she gave me the biggest smile I've ever seen her do.
And Mum was back in the room.
I again realised how lucky I was to have these kids. How I had two people who loved me unconditionally. Even if I do wobble. They don't care. And did I honestly and truly need to be anyone else? Because to the world I may just be a mother. But to my children I am everything. And how amazing is that? Pretty fucking amazing.

Wednesday, 30 November 2016

The Elf On The Shelf.

It's the run up to Christmas, and lucky us, the shops have been playing Christmas songs since the moment the clock struck 12 on Halloween. Not a problem for some folks, but for parents, a fucking Nightmare. Not only do we have to put up with the "How many sleeps?" question every single solitary day, but we also have to sit back and watch as our children's attitude becomes more and more shitty with each passing minute.
As I walked down the street on a frosty day at the back end of November, my 5 year old wearing a Santa hat and snapping my head off at every opportunity I decided something had to be done.
I'd heard rumours of a magical Elf who visited children in the run up to Christmas and reported their behaviour to Santa every evening. I decided I needed to get me one of those Elves! I was going to get that little arse hole in check if it killed me.
And I believe kill me it will.
For it appears this Elf is not really magic at all. Well, it is, but it's me that has to do the magic. Every night. For a month. Merry Christmas.
Still! It will be worth it to see the look on my sons face, and will save me a fortune in the Prosecco that I'm forced to drink daily due to his crappy behaviour.
After purchasing an Elf, a magic door, and composing a letter from Santa to my son telling him how god damn awful he was I decided I needed some ideas of what my Elf could get up to and decided to enlist the help of a friend (she knows who she is but let's called her Dee)
Dee is the Mother of my sons best friend and Elf on the Shelf extraordinaire. She added me to a secret group on Facebook for Mums whose children were lucky enough to have an Elf visit them at Christmas.
And it soon became pretty apparent that most Mums were in fact doing this for fun, not in an attempt to blackmail their asshole kid.
The more I delved in to the group and was notified of members comments the more I started to become a little 'elf conscious (see what I did there?)
These Mums didn't just have an Elf door that they'd grabbed from Card Factory for £1.99. They had Elf 'areas.' Yes, that's right! AREAS!! Debbi (oh, I mean Dee) herself had set up a 'construction site' in preparation for her Elfs arrival and was planning to put up a miniature fibre optic Christmas tree for him as well as a flashing wreath on his door.
(It actually looks amazing and I'm totally fucking jealous. But let's not tell her I said that.)
Some mums had designed an entire garden outside their Elf door, with a snowy post box and everything!
There were pictures of Elves floating around in hot air balloons in the living room, discussions of 'North Pole breakfasts,' and fizzy pop labels to make 'Elf Punch' and 'Reindeer something or other.'
There were links to shops on Etsy who sell Elf props and Elf clothes.
And I am totally not cut out for this shit!!
I wanted my son to behave! I didn't think I'd have to put this much effort in.
Sigh.
The Elf will arrive on Wednesday 7th December (because I'm a sucky Mum whose Elf is arriving a week late because she's still waiting for it to be delivered from eBay! Ahem! I mean Santa is still awaiting a signal from me that we're ready to welcome our Elf).
 It looks terrifying on the picture, so I'm now holding out hope that instead of my son behaving because the Elf is magical and does super cool things, he will behave because the Elf looks demonic and he doesn't want it coming in to his bedroom at night. Staging the Elf in that scenario would probably be a lot more fun!
No?


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