My youngest has turned three. I could lament about the loss of whom I was still calling my ‘baby,’ to threenagerdom, and how I was all upset and totes emosh (eurgh, what a phrase,) at him being my last baby, and there being definitely no more babies in the household. But I won’t, because his birthday party was comedy gold, and a critical analysis makes for much better reading. It was his party, and he was going to cry if he f***ing well wanted to.

We arrived at the venue, and were greeted by a cyborg bouncing human with energy and zest for life of a Duracell bunny who had OD’d on Red Bull and speed. She was actually amazing, and made me feel like a lethargic, depressed snail in comparison. She announced all the fun shit she had lined up, and eager eyes of the other parents all held a momentary glimmer of hope that they might be able to naff off to a corner for an hour, and munch interrupted on party rings and fondant fancies. Until, she uttered the words ‘you will be expected to stay with your children at all times, and join in with ALL the games, because *imagine this bit in a Mr Tumble-esque voice* it makes it more fun for everyone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

At this point, all the dads who had been forced to come along to the atrocities unfolding, looked as awkward as if their wives had walked in on them having that private lap dance that they had promised they’d never, ever have on that stag do. I later perused photos, and zoomed in on one dad in particular, and laughed maniacally at the face of a man who looked like he’d rather be chopping his own balls off with a rusty scalpel, than sing about parachuting to the land of make believe, while pretending bubbles were the happy tears of fairies. They just wanted to be watching the rugby, sinking pints until oblivion.

Pass the parcel became pass the ticking time bomb. Like someone with absolutely no integrity at all, I went against my own opinion that there should only be one present in pass the parcel-the one in the centre-won by whoever, and not the birthday boy-and I put a little gift in every layer. I acted like a tool, enforcing the idea in children that ‘there’s always a winner,’ and other bullshit that is making our society grow up into entitled little gits. I absolutely did that, all from buckling under the pressure to make the littlest’s party good. It backfired. The only protagonists in the backfiring, were my own children. Knowing that there was a selection of gifts of varying cheap crappiness available beneath the layers, they set their hearts on getting a ridiculous, non working watch, from the selection that I’d basically found in the dustbin at the toy shop (reduced so many times they were practically giving them away.) Of course, they were NEVER going to get those, and threw the wind up Nemos they got instead, across the room in a state of pure psychotic rage. Yep-there I am very much contributing to the entitled youths fucking up the country.

The eldest got over it, but the little one was in a place of no return-that witching hour style moaning and shrieking that made my eyes deaden and join the dads in looking like I wanted to scalpel the balls I very clearly don’t have. I thought that putting an end to the jolly games, and calming him down with my Pinterest cake that I’d laboured over when I would normally have been indulging my Netflix addiction, would get everyone (well, not everyone, just my two, as everyone else was being as well behaved as a Crufts winning dog who had been promised a steak for winning,) to calm the fuck down-especially as while talking to the youngest in my best faux kindly, but actually if-you-don’t-stop-being-a-little-dick hiss, he’d responded by landing a right hook to my nose that would’ve made Mohammed Ali run for the hills.

Yes, I know that the sugar would’ve done nothing to help the situation, but I was aiming to time the end of the party with the sugar hit meltdown, and whisk mine away to have a sugar fit in the car, where there would be no further judgment from our friends (I know they aren’t judging us really, but I’m paranoid.) But some absolute twonk scuppered my plans, by daring to give the now calm youngest, the birthday boy, a piece of cake that contained less chocolate buttons than the people sat either side of him. The world was against me. Giving zero fucks about anything other than his fair share of chocolate buttons, the little one let rip with the rage of a silver back gorilla entering a turf war.

It was at that point that I openly disowned him. My husband was shaking his head in abject disbelief at the behaviour of his offspring. I was a bizarre mixture of pleased that he finally witnessed what I have to put up with every single day, and mortified at the behaviour of my children. The screaming was placated with the correct amount of buttons on his slice of cake (and not with the time out that he should’ve had obvs, because reading this back makes me realise the litany of errors that makes me a shockingly push over parent, and the sole reason for their horrendous behaviour.)

Oh, I forgot there had also been musical statues-see ‘pass the parcel’ for a blow by blow account, just replace ‘pass the parcel’ with ‘musical statues’ instead.

We threw party bags at everyone, apologised profusely to our friends, and to the parents of nursery friends who we didn’t know, but were sure we’d never see again, and left the scene. I imagine the nursery friend parents will be speaking to the nursery leaders, to ask if they can make sure their children aren’t allowed within 20 feet of ours, and will be getting advice about restraining orders.

Me and Mr W responded by getting a babysitter that night, and going out for a debrief-our own party, involving vodka and Miss Millies.

(Twisting-what I am currently unable to do…)

Thanks for the song title, Elton John, that just about fits in with my PCOS series! Yes, this cyster, is currently unable to twist (well, go to the gym,) because of flipping back pain… I’ve had back pain on and off since I was a teenager-too much dance practice, and then a career in nursing, has meant that a few times a year, my back just says ‘um, no. F**k this, we will not let you stand up straight, you will  hobble around like a lady approaching 100, with extreme scoliosis, and you will have shooting nerve pains in your arse and legs that will make you feel sick-until I say otherwise.’ Which is usually for about 2 weeks, then off it trots again.

It’s been two weeks, and it’s only really marginally better. I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to make it to the gym next week or not. I’m making a massive deal of this issue, because I have only ever been able to shed weight, and maintain it, by exercising myself almost into oblivion. I’ve never been one of those people who can do it from good diet alone. So I’m massively pissed that this is hindering my weight loss, which was coming along much better than expected. It also makes looking after small, planky, tantrummy humans difficult too, but it’s the exercise I’m most bothered about.

I have lost 2lbs, taking the total up to 20lbs, but I really wanted to be well over 21lbs by now. I’ll just have to be patient, and wait until next week to see what happens. I also may have hindered myself a bit, by using alcohol for, erm, medicinal purposes a few times in the last 2 weeks of enforced resting. That’s another reason the gym is good for me-I find it really hard to train, if I’ve even had one drink the night before. Gone are the days where I could drink till the early hours, and still get up early and work out (the thought of that is making me dry heave,) so I need that extra incentive to avoid my relaxation and sanity juice.

I’ll leave it there, short and sweet, but I will add in that meal and recipe planner that I promised last time, sometime next week, for those who have messaged to ask for them!

March is National Bed Month! If you’re anything like me, and still can’t get used to sharing a bed with someone, even after all these years, then to #ReclaimYourMattress sounds like a great idea! Shove out the other half, and star fish all night, with the comfort of having the whole mattress to yourself! Reclaiming it from your children invading it, is also top of some peoples list…! I had a nightly bed invader, and with two extra people snoring, kicking, and the little one needing to be touching some part of me at all times, there was very little sleep going on for me. But now I’ve made up a little bed for him on the floor next to me, so he just gets in there, and it’s more sleep all around!

So, reclaiming your mattress in that way, sounds fab! But more seriously, probably reclaiming it from smaller, more microscopic critters, may be more important…! I’m sure everyone knows by now, that I’m not the cleanest, or tidiest of people. That hasn’t always been the case, my house was always clean and tidy to a good standard, but then…children.

 

Obviously being ever present for my children has taken precedence over cleaning-as it should (umm, or forcibly having to be present to stop all my stuff getting broken, and peoples eyes gouged out, then collapsing on the sofa of an evening seeming more fun than anything else-those are the actual true reasons…)

 

Having my parents stay at our house, in our bed, to look after the children while we went away, made me realise that our bed was in a bit of a state. I became the statistic of being a member of the quarter of us who are embarrassed to let others see the state of our mattresses…!

 

Between the 13th-26th March, Vorwerk has a dedicated campaign to help you #ReclaimYourMattress from uninvited guests (of the microscopic variety-Jeffrey Dean Morgan is still very much invited.) Our mattress is around 8 years old, and this means that it could have actually doubled in weight, thanks to human debris, and dust mites-I know… Our mattresses can also soak up the half a pint of fluid that we lose every night (!!!!) or more, if, like us, you regularly seem to have fevers from being stressed and constantly run down! Mix this with yearly pound of skin we lose-what a great recipe for ickiness!

 

Also, ya know London? That place with the massive population, always busy? Well, the equivalent population of London could be living in your mattress. Yep-10 million bugs and dust mites can set up home in your mattress in one year-that’s effectively the entire population of London camping where you sleep-which would be quite the fun statistic, if it didn’t make you itch all over, and want to sleep on the floor, rather than your bed! Some information suggests that some people don’t actually wash their sheets more than three times a year-ok, I’m bad, but no that bad!! I think when the little one was born, he may have peed in our bed, and I didn’t wash the sheets for about 2 months afterwards, but hey, I had him plus a 15 month old! I do wash the sheets more frequently than that now! Beds filled with debris, may also cause less support and comfort (maybe why I have a bad back at the moment?!)

 

Here are the six top tips for cleaning your mattress!

1 Treat it like a carpet, and vacuum it. My children are over their fear of the vacuum, and like to help with it now-I give them a little hand held one to do the mattress with.

2  Vorwerk have a specialist mattress dry cleaning kit, which is part of the VK200 vacuum cleaner . Part of it rubs cleaning powder into your mattress, and the other vibrates to loosen the dirt, then sucks out all the dust and icky stuff!

3  Rotate and flip-this is an easy one!

4  Don’t clean it with water-I think this is a pretty self explanatory one-it’s going to be difficult to ever get it dry, and will just provide a better breeding ground for your population of London, marching around in there.

5  Deodorise it. A useful tip is to sprinkle baking soda over it, leave for 30 minutes, then vacuum away.

6  Use a mattress protector. It may be too late for our mattress (after the said visit from my parents, my mum had put a mattress protector on ours before we got back,) but these stop sweat etc from actually reaching the mattress. I wish we had used one of these from the start, with our mattress!

By heading to the Vorwerk site, you can win a Kobold VK200 with a mattress cleaning kit, to help you #ReclaimYourMattress To enter, visit the site between 13th-18th of March.

This post contains sponsored content.

There was once a woman who lived in the South of England. She was wife of a Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and slave to the role of parenting. Nobody ever listened to a word she said, or ate anything she cooked. She was either found repeating herself like a useless parrot, into an abyss, or trying to reduce the size of her cellulitic, insulin resistant ass, by #shabammingtheshitoutoflife and letting out a bit of wee.
She had started to wonder if she had anger management issues. She had always prided herself on being calm-in her old job as a nurse (pre #shabammingtheshitoutoflife and incontinent days,) she was often referred to as ‘the calm one,’ or ‘the kind one.’ Outwardly, she mused, she was probably still those things, except pretty much 99% of situations nowadays, led to her screaming a stream of expletives in her head, or into the abyss (98% of the time out of earshot of the children, but she was only human, and has let out the occasional shit and twat around them. They don’t listen to a word she says though, so it’s ok, they’ve never repeated it.)
Old ladies tutting at her moaning children in coffee shops-old her thinks: ‘oh gosh, I really must stop inconveniencing these poor people.’ New her thinks: ‘FUCK YOU, YOU CRUSTY OLD BINT.’
Her child at playgroup is trying to ride one of the bikes down a slope, with the moderate threat that he might fall off. Another mum tells him he shouldn’t be doing it. She tells him it’s ok. The other mum won’t leave it alone. Eventually the little one is crying because of the other mum’s persistence, eventually leading to her blocking his path. Old her thinks: ‘She only has his best interests at heart, she doesn’t mean to be completely annoying.’ New her thinks: See above.
She watches a barista put ice in her children’s drinks while taking them out for a treat. Old her thinks: ‘Oh dear, brace yourselves for the shit storm peeps! You’re just about to ruin my children’s day my love!’ New her thinks: ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?????? WHAT ARE YOU DOING??????? WHY ARE YOU NOT PSYCHIC, DON’T YOU REALISE MY CHILDREN HATE HAVING ICE IN THEIR DRINKS, AND WILL MOAN LIKE HILDA ACROSS THE ROAD DOES ABOUT HOW HER PILES, YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE!’
People moaning on Facebook, about the same things-old her thinks: ‘Oh dear, I hope they feel better for moaning about that for the millionth time.’ New her: ‘You stupid reprobates, just find some more meaning in your lives, for the love of God!’
And her current favourite-people making a huge announcement that they’re having a social media ‘clear out,’ old her thinks: ‘Oh gosh, I hope I’m not cleared out, I will wonder for years whatever I did to offend them.’ New her thinks: ‘If Jeffrey Dean Morgan followed me on social media, and announced he was having a clear out, and got rid of me, I’d be devastated, and would probably cry. ANYONE ELSE AND YOU DON’T NEED TO MAKE THE BIG BLOODY ANNOUNCEMENT!! JUST. STOP.
I’m sure you’re all getting the picture. She even has a friend she messages for certain rants, and asked that friend the other day, if she thought she had an anger management issue. Said friend kindly recommended a yoga DVD, and a headspace mindfulness app…
There could be many reasons for the woman’s ‘problem.’
She could maybe just not be walked over in the same way she had been accustomed to being.
She had previously astounded herself with the fierceness to protect her offspring, which made herfar less quiet than she had ever been-maybe this had carried on, and she was turning into the feisty woman she always wished she’d been.

Maybe she was starting to realise that she gave less of a crap about the less important things in life, and wished everyone else was the same.

Maybe being asked for snacks 5 minutes after every unfinished meal, had finally driven her round the twist.

Maybe the lack of personal space, proper working conditions, lack of adult company, and scrutiny of her every bowel movement for the last four years, had finally become too much.

Whatever the reason, she didn’t like it too much, and will be working on it over the next few weeks.

Just don’t say that this sometimes happens to ‘women of a certain age,’ she might punch you.