Imagination: a fairy next to arailway line.

My children always want me to play with them. They seem physically incapable of playing by themselves, and I often have to ignore their pleas of ‘please mummy, PLEASE-WE DON’T WANT TO PLAY ON OUR OWN,’ not only because my house is a total shit tip, which is in grave need of my attention, but also because my imagination appeared to be completely dead.

They can hand me a Darth Vader, and they’ll be shouting: ‘And Luke Skywalker is going to jump out of God’s mouth, fall through heaven, collect eleven five ten thousand bajillion stars on his way down, then use the light power he collected to kill all the baddies, and the Ewoks will see him falling from God’s mouth and use power from their minds to save him. He will use his pants as a parachute, and use fart power to jet propel himself to somewhere safe, and the Ewok’s minds will stop him hurting himself, and build him a castle of chocolate to live in. What does Darth Vader do then mummy??’

‘Erm, get out his lightsaber and hurt some people?’

‘No mummy, that’s boring.’

‘Ok, yea, I am kind of lame…’

I always think that I could never write a children’s book, because I’ve lost that part of my brain that delights in simple, magical adventures. I can’t think of anything remotely exciting to bring to their games-I don’t know why they insist on trying to include me to be fair. I did think I’d completely lost all imagination-a brain deadened by a mundane adult life. That was, until a few recent car journeys…

I was getting really annoyed by someone driving a few inches from my bumper, recently. It’s the kind of driving offence I put up there with people who drive in the middle lane, and people who don’t indicate at roundabouts. ‘If he gets any further up my ass, he’ll need to use a condom,’ I muttered. ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY MUMMY?’ ‘Nothing!’ And my brain then proceeded to imagine a world where all bumpers were fitted with sensors, which when another car got too close, made a neon flashing sign rise up in the rear window, saying ‘STOP VIOLATING MY ASS, THIS IS YOUR FIRST WARNING.’ If they continued to drive so close, they’d get a second warning, then if they still didn’t back off, cars would spray theirs with condoms, which on impact, would cover their car with a corrosive material-surely a sure fire way to get people AWAY FROM MY ASS. Maybe repeat offenders could then have their heads placed on spikes at the entrance and exit to motorway junctions, along with those of people who drive in the middle lane, to serve as a deterrent to not be such a dick.

I realised I’d gotten massively carried away. I also realised I did in fact, have an imagination-just translating that into the innocence of my children’s games, is just a whole different ball game, right…?!

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.

So, we all know that there was once a mum who lived in the south of England. We know that she was married to a Keifer Sutherland lookalike. We know that in her household, nobody ever listened to a fucking word she said, or ate anything she cooked. We know that she has PCOS, which she is currently trying to kick the crap out of its carb hating/insulin resistant ass. We know that she tries to do this by sometimes #shabammingtheshitoutoflife.

Well, today’s story finds her on her way to #bodycombattheshitoutoflife. Except she arrives at the gym to find she *dramatic gasp* hasn’t shaved her armpits…

She is faced with several choices:
1. Turn around and go home. There is no place for female body hair in the gym.

2. #bodycombattheshitoutoflife with her arms pinned to her side. (That would be well worth filming surely.)

3. #bodycombattheshitoutoflife at the back of the room, and hope she isn’t mistaken for a gorilla during any of the punching move busting.

She scratched her head, and thought: WWGGD. What Would Germaine Greer Do?

Well, she’d probably not be at the gym for a start. She wouldn’t give a shit who didn’t like her wobbly, insulin resistant ass-she’d change it for no fucker.

If she did go inside, the woman mused that Germaine would probably strip off to her bra and knickers, and march in there all pubes blazing, plaiting her leg and armpit hair as she went, while singing ‘cast off the shackles of yesterday’ as per Mrs Banks from Mary Poppins fame.

She’d probably use her bikini line hair to make a rope to gag anyone who passed comment on her hairy status.

She definitely wouldn’t wear any makeup, and definitely wouldn’t suffer the same the woman once had, of going to a spin class with last nights makeup on, and getting to the car to find most of the mascara residing just under her eyebrows, and salty sweat streaks running through her foundation.

But, as the woman was a disgrace to feminists everywhere, she chose to ignore #WWGGD What Would Germaine Greer Do? And she went home. Oh well, at least it saved the double whammy embarrassment of possibly letting out a bit of wee during a round house, plus being mistaken for a gorilla.

On her way home she was telephoned by the Keifer Sutherland lookalike.

“Guess what just happened?????” He said, sounding horrified.

“What dear, it sounds terrible,” she replied.

“A client just said ‘you remind me of someone. Someone famous,’ and I said (probably with a swaggy point and a wink) I know, is it Keifer Sutherland, I get it all the time (probably a smirk in there at this point) and she said ‘no, I was thinking of DONALD Sutherland-his father’…”

The bit of wee that didn’t get to come out at body combat, then escaped at that moment, during massive amounts of giggling and snorting that ensued…😂😂

The moral of the story? Invest in a cap sleeved gym t-shirt so that you can indulge yourself in never shaving your armpits while having the added benefit of not being mistaken for a gorilla while basking in your own hairiness. And also, that at a certain age, you will come to resemble the father of the celebrity you love that everyone mistakes you for, and it will be really bloody funny to your younger wife…!!    

In a city in southern England, there lived a woman. She was the wife of a Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and slave to the role of parent, and no-one ever fucking listened to a word she said. Especially partial to totally ignoring anything she had to say, was the Keifer Sutherland she cohabited with, and the wise old elders with whom he had cohabited before her.

After spending billions of hours with her children, the woman felt she knew them best. She had developed complicated algorithms to parent by, in order to minimise them being total and utter assholes, all scientific and shit.

She knew that you NEVER point jovially out of the car window to point out something fun, because it’s guaranteed that at least one child would miss it, and spend the remainder of the journey demanding that you turn around so that they can see it. They will take their seat belts off and make random blackmails like ‘if you don’t turn around, I’ll scratch my bum, wipe it in your face, and throw Star Wars toys all over your bedroom floor when we get home,’ because they’re narcissistic dictators and life revolves around them. Once you’ve stopped to put their seat belts back on, to minimise risk of death, you end up turning around to show them the squirrel licking its nuts (freshly picked from the floor of course) that you thought would make them laugh at the time, and they will get their own way. They knew risk of death would make this happen, so the mum knew never to point out anything funny or unusual in the first place.

She knew never to go on long car journeys after lunchtime, because the complicated algorithms she had spent hours tearing her hair out over, stated quite clearly that being in the car after lunchtime was tantamount to giving children sedatives, and they would most definitely fall straight to sleep. Falling asleep at this time was banned, as the mum had years of experience to have developed the equation that: Children over 3 years of age sleeping in the car after lunchtime=no sleep in the evening and drunken behaviour=no wine and Netflix time for the mum and Keifer Sutherland lookalike.

She also knew that her children refused to walk anywhere, and loved the idea of riding their bikes, but fell out of love with actually riding them, approximately 5.7 seconds after getting on them.

(5.7 seconds later, fuck this shit, I’m getting off.)

So when the wise old elders with whom the Keifer Sutherland lookalike previously cohabited with, demanded that the mum, the Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and their offspring meet them at a place requiring a long post lunchtime drive home, where the paths were unsuitable for pushchairs, but did have an area for riding bikes, the mum consulted her Phd in Looking After Her Own Children, perused her complicated algorithms, scratched her head, and announced: ‘No, we can’t do that, because the children will fall asleep on the way home, you’ll become grumpy Keifer Sutherland lookalike, when they don’t fall asleep at the allotted bedtime, and behave like drunks who have been arrested. Furthermore, they will ask to get off their bikes after 5.7 seconds, and as the paths are unsuitable for pushchairs, I foresee that we will end up carrying them, and their bikes, and it will be no fun for anyone.’

The mum didn’t make these bold statements to be a Kelly Killjoy, she did it for the greater good of the family, and with everyone’s happiness in mind, and because she knew she was fucking right. But the Keifer Sutherland lookalike and the wise old elders said she was, in fact, a Kelly Killjoy, and she could shove her algorithms up her ass.

So off they trundled, and within minutes of arriving at their destination, the mum was not surprised to find that the children, as predicted, became bored of their bikes within 5.7 seconds, and refused to walk-insisting on being carried.

The mum smugly announced ‘well, as nobody listened to me, when I knew I was right, I’m not carrying anyone, or anything-you’re on your own, all of you.’ With belligerence that her drunk tired toddlers would be proud of, the mum lagged behind the Keifer Sutherland lookalike and the (not so) wise elders with whom he cohabited before, and smirked while watching them carry two toddlers, and two bikes between them. She resisted the urge to howl and cackle, and repeatedly shout I Told You So. It was a very satisfying moment.

Of course, on the way home, the children fell victim to the sedatives that the car apparently emits, and fell asleep. With further smugness, the mum announced to the Keifer Sutherland lookalike that he could deal with the drunk tired toddlers later on, while they were refusing to go to sleep at their allotted time, as he had poo poo’d her four years of military style training in order to gain the knowledge that meant she would always know best when it came to the children.

Later on, listening to him deal with the toddlers, while drinking wine and watching Netflix, the mum felt positively euphoric, like she never had before-this was turning into a very good day. And, he actually apologised later on that night, for thinking that her Phd in Looking After Her Own children, was not in fact, a valid or useful qualification. That never happens!

The moral of the story is: Women and mums are always right-that is all.

Have you fallen victim to #nooneeverfucking listens, when you know that you are right? Let me know in the comments below. #noonelistens #imalwaysright.

 

*my new post on attempting to kick some PCOS ass is now on the blog! I will be updating this page midweek, every week.

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My eldest was a very quiet baby in the evenings-he wouldn’t go to sleep, but if there was a chest available, he’d quite happily snuggle into it quietly, rummaging around for milk every now and again. Baby number two inevitably had to make up for what we’d lost out on the first time. He was on a mission to make us as crazy empathetic to others going through the same madness, by screaming non stop, from 6pm sharp, till 11pm, for the first 8 weeks. Big Ben and the talking clock actually were set by the start of his shrieking.

To amuse myself, and make myself feel better through the, quite frankly pointless, shushing, patting, feeding attempts, changes of scenery, numerous rubbish ‘remedies’ suggested to help him, I’d listen to music on my headphones and dance around a bit. My husband would be busy playing the baby soothing music, which of course did naff all, but made him feel like he was at least contributing to the cause.
Whenever I hear the songs that I used to listen to during that time, it reminds me that, as a lover of dance and movement, there is a song and a dance that sums up every part of my day…

The Morning: ‘Where did you sleep last night?’ (Nirvana.)
A question that is frequently asked in our house of a morning. One night recently, I went to sleep on the sofa because of my husband’s snoring, the smallest got into bed with the husband, who came to swap with me because he couldn’t cope with the smallest kicking him, and the eldest had at some point fallen out of bed, rolled underneath it, and slept there. ‘Morning everyone! Where did you sleep last night?’ A question I didn’t think I’d be asking my children until they were teenagers…!

When Everyone Is Up: Sleeping Bunnies (probably made up by a well meaning leader of a playgroup somewhere, many moons ago…) I like the first part of this song. The children lay down and pretend to be asleep. In our house, we like to drag this part out as long as possible, especially if it’s really early, and we are rubbing our bleary eyes and drinking our bodyweight in coffee. And also because once they start ‘hop little bunnies hop hop hop, hop little bunnies hop hop hop,’ you know that they will basically be running around for the rest of the day like deranged rabbits until they drop.

Trying To Get Out Of The Door: Crazy (Knarls Barkley.)
‘I remember when, I remember when I lost my mind…’ That’s me, after socks and shoes that have been put on one child, are taken off, while I’m putting them on the other, and while tandem pooing is taking place (always when we are trying to leave the house-everyone knows this is the primary law of sod.) It invariably ends with trying to bend two planking children, to try and get them into the pushchair.

While We Are Out: The Conga. Or the Buggyboard Conga.
You know when you’re doing a conga, and you are awkwardly bent in the middle, because you don’t really want your hips (or bits,) touching the person in front of you. And you know when nobody’s feet are actually in sync when doing it, and you end up kicking the person in front (while maintaining adequate distance from each other’s bits.) Well, pushing a pushchair with a buggy board, is like doing a permanent conga. You have a person between you and the pushchair handle, so you’re awkwardly bent in the middle trying to reach it. The board also constantly gets in the way of your feet, and you spend the whole…time… you are out, kicking the damn thing. It’s like a constant party, but with less people and nowhere near enough alcohol. ‘Na na na na, and we can do the (buggy board) conga!’

Throughout The Entire Day: The cha cha. Or the pelvic floor cha cha.
In the cha cha, there is a step called the lock step, where you find yourself with your legs locked, like you would if you were ya know, crossing your legs to stop you peeing yourself while you sneeze or cough. I add this little move in frequently to my day. Walk along, feel a sneeze, lock step, and carry on. I walk around doing the conga and cha cha, like a regular Flavia Cacace.

Any Mealtime: The Hokey Cokey.
We play the mealtime Hokey Cokey at every single meal, it goes like this: ‘You put the whole spoonful in, you take the whole spoonful out. In, out, in, out, f**k it, I’ll spit it on the floor…’ And repeat.

Bath Time: The Final Countdown (Europe.)
Ok, so after numerous songs that could potentially be all about bath time (Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head, Umbrella, I Will Survive) because my children always get more water on the floor than they keep in the bath, bath time always symbolises the Final Countdown to me. That final push until wine time, until Netflix time, until…quiet!

Bed Time: Wide Awake (Katy Perry.)
Of course they are. Having yawned through the afternoon, being prodded by me to keep them awake through the CBeebies bedtime hour, now it is time for them to actually sleep-THEY’RE WIDE AWAKE!!!!!! Time to bring out the big guns-‘there will be NO kinder egg tomorrow if you don’t go to sleep NOW! (Usually a winner in our house.)

When They’re Asleep: Survivor (Destiny’s Child.)
I definitely like to congratulate myself for surviving another day. And dragging out some noughties fashion, channelling Beyonce (and trying to get my husband to be Kelly or Michelle,) and banging out ‘I’m a survivor, I’m gonna make it, I will survive, keep on survivin’ is the ultimate way to do this, followed of course by…

Gin and Juice (Snoop Dogg)
A song title, and exactly what I want to do once the day is over, usually with the dulcet tones of Coldplay reminding me ‘nobody said this was easaaaaaaay….!

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