Two glasses of wine

The dawn of the internet era and the rise of ‘honest’ parenting being available for all to see, has seen (in my opinion,) the evolution of The Wine O’ Clock Mum come full circle. I’m certain it’s always been there-my nan enjoyed a large brandy once her brood (of NINE! WTF nan, how did you even…?!) were in bed (the little ones,) or off down ‘Spin A Disc’ (the hangout of choice for the older ones.) My mum enjoyed a sherry (the only thing I judge there mum, is that sherry is VILE, but I’ll let you off, Prosecco wasn’t a thing then.) and I’m sure they sometimes (gasp,) had more than one, and I know from the stories they’ve told me, that they both had friends who knocked it back during ‘working hours’ too.

They didn’t have large whatsapp groups to post pictures of themselves at 7.01pm, holding a large glass, with thumb well and truly up. They didn’t have blogs to read, that told them that all the other mums were doing it too, so it was ok. They just did it, and probably poured another while dutifully getting dinner on the table, and sighing about what was in store for them the next day.

What the internet has done is:

1. Make it known that other mums found being a parent a bit hard.

2. Make it ok to want to reach for the wine at the end of the day.

3. Make it divisive-it’s ok apparently to openly call these parents out for being ‘slummy,’ and to put those who don’t choose the same end of day treat, into a different category.

4. Turn it into a cliché-the ‘war cry’ of the pissed off/tired/stressed/delete as appropriate mum. Enjoying wine as a parent, is apparently different to enjoying it when you aren’t.

I recently saw an advert looking for a parent to write a (click bait, troll inciting) article on why the end of day roll call of the parent shouldn’t be to reach for the wine-it wanted the writer to explore how life has come to this, and why it’s wrong. Why has it become such a cliché.

Well, I for one, love wine. I did before I had children-in a wine tasting holiday to the south of France kind of way. In a going to the pub after work kind of way. In the taking the edge off a stressful and shitty day at work kind of way. Nobody however, ever turned that into a cliché-it was just normal, and nobody ever gave it a second thought.

I have a grievance with these ordinary things, that you do all the time before you have children, being turned into something entirely different once they’re here. What’s the difference in a pre children instagram snap of me and my friends drinking after work, to one of me as a non working parent, drinking with my non working parent friends? It’s not always a ‘look what they’ve driven us too Lol!’ or ‘look, wine time before bedtime #badmum!’ It can be quite simply, ‘oooh, I’m going to sit down, now it’s quiet, and have a lovely glass of cold wine,’ like I used to after work. Like my parents still do now.

For me, I savour my husband flitting in from work and taking over bedtime, having the quickest shower, so that I can get into my pyjamas, and enjoy that lovely Gin and tonic-that is nothing to do with my children’s behaviour, or trying to be part of some post bedtime alcohol club-just simply because I like Gin.

I don’t do it to be cool, I don’t do it to try and put myself into some sort of parenting category. I don’t even do it every day-sometimes I have a herbal tea and go for a run instead. My appreciation of alcohol, and the fact that I’m a parent, are completely separate things. I am not the Wine’ O Clock cliché that the internet would have everyone believe, I’m just someone who appreciates good wine, who happens to be a parent.

waiting to use the toilet with orlistat

Have you heard of Orlistat? If you haven’t, here’s a treat! If you have, poor you…

I haven’t updated my ‘Cysters Are Doing It For Themselves’ series for ages. This isn’t because I fell off the wagon, walking around with carbs and dairy dangling from every orifice, or chucked my gym shoes in the bin for being completely unhelpful in my bid for unfattydom (not a word, but I like it.) It’s partly down to laziness-I had big plans to type up recipes, and buoy up my fellow Cysters with tribal hollers of ‘we can fucking do this,’ whilst getting a hashtag trending, about empowering PCOS losers (in the weight loss capacity obvs,) to carry on the ‘fight’ and the ‘journey,’ and other empowerment buzzwords. But I lost impetus, and also went a bit batshit and needed a break from writing. It was also mainly because I had nothing much to add, as after the initial loss of 28lbs, there have been about three months where I’ve lost nothing.

Nada. Sweet FA. I’d tried moving the scales around the house, in the hope that one room would hold some voodoo power, and tell me I weighed less. I’d imagine weightlessness (jeez, the desperation,) when weighing myself, and try and lift all my bodyweight towards the ceiling. I even announced them to be ‘fucking faulty,’ and got myself weighed properly, only to have a tantrum of frustration to be told they were, in fact, correct.

So off I trot to the GP, to see if there is any straw clutching thing that can be done. And she prescribed Orlistat. If you don’t know what this is, it basically takes 1/3 of the fat you eat, liquefies it into fluorescent orange oil, and you crap it from your body. I know.

I sat there as she prescribed it, half devastated that this was the only option left to me (because my diet isn’t that fatty right?? I don’t need them, they’re pointless, right??) and half smug that I wouldn’t be shitting the contents of a room full of 80’s disco goers clothes, because my diet is so fucking good.

I tried to be optimistic. At best, the tablets would take whatever fat got through my diet barrier, and would help, at worst, I might get a slightly grumbly stomach (which happens if you aren’t eating enough fat, apparently.) It turns out that Orlistat doesn’t like salmon. It doesn’t like avocado. It doesn’t seem to like you cooking anything with olive oil. It waits like the omnipresent predator that is, and liquefies the tiniest bit of fat that happens upon its evil clutches, and evacuates if from your body before you can scream ‘SHART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Every single meal became a silent prayer for my sphincter muscles to brace. I needed to stick a military training officer up there to scream at it to toughen the hell up. If I needed to go, I had to GO GO GO. And getting there in time was the easy part-imagine your entire south region then being covered with an oily lava, that just won’t for the love of GOD, come off. ‘Why are you in the shower again mummy??’ became the biggest FAQ of every day.

I’m actually happy with my diet as it is, and I feel pretty unwilling to cut out anything more (haven’t I already lost enough-cheese, I really fucking miss you. Never has anyone understood me more.)  If I cut out the remaining good fats from my diet, I’ll basically be living on nuts, raw vegetables, and despair. Imagine if I ate a McDonalds with these bastards??? I’d illuminate the whole of Bristol with fluorescent lava, in one tiny bum pump.

Enough, I’m not taking them (although interestingly, after the first five days, the scales did finally shift in the right direction by 3lbs.) But I already have to wear a pad for body combat, because of the likelihood I’ll roundhouse, punch, and piss myself. Double incontinence at 34 is not on my bucket list, I don’t have time for this (literal) shit. If I continue like this, you might as well check me into a care home, write my care plans for my double incontinence, and call me Mildred. Orlistat, it’s been a blast (from my ass at least,) but I don’t wish to form any long lasting partnership here. Off you trot back to Satan’s asshole, or wherever it was you came from.

 

 

lodge at bluestone

If you read my post last year, about our holiday to Bluestone, you will know how much the whole family loved it there. You can imagine how excited I was when we booked to go again this year, and I was then contacted by the Bluestone Bloggers programme, to see if I wanted to stay for a week as part of the programme-the week they offered, happened to be the week after we had already booked. So with a massive ‘yes,’ we decided that we’d stay for two weeks. We have never been away for two weeks with the children yet. We were worried. We thought it might be too much. We thought that two weeks worth of entertaining the children may have pushed us over the edge. None of that happened, because even after two weeks, we didn’t want to come home…

So what is Bluestone A selection of gorgeous lodges, in beautiful Pembrokeshire forest land. A tranquil, back to nature holiday camp, appealing heavily to the outdoorsy. It has everything you need on it’s car free site-a shop, restaurants, and a shed load of activities. For me personally, it’s a pretty unbeatable holiday destination…

Check in: This is easy-drive up to a check in booth, and do it all from the car. You can get early check in, meaning you can enter your lodge at 3pm, otherwise it’s 4.30pm. However, you can be on site from 11am, so we arrived around lunchtime, and I had a bag with me, full of stuff we might need, to last us until we could get in, and we had all the keys/info with us already.

outdoors at bluestone

 

Golf buggies/bikes: Get a golf buggy! Ok, if you’re into fitness, and enjoy cycling, you can hire bikes and cycle around, but our children just loved being driven around in the golf buggy-it’s a fun and handy way to get around, and it became an evening post dinner ritual that we’d go ‘out for a drive’ and find somewhere to stop/play for a while, before bedtime.

The lodges: We had a 3 bedroom lodge last year, which was HUGE, and the third bedroom (which is downstairs,) was a waste of time and money, when the children decided they were going to share a room! So this time we had a 2 bedroom Skomer lodge, which has 2 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms downstairs, and a large open plan living area upstairs. I won’t lie, it took a while to get used to the upside down living, and I prefer to sleep upstairs, but that is completely personal preference! The lodge was really spacious, decorated in lovely muted greens/taupes/beiges, which matched the lovely forest surroundings. My only criticism is that the fridge and freezer were tiny-we took a weeks worth of shopping with us, and couldn’t fit it all in, we had to decide what we were going to leave out/use quickly, and even throw away. Again, that’s personal preference, because I presume most people would only use it for essentials, and eat out a lot. But as I was trying to be a killjoy stick to my PCOS diet, I wanted to make my own food most nights.

The food on site: There’s several places to choose from to eat, on site. There’s the Wildwood Cafe in the Adventure Centre, which we didn’t try, but heard really good things about! There is also the Knight’s Tafarn-made to look like a traditional pub, serving traditional pub food. I expected it to be just ok here (I had a salad,) but the food was amazing, and everyone with us, said that they were also equally impressed.

Oak Tree restaurant was our favourite place-I allowed myself one evening of carbing it up, and I have to say, it was probably the best pizza I’ve ever eaten-and I don’t say that lightly!! My brother, who is a very snobby foodie (he’d hate me for that, but it’s true,) said that his pasta dish was the best one he’s ever eaten too. This place is awesome!

There’s also The Farmhouse Grill, which we didn’t try, and Ty Coffi, which sold brilliant coffee, cakes, and my children would definitely vouch for the quality of the ice cream!

The best place to eat, for me, by far, was Camp Smokey. Right in the depths of the forest, this beautiful rustic area serves pretty basic BBQ food, while playing country music, and has the bonus of an outdoor fire pit for toasting your smores! It was an every afternoon occurrence for us, where we’d arrive back from wherever we’d been, and head straight to Camp Smokey for beer and wine for me and Mr W, and smores for the littles. A brilliant atmosphere, and something that makes Bluestone really special! There’s also a nightly shindig held there-sing for your dinner, and dance away!!

outdoors at bluestone

The activities: There’s a very handy play area/parks in the middle of the pub/restaurants, where you can quite easily see the children playing from the outdoor eating areas, or are welcome to take drinks in a plastic cup, in with you (bonus.)

The activitiy centre has a massive indoor climbing area, slides, ball pits, bouncy castle, soft play-everything you need for entertaining on a rainy day. There are loads of structured group activities, both indoor and out (some payable,) if that’s something of interest to you!

The Blue Lagoon swimming pool is loads of fun, with 3 different pools, to span all age/ability levels! The waves in the main pool are loads of fun! The slides look awesome, but we didn’t get to try them because we couldn’t leave our little non swimmers with just one adult.

Bluestone is an amazing base to explore the local area from-it really has some of the best beaches I’ve ever seen (I defy anyone not to be blown away by Barafundle Bay!) Here is a list of the things and days out that we (all!!) genuinely loved, while we were there:

Barafundle Bay: Not buggy accessible-you park in the nearby car park, then walk a steep flight of steps, across a cliff edge, and down more steps to the beach-be prepared to carry your things/children. Also no toilets/life guards, but it’s… just… stunning!!

Tenby/Castle beach: Tenby is a gorgeous town, one of the prettiest I know! And the beach is also gorgeous.

outdoors at bluestone

 

Folly Farm: A brilliant animal/vintage fun fair/park adventure, and currently the number one attraction in Pembrokeshire according to trip advisor!

Pembroke Castle: I thought mine (3and 4) were going to be too young for this, but they marched around every room, and loved it! Great grounds for a rest/picnic too!

Pembrokeshire Falconry: We booked an owl experience here, where the children got to fly the owls by themselves-they were completely entranced/in awe!! It was just us, and the handler, who was really knowledgable and great with the children.

Picton Castle and gardens: This is where the falconry experience was held, but another lovely castle and garden to look at.

The Dinosaur Park: This was my children’s FAVOURITE! A brilliant dinosaur ‘safari,’ and dinosaur trails through the woods, and there’s also loads of rides-which are all free once you’ve paid to get in. The children asked to go every day, once we’d been!

Bluestone, you were epic. We were sad to leave, but will absolutely be back.

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…?!

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.