Stuck at home

Today has been of those days I do not relish as a parent. A full day at home. We are due to take delivery today of one of Blake’s Birthday presents – a playhouse. It is now 8.45pm and I am still waiting. The company delivering said playhouse were unable to specify the time they would arrive meaning that I was dimly aware that we might be house-bound for the day. I was however blindly optimistic that OF COURSE the delivery would happen in the morning and then we could hop in the car and mooch over to Solihull and waltz into Lakeland to pick up the TEN TONNES of icing I have ordered for the wildly ambitious Birthday cake I am planning to make and will inevitably balls up and turn over to my husband to redeem. No such luck.

I am not a good stay-at-home parent. In fact, I am awful. I am not good at staying at home in general – I like to get out and about, to do something with my day, to get some fresh air, to come into contact with others of my species. Team this with trying to keep a verging-on-three-year-old-boy, who has inherited this same restlessness, entertained indoors for a full day and it’s no wonder we ended the day stalking round each other like a pair of wildcats about to have a brawl.

Some parents are brilliant at staying in. They have endless activities they can bring to mind at the merest threat of rain, bags full of crafty supplies, pots of lovingly prepared play-dough and gloop and glitter and crepe paper to while away the hours in happy companionship. I am something of a vacuum in this area. Blake is not into craft. He is into trains and the sandpit, the TV and Thomas books. And so I have no real supplies and a severely limited range of ideas.

I read a cracking thing a few months ago, which compared toddler boys to dogs. It spoke of things like their love of eating food off the floor, their love of sticks. What it also spoke about, and what rang true for me, was the need to exercise your toddler boy outdoors. By approximately 10am. Otherwise all hell breaks lose. Certainly true in my experience. Last Autumn/early Winter Blake and I fell into the pleasing habit of going to the park early on a Saturday morning. We’re always up on a Saturday because James works, so we’d just muffle up, load into the car, and off we’d go. We were always the first there but by 10am there were other parents rolling in, even in the pissing rain, nearly always with a toddler boy or two in tow. It is just a thing with boys I think. By 10am Blake is fed up with the house. He doesn’t want to play with any more toys. He wants out. Or he wants TV and there is really only so much TV you can do in a day before starting to feel like a truly awful parent. And so out we go – even if just a walk to the Co-op up the road to buy some chocolate buttons or a crappy Night Garden magazine. WE HAVE TO GET OUT.

Because otherwise by 5pm, you as a parent are seeking out any and all alcohol and having that awful ‘when is it bedtime/can I bring tea forward half an hour/shall we skip the bath tonight he’s not that grubby’ string of thoughts that then eat you up with guilt once your child is in bed and you sit glumly wondering why you thought such things about the brightest thing in your life; and as a child you are on your back on the sofa, screeching at the top of your lungs because you are so bored and frustrated, throwing a punch or a kick (or in our current case, SPITTING OH JOY) at anyone who comes near.

And so today has been challenging. The weather at least has been kind and allowed us a morning in the garden. Which went well until 11am hit and Blake crashed. I don’t know if it is just my child, or all children, who around the age of three drop all their cues. When you have a baby, once the initial shock, exhaustion and blind panic has passed, you become a cue ninja. Your child only has to cock their head in a certain way or give off a particularly pitched squawk, to send you running in the knowledge that you have exactly 4 minutes and 23 seconds to get some milk into them before utter chaos occurs. And then at about this age the cues disappear. And life goes: potter potter potter potter, playing with my trains, potter potter, put the train in the sandpit, potter gosh what fun, have a go on the slide, potter potter, isn’t life lovely PITCH FORWARD ONTO THE GROUND FACE FIRST AND HOWL WITH HUNGER/THIRST/EXHAUSTION.

So there was a garden meltdown. And then a battle over nap-time (needs one but does not want one), a battle over my inability to mind read what he wanted for lunch, a string of banana based dilemmas, and then we ground to a halt at 3pm and I decided we’d make biscuits! CLEVER MUMMY HAD INGREDIENTS FOR AMERICAN SUGAR BISCUITS. Which went really well until approximately 20 seconds into the creaming of butter and sugar, at which point Blake recognised this task to be the hard, dull, cramp-inducing arse that it is and bailed on me.

I ploughed on and made biscuits. He trashed his railway track.

My Mum popped in to see us, recoiled at our frantic, strained expressions, stayed far longer than she should have helping Blake fill the sink up to the top with water and pull the plug a few times, helping me out with some chores (thank you x), before gulping down a scalding hot cuppa and running for the hills.

I resorted to footage of steam trains on YouTube. We disagreed over Spaghetti Bolognese. We disagreed over the bath. He eventually ate some banana and we found 20 minutes of peace snuggled up on the sofa reading Thomas books.

Then the bedtime/wildcat brawl.

I am now prowling by the door, bowl of Haribo in hand, ready to greet trick or treaters. No-one so far has shown up either to scavenge sweets from me or present me with this sodding playhouse. If they call and tell me the delivery has been rearranged for tomorrow I may start plucking my nostril hair out in between eating this mountain of Haribo and Sugar Biscuits, trying to figure out how ON EARTH we make tomorrow marginally more successful.

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dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

And now we run

Sorry for the absence. James has been at home most of the evenings this week as he has been on a course about diabetes, and I’ve ditched you for the chance to have dinner with my husband. I know I said I’d blog about Essex, and I’m sure you’re all hanging off your seats ready to don a nappy and pee yourselves in excitement about that blog, but you shall just have to wait.

James was diagnosed with diabetes at 8. Before I knew him, I knew very little about diabetes. I knew of diabetes – vaguely recalled having studied it in GCSE Biology in between rounds of making a fake cigarette out of paper filled with talcum powder which I ended up swallowing (the talc, not the paper) and fashioning pants out of paper for the skeleton that hung at the front of the lab. I absolutely did not understand its severity. I did not realise the ritual of it, day-in-day-out testing one’s blood sugar, thinking about what one eats, dosing insulin, trying to strike the delicate balance between the two that will keep you ticking over nicely. Nor did I realise the potential implications – the soaring sugars that threaten vital organs, eyesight, fingers and toes; or the plummeting blood sugars that will send family running for Lucozade or calling 999 in the middle of the night. Diabetes is crap. And having loved someone with it for neigh on 10 years, it is frightening.

James handles his diabetes with a grace that confounds me. He just deals with it. Wherever he goes, so too goes a bottle of Lucozade, a stock of insulin and his test kit. He never complains and never uses it as an excuse. He never feels sorry for himself. I don’t know other diabetes sufferers well enough to know whether this is a place you get to with this disease – because it’s chronic – and so you reach a place of calm. I just know I am amazed by his ability to handle it, because if it were me I would feel bloody sorry for myself.

Anyway – this week he has been on a brilliant course, the DAPHNE course, which is a revolutionary new programme to manage diabetes. It seems to have been great. He has changed the way he uses insulin, he counts carbs with scientific precision, he interrogates all manners of lifestyle factors and better understands how they will affect his blood sugar.

This also coincides with him having completed the Birmingham Half Marathon. With a stinking cold. In 2 hours 5 mins. I am very proud and I hope I don’t sound like a patronising arse in saying that.

And so you find me, whimpering quietly in the corner. I feel rather like someone of git-ish proportions has injected concrete into my calves and ankles and then punched me in the back. I am covered in Tiger Balm. Yesterday, I went running. I have not done any serious cardio for over three years, so it’s no surprise I’m hurting. I managed three miles, which is three more than anticipated, but I now cannot currently get off the sofa without emitting a high pitched squeak.

My reason is twofold. Firstly because I am basically just an excitable puppy. OH HELLO HELLO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS LOOKS LIKE FUN! PLEASE MAY I PLAY TOO OH IT DOES LOOK LIKE FUN OH PLEASE OH PLEEEEEEEASE OH DO SAY I CAN PLAY! I have dashed myself off and gone running-shopping. I am all-the-gear-no-idea. I have purchased shoes, trousers, a light reflecting jacket for the winter and a headband to keep my ears warm because that of course is WHAT IS IMPORTANT here.

Secondly because if my knees do not betray me, which they have done roughly each year since my late teens, demanding bouts of acupuncture to correct (which is a funny thing – chatting to your acupuncturist and looking down to find your knees have been turned into pincushions without your being aware of any needles being tapped into them), then I am hoping to run next year’s Half Marathon myself. If I get there, I’ll run for Diabetes UK. Because I’d like to help generate some funding and because I feel like this gives me a way to support my quiet, calm, unassuming kickass Husband beyond sometimes nudging him to check his blood sugar.

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dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Cold sore

I have a cold sore. I am irrationally upset about this. I have NEVER had a cold sore before. I have existed for 30.5 years, cold sore free; have lived through far more stressful times than this, had horrendous colds, been a little raver, been run down to the point of collapse, and at no stage has there been the merest hint of a cold sore.

At least my local Lloyds Pharmacist, who kept about 12 foot away from me and barely looked at my face before thrusting a tube of Zovirax at me, thinks it is a cold sore. If not, it is a bacterial infection and I should see my doctor. JOY.

Is it wrong that that seems preferable to HERPES? I have had a bacterial infection before – a memorable dose of Cellulitis which struck me down on the first weekend of my new job when I was due to represent my company at an exhibition at the ExCeL centre in London and instead sat forlornly in my hotel room, slightly off my face on masses of antibiotics prescribed by the local A&E, with my Cellulitis ridden foot that resembled something you’d find on the end of an elephant’s leg rather than a human’s, elevated, waiting for my poor Dad to drive all the way from Birmingham to collect me. That gives you a tale to tell believe you me! Cold sores do not. ‘Hey – the Herpes virus has been lying dormant in the nerves on my face for three decades but I’LL TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED THIS WEEK! BIG OPEN COLD SORE!’

I like being physically clean. James will confirm, if you ask him, that this verges on OCD-esque at times. I cannot cope with the idea of being grubby. If I have had a night on the tiles, I cannot sleep a second night in the pyjamas I lay my poor pissed self down in. They go straight in the wash the next morning. My best friend Liz A will attest to my being traumatised when we visited the Dorset Steam Fair (I didn’t know such a thing existed either. My friend Laura tells me this can actually be a real hoot of a weekend but my memories are not pleasant) with my work one Summer and I came back to the B&B one evening with actual smuts of coal on my face. I had to exfoliate. And on the one occasion so far that I have been to Glastonbury, I put my entire head under a cold water tap (apparently – I don’t remember) and WASHED MY HAIR IN COLD WATER IN THE MIDDLE OF THE MOST RAINY GLASTONBURY YET because I couldn’t cope with the thought of how dirty it was. And I also, having used the let’s be honest grim toilet facilities at Glastonbury for two days, became so fixated on the concept that I smelt of wee (mine and other peoples) that I had to wait until my tent-mate Hannah had gone to sleep and then scrub myself all over with the best part of a pack of baby wipes before I felt I could sleep.

So how in the name of all that is FRAGRANT have I got HERPES?! I am so distressed by this. And I am panicing wildly because I kissed James at least twice yesterday to congratulate him on completing the Birmingham Half Marathon and I shower kisses on Blake ALL DAY LONG because I am so desperately aware that by the time he is 10 the last thing he will ever want is for his Mum to kiss him. So I am trying to pack in as many as possible now because that fact makes me sadder than I can say.

So not only so I have Herpes, I could be a spreader of Herpes. DOES. NOT. MAKE. ME. FEEL. CLEAN.

I know they have nothing to do with cleanliness. I know they are a common thing, probably passed on when someone kissed me as a child (SCREEN YOUR FRIENDS BETTER MUM AND DAD SOMEONE HAS *gasp* HERPES) and Alexa Chung gets them loads according to my friend Sophie, but I am still upset. Because they don’t exactly look pretty and they actually bloody hurt (‘tingle’ MY ARSE) and so I am going to sit and eat my simple dinner of Quinoa (like an ARSE) and feel grubby and sad *sob* and hopefully get a grip.

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dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Today is the day: Thurs 16th October 2014

I was going to tell you all about last weekend, when I went out in Essex (I know, I’m 30 years old with a child, the concept of ME going out in ESSEX is indeed totes ridic). But today started and ended with something rather lovely, and totally nuts, so I thought I would tell you about that instead. Essex to follow.

The majority of our Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursday start with a little toddler-based resistance. Generally because this particular toddler’s particularly clumsy oaf of a Mother disturbs him in the morning by banging and crashing around the house and swearing quietly under her breathe whilst trying to get ready for work. And by resistance, read flinging of toys, choruses of ‘I DON’T WANT TO GO TO NURSERY, I AM VERY VERY CROSS, NO I WON’T SAY BYE BYE TO MUMMY I WANT TO WATCH CHUGGINGTON.’ I can’t blame him for this, in fact he is impressively articulate for a member of our family who has been disturbed from sleep – I can muster little more than a snarl and a flick of the Vs when in his boat.

No such wailing this morning! No, this morning I was a badass stealth ninja and got myself over the stair-gate (I climb over it to avoid waking him, which is my equivalent of hiking Kilimanjaro in terms of peril), down the stairs avoiding all of the creaky floorboards, into the shower, washed, out of the shower, into the Kitchen to make a pot of tea, back up the stairs again avoiding creaks, back over stair-gate, into room, dressed and ALL THE MAKEUP thrown onto my face without rousing him. I am a champion.

So Blake was one happy, rested toddler when he woke.

Of late, he has fallen madly in love with all of the teddies he has until now spurned. They have sat forlornly on top of his wardrobe, crying out to be cuddled and chewed and muddied in puddles, utterly disregarded. But all of a sudden, they are the bees-knees! And bedtime each night involves a highly complex round of negotiations, of trying and testing to determine the perfect teddies to be Blake’s bedtime companions for that night.

Last night, four were selected, one of which was the Very Hungry Caterpillar. Blake is quite mad for this book and its accompanying teddy at the moment. By the morning, Caterpillar had endured the topple of doom onto the bedroom floor, and I thought it might amuse Blake to covertly grab Caterpillar and make him peep up over the side of the bed when I went in to say good morning.

And amuse Blake it did. What I did not expect was what followed: ‘Can you make him dance Mummy?’ So Caterpillar did a little dance, which was met with thunderous applause and the request to ‘Sing a song for the dance Mummy.’ And so I conjured up a high pitched, Caterpillar-stylee version of Benny Hill (fitting soundtrack to my life).

And what should happen? ALL OUT RAVE.

I kid you not. With much shrieking and encouragement from Blake, who was immediately on his feet, jumping on the bed and dancing like a loon clutching his teddy and stuffed dog, I was suddenly screeching my unique rendition of Benny Hill, clutching a Caterpillar, dancing like I have not danced in 5 years and making a stuffed rabbit rave at the same time.

We kept this up for, I reckon, a good ten minutes. By the end! Caterpillar had danced over the bedstead and taken up residence on the top of it, Blake was screeching with laughter and I was doubled over, exhausted. I think I burnt one million calories.

I often find myself a little sad about the number of things Blake does or says each day which make me laugh or amaze me, because I know that when I look back at this year I probably won’t remember the majority of them. In the moment itself, they mean so much, but they are almost immediately lost.

But this one I will remember. I have recorded it here for posterity but even if I had not I believe this one would stick with me because for 10 minutes we had an absolute blast. It was an unplanned, unexpected moment of pure joy.

Come bedtime this evening, a repeat performance was demanded. I am shattered and happy. Children are brilliant and, as my friend Clare remarked the other day having watched her 2 year old Son insist on trying on blusher in our local Boots, B.O.N.K.E.R.S

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dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Today is (not) the day: Weds 8th October 2014

This blog comes to you from the bath, where I have retired with my shark showercap to reflect on the events of today. It has not been a catastrophic day by any stretch of the imagination, but there have been a few hiccups.

A book club runs every month at work and I participated in this month’s, reading a book called The Chimp Paradox, which you may or may not have heard of. Opinion was pretty divided about it at today’s Review meeting, but I’ve found it pretty helpful. I might write a separate blog about it along the line.

Anyway, we were talking about the concept that every day you should work towards one thing that makes you happy, and a Colleague talked about her Sister’s approach to life which is to imagine the absolutely worst outcome to any scenario, so that she is prepared for it and anything above it is a win. I think that’s a fairly depressing way to frame each and every day of your life, but it did make me review today’s nonsense afresh. Today was actually a funny series of cock-ups, which is an area in which we know I excel. And you all seem to like reading about such things and writing about them makes me happy – so there’s that, and then there’s the perspective that if tomorrow is slightly less silly I can near-as-damit rule it a triumph. If not, I can at least raise a few smiles.

Today started at 3.15am. Blake is going through a little phase of waking up and being WIDE AWAKE at this time and for the subsequent hour or so. We tag team it and so it’s not been hugely disruptive to our sleep, but this morning’s wide-awake-ungodly-hour was served up with a dose of hearty coughing. Now I’m sure all the Mums out there know already that there is a BLOODY MAGIC trick you can do that will help in about 50% of cases with coughs, which is to smear a hefty dose of Vicks rub on the soles of your child’s feet, bang on a pair of socks and leave them to it. Often this does the trick, somehow soothing the cough. So that was the option I plumped for in my sleep-addled state at 3.30am, and it did indeed do the trick. What it also allowed me to do was wipe a healthy portion of Vicks into my eye as I rubbed my palms into my eye-sockets like the sleepy toddler I regress to at such times, having forgotten to clean my hands. And here I can divulge another truth. Bloody magic on feet. Bloody painful in the eyes.

And then the M5/M6, an uninspiring bit of motorway at best, has proffered up ample opportunities to acknowledge its grim grey scenery this week by being slow-moving at best and gridlocked at worst. With the choice of my route to work being gridlock or magical mystery tour of the Black Country in the pissing rain, I opted for the latter. Let’s be honest, it’s not an option that would have encouraged Wordsworth to leap from the earth and pen a lyric, and it was topped off by a rain beleaguered pedestrian walking straight into my path at a junction, helping me to master the art of emergency stopping and biting my tongue in tandem.

It’s been raining today, did you notice? Did I mention it? We have a couple of different buildings at work meaning we trot across the carpark periodically to attend meetings. This is really no chore – gets you away from your desk, burns a few calories and is do-able in the teeming rain thanks to Management having the foresight to have placed an umbrella-holding-receptacle holding copious umbrellas in the main entrance to each building, allowing us to grab and dump brollies around site as we wish. A great move, unless you are a moron in which case you might like to work towards any or all of the following:
1. Forgetting the swipe pass that gains you entrance to all buildings and not having the foresight to think the fact that the sky is black as coal might mean rain is imminent. Finding yourself exposed in the middle of the carpark as the heavens open with no brolly and no way of getting into any building until another Colleague arrives and swipes you in with them.
2. Having the foresight to grab a brolly, but getting it tangled up in some railings and nearly dislocating your shoulder in the untangling process.
3. Again, grabbing a brolly (CLEVER MORON) but being so caught up in humming ‘Singing in the Rain’ that you walk straight into the biggest puddle going, leaving you with a soggy trouser leg and squelchy shoe for several hours.

On the subject of shoes, managing the possibly unprecedented task of losing one shoe in your own car. The success of finding said shoe, hidden deep under the car seat, tainted slightly by the act of toppling forward into the footwell whilst reaching for rogue shoe and balancing (unsuccessfully) on the heel of the shoe you could find.

For bonus points, I am growing, two days in advance of a rare night out, a humongous spot on my forehead which may well be an act of rebellion by my brain as it tries to escape from the clutches of its moron keeper.

So that’s it then – a day where I have been quite the idiot. Here’s hoping it drew a wry smile from you. Writing about it has amused me at the very least.

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dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Let’s have a chat

I was a right little raver in my twenties. Here’s the evidence:

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Note the youthful complexion. Long glossy hair. General slenderness. *cries*

Back on track, yes a right little raver. Give me a field, or a grubby warehouse, or a S.U.P.E.R.C.L.U.B; a pair of flat boots (flat because I am a GIANT with NO control of my legs), a denim skirt, a racer back vest and a truck load of black eye-liner; a cheap and nasty tooth rotting alcopop; and overlay it all with a soundtrack that went DOOF DOOF DOOF DOOF DOOF *KLAXON* DOOF DOOF DOOF DOOF *wooooooooooooo!* and James and I were in our element. (I was not really a very good raver – flagging by 2am and invariably tucked up in bed by 4am with a pint glass of water and a straw and the prospect of the mother of all lie-ins stretching out in front of me as I slipped into a sore-footed, plastered, contented sleep.)

And did I turn my long nose up at anyone who was not a clubber?! ‘The pub?!’ I would shriek and chortle and scoff to myself. ‘The pub is just a drink stop on the way to the club! Who are these people who spend a night at the pub?! How frightfully frightfully dull, to choose the art of conversation over the art of DANCE and DOOF DOOF DOOF.’ Quite the obnoxious little clubber was I.

Because I just loved to dance and at the time I thought dance music was simply the best music in the world. And I lived in BIRMINGHAM! The home of GODSKITCHEN! And the Custard Factory! And I went to The University of Sheffield! HOME OF GATECRASHER! And Bed Nightclub! And we weren’t far from Stratford upon Avon and GLOBAL GATHERING. Woo and indeed hoo! Dance was in my blood, like, you just don’t understand how much I love it and Daft Punk are the undisputed genii of our time (let’s gloss over Random Access Memories) and on and on and on I wanged.

I have very happy memories of my ravey days. James and I were a new couple, falling in love to a backdrop of funky house, with no real commitments and plenty of disposable income to burn on nights out I will always remember with real fondness. We had Emily and Andy, our raving partners in crime, and we danced our socks off to Daft Punk, Faithless, Basement Jaxx, Pendulum, Digitalism, Sneaky Soundsystem and countless other acts over a series of memorable Summers that I think, when I am old and (more) grey and look back on my time, will crystallise into a series of images and nuggets of memories that I will label as my reckless youth.

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But of course, such things are not sustainable. Fall in love James and I did, and marriage and a family and a whole new world of glorious opened itself up. And the very things I scorned in my twenties have become precious. The pub, with your friends or family, or both, with a nice glass of something and time to idle away in chat is really a very very nice thing.

Conversation, especially when you have a toddler who is always on the hunt for the next opportunity to build a train track or race around the garden, becomes a commodity that you thoroughly enjoy. And dancing? Well dancing can wait, or can be confined to rocking around the Kitchen to Bob the Builder’s Megamix.

I have had some glorious weekends of late. My friend Kate’s Wedding – a happy, glorious day in the company of the girls (women?!) I went to University with, and their Husbands and their children – a real summing up of our growing up and a beautiful day of sitting and eating and chatting together. I loved it.

And weekends with my in-laws, sitting in a pub garden while Blake explored (trashed) the beginnings of a bonfire and trundled his trains over picnic benches and we just sat with a drink and talked.

And Saturday nights with my parents, who so regularly come and have dinner with me and keep me company while James is as work, and the nice little post-dinner coffee routine we have fallen into where we chat about everything and nothing for half an hour.

I don’t regret my dancing days one bit. But neither do I regret that I, or actually we, have moved on. I am happy for 24 year olds to pour their scorn on me for choosing a chat over a rave. Which is not to say I wouldn’t be happy to join friends for a little boogie here and there (I might be *am* going to Sugar Hut this weekend IMAGINE THE PACKING DISASTER THAT WILL BE.) I am just less of a brat these days, and I have run out of glow-sticks.

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused

Shut up you utter utter idiot

Good grief is it really only Wednesday? ONLY WEDNESDAY? Is it actually Wednesday 1st October 2015? Has a whole year gone by – because it feels like it has. I am tired to the tips of my toes, my sinuses feel like they are filled with concrete and after a day sat under a malfunctioning light at work (now fixed, BIG UP FACILITIES LIGHT MAN you friendly cheeky chap who always comes to save the day) FLICKER ON FLICKER OFF I WISH I WAS A 90s DISCO LIGHT FLICKER ON, I have a headache that is hanging on for dear life like a monkey would cling to the last banana in the world.

I am sure this is the reason for the unholy number of parenting stuff-ups this week. I have repeatedly done that thing where you open your mouth and as you are in the process of saying something realise the extent to which your words are in fact a missile that is already cruising from your mouth, over your shoulder, down your back and heading straight in the direction of your arse where it will bite you viciously and repeatedly whilst you internally scream SHUT UP YOU UTTER UTTER IDIOT in the full knowledge that the words are already out there and there is no taking them back.

In the last 24 hours…

‘Do you know whose Birthday it is today Blake?’
‘IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!’
‘Well no, it’s your Birthday in a month. Today is it Tyde’s Birthday.’
‘NO IT ISN’T! IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!’
‘Well, it’s nearly your Birthday…’
‘And today it is my PARTY’ *you know about parties?!*
‘Um… Well today is a nursery day!’
‘I WANT MY PARTY MUMMY’ *oh piss it, you’re not even getting a party because we’ve just booked night flights to Singapore 2 weeks after your Birthday HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER TODDLER ON A NIGHT FLIGHT BAH HA HA HELP ME*

‘Do you like cake Blake?’
‘I WANT CAKE MUMMY’
‘Oh… I don’t actually have any cake’ *meltdown*

‘Right then, is it bedtime?’ *why did you make that negotiable you donkey?*
‘No Mummy.’ *meltdown*

‘Ok Blake, it’s time to change your nappy! Do you want to hear your options for where we can change it?’ *stop asking questions!!*
‘No I’m too busy.’
‘We can use your changing mat or you can lie on the floor?’
*meltdown*

Blake farts
I snigger
Blake runs around shouting ‘I did do a little trumpy’ and screams with laughter. *nice reinforcement*

Car cuts me up on drive home
‘Oh you dildo!’
*from backseat* ‘DILDO!’ *sigh*

There is a fundamental block in my brain, that I would like to blame on tiredness or busyness or stress or anything really but is actually just a fundamental part of idiot me, that prevents me from thinking before I speak.

All of the above scenarios could have been so easily avoided:
1. Don’t give your toddler room to negotiate when you want them to do something
2. Don’t swear in front of them
3. Don’t offer them up a gift wrapped opportunity to think it’s their Birthday, or that cake is available
4. Don’t laugh at farts

I’d really like to think that somewhere along the line I’ll learn WISDOM and stop walking into these scenarios head first with open arms. But let’s be honest – we’re nearly three years in now so it’s looking unlikely.

Happy Birthday Pa! X

dazedandmumfused is on Twitter @dazednmumfused and Instagram: dazedandmumfused