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…to Your Child’s Confirmation.
- Miss the most important meeting with lots of key information because you didn’t tattoo it on your forehead or write it in permanent marker on one of your children.
- Have a more organised friend drop off the workbook…then leave it in your car untouched for a week.
- Forget to choose a Confirmation name and then print out a list and in the style of ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’, choose one at random. Blindfold is optional. Still spin them round three times though, just for kicks.
- Go out the night before the Confirmation. Answer your phone in the pub and be reminded by your mum that your son is getting Confirmed the following day. Attempt to sound all breezy and nonchalant whilst thinking ‘F***! I haven’t got his clothes ready!’
- Ring husband, then attempt to direct someone towards a bag of clothes who, at the age of 36, has yet to look effectively for any item. Add to the confusion by not remembering whether they are in an Asda carrier bag or a Marks and Spencer’s one. You JUST KNOW they’re in a wardrobe…you just can’t remember which one. Then ask for your toddler to be put on the phone to try and get more sense out of him.
- Get up on the morning of the Confirmation early, if not bright. Scream like a banshee for the next two hours, knowing that you can absolve your unholy thoughts and hellish language in church. Resolve to go to Confession more regularly than every twenty five years.
- Get everyone in the car and check you’ve got everything. Double check…then slam the door shut at the exact moment you realise your house keys are still inside.
- Swear. A lot. Peer through the letterbox to stare wistfully at your keys that dangle temptingly at a distance that only Inspector Gadget with his ‘Go, Go, Gadget Arms’ could reach.
- Set off to Confirmation with a seven year old offering advice and worldly wisdom on how to commit the perfect break-in when you return.
- Get your child to fill in his workbook from the week before as you stop at the petrol station for nappies. Having run out once again, you are loathe to rely on Divine Intervention if your toddler decides to squeeze one out in the middle of the service. Especially as you can see in his eyes that it’s part of his grand plan to ensure the morning goes properly tits up.
- Show exemplary parenting skills by having your son balance his work precariously on a DVD cover whilst you shout out the answers and any tricky spellings from the front seat over the screams of a apoplectic toddler.
- Sit demurely through the service with a proud smile plastered to your face, all the while thinking, ‘How the hell am I going to climb a ladder in these heels?’
- Get back from the Confirmation service, stand around in Sunday Best and peer up at the solitary and very small open window on the top floor of the house. Then try to pick the lock with a handy paper clip that’s lying on the floor, initially confident that watching enough Hawaii 5-0 makes you an expert Navy Seal.
- When that fails, try to ignore your children’s worryingly zealous pleas to ‘Kick the door in, Daddy!’ Restrain eldest child who is adamant he can shoulder barge it off its hinges if he takes enough of a run-up.
- Eventually borrow a wobbly ladder from your neighbour and send your husband up it to watch through splayed fingers, partly terrified he’ll fall but also partly amused that his arse is sticking up in the air like he’s engaged in some sort of obscure mating ritual.
- Cheer once inside and vow to leave a set of keys with someone. You know. Just in case there’s a next time…
Disclaimer: if you’re at all sensitive about bodily functions, please avert your eyes…NOW.
Right, for the rest of you; I’ve got a confession and it ain’t pretty, so prepare yourselves. This is probably one of those things best kept to myself but I’m so EXCRUTIATINGLY embarrassed about it that I feel I need to share.
Sorry in advance. Please promise me you won’t look at me any differently after I tell you this? Actually, on second thoughts, I’m leaving the country and never coming back, so we won’t have to worry about that.
OK, here goes *deep breath* Right, I’m going to tell you. Please don’t judge me.
I went to yoga last night. About halfway through we were asked to arch our backs off the floor and put down our spines ‘vertebrae by vertebrae’. On my way down from the last one, drawing in my pelvic floor like a good girl and concentrating on my breathing, I experienced a sort of internal ‘pop’, akin to when my waters broke with Max.
It was a weird sensation but it didn’t hurt, so I continued the movement, un-phased. When I’d finished, I slowly manoeuvred onto my knees and as I put one leg forward to push up off one foot, the trapped air that had apparently built up in my ‘front bum’ chose that moment to escape.
That’s right, people; to put it less delicately, I had just ‘fanny farted.’ Loudly. In front of lots of people in a high-ceiled room with very good acoustics. I know. The shame.
I’d like to say it only happened once and I could have excused it as a ‘normal’ fart, which under the circumstances would have been much less embarrassing. But no, this was the gift that kept on giving, even with the tiniest of movements.
THREE TIMES. I fanny farted, in the middle of a yoga class, THREE TIMES.
The polite fellow yoga-goers didn’t so much as bat an eyelid during their ‘Downward Dogs’, but I knew people had heard. They couldn’t have avoided hearing it. It had echoed, ricocheting off the walls. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t me. But they KNEW.
‘Let’s do the Warrior!’ the Yoga instructor announced enthusiastically. Let’s f***ing not, I thought, knowing that the move involves the potentially disastrous combination of placing legs akimbo and then bending and stretching to the side.
‘OK, now put the left leg down and STRRRRETCH your right leg into the air.’ You’ve GOT to be kidding me. Do I have to?
‘Relax and concentrate on your breathing.’ Relax? Relax? Did you not just hear that? My fanny couldn’t possibly BE any more relaxed. It just exhaled of its own accord!
‘OK, and gently rock backwards and forwards, gently massaging your tailbone.’ F***ing hell, it’s going to turn into a symphony. I’ll be on ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ next year as the woman who can play tunes through her fanny.
I don’t WANT that to be my talent!
‘OK, it’s time for relaxation.’ Thank f*** for that, no more moving.
‘Just concentrate on your body, in this room, here and now. We’ve all got worries and troubles but we’re going to let them melt away.’
Easier said than done, my friend. Show me one other person that’s just trumpeted through her vagina in a completely silent room in the company of strangers. Right. So don’t talk to ME about worries and troubles…
Included as part of the lovely Actually Mummy’s ‘Wot So Funee?’ linky.
I’ve got a secret: my mummy’s not very bright. She tries, bless her, but she really doesn’t understand what’s going on in my head. I think I make myself perfectly clear, but she still seems to struggle.
When I say I want to get dressed, I mean at some point in the day but not RIGHT NOW, silly. Right now I want to climb on my brother’s bunk bed and stand teetering on the edge. Woah, will I fall or won’t I? Wahay, bouncy, bouncy. ‘No! I don’t want to get down. I’ll kick you… Don’t walk out of the room! NOW I WANT TO GET DRESSED, AND I WILL SCREAM AND SCREAM UNTIL YOU DO WHAT I WANT!’
Oh, you’ve missed your chance. Twenty seconds ago I wanted to get dressed, NOW I want to run around naked saying ‘Watch!’ as I wiggle my willy at everyone. ‘Have a wee’ you say? OK then. Well you didn’t say it had to be on the toilet! Splash, splash. But I WANT to paddle in my own urine, it’s fun! You are SUCH a spoil sport.
Come on then! Get me dressed. I feel like it now. But let’s see how well you manage when I grab my feet and curl up in a ball and shout ‘No!’ at the top of my voice. Damn it! The nappy’s on. Note to self: Try harder when she tries to put your legs in your trousers. And one leg’s in…and then it’s out again. And the other leg’s in…and it’s out again. Come on, mummy, play the game. Why so stressed?
OK, OK, I’m dressed. We’re both red-faced and crying but we’re there. ‘Tuddle, mummy?’ Wha’? Why are you looking at me like that? Ha! I can always get around her when I ask for a cuddle. Oh, but I’m thinking the head-butt to the nose was unexpected? Bam! Right between the eyes. Don’t cry, mummy. ‘Tuddle?’
What IS your problem? So I want to put on an extra three jumpers but not wear any pants. So what? I don’t mind going to Tesco dressed like this. Go on, just try to put my nappy and trousers back on and just see if you don’t get concussed by my shoe. Hurt, did it? Well don’t try to make me wear trousers, then.
I DON’T WANT TO GO TO TESCO! I want to run up and down waving a fork in my hand, or chewing a sweet or a coin of optimum choking size, or holding an expensive iPad, or a piece of my brother’s skin between my teeth (with the rest of him following behind). Right. I ‘ll just lie on the floor then. Flip me over. I’ll flip right back. Pick me up? I’ll scratch your eyes out. Put my coat on? Pah! I’ll take it off. You can’t even keep me off the stairs because I know how to open the stair-gate, now so na, na, na-na, naaaa!
Struggling to fasten the straps of my car seat, mummy? Anything to do with the thrusting of my hips and my cute little hands trying to tear the flesh from your bones? Be warned, I can catapult myself right out of this bad boy if I really give it some welly.
What to do, what to do? I’m strapped down so now I can’t switch on the lights and the indicators, press on the horn or let off the hand brake. I want to tell you how angry I am but I don’t have the words yet (but just wait until I do!). I can’t bite my brother because I can’t reach him so I’ll, I’ll…take my shoes and socks off and bite my own foot. Shit! That hurt! I might be crying but it’s worth it to see the sweat dripping from your brow. I’ll take THAT as a victory, my friend.
Oh mummy, mummy, mummy. Don’t look so relieved that we’ve reached Tesco (even though it’s taken an hour to get out of the house). I’m SO going to climb out of this trolley AND I ‘m going to do it as we go up the escalator, just for added danger.
The only way you’ve a cat in hell’s chance of keeping me quiet is to ply me with food…all the way round. I’ll half eat stuff, I’ll ask for stuff, wait for you to open it and not eat it at all, or maybe I’ll just scream because I like the noise. It’s a lottery that you didn’t even know you’d bought a ticket for.
OK, so we’re at the checkout. I’ll stop now. OF COURSE I’ll say ‘Fank oo’ and smile cherubically when the lady hands me my Cheese Strings and ‘Ba bye’ with a cute wave as we leave. How I behave when it’s just you and me shall be our little secret, eh, mummy? Mummy? Mummy! You can’t drink wine now. It’s only 9.30 in the morning… :)
Included as part of The Oliver’s Madhouse’s lovely:
I relived a bit of my childhood on Monday as my family and I drove to the beach in a hot car on a sunny Bank Holiday. The sights and smells were so familiar that I could easily cast my mind back thirty years, imagining squabbling with my brother as we waited impatiently in a long tail-back containing like-minded people trying to make the most of the weather before the rain set in again.
Because however much things have changed in the three decades since I was my children’s age, technology, fashions, cartoons, a trip to the beach is one of those timeless events that is like a tatty, soft old blanket; it makes you feel safe, happy and its smell takes you to a good place (unless the dog’s weed on it of course).
True to tradition, we parked MILES away from where we needed to be and yes, I admit it, I did keep telling the kids it was ‘just around the corner’ as they repeatedly asked, ‘Are we nearly there yet?’
Once on the beach, we rolled up trouser legs (in hindsight, after they’d already started getting wet), dug shells out of the soggy sand and splashed around in the little pools (the tide was out…way, WAY out), with sand squelching messily between our toes.
Within five minutes our toddler fell over and got soaked to the skin, inflating his nappy to monstrous proportions and making him walk like someone with really severe piles, but for once I’d had the forethought to bring a spare change of clothes so all was right with the world.
Of course it wouldn’t have been a typical family outing if there wasn’t some kind of minor catastrophe, so yes, we were the Dobber family that walked across the middle of the beach. You know the bit that the sea has made particularly bog-like? We had plenty of time to notice that everyone else was avoiding this section as we put our hands under the kids’ armpits and stood heaving them from the quicksand-like substance, trying not to lose a shoe as we sunk deeper and deeper…
A few minutes later, back to safety and slightly sweaty and out of breath, oh, how we laughed! Well, the kids did anyway.
Then for the next twenty minutes we threw balls for the dog until we lost all three when they became covered with sand and therefore camouflaged and invisible to the naked eye. Thoroughly filthy and wet, we all tramped back to the car, weighed down with soggy sand and clothing, a nappy that was hanging like a cow’s particularly full udder and copious bags of shells.
I reminisced as the kids hopped about on one leg and we poured water over their feet to rinse off the worst of the sand and then pulled fresh clothes onto still-damp, slightly gritty bodies behind towels so that their modesty could be protected.
The boot of the car rapidly turned into a man-made beach as we dumped bags full of shells and unusual stones and then bundled up wet stuff in a carrier bag, just like mum used to.
Once suitably attired we walked down the seafront, with the boys climbing on…well, anything remotely climbable and were relieved to see the ice-cream van, having been asked about it at least a thousand times on the way there.
As we strolled back to the car, some of us eating our ice-cream and some of us smearing it all over our faces and clothes (my husband just LOVES his ice-cream) I only managed to eat a fraction of mine before I had to donate it to our eldest who’d obviously dropped his on the floor. He was trying to multi-task, walking and eating at the same time which is NOT an easy endeavour with the co-ordination of a gnat.
Once back at the car we had a quick clean up with baby wipes…and here-in the difference lies; regular readers of this blog know I don’t like to speak of this. My mum is aware of how she’s scarred me and the counselling’s helped a little but what would she have used in lieu of baby wipes? A tissue and some spit. UNFORGIVABLE.
Anyway…we piled back in, tired, smelling of the sea air…and squabbling once more. This didn’t stop until we found a chippy on the way home and ate hot, salty chips out of the wrappers with little wooden forks and drank cold pop straight from the can.
Perspective is what I’ve been given a healthy dose of this weekend by spending time with
Optimistic people who stay not only strong but positive in the face of adversity. They
Smile through the tears and find a funny side even when there doesn’t appear to be one. I’m
Inspired by my friend who has been told she has breast cancer. She’s not bitter, just
Thankful that it’s been discovered early and she’s started to fight it. She’s not a victim, she
Intends to kick its butt with a smile on her face. She’s effectively giving cancer the
V-sign by being her usual bubbly self and just getting on with it, even during our
Eventful Saturday evening, when her husband was unexpectedly taken to hospital…
Mental. A good word to describe Saturday night which found us trundling up and down in
Elevators trying to locate my friend’s husband, laughing at the absurdity. We should have been
Nibbling on homemade tapas and celebrating my friend’s excellent prognosis, not piling up
Tupperware with said tapas to take to her husband’s ward. It then sat and cruelly taunted him
As he was nil-by-mouth. Did they get upset? No, they compared his ‘n’ hers injection sites; as
Laughter is the best medicine, that’s what they chose…along with morphine for his pain.
A backless gown that nearly flashed his bum had us in fresh fits of giggles, even after being
Told that he needed to stay in overnight for tests. Did they complain or make a fuss? Did
Tempers flare, even just a little bit? No, not in the slightest, not even when he was told not to
Ingest the merest sip of water until the doctor had seen him. A bank holiday weekend of
Tests and hospital food hasn’t dampened the spirits of these amazing friends. They are a
United front, strong together with their gorgeous daughter and the love that binds them,
Determined to stay positive, even with more than their fair share of shit times. Setting an
Example to the rest of us, or to me at least, that a bit of PMA goes an awfully long way.
I’m sitting here, trying to comb my fingers through ice-cream matted hair because I’ve just cuddled our toddler when he fell over in the garden, and he smeared his cone across my head before wiping his nose on my shoulder.
And as I sit here, with my sticky hair and snot-crusted cardigan, I’m trying to cast my mind back to a time when I was ‘cool.’ I can’t find one.
I was the five-year-old who went on a school trip, so proud to be wearing my brand-new mint green and white dress with matching bolero jacket…for the teacher to gently tell me on the way back that the price tag was hanging out.
I was the eight-year-old who played Mary in the school played and violently whacked ‘Joseph’ with ‘Jesus’ in front of an audience of proud parents because he was pulling on my veil.
I was the ten-year-old who got my mum to write a Valentine’s card to a boy I liked at primary school…and then posted it through the wrong door. Then I posted one through the correct door and he saw me through the window. And then his next-door neighbour gave him the one I’d posted the day before. So it became a moot point that my mum had written it to disguise my writing in the first place.
I was also the twelve-year-old who described in my diary what I was wearing for the school disco, ‘leggings and a sparkly top’…and then proceeded to offer MYSELF a definition, ‘leggings are like tight, stretchy trousers’ just in case I forgot to look down at my legs.
I was the fifteen-year-old who was asked to take a penalty in hockey at school…and hit the ball into our own net at the opposite end of the field instead, losing not only the match but also the respect of my team-mates. I DID win their laughter and ridicule, though.
I was the seventeen-year-old who went to Cyprus on a girls’ holiday and drove a moped around Ayia Napa, blissfully ignorant of the fact that the steering lock was still on. Come to think of it, I DID keep wondering why it was pulling to the left and causing sparks to fly as I scraped and bumped against the curb…
I was the eighteen-year-old who left the handbrake off the car shortly after passing my test, leaving it to slowly roll all the way down the street to block the main road at the bottom, where cars had to take turns ‘giving way’ around it until my mum ran down and retrieved it.
I was the twenty-one-year-old who went to a fancy dress party dressed as a French maid…and then got separated from everyone, queued up for the pub in mortifying embarrassment, got turned away because the pub was full and then climbed over the railings of the beer garden, flashing my fishnet stockings and barely concealed frilly knickers at innocent bystanders.
I was the thirty-two-year-old who went go-carting with my husband to ‘show the kids how it’s done’ whilst on holiday and crashed my go cart into the safety railings with such force that I crumpled the bumper into the front wheels and effectively wrote it off, much to the dismay of the man in charge who, even despite speaking in rapid Spanish, I just knew was bemoaning women drivers the world over.
Today I can’t deny that I’m the thirty-six-year-old woman who has banged her own and then her son’s head on the car roof and then tried to throw a ball to him and instead smacked him in the head with it and knocked him over.
I’ve also just instinctively told the dog to say ‘thank you’ when my friend/neighbour gave her a dog biscuit before realising that she is not, in fact a) one of the children and b) a talking dog (as far as we know).
So I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I have never been and WILL never be cool. But at least I can laugh about it *said as I curl up in a corner in the foetal position and suck my thumb*
I’ve tried to think of my most embarrassing faux pas’ but before my ‘friends’ start thinking of some other ‘gems’ that I’ve forgotten about, just remember, I’ve got some on you, too…
I read a comment on Twitter yesterday from Davina McCall to her midwife saying: ‘You are the most AMAZING midwife. I LOVED giving birth BECAUSE of you. I love you and owe you so much xxx.’
I know what exactly what she means, because I feel the same way about my midwife. Yep, you heard me, MY midwife. That’s how you feel about an amazing midwife; possessive and a tad jealous that they’ve delivered other babies apart from yours. You also feel a little in awe of the fact that they take bringing NEW LITTLE PEOPLE into the world completely in their stride, as though it’s just like any other job.
And although you know that your midwife delivers other babies, an amazing midwife (did I mention mine is?) makes you feel as though yours is the first and last baby she is delivering. Her focus is completely on your baby, you and your partner and makes you feel as though it’s a life-changing moment for her, too.
An amazing midwife makes you feel in control but lets you know, in a calm, measured way, that if you lose that control, you’ll be 100% safe in her capable hands. She’ll tell you to listen to your body, stay calm, breathe and say those magic words, ‘There’s gas and air if you want it’ that make you want to kiss her (if you weren’t a little preoccupied by the small person trying to squeeze itself out of your vagina).
I was lucky enough to get to know my midwife throughout my pregnancies because I was on caseload care for my second baby following a traumatic first birth and post-natal depression. Then we loved her so much that my husband and I basically stalked her when she moved to a birthing centre.
I also tried my damnedest to time my contractions with her shift patterns (not an easy thing to do, as anyone who’s been in labour knows. They will insist on coming at the most inconvenient times). And because she’s an amazing midwife, she tried to sort out her shift patterns to coincide with my contractions (again, not an easy task, especially as the little monkey was five days late when the other two had been early. That REALLY scuppered our plans, let me tell you).
My amazing midwife trusted me to rely on my natural instincts and I trusted her implicitly with mine and my babies’ lives. The mutual trust was well-founded. We worked as a team, my midwife, my husband, me and our baby and both times were beautiful, relaxed, memorable experiences.
So, I agree with Davina. I loved giving birth because of my midwife. And I love and owe my midwife, too.
Win a weekend getaway, courtesy of DH Tours. On Friday evening, why not take your loved ones to the local Family Quiz Night where you too could fail to win the raffle, have kids fighting to tear the boots from your feet (without unzipping them first) to win a prize and then feel mortified not knowing the answers to even the kids’ questions.
Don’t travel home in the boring comfort of a car! Instead, walk in driving hailstone that hurts as it bounces off your head with three tired, whiny children in tow.
Then, bright and early on the Saturday morning (you can try to have a lie-in but take it from us, you’ll be unsuccessful), you can have a bath that WILL leak through your kitchen ceiling to drip on the members of your family standing in the kitchen.
After taking an over-zealous dog for a walk where she’ll jump up at everybody and cover them in dirty paw prints (including yourself), why not leisurely walk around Tesco until you receive a message from your friend about your God-daughter’s birthday party. Had you forgotten about it? No, no, of course not! But you’ll rush around regardless, abandoning all other items in favour of a decent present that is hopefully going to be enough of an apology.
Next, why not see your husband off on an all-day drinking session whilst you haul three kids to the party only, wait for it, AN HOUR AND A HALF LATE! Luckily it’s a house party and not taking place at a pay-per-child venue. If only you could drink wine but there’ll be no wine for you, no sirree, because you’ll be driving!
Dragging three kids round Tesco is fun, don’t'cha think? Yep, and that’s why it’s the next thing on your busy schedule! Look with your eyes, not your hands, now, kids! Come on, no need to grit your teeth, it’ll be Fun with a capital ‘F’.
As if you’ve not had enough excitement for the day, the next item on the agenda is: A FULL HOUSE CLEAN! Don’t you scrimp on that bathroom now, after all, you’re having friends round for a Girls’ Night In.
After a few drinkypoos with friends and when your inebriated husband arrives home, why not give him…a facial, of course, what did you think we were going to say? Blend lime juice, cottage cheese, yoghurt, mayonnaise and couscous to create a soothing face mask. For best results, apply it when he’s fallen asleep on the sofa. Don’t forget to have a camera ready, girls!
After going to bed at 4am, why not get up and put on a few loads of washing whilst you listen to two young children winding each other up and screaming? Then, as a family, clean out the car in the rain! Those empty bottles and month old crisps won’t move themselves, you know!
Other activities that can be enjoyed in the rain are: a dog walk; playing out on bikes; a football kick about and chasing a toddler outside in just his socks.
Then, go for a lovely country drive after your car has been freshly valeted and watch with fascination as chunks of projectile vomit bounce off the newly cleaned carpet, courtesy of your toddler. Regurgitated McDonald’s chips, anyone?
And last but not least, as you’re stripping your stinking toddler out of his puke-spattered clothes anyway, why not all get changed into your pajamas and then you don’t have to go on any more disastrous family outings?
First come, first served! (Now can you see why it’s a ‘giveaway?) :)
Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide.
No escaping bedtime routine.
Please close your eyes,
Just close up your eyes and sleep.
I’m just a poor mum, I need some sympathy,
Because I’m tired out, tired out,
A little mad, a little sad.
Anyway the wine flows, doesn’t really matter to me, to me.
Mama, just lulled a child,
Piled soft toys up in his bed,
Pulled up covers, gave him ‘Ted’.
Mama, evening’s just begun,
But now I’m going to throw it all away.
Not too bothered if you cry.
If I’m still not asleep this time tomorrow,
Drink on, drink on, as if nothing really matters.
Too late, I’m still awake,
To watch Corrie, I’ll make you pine,
Body’s aching for some wine.
Goodnight, everybody, I’ll pretend I’ve gone,
That I’ve settled peacefully and gone to sleep.
Mama, ooo (anyway the wine flows)
I don’t want to sleep,
I sometimes think I’ll never drop off at all.
I see a little silhouetto of a boy,
Little shit, little shit, shall we do the Gin Tango?
Clamouring and screaming – very very vexing me.
Get-to-sleep-o Toddlero – before I blow.
But I’m just a little boy, everybody loves me.
He’s not a little boy, he’s tattooed with triple six.
Spare his poor mum from this lack of sleep.
Tired out, tired out – will you let me rest?
Bismillah! No – I will not go to sleep – go to sleep.
Bismillah! I will not go to sleep – go to sleep.
Bismillah! I will not go to sleep – go to sleep.
I will not go to sleep – go to sleep (never).
Never go to sleep – go to sleep.
Never go to sleep – go to sleep.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia, I won’t go.
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me,
So you think you can get up and just need a poo?
So you think you can get up and play with toys too?
Oh, baby – can’t do this to me baby.
Just gotta drink wine – just gotta drink wine or some beer.
Ooh yeah, ooh yeah.
Bedtime really matters,
Anyone can see,
Bedtime really matters – bedtime really matters to me.
Anyway the wine flows…
I’m not saying that my husband drives me ABSOLUTELY BONKERS by being untidy or anything, but I thought I’d write a blog post to ‘gently’ point out the little, less obvious things that need doing on a daily basis so we don’t live in a filthy hovel (without me having to nag him about it).
Will he be happy that I’m having such a public dig at his slovenliness? Probably not. But at least he’ll enjoy watching Beyonce in all her glory:
(Cue music) Yes! So crazy right now,
It’s your ‘girl’, Distressed’,
It’s your ‘boy’, Hubby,
Argument in the makin’.
So crazy right now!
I look and stare, irritated by what I find.
I nag at you more and more every time.
When you leave I’m beggin’ you not to go,
Until the toddler stops screaming on the floor.
Such a tricky thing for me to try to explain,
How I’m feeling but serenity’s so hard to feign.
Yeah ‘cos I know you don’t understand,
But you’re the messiest bloke in the land.
Got me feelin’ so crazy right now.
Your mess got me feelin’ so crazy right now.
(All your crap)
Got me feelin’ so crazy right now. Your clothes,
Got me hopin’ you’ll wash them right now.
Got me hopin’ you’ll sort it right now. Your towels,
Got me hopin’ you’ll pick them up now.
Feelin’ so crazy, your mess got me feelin’
Got me feelin’ so crazy, your mess.
When I talk to you, you make these promises,
‘Will he stick to it?’ Yes, but only for a coupla’ weeks.
Pairs of shoes aren’t even taken upstairs.
It seems you don’t even notice all the dog hairs.
I can’t believe you can’t see just what I do.
Little fairies must come in and clean our loo.
Yeah, but you still don’t understand,
The house is clean without a magic wand.
Got me feelin’ so crazy right now.
Open curtains! Got me feelin’ so crazy right now.
(Rinse the sink!)
Got me feelin’ so crazy right now. Make the bed!
Got me feelin’ so crazy right now.
Got me hopin’ they won’t overflow. Dirty nappies,
Got me hopin’ you’ll take them outside.
Feelin’ so crazy, your mess got me feelin’
Got me feelin’ so crazy, your mess.
Oh, feelin’ so crazy…
I’m warmed up now,
You’ll know when I’ve gone completely loco.
Distressed Housewife is M.A.D.
Uh-oh DH’s having a right old rant.
It won’t be the one and only.
Re-cycling don’t belong under the stairs.
Blood vessels gonna burst
I fold the washing, man, you can do it too.
A car full with empty bottles I don’t drink tho,
Gonna sling them at yo’ head, I really am, yo.
Car like shithole,
Bedroom floor a bombsite.
Loo rolls don’t change themselves.
Distressed H in the house,
She’s crazy and deranged.
I can’t figure you out,
Why leave read papers lying about?
Yes sir, I regularly change the kitchen cloth,
And use washing up water hot and with froth.
I hoover even under settees,
I ain’t got no butler named Jeeves.
I’m feelin’ peeved.
The game’s over.
Change bedding when sheets aren’t clean.
Do a tip run even when you’re not keen.
I’m one seriously cranky momma.
Got me feelin’ so crazy, my hubby,
I’m not myself lately,
I’m cranky and exhausted.
You’re wearing me out,
(And not in a good way).
Cuz your mess got the best of me,
You drive me crazy, I don’t care who reads,
Cuz hubby you got me so crazy.
(Repeat to fade)
There. Glad that’s off my chest.