Rediscovering the 'Me' in 'Mumeeeeeee'

'I have always thought that there is no more fruitful source of family discontent than a housewife’s badly-cooked dinners and untidy ways'. (Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management, 1861)

July 27, 2009

I'd like to thank....

Firstly, Wooo-Hoo, I got a Meme (or maybe this should be MEME?) award from a fellow mummy blogger, Jen at Jen’s Rantings. It's all great excitement here at HCM Towers because it’s my first one. The trophy cabinet finally has an occupant and I can bore the pants off my husband trying to explain what it’s all about. Hurray!

Secondly, I have to pass the award on to seven other deserving recipients for the blood, sweat and tears they put into their fabulous blogs. My nominees are (drumroll, tension-building pause):-

Mummy Mania
Freelance Mam
Four down, mum to go
New Mummy
Yummy Mammy
Momma Such
Karen @ If I could Escape

(see below for very strict rules of acceptance).

Finally, as part of the award etiquette (and before I go all Kate Winslet on you all), I have to say out loud seven of my personality traits so, after much agonizing and self-analysis, here goes:-

Thoughtful – I am continually amazed at how lacking in thought other people can be
Organised – you won't catch me without several lists about my person

Hilarious – well, if you don’t praise yourself……
Moody (you see, I’m not really a saint) – when I’m good I’m very, very good but when I’m moody I’m bloody terrible
Messy – never, NEVER, will my house be the clean and tidy haven I desire
Confident* – not usually afraid to give it a go, whatever 'it' may be
Biscuity – I eat so many of the darned things, it was bound to affect my personality sooner or later

*not to be confused with ‘Brave’ which I am most definitely not

Rules of acceptance
1) Acknowledge the person who sent you the award
2) Nominate 7 other blogs
3) Share your 7 personality traits so we can get to know you better


July 21, 2009

Ta da da daaaa – here’s SUPER DAD!

So I disappeared for 24 hours. To Limerick, of all places. And yes, it rained. Why did I go? To drink copious amounts of bubbly and laugh to the point of pelvic-floor disaster with my mummy pals. Fabulous.

Of course, this meant that Daddy was in charge at home. So, as I sped off towards freedom, laughing like a maniac because I hadn’t pre-prepared any meals (oooooo, evil), he span around in the shower, emerged in his Super Dad lycra pants and ‘took charge’.

I arrived home on Sunday afternoon, hangover having reduced me to a hunch backed hag, to calmness and serenity. Nothing had been broken. The boys were still alive and the house hadn’t burnt down. And there, watching the golf while the boys played quietly on the floor, sat Super Dad. Just delighted with himself at the ‘Pirate’s Picnic’ they’d had for lunch, the HUGE walk they had done that morning and the fact that no-one woke up before 8.00am. Lovely. Bloody marvellous. Grrrrrrrrrr.

Maybe I am a complete cow and should just be happy that I got to go away at all. But I find it SOOOOOO annoying that my daily struggle to get the better of my house and kids is made to look so unnecessary. He didn’t actually say the words “I honestly don’t know what you find so difficult dear”, but under his eye mask and lycra cap, I absolutely know that’s what he was thinking.

Super Dad may think he has this child rearing thing sussed on a 24 hr basis. Next time I’ll leave him for a week. That should wipe the smug smile off his masked face.


July 14, 2009

Ten reasons not to eat your tea

(as compiled by my three and a half year old)
  1. That’s too soft, I only like crunchy things
  2. But that tomato is too bendy
  3. Well, it’s just that those carrots are touching the peas
  4. Yukky. That bit of the banana is dirty
  6. It’s just that my tummy is SO full but my pudding tummy is still hungry
  7. But I can’t eat it mummy because THIS IS THE WRONG SPOON
  8. I’m too tired to eat cucumber
  9. That’s got peppers in it and they make me cough
  10. But if I eat all this, then I won’t have room for any telly

Is it any wonder that I feel like I am fighting a losing battle?!


July 10, 2009

If it wasn't for you pesky kids....

It’s Friday afternoon and at the end of another week on the domestic superhighway my nerves are in tatters, my stress levels are off the scale and I am wondering whether it is too early for a G&T.

So, I strike a deal with Number One that if he eats all his tea, he can watch the whole of his Toy Story DVD. A fairly good offer by anyone’s standards, especially a three and a half year old’s. The DVD will buy me around 90 minutes of ‘quiet time’ before PJs and bed (Number Two may not be quite so enthusiastic about Buzz Lightyear, but he’ll soon catch up).

Deal brokered, we play trains for another hour before 5pm, tea time, the witching hour.

“What is it for tea mum?”
“Shepherds pie and peas.”
“But I don’t like that.”
“Oh, you do, you love it, and remember, Toy Story if you eat it all up”, I say jovially, more keen for him to watch the sodding DVD than he will ever know.

Twenty minutes later, after much cajoling, he has refused to eat even one pea (yes, I resorted to desperate measures to get my quiet time), and we’re in tea time lockdown. Number Two, meanwhile has thrown most of his tea over the floor and is now insisting that I go somewhere urgently with him.

I resist the urge to up-end the kitchen table and everyone with it and begrudgingly resign myself to another 90 minutes of play time.

I look wistfully at the clock, the fridge (maybe a G&T would help see me through?) and back at the plate of uneaten tea.

“Just one pea?”, I offer for the last time.
“No mum, I don’t like peas. Come on, let’s play trains.”

Drat, and double drat.


July 7, 2009

Fasten Your Seatbelts Please

(Warning: Do not read while eating your breakfast).

Someone at work once said they had ‘been vomited on from a great height’. A fabulously descriptive phrase for being dropped in it.

Well, now it’s my turn to be vomited on from a great height. Quite literally. Three thousand feet to be precise.

Having survived another awful flight in cattle class, I finally relaxed as the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign was illuminated for our descent into Dublin. All wriggling by children had to now officially stop, or the police would take us off the plane (the kids believe this anyway).

Two seconds later, Number One decides he desperately needs a wee. Call bell pressed, we get special permission for him to do the fastest wee in history. All safely buckled back in, Number Two then decides to be sick. Violently. All over me.

In the final stages of our approach to the runway, and with anything potentially helpful stowed in the overhead locker out of reach, I can do nothing but sit there and let him get on with it. Unpleasant doesn’t even get close.

Finally, as we land and the plane stops at our gate, he stops. Then he grins up at me, clearly feeling much better for ‘getting it out’. I sit frozen in my seat, afraid to move and reveal the true extent of the damage done.

“You can have a shower at my mam’s”, pipes up the other half, trying to be helpful. It was not helpful. At all.

Eventually, covered from the waist down in sheer awfulness, I walk off the plane, all the way to passport control, through baggage reclaim and into the arrivals hall. I now, absolutely, know what a walk of shame feels like.

They say that every cloud has a silver lining. I’m still looking.

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