How to Rid Yourself of the Mothers’ Group Twatty McTroll Face

This is Twatty McTroll Face.

Twatty McTroll Face dwells in the dark world of mothers’ groups.Instead of carrying a wooden mallet, she has a bucket of shit, that she’ll throw at you when you’re at your lowest. Which, let’s be honest, is quite a lot.

Twatty McTroll Face’s main purpose in life is to make you feel as crap about yourself as possible. If you’re not into baby led weaning or don’t bother wearing a bra on the school run, then, whoo, you better watch out!  She’s so clever that she starts to make you question your very sanity, and before you know it will have you questioning if you’re eating organic enough or if you really are killing the world by using disposable nappies. (You aren’t.)

As your confidence as a matriarch grows, so does her insults.

She might be hard to spot though due to that pesky lady mask she wears everywhere, which changes depending on where you are.

She’s at her most monstrous though when you’re pregnant.

You see, it’s in a matriarchs DNA to be a bit bitchy, but being a troll is like being a dog on heat. She feeds off of others meanness and attacks. To Twatty McTroll Face, there is only green, no grey.

She loves swinging shit around whenever she can, and if you don’t duck quick enough (and who can when you feel like the size of an elephant) then you will probably be hit. So by the time you actually give birth, you’re covered in so much troll shit that you can’t see your confident spark anymore.

It doesn’t help that she changes her mask regularly. So just when you think you’ve figured out who it is, she’ll stop, and put another mask on to continue her reign of bullshit remarks.

But sometimes, when she’s feeling especially green, she’ll resort to the lowest form of shit throwing of all; anonymous net bashing. She can be found in most places, but her favourite haunts are online baby groups, where she can inflict the maximum damage possible.

She will come across all nice at first. Ask how your baby is, if she is hitting all the milestones, then proceed to tell you that her baby is only a year old and is part of the British Olympic gymnastic team and has a black belt in kung Fu.

Twatty McTroll Faces ultimate goal is to make you forget that you are a strong woman, a matriarch, and wants you to sink so low that you no longer have any confidence at all.

She hates brilliant women, and if by chance, you can’t afford a cleaner five days a week or make your own houmous, then she will attack, like the raging troll she is.

She doesn’t care if you’ve had a bad day and need someone to brain dump all over. She won’t bother finding out if you suffer with depression, have been cheated on, have been shat on too many times or haven’t slept for three years straight.

What you don’t realize is that Twatty McTroll Face really just wants attention. Hiding behind the closed world of the dreaded mummy group makes her feel powerful, but really she’s not.

Unfortunately, there isn’t a lot you can do about Twatty McTroll Face or her online world. She will always be there in many of her disguises, and will only increase her shit throwing as your matriarchdom grows.

However, there is a small way to tame her and keep her shit out of your way as much as possible.

Confidence in yourself.

This tiny spark can be found deep inside your heart, behind all that muscle and cholesterol.

Twatty McTroll Face doesn’t want you to find your spark again. She wants it buried forever like her own, stuck in the constant flow of trying to be beyond perfect and failing miserably; but if you shut your eyes real tight, switch off crappy Instagram and delete shitty Facebook, you might just catch a small glimpse of it.

To help it grow, ask fellow matriarchs for help. You know deep down the ones to ask. Virtual or not, these amazing kick-ass women can help you scrape that troll shit off and help your confidence spark shine bright again.

These beautiful matriarchs come in all shapes, sizes and from all kinds of walks of life.

Twatty McTroll Face only hates two things. Being ignored and unity. It makes her feel useless and worthless when you continue to trust other remarkable women and get smart to her shit throwing.

Annoyingly she never gives up. As long as your confidence continues to shine then she will continue to grow along with you. Confident matriarchs do seem the perfect breeding ground for Twatty McTroll Face, so there is only one answer:

Shine bright. And be the beacon that helps other matriarchs wipe that shit away, and show that however much shit is swung, it won’t and can’t bring you down.And hey, there’s always violence right? Which of course I don’t condone🙂

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
Run Jump Scrap!
Mudpie Fridays

The Unsung Mum and The Swimming Pool Palaver

Today, The Unsung Mum is taking The Kid and The Baby swimming. It’s a Sunday and a really stupid idea, as most people decide to do this also on a Sunday morning but The Unsung Mum broke the cardinal rule. Instead of spelling it out like she normally would, she said the actual, fucking, word. Tool.

The Unsung Mum has to now keep her word as since saying the stupid ‘S’ word her brood have done nothing but whine and whinge about going, until The Unsung Mum concludes it’s less painful to just take them bloody swimming, than to have to keep listening to them groaning about “not going right now.”

The Hub thinks that he is not coming swimming. He is under the ridiculous delusion that he needs to stay behind to do manly things like painting the hallway or fixing a loose shelf.

The Unsung Mum knows full well that the second she leaves the house, The Hub will sit on his ass for an hour and watch boring things about men with pointy ears in space or some crap sport shit, and only jump up when he hears the car hit the drive.

While The Unsung Mum knows that the huffing will now become a full day event, she doesn’t care, and tells him straight to man up and grow a fucking pair.

“Can you pack the swimming bags?’ asks The Unsung Mum.

The Unsung Mum checks the swimming bags.

The Hub has packed two towels, the wrong size swimming costume for The Kid, forgot a swimming nappy for The Baby and grabbed The Unsung Mums ten-year-old pre-kid bikini.

The Kid has packed her Little mermaid goggles that leak, a Peppa towel that’s really her sisters and a pair of pants.

The Unsung Mum says “Hub, where’s the rest of the towels? Oh, and just because I said you had to come, doesn’t mean I’m going to dress as a stripper. Kid, put The Baby’s towel down now and find your proper goggles, you know, the ones that make you look like a zombie child.”

The Hub looks at The Unsung Mum innocently, and The Kid looks at The Unsung Mum rebelliously as The Unsung Mum repacks both bags.

At the leisure centre, its fucking busy as normal and The Unsung Mum huffs and puffs until she gets to the front. The Hub has decided to take their brood to one side out of the way after The Kid asked a rather grey haired man “why his willy wasn’t inside his shorts” and if that lady over there “is really a girl, as she looks more like a man.”

In the swimming pool changing rooms, The Kid and The Baby instantly strip off all their clothes and chuck them in as many different directions as possible.

The Unsung Mum continually barks “Pick up your fucking clothes! No Kid, your pants don’t belong on your sister’s head and yes having two legs in the same hole does make you look special.”

As the brood tear naked around the room, looking for tiny pools of water left by the previous occupants, The Unsung Mum waits for one of them to slip and hurt themselves and thus scream at The Unsung Mum while she snarls “I fucking told you so!” while listening out for the old busybodies tutting.

The Unsung Mum finally grabs The Baby under her arm and chucks The Kids swimming costume at The Hub with a look of “will you fucking help.” Mumbling under her breath about failed condoms and bacteria smeared shitholes, she finishes dressing The Baby and starts on the treasure hunt that is finding all the clothes.

The Hub has successfully gotten The Kid dressed and proceeds to get undressed himself and pack his clothes neatly back into the bag. “What’s THAT Daddy?” The Kid asks, lunging forward to touch his nether region.

Laughing uncontrollably, The Unsung Mum throws his swimming suit at him while thinking that she has never seen him move so fast. Not even for the promise of a good ‘barbecue’.


Hoping that nobody from social services overheard, The Unsung Mum attempts to wrestle herself into her own swimming costume while The Baby grabs her prickly legs and The Hub stares wide eyed in the tiniest hope that he might catch a glimpse of a boob.

The Unsung Mum realises too late that she really should have had a bikini wax a long time ago.

The Kid races out the changing rooms after The Hub and The Baby into the pool, while The Unsung Mum stalks after them, fruitlessly shrieking “Don’t run! Don’t jump! Stop splashing” as The Kid pushes past The Hub and cannonballs into the water on top of a lady with her newborn child.

The Unsung Mum tentatively lowers herself into the pool, trying not to think about how much water The Baby will swallow this time and how much of that will be wee.

After almost half an hour, most of which is spent by The Kid running round the pool refusing to swim and The Baby screaming every time water touches her body, The Unsung Mum has had enough and orders everyone out.

“NOOOOOOO!” screams The Baby.  “Five more minutes!” demands The Kid.

The Unsung Mum is being tough (and is fed up of a cling on baby) and puts her foot down. “Out. Now.” Says The Unsung Mum.

Both continue to scream.

“They can have another five minutes can’t they?” asks The Hub, keeping the screeching baby at arms length.

For fucks sake whispers The Unsung Mum as a lifeguard and lady judgey pants next to her tuts. “Five. More. Minutes.”

When everyone is finally dressed, both kids begin to demand a treat, beseeching once again the enchanted words ‘you promised!’

“I did not bloody promise” sighs The Unsung Mum. “I said you could if you were good and you weren’t. If you get in the car without running off, then we’ll see.”

Both kids run off. Demand a treat all the way home before lunch. The Unsung Mum swears under her breath. A lot.

At home, The Hub declares that The Unsung Mum now needs to look after the children solo so he can complete his man tasks in peace, aka, watch football on his phone while pretending to paint an old shelf.

The Unsung Mum looks at the half empty paint tin and wonders how many of The Hubs body parts would fit in there before it became full.

The Pramshed
Petite Pudding

How to be Good Parent Employer and Not be a Twat.  

Running a business is hard.

Being a manager is shit.

But that’s no excuse to be twat.

You don’t imagine for a second that when you become a manager and take on all that extra shit for fuck all extra money; that it would mean becoming the world’s fucking agony aunt, having to become a mind reader or having to take orders from a dick ten years younger than you. But you do.

However, that’s no justification to be a twat.

 So here’s my handy guide to being a manager of parents without being a damn right fucking tool.

  1. If your parent employee has made it in on time, fully dressed in the right ensemble without sick on their arm or shoulder, then they’re doing a brilliant job. If you then comment on their un-ironed shirt or notice their shoes aren’t polished to an inch of their life then sorry, you’re a twat.


  1. Before the morning meeting starts, give your parent employees a large glass of coffee with five sugars. They’ve probably been awake all night and are struggling to understand English right now. Prancing around saying you went out last night and slept in till 8.30am and still got into the office before them just makes you a twat.

  1. If no-one’s dead, your coffee was drunk warm and you haven’t had to answer a thousand dumb ass questions on the way to work, then you’ve probably had a good morning. If you spend your time telling every single employee that IF you had kids they’d be at boarding school from 3 months old and would already know how to flush the loo and wipe their own nose by 6 months, then sorry, you’re a twat.

  1. When parent employee’s kids come to visit, ignore any snot, mud/food/other brown stuff that may be around their faces and just be thankful that they aren’t staying. Pretending your own kid’s butts smell of roses and would just hold your hand while visiting makes you a twat.

  1. Sending loads of humorous, relevant or helpful stuff about how you could make their life easier as an employer is rad. Sending articles like ‘flexi-time is stupid’, ‘kids who get ill a lot should be shot’ and ‘having a baby makes you dumb’ just makes you sound like a fucking tool. And a twat.

  1. Only once a human head the size of a watermelon has shot out of your vagina can you comment on childbirth. Saying things like “you’ll be back to work in two weeks right?” and “it’s a piece of piss” will get you punched in the face. Oh, and you’re a twat.

  1. Carrying a couple of extra pounds comes with being a parent employee and fitting back into our size-8-jeans is about as high priority as having sex right now. Claiming you fitted back into your jeans after just two weeks of having Peter and Jane is either a fucking lie or very strange. Because no real-life person would actually care enough to do this on purpose.

  1. When you see your parent employee checking their phone on and off throughout the day, do not: sigh, say stupid things like “is that surgically attached to your hand” or “so are your kids still alive then” in a sarcastic way. They are still alive thank you, but while I’m sat here listening to shit come out your mouth for fuck all money, I’m paying someone else to look after them just so society doesn’t call me another “stay at home bummer.” So try quietly not giving a shit and getting on with your own life.

  1. Believing that your female parent employee is now less able to do her job compared to her nonchild counterpart makes you a twat.
  1. Thinking that your parent employee is less committed post kids and won’t work as hard as their pre-kid days is complete and utter bullshit. If anything, said employee is probably more focused now than ever due to having more mouths to feed.

  1. Talking about how your dog is like having kids and you understand how much work they are, makes you sound like a complete twat. Dogs can shit by themselves, sleep through the night and eat everything in sight. Try cooking a healthy meal when the only things your mini-humans will eat are beige, covered in breadcrumbs and rhymes with squish lingers.

So there you have it. Try and be a nice employer and cut your parent employees a bit of slack. They want to work and appreciate you can’t be as flexible as they want but turn up and do a bang up job anyway. So let’s all just treat everyone how you’d like to be treated and stop being twats.

Also featured on: Mumsnet Blog of the day. 

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
R is for Hoppit

When Mould Meets Family: A Birth Announcement

I’m very honoured and happy to announce our new arrival and addition to our family; black bathroom mould. As many of you know, I’m all for attachment parenting and believe that every single piece of mould deserves a prominent place in the household whether that be the kitchen tiles or the bedroom ceiling so it can feel loved and grow strong.

Attachment mould

Spraying and scrubbing is just mould abuse in my opinion.

My black mould was born after a long and drawn out labour in the bath. While conceived naturally, its birth was still a slight shock to The Hub who just didn’t see it coming.

Hub Confused

Above average in size, our dear mould spread quickly, due to daily shit filled baths by its older siblings and my bad attempts to shove a window open after one of The Hubs extended showers. I’d be lying if I said it looked out of place in my bathroom filled with the odd (ahem) cobweb and torn up toilet roll, but I love all my offspring, even the persistent ones.


The end of labour was the hardest. My new mould spent a few days behind closed doors before it was ready to join the family but we visited often and couldn’t be happier to have it home now.

We’re pretty sure that we have another bundle cooking already in the kitchen, but I’m confident that my new arrival and the older two will be just as excited and full of love while feeling no rivalry whatsoever.

My oldest two have already started scratching and poking their new sibling, so I know its now been fully accepted into our amazing family. I can honestly say that it brings a tear to my eye to see them playing so nicely together already.

Hitting each other

Please come over when you can to say hi to my new addition. I would really appreciate it and I know The Hub would too. It’s quite bulky though and squirms if held so if I get touchy about your prolonged cooing and fuss, I apologise. Like most new mums i think my new baby is fine, just the way it is.

Bringing a Shepherd’s pie and cake would be most welcome, as would bringing something to amuse the The Kid and The Baby, as I’m still recovering from labour and am too exhausted to do much right now. I’ll also take any offers of babysitting very seriously.


If you bring a gift for the mould, please remember to bring something useful, like a bath toy it can grow into or extra bathroom sealant it can climb.

Please bear in mind that I plan to feed my new baby on demand, like I have my other two, so demands for me to put the fan on or open the bathroom door will be ignored.

Door shut

Oh, and yes I plan on co-sleeping when it gets bigger and drifts into our bedroom. I’m okay with that for now, and will sort out our shit sleeping arrangements when all three sleep through the night and play together safely for more than two minutes.


Make sure you check out the cute selfies I plan to post soon of all of us together in our dimly lit bathroom. We’re sure to be the envy of the street.



Wotcher all. This is a bashful plea to ask if you’d all vote for The Unsung Mum at this years mumsnet blogging awards ‘Blogfest’. I’ve never been to one of these but if I get enough votes I get an invite to sit and eat cake with some of the biggest bloggers in the UK. I can’t guarantee this little blog will win anything, but wouldn’t it be rad if I DID, and I had to actually give a speech…In front of real life people.



Anyway, the link is below and please nominate me in the ‘Best Writer’ category with the answer:

(Don’t forget to share & a massive thank you from my sleep deprived heart to everyone who has already voted!)*****






Pink Pear Bear

The Unsung Mum and the Barbeque Debacle

It’s the weekend and a reasonably warn day.

The Unsung Mum has decided that the family are going to have a barbecue for dinner because that and getting burnt like a lobster is what traditional British families like to do.

The Kid and The Baby have been playing in the paddling pool, and also on the far to big red slide that The Hub thought was a decent buy off Facebay in till he tried to get the shitting thing in the car. Thinking it would give him an extra five minutes of peace, The Hub moved said fuck off slide into the pool.

After The Unsung Mum mopped up one grazed knee and a nose bleed, and conquered the manic screaming with chocolate buttons, she confiscated the fuck off slide and glared at The Hub, calling him a fucking dick under her breath.

The Hub seized this chance to pull up a sun lounger and check the BBC sports app for the 100th time that morning. The Hub has his eyes glued to his phone so he can pretend not to notice The Kid pulling off the sunflower petals or The Baby sucking stones.

The Hub is not really reading the BBC sport app though; he’s thinking about the conversion last week that he had with The Unsung Mum about using the word barbeque to mean sex. He’s pissed that the use of the damn word today does mean what it means, not what they ‘agreed’ it would mean.

Both youngsters are still in the paddling pool.

The Kid is screaming something about The Baby pulling her nappy off and crapping in the pool, and The Baby is trying to grab it and use it as shampoo for her hair.

Adrift in his dreams of actually fucking his wife more than once a month and what their life could have been like if the condom hadn’t split or if he hadn’t drunk ten pints after a rare night with the lads, The Hub hears nothing.

The Unsung Mum is not outside in the sunshine.

The Unsung Mum is in the kitchen, on her phone, catching up on Masterchef with one eye on some beige food in the oven.

The Unsung Mum is vaguely aware of the high-pitched noise, but it’s not the ‘I’m dying’ scream, so she disregards it, and hopes to hell The Hub will intervene in a second.

The Hub lights the barbecue and re-looks at his phone until the barbecue is ready to cook on, while muttering about non-sleeping kids and long periods, aka, he misses sex and can’t work out why he isn’t getting any.

The Kid has got out of the paddling pool, comes in, trails water through the house, all in the name of Swashbucklers while her butt naked sister proceeds to prance around the living room soaking wet screaming for tatta tig at the top of her lungs, and The Unsung Mum has decided that 11am isn’t to early to eat cake.

Now the barbecue is hot, The Baby has decided that the pool and the fuck off slide are boring and that playing with real life fire is the bomb.

The Unsung Mum plows a full cake into her mouth.

The Hub is cooking on the barbecue now.

Cooking on the barbecue is a very complicated and problematic task, therefore it is imperative that The Hub does not step away from the barbecue for one millisecond, lest one of his offspring’s limbs full off and they die of the plague.

While The Hub watches over the fire, he asks cannily if there would be any ‘barbecuing’ tonight, wink wink.

He implies, using safe words of course and thrusting actions, that he is but a man who needs a good seeing too.

The Unsung Mum thinks it’s pretty fucking amazing that he gets any action at all, considering that she gets up throughout the night to see to The Baby then again at 530am every single day because The Kid can’t read the sodding Gro Clock, and does all this without being a gigantic dick.

The Unsung Mum signs for him to shut the hell up before The Kid hears. He doesn’t.

The Unsung Mum rolls her eyes and tells The Hub to stop pissing about and cook the food. She’s hungry and wants The Baby down for a nap soon so she can continue Masterchef in peace.

The food is cooked.

The Kid and The Baby don’t like the food. Words like “it’s pissgusting and gross” come out of their lips.

The Unsung Mum shrugs and gives them pre-cooked fish fingers, waffles and beans again. Anything for a quiet life.

The Hub says “Did you enjoy having a night off cooking, babe?  I’m quite tired now, maybe we should have an early night?” Another fucking wink. She ignores the twat.

It’s bedtime.

The Kid has now stripped off to do a piss next to the potty while The Baby thrusts uncontrollably at the bedroom mirror.

The Hub laughs and shuts himself in the bathroom to take a well timed half an hour crap.

Both brats have gone to bed.

The Unsung Mum is rocking in the corner with her empty cake wrapper, hoping The Hub will just fuck off and leave her in her happy place.

The Hub now wants sex.

The Unsung Mum kicks him in the nuts.


Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
My Kid Doesn't Poop Rainbows

Why Us Mothers Are All Child Abusing Knobs…Apparently

Dare I say it but I’m a mum and yes I’m doing everything wrong. On purpose, just to piss you off.

I only have to read the papers, Facebook or comments at the bottom of blogs (like mine) to grasp quickly that mums like me are the bloody worst people in the whole wide world.

Not only are we as bad as terrorists and murderers, but we damn right refuse to apologise for it.

It’s this kind of brazenly reckless behaviour that makes us a stain on our community.

And the worst culprits for all this bashing? My fellow mums.

How dare we:

Put kids into childcare

Can’t afford to feed or clothe your kids? What? On all that benefit you receive you thieving scoundrel! Clearly, that’s a lie. No-one uses childcare because they can’t afford food, they use it so they can earn more money for bigger holidays, cars and clothes for their little scallywags.  And don’t give me that crap about childcare teaching kids how to socialise. That’s a lot of bull. You just like palming them off so you can go get your nails done or your hair cut.


You selfish bitch. While the rest of the country works, you’re sat at home on your arse doing f-all. Shame on you! Why isn’t your house spotlessly clean? Why do the kids always look like they’ve been through a hedge backwards? You have ALL the time in the world for god sake, what do you do all day?


Stay at home

Who are you to decide that being a mum is valid work? Pfft. You know what real work is? Working an eight-hour day with only a one-hour lunch break, that’s what!

 Be in an LBGTQ Relationship

 This goes against everything you where ever taught. We all know that kids only grow up stable if they have a mum AND dad. Healthy relationships and strong bonds be damned, kids need a mum for love and dads for discipline. Worked in the past and nothing’s changed.

 Be Single

Great, another one who just wants a free house and who got pregnant on purpose. Your kids are probably living in a cardboard box while you drive around in your brand new BMW wearing the latest fashion.

Single Mums


Be Married

 Marriage is a form of suppression; you are no longer a feminist and are a shit role model to your girls. They will grow up thinking that they need a man to support them, so will never be able to hold down a stable job and will end up becoming an airhead with no thoughts of their own.


 Breastfed kids always remember sucking their mum’s tits. They will turn into lustful little sex pests who won’t take no for an answer. They should be put on the sex offender list at birth so everyone is aware where the next pervs will be. If you insist on using your breasts to feed, then at least do it in private where no one can see you, your kid or your flaunting breasts.


Boobs should be saved for bikini’s only. Abusing your kid in a restaurant while we’re all trying to eat just isn’t on!

 Not breastfeed

Formula-fed children grow up to look like Golem from Lord of the Rings. Their face will be pale and sweaty, their eyes will be beady and their limbs will be misshapen and scrape on the floor. Destined to a life of nothing but murmuring illogically while trying to find “my precious” from the confines of a wet and slimy cave.



 What a cock and bull idea. Bet all this talk about attachment parenting and regulating heartbeats was made up by some posh university type. Stick them in their own room quick and shut the door as soon as you hear a noise. That will show em whose boss!


 Sleep Train

 Talk about damaging your kids! Who cares if you haven’t slept in months and you’re currently seeing double, that’s no excuse. We all know that kids who where sleep trained grow up emotionally void and only like green vegetables.

 Have Heavy Kids

Your kids are too fat to be swimsuit models. They need to follow the curve in their Red Book exactly or you’re just doing something wrong.

If your three-year-old son doesn’t have abs like Ryan Reynolds or hair like Justin Bieber then you’re a shit mum.

In fact, you are a child abuser. You can tell us it’s genetic, that it’s puppy fat, that your child is medically perfectly healthy, none of that matters. If you don’t have the good sense to put your child on the Atkins Diet straight away and weigh them morning and night while forcing them to develop eating disorders by demeaning them, we’ll do it for you. That’s what social media is for.

Have Kind and Enthusiastic Offspring

Ugh. You make me sick.  You clearly brought up flawless brats just to rub it in our faces. You have no right to have an opinion on anything because your life is too easy and perfect. Your kids will probably grow up to be drug dealers, suicide bombers or politicians.


Don’t you know that you’ll still be blending food when they’re ten? Kids who don’t learn how to pick up spoons or folks by one will have weak arms and their fingers will drop off.


Baby Led Wean

OMG your baby is going to die and come back and haunt you.

Not be a Knob   

The best mothering involves criticising other women and their offspring.

Find a mum who’s really down and looks like she’s having a shit day; attack. Hiding behind social media is the best way but whispering behind her back at a play ground is just as fun.

If she feeds/disciplines/shouts or swears at her kids; get her, straight away. Call the police. Put her kids in care and shove her in the stocks as she’s a revolting human being.

What ever you do don’t let her kids anywhere near yours as they will shrink two feet and suddenly love countdown.

Your kids will be watching so make sure you really stick the knife in and tell her she could have at least brushed her hair and changed her three-day old puked on jeans. Go for gold and tell her how your kids have slept through the night since three weeks. (Even if it’s a big fat lie.)

You need to make sure your sweet little wide-eyed cherubs are looking though, so they grow up to be just as mean, narrow-minded and phony as you.

After all, that’s not counted as child abuse, is it?

The Pramshed
3 Little Buttons
Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
Who is the Unsung Mum?

Magic Mummy Matriarchs

To all my fellow Mums out there,
Imperfect, neurotic or scared,
Who cares if you’ve said shit twice already,
meaning to say poo instead.

We all bribe and sometimes dive for that chosen bottle of red,
Especially when they’ve had a meltdown over their favourite missing Ted,
When crafting, bathing and time outs just fill you with utter dread,
And you wish you could scream fuck off right now instead of saying it inside your head.

Matriarchs, this is for you, please embrace your flaws,
None of us are perfect, not even mother in laws,
Your ways may be suspect, and guilt plagues you wherever you go,
But from those who really matter, you’re amazing, just like a rainbow.

Prose for Thought
Guilt from Hell

I Name Thee Shit Week – Guilt From Hell

So, i’ve had a pretty shitty week.

After having my car written off last week, i forgot that its the Euros so have no man support at all apart from the grunts in my general direction and my vocal cords being stuck on “hello…will you help?” twenty four hours a day.

The Kid has done nothing but profess her absolute hatred of me all week, all because I fed her dinner on Tuesday, and it was pasta shapes not  spaghetti.

The Baby has decided that using a nappy is beneath her at the tender age of just one and takes her nappy off every chance she gets. So after another crappy day i hear “Mummy, The Baby has pooed on the sofa.”

At this point I fully understand why some species eat their young.

By Wednesday  i can’t stand the sight of The Hub ’cause he’s been at work all week talking to real people about real things while i’ve been dealing with brat no1 and screamer no2….alone….all fucking day every day!! Maybe it’s the head cold i now have, or maybe it’s my hormones but this week i don’t give a flying fuck and just want to leave adulting behind and go hide for a while.

By Thursday I was crying and swearing blue murder on the phone to my dad about shitty things that are going wrong. He was a man, and just listened to my hate.

To continue my fall from matriarch hood,  The Kid let out the loudest fart I’ve ever heard at the mother in laws then tries her best to blame it on me.

Kid:  “Your bottom is stinky mummy”

What?! It wasn’t me I swear.

Cue me trying to explain that it’s not nice to lie and that mummy’s bottom doesn’t smell……

Why the hell was she clinging to my arse anyway?!

So by Friday I was rather pissed when The Hub did what all men do best; got in late from work with a blasé attitude and headed straight to the shitter for half an hour while I continued to deal with the two wild animals swinging round my feet and the banging headache I couldn’t shift thanks to the cold.

And of course instead of fretting about his dying wife with the cold from hell he decided that he was suddenly ill too, and that its ten times worse then mine because he “has been at work all week” and “can’t just have lunch when he chooses to you know”.

So then I have the guilt.

Guilt that I haven’t fed my kids enough veg, guilt for not shagging my husband in ages, guilt that all I ate all week was pizza, ice cream and my badly made homemade cake.

 My brain is so caught up in all this guilt and shit going on that I can’t work out which event I should feel guiltier over right now.

So fuck it.

This weekend The Hub had an assessment day for work and I’ve tagged along, dumping my wayward non-sleeping kids with my ever patient mother in law who I couldn’t live without.

We need this. I need this. I need this time to clear my mind and remind myself what is really important in this world and what the hell isn’t.

And if he’s lucky. The Hub’s underused and frankly forgotten about dick can come along too.

#MatriarchsRock  #LoveLife #SelfLove




10 Things I Hate About Poo

Warning – This is a blog about poo, pooh, poop, crap, shit and any other word you can think of for the brown (well sometimes) stuff that comes out of you and your kid’s arse. If you’re not a parent yet and would like to be one day, I suggest you stop reading now. This is a post for us hard grafters who have seen it and smelt it all and wish we could bleach it from our minds.

I swear before I had kids, I never once, not ONCE had a conversation/gazed at/analysed anyone else’s poo or my own before.

Is this just another thing us parents do that make non-procreators vomit into their G&T?

When The Kid was born I was fanatical about her poo.  I read all the books and knew what colour, size and consistency the first one would be. I even fought with The Hub to be the first one to change her nappy. (What an idiot!) Then, like most parents, the realisation hit that this little screaming bundle pooed a hell of a lot more than my books said and before I knew it, it had become one of the major conversation starters in our house.

“So what have you guys been up to today?” The Hub would ask in an encouraging tone, with a false smile plastered on this face.

“Oh, I don’t know.” I’d reply shortly. “I’ve changed her fifteen times in eight hours because she managed to either shit herself, shit while her nappy was off or shit down her leg onto my new sheepskin rug then got it stuck in between her toes. What did you do today?”

After that, he stopped asking.

So of course when The Baby came I was under no illusion that the poo topic would be hanging around, but just didn’t realise how much MORE it would dominate our lives when The Kid decided to potty train.

So here’s ten reasons why I’m so bored of poo and hate it.

  1. Talking about it….. a lot.

Whether in passing as we are going out or at night when putting them to bed, we can’t help but mention the offspring’s bowel movements. Do I really need to know that The Kid has done two different colour poos before bed? Or that The Baby’s poo looks like Marmite today? Why do you think I’ve decided it’s your turn to do bedtime tonight?? I. Don’t. Want. To. Know.

  1. Smelling it.

The Kid is now obsessed with smelling her own poo. Not only will she try and smell her own, regardless of where we are, but try and smell ours and yours too if we let her.  “Smell my poo mummy! What does it smell like? Tell me!” Um, like something’s crawled up there and died, probably about ten days ago. I now tackle this question with as much grace as I can at bedtime while mumbling curse words under my breath “It smells like poo H. Like it does every night.” Arghhhhh.

  1. Cleaning it.

The first time I used cotton wool to clean The Kid’s meconium filled bum I bloody almost killed myself. I cursed the midwife for suggesting such a crap idea (come on, cotton wool and boiled water? She must have seen me coming from miles away!) and after picking most of the cotton wool off her backside and still having poo up her arse I grabbed the wipes and did what I should have done in the first place. Just used my common sense.

Now I spend my life either wiping The kid’s arse to complaints of “You’re hurting my poo” or trying to hold down a baby that has mastered the crocodile death roll to a tee. Let’s just say that white sheepskin rug didn’t last long….

  1. The noise

Not the actual noise (I mean, the varieties on that would be huge) it’s the noise my kids think it makes. Raspberries, lip farts or just the word poo shouted from The Kid’s lips annoys me.  And why does she always ask for one at the very minute the shop/room/grandparents go quiet?

  1. The amount of different types

Who would have thought there were so many? Surely a shit is a shit right? WRONG! And that’s why non-parent people should NOT be reading this. You think you know it all and that it can’t really be that bad! Ha! You just wait….

  1. Children love touching it.

Why? Just why?

  1. Even the sign for poo is poignant.

To be fair, the one for diarrhea looks a hell of a lot worse.

  1. It always happens at a shit time

Day, night, late for pre-school or just as I strapped them into the car. The New Forest sticks out for me…

  1. It just goes everywhere.

On me, the carpet, The Kid’s nose while she’s trying to smell it (yep that’s real) and between small fingers and toes.

The worst was when The Kid was potty training and she’d forget to go before getting in the bath! Ha! Que a screaming match from both kids, one because there’s floating poo and the other because her sisters crying so why the hell shouldn’t she?! Oh, and don’t get me started on The Baby wanting to use the potty as a hat and my failure to get there in time….

       10. You worry about it.

Why hasn’t she had one yet? Did I give her enough fruit today? Will she wake in the night and have one and make me sit with her on the floor holding her hand while she tries to go? Will I be able to change The Baby’s nappy and get her back to sleep quick enough to have half an hour in bed before The Kid wakes up again because she has a tummy ache and needs a poo and can’t go?! Argh!

So if like me, poo just winds you up, then why not be more like The Hub and shout “The Baby has done a shit again” and walk off and pretend to be deaf when the other half shouts for your help because The Kid has shit all over her nose again and is freaking the hell out!




Why Is a Childs Life in Syria Worth Less Then One in The UK?

I’m sure you’ve all heard about it. Last week, 294 MPs, my own included, voted against 3000 Syrian children coming to the UK. These children, minors I would like to add, are currently living in filthy and unsafe camps in Europe and barely have somewhere safe to rest their heads.

Could you imagine suddenly having to leave your home, everything you have ever worked for, grabbing your kids and running for your life with only the clothes on your backs and the belongings you could grab quickly? I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.

I can’t even begin to describe my fear at that very scenario. Where would we go? How would the two kids, only 3 and 1, cope with a death-defying trip across an ocean in a boat not fit for the channel then live in a camp, where disease and crime are rife. I would be devastated to think of my children alone and unable to fend for themselves in a strange country having fled the horrors of war, or worse, ending up in the hands of human traffickers.

On a recent visit to the Calais camp last month, the Guardian captured the bedlam, indecision and squalor experienced by the vulnerable children there – and the lack of any official assistance to help.

Many, and there’s no official number because we just don’t know how many there are, have already been kidnapped, sold, raped or disappeared into the hands of traffickers. These are children and NO MATTER where they are from should count.

Just to chuck a few numbers around; a third of the 420 unaccompanied minors in the Calais camp have gone missing since the French authorities demolished the southern section of the Jungle last month, according to a census by Help Refugees, a grassroots charity. In January, Europol warned 10,000 vulnerable children had vanished after arriving in Europe over the past two years. Germany also reported that almost 6,000 refugee children had been reported missing last year.

Yep, the camps are completely safe for these children…..

I find it darn right bewildering that anyone would think it acceptable that the UK sits by and does nothing to help these kids. There are tens of thousands of unaccompanied child refugees in Europe and we should play our part.

The new amendment proposed in the Lords (the Dubs amendment) is for the government to discuss with local authorities how many child refugees they could accommodate, rather than a fixed 3,000.

When I pitched this article to a friend or two they were completely outraged. Terms like “bursting foster care system”, “Europe could do more” and “it will cost too much money” were all banded about. What? When, as a nation have we ever put a price on a child’s life?

I thought we were for freedom. For democracy. Not this. When did we become a nation of such uncaring, heartless people? Is this why the Arab world hates us? Have we become a greedy power hungry people just out for ourselves? How much longer can we turn our backs on the rest of the world and say “sorry, nothing we can do” before it gets chucked right back in our face? This is our time. Our time to help and support those in a worst situation than ourselves.

And to those still doubting? I just hope, with my hand on my heart, that your kids are never in this position, and would hope that a well off country (as you put it) shows some compassion.

This shouldn’t be about money or politics. It should be about keeping every child safe and ensuring they receive the very best education and safe home life they deserve.

Sarah Brown recently wrote for mumsnet: “As long as this terrible crisis runs on and horribly on – then we have obligations to the children who are here in our continent. Our MPs now have a second chance to help these vulnerable children and we should help them to take it.”

So please, after you’ve picked your kids up from the school run, cooked them a nice warm meal and tucked them in for the night, sign this petition and ask your MP to support the latest amendment.