The Unsung Mum and The MADS Mayhem

Today, The Unsung Mum is feeling pretty rad. She has managed to bag herself a ticket to the MAD awards and can’t bloody wait.

For anyone who is not a blogger, this is an award ceremony where all the cool cats get recognised for their hard work blah blah dedication blah blah.

After tricking her good-natured Mother in Law into having The Spratts overnight, The Unsung Mum picked up “Stunning Blogging Friend” (or MouseMoo&MeToo as her blog is called) and drove them frantically safely into the Big Smoke.

The Unsung Mum likes the Big Smoke. It’s the only place in the country that you can sit outside a cute little cake shop stuffing your face while drinking a cider at 11am while giving off the perfect illusion that you aren’t a raging alcoholic and can barely function.

The Unsung Mum has imagined this moment of freedom all week. It involves strutting into a large room of unknown people, all dressed in three-year-old fashions, like her, with windswept hair and vomit on their shoulder.

It’s probably for the best that they were all dressed up to the nines looking like supermodels, though, as everyone failed to notice the rusk stain on her dress and the fact that her bastard shoes didn’t do up properly.

Instead of shouting “fuck my life” and drinking heavily, which is of course how The Unsung Mum normally celebrates her own demise, she grabbed “The One”, her only drink for the night and sulked in the corner.

She felt a bit weird. Like she was stuck in a massive game of Guess Who.

The Unsung Mum and her Tribal friends are actually brainy and very cultured women (ahem) and The Unsung Mum is confident that their combined humour and cleverness will definitely help her get through the evening of ‘Guess That Blogger’, and it may even be fun.

After finding her table, the Tribal gang start to answer all the pesky little questions The Unsung Mum has. Like “Who’s that?”, “What programme is the host from again?” and “What is it I’m eating exactly?”

It’s possible that the answer to most of these things where “Don’t know, Ab Fab and meat, of some sort,” and in the event of anyone actually remembering she asked such stupid questions, everyone will be too shit faced to remember it in the morning anyway.

The Unsung Mum knows she will probably pay dearly for this spontaneous night out come tomorrow, but fuck it. Sometimes you’ve got to put your big girl pants on and remember you are actually a grown up woman who USED to talk to other grown up people fine, and are not just ‘Mum of Two: Contributor of Beige Food; Unreasonable Putter to Bedder, Finder of All Lost Things, and Lone Packer of the Overused Dishwasher.’

The Unsung Mum isn’t actually sure what to think, though. She feels a bit like Marty McFly in Back to the Future when his mum tries to kiss him at prom. Kind of overwhelmed and underwhelmed all at the same time.

Meeting some of the life-affirming and uplifting bloggers ALMOST makes The Unsung Mum nostalgic for her old baby group, where there are normally one or two other mothers like her with a ‘mum bun’, pyjama bottoms and an ill-fitting white t-shirt covered in stains; or a toddler to distract her by blowing their nose on her sleeve.

Nothing says love like bodily fluids after all.

After managing to not embarrass herself completely, The Unsung Mum decides to celebrate the next night with some friends.

The Unsung Mum is stupid. “Making up for last night,” should be banned. The Unsung Mum decides that it’s The Hubs fault she now has a hangover and has to look after her own children while dying.

Life sucks.

The Unsung Mum and the Peppa Pig Predicament

You may have noticed that The Spratts watch a lot of television. The Unsung Mum has no idea where this habit has come from, as when she only had “The One” they’d strictly watch it between 4pm and 5pm while she prepared a fresh organic rainbow dinner.

It wasn’t meant to be like this, she swears. She had really good intentions when The Baby was born. She was going to take The Baby to Waterbabies at four months like she had The Kid and go to those library singing groups every morning where everyone is happy and looks very put together.

The Unsung Mum was naïve though. The baby soon reminded her what it was like to have a baby in the house again. Only this time when The Baby slept, The Unsung Mum couldn’t, as she still had The Kid to watch. Hence the wonders shit that is children’s TV.

The Kid’s favourite was that little pink pig, and now two years on, has become a firm family stable, a bit like crumbs on the floor and beige food. So when The Unsung Mum stumbled across a post today that mentioned “shows like Peppa Pig are damaging kids” she clicked on it, then straight back off.

The Unsung Mums first reaction to this well-known online news site story was…..

“Crappers. I really am a shit parent.”

That night, while laying on The Baby’s floor for the umpteenth time she swears to stop putting TV on for convenience, and only when she’s completely desperate, like if The Baby wants the craft stuff out or if The Kid wants The Unsung Mum to read Daphne the Diamond Fairy. Again.

“There all better.” She thinks smugly.

Except then, trapped in the dark with an eagle-eyed baby, she realizes that she doesn’t feel any better. In fact, she feels a little-pissed off.

What is it with these “experts” who always think offering their tuppence worth of advice is helpful to parents?

The Unsung Mum often wonders who these experts are and if they actually have kids of their own.

Do they look after them themselves or toss them over to their au pair while they write shit like “Kids’ shows such as ‘Peppa Pig’ damage children’s emotional development” and “stops kids from learning new concepts as they are so used to being entertained by external sources.”

The Unsung Mum thinks this is tripe but it doesn’t stop her from feeling guilty.

“Great, another thing I can add to my ‘what I’m apparently doing wrong as a parent’ list.”

The Unsung Mum would like these “experts” to look after their own kids on a rainy day and dare them not to turn Peppa Pig on. Yep, it’s fecking tedious and teaches them to be stuck up cows, but for five minutes’ peace The Unsung Mum thinks it’s bloody worth it.

She’d rather have The Spratts run around screaming “di-saw raaaa,” and screaming the Birdie Birdie Woof Woof song wrong every two seconds then go off her rocker because she hasn’t had a moment to herself.

It’s either that or the daily thought of adding a padlock to The Spratts oversized trampoline, trapping them in, but at three and two, thinks Peppa Pig is probably the safest option.

The Unsung Mum knows her kids watch more Peppa Pig then most, and that she should take them down the park instead. But after spending the country’s debt on ballet/swimming/gymnastics/karate/horse-riding lessons that she knows they will have no interest in next week, she just can’t be bothered, and is pretty sure that watching Peppa “blasted” Pig most days won’t turn them into something…well…hideous.

In fact, to celebrate her success of running The Spratts to this place and that, she has now rewarded herself with a large slice of lemon drizzle while hiding under the stairs.

“If only the blasted program lasted longer.” She grumped.

The Unsung Mum and The PND Disaster

Today The Unsung Mum is feeling weirdly sentimental.

It’s The Baby’s 2nd birthday and should be a happy time but it’s not. The Unsung Mum remembers, this time, two years ago, correctly named ‘The Dog Days’, when life wasn’t so peachy.

Back then, The Unsung Mum was full of joy from having The Baby but that didn’t last long. Once at home, The Unsung Mum started feeling a bit odd. See, like everyone, she’d heard of post-natal depression, but didn’t actually know what it was. She thought it was something that only happened to other people, a bit like Chlamydia or getting eight hours’ straight sleep.


She didn’t realize that bloody PND comes in all shapes and sizes. The Unsung Mum is a simple lass and thought it meant you’d cried for a bit, threw a few plates at the other half’s head then got on it with so to speak.

Much to The Unsung Mums annoyance, though, Mother Nature had other ideas. The Unsung Mum thinks Mother Nature is a twat though and should get a taste of her own medicine one day. She’d happily give it to her too, somewhere between shoving a Tampon up her bits and inspecting her armpit hair.


“Fuck this.” The Unsung Mum cried. It was day 5 and she just wanted the tears to bugger off now. “It’s completely normal.” The Hub reminded her. She wanted to remind him that there was still plenty of room under their patio for his lifeless body, along with next doors dog and The Kid’s fucking whistle.

‘And anyway’ The Unsung Mum thought, ‘these bloody tears will stop soon and I’ll start feeling a bit more like myself.’

The Unsung Mum liked that idea. She was getting a tad concerned that this grey feeling was going to hang around for a while. The days seemed passable, running after her feral toddler and producing milk any dairy farm would be proud of kept her busy. No, it was the nights that scared the shit out of her. The scary ass thoughts, like would a cat jump through the window and suffocate The Baby? Or what if the house flooded and she sailed away?


It was lucky that she went to all those mother groups then. The one’s that told her how happy she was and wasn’t she lucky to have lost the baby weight so soon. The Unsung Mum didn’t give a shit, though, about anything. Not the dried milk stains by her left boob, last nights rusk in her hair or the four-hour-old nappy The Kid was still attempting to walk around in.

Looking back now, The Unsung Mum wished she’d done more. She now knows that at least 20% of women suffer from some sort of PND. The Unsung Mum is shit at maths, but even she knows that that is a lot of women.

The Unsung Mum probably knew deep down that telling someone the truth would have helped, but that is like asking a toddler to share her birthday presents with her older sister. Yep, The Unsung Mum felt like she was up shit creek without a paddle, or a fucking canoe if she is completely honest. (Which of course, she tries to be as much as humanly possible.)

And yet nobody talks about it. The Unsung Mum loves a good birth story, the more intimate the better, and doesn’t mind sprouting off her own within two minutes of meeting a complete stranger in Sainsbury’s. So it still baffles her now to think she couldn’t ask for the help she needed. But she couldn’t.

She now knows that PND is a vicious cycle of bullshit that makes you feel isolated and alone. The more alone and isolated she felt, the more depressed she became.

The Unsung Mum thinks of herself as a happy go lucky sod, but during ‘The Dog Days’ she couldn’t shake the bloody thing off.

The Unsung Mum was stuck somewhere between her own version of hell and oblivion. She can safely say that it sucked. Yep, even more than The Hubs cooking. Until the ‘Lightbulb Day’ happened. A friend called. Yes, she called and knew very well not to come around as that would have made The Unsung Mum feel like she had to tidy up her pigsty. Instead, she muttered six simple words.

“It’s ok not to be ok.”

She reminded The Unsung Mum that she was bloody amazing and was kicking parenting in the butt every day and that even though these yummy mummy’s looked like they had all their shit together, they probably didn’t and could be suffering too.

The months spent in the clutches of PND are a tad hazy to her now. But the worst memories are of the loneliness; the powerlessness to tell anyone what it felt like; the utter belief that no one else could possibly feel like this when they had such a perfect baby.

The Unsung Mum thanks her lucky stars and this special friend for her magic ears and kind words every day. Without her, she’s pretty sure she would have murdered The Hub and ended up in a Scientology camp married to Tom Cruise.

The Unsung Mum wishes that she could remember more of The Baby’s first year than just the unending grey but she can’t. She now realizes that this isn’t something to feel ashamed of. The only thing she is ashamed of is not recognizing her own condition sooner.

‘PND needs to do one.’ The Unsung Mum thinks. Along with cancer, hummus, and The Hubs stinky arse.


*** If you can relate to this post, or just need someone to talk. Please call the PANDAS Helpline which is available from 9am – 8pm every day.  Their dedicated volunteer team are on hand to offer support, advice and can help point you in the right direction if you need more support.  0843 28 98 401. Please call.•••

Post Comment Love


23 Things I’ve Learnt After Surviving My First Six Week Holiday

First off, that title is whack, as it’s not really six weeks, is it? It’s bloody eight weeks, taking into account all the shitting insert days and half days.

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had a blast and I’ve been mega lucky to have had The Hub home for two of those eight weeks. We weren’t brave enough to go away (I’m not suicidal) but we did some good old day trips while each taking it in turns to cross off a day on the calendar.  September will come damn it!

Anyway, I just thought I’d give you a heads up on some of the things I’ve learned during my first kid infested six-week headache holiday….

1. By day four, you’re begging preschool to reopen.
2. You’ll roll your eyes more times than you blink.

3. And argue over who packs the car just to get out of watching The Kid take her third dump of the day.

4. Packing for a trip to the international space station for six months would be easier than packing for a day out with toddlers.

5. You threaten to call Super Nanny in 7983 times a day because your kids are so badly behaved.

6. But wouldn’t do it really because she scares the shit out of you. Who wants goody two shoe kids anyway right? (Me!!)

7. When your kids say please and thank you to old relatives you feel like having more.

8. Then remember why you don’t.

9. iPods/iPhones/TV/Wifi, in general, are worth their weight in gold, silver, bronze and any other valuable metal.

10. Make a list of all the things you want to do at the start of the holiday, as by the end you’ll have no brain power left or any motivation at all to think of anything.

11. The beach keeps all ages amused.

12. You think you’ll have shit loads of time on your hands and plan to cook loads of amazing middle-class meals with posh ingredients. Then don’t because you realise you can’t actually fucking cook and no one will eat it anyway.

13. After having a nice family day out, you decide to finish it off with a meal out, child-friendly of course. Then regret it. Again.

14. Soft play isn’t soft. (And sucks, but I didn’t need the holidays to learn that!)

15. Agreeing to go to some bastard relatives’ party with the kids and letting them stay up till 11pm will be fine because they’ll probably have a lay in any way. All that shitting dancing and running around must have done them in.

16. Despite the 11pm bedtime and crazy dad dancing both still wake 8765 times in the night then wake up at 5am with the blasted sun.

17. Thinking of games, you can play while tired hungover is good but keeping them interested is fucking hard.

18. Putting endless episodes of Peppa fucking Pig and Paw Patrol on repeat is fine, just to get another half an hour shut eye.

19. Parenting all day for six eight weeks should be considered an Olympic sport.

20. Nursery workers and teachers must really be angels in disguise.

21. You’ll say for fuck sake and fucking hell 6578 times a day under your breath while secretly swigging wine from the bottle at 11am.

22. By the time September comes you wonder how the hell you survived.

23. But then start thinking of more crazy shit you can all get up to in the last week because you already miss them and can’t see yourself surviving without them for 5 seconds.

Review: The Unsung Mum and the Trampoline Test

In between the yelling, sobbing and the frantic Googling ‘are my children bloody normal’, The Unsung Mum has spent much of the six weeks’ holiday trying to be cool and fun.

So when The Unsung Mum was offered her first PR review, for Oxygen Free Jumping no less, she felt smugly clever and accepted with swag.

Having just lived through the longest summer holiday of her life, sustained only by the tiniest hope that September would eventually come, The Unsung Mum grabbed the opportunity to tire her feral kids out with two hands, and feet, if she could have managed it.

Entering into this wondrous new world of hot teenage referees telling your children off for you while still looking like something out of GQ magazine has amazed her.

She thought places like this were a myth, somewhere between kids sleeping through the night at six weeks old and not running off in M&S. Yes, today The Unsung Mum discovered what she could only call a bloody miracle.

The Unsung Mum weeps with joy as she surveys the plush blue seats and delicious looking cake that is sweetly singing her name.

Alas, The Unsung Mum’s bubble is burst by the screaming Baby who doesn’t want to wear her bouncy socks while The Kid thanks the rather attractive looking attendant by screaming “smelly poo face” then runs off in a fit of pure excitement to bang every single locker in reach.

Planting on her “happy” face, The Unsung Mum decreed that everyone will have a good time and be nice to the good looking people.

Despite The Unsung Mum’s strong scowl, The Kid decides that staying with her bedraggled mother is “not cool” and sprints off happily to play with the puppy kissed stewards, who give her tips on how to jump off the walls and flip between the trampolines.

The Unsung Mum, in pursuit of the ultimate pinnacle of middleclassness, thought that The Baby would like to jump around on the trampolines cornered off for under fives, while waving for the perfect Instagram picture. Instead, The Baby morphed into the wildest of beasts and threw the lovely soft play balls at the well-behaved children while shouting “ot you” at the top of her lungs.

After one full hour of watching her deranged offspring jump into the giant airbag and dive into foam pits, one of the rainbow people lightly remarked that it was time to leave.

The children, of course, in a harmony that sounded more like nails on a chalkboard screamed for “one more minute” and “one more jump.”

The Unsung Mum, remembering supernannys tips from last nights rerun, counted to three and demanded the little buggers follow. This went wrong on many levels. Trampoline parks, as it turns out, are bloody large open spaces with enticing obstacles to hide behind and extra bouncy performance trampolines to jump on. Perfect for any cheeky miscreant to escape a parent.

This, like most trips involving her wayward kids, led to The Unsung Mum screaming “get back here. Now” while muttering words like bloody hell and FFS under her breath.

In a fit of severe self control, The Unsung Mum managed to abide by the unspoken parent rule and not actually leave them behind like she threatened 18765 times already.

On the plus side, the happy people kindly round up her mob, thus saving The Unsung Mum from making up more excuses for why she can’t control her own children better. She’d rather jump into the foam pit via the monkey bars naked then attempt to chase after them again. The little scamps.

At home, The Unsung Mum pretended she was only opening the Jaffa cakes because she had surely worked off enough calories bouncing around, but we all know she’s lying to herself really.

Still, it IS Wednesday, so she will only have one. Two at most. Maybe.

** I was given the chance to take my offspring to Oxygen Free Jumping for free in exchange for this review. To be honest, the kids loved it so much that we have been four times since this (in under two months). All views are my own. **

Keep Calm and Carry On Linking Sunday
Hannah Spannah

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