The Nine Stages to Becoming a Faultless Parent

For once, I’m going to be super helpful and share with you some of my very own top tips on how to be the very best parent ever! If you already feel that the carefully constructed felt tip pen drawings on your newly painted hallway walls really offer something extra to the room, then I’m sorry, this post isn’t for you. Fuck off.

Moving on….

Stage One: Love

Pretty simple right? All you need to give them is love and plenty of attention. 24 hours a day!!!

Stage Two: Be Helpful

You should be the ultimate player at Hungry Hippos without actually getting any tiny red balls at all i.e. willing the little red balls away from your hippo into their hippo’s mouth by intense eye contact alone.

Stage Three: Do The Impossible

Be able to fit Scout into Barbie’s suitcase, reducing Scout to the size of a pea, and enlarging the suitcase to the size of your head on demand, then back again, without breaking anything.

Stage Four:  Channel Mr. Maker

Attaching objects together with no attachable properties is your name, and keeping them there is your game.

Stage Five: Conduct Electricity

You should be in possession of a way to stream Paw Patrol at ALL times with endless battery capabilities and continuous 4G connection, even in the middle of nowhere.

Stage Six: Fun

Willingly and passionately give up your body to be used as a human climbing frame.

Stage Seven: Sporty

Never take offense to being drop kicked in the side, in the head or in your bits.

Stage Eight: Have the Attention Span of a Neurosurgeon

You should have a very high level of boredom control enabling you to play Barbies/cars/trains and trolls (insert another shit toy name here) for hours and hours without making up some lame excuse for why you can’t keep playing.

Stage Nine: Have encyclopedic knowledge on EVERYTHING

You must be able to correctly select the demanded next Topsy and Tim episode, just by reading the vague one-line description from the Sky box, while knowing exactly what is going to happen and who everyone is within the two seconds you have been sat watching it.

So to sum this all up lightly, to be loved by your children* you need to be a dazzling physic with shape-defying powers, with abs of steel and a brain so brilliant that it loves the same mind numbingly boring questions shouted at it 67543 times a day on repeat. If you are only one or two of these things, then I’m sorry, you’re as shit as the rest of us.

(* for about two days until the criteria will undoubtedly change all over again. Good luck.)

How to Survive Baby Group’s (kind of)

Now I have two sprogs, the humble baby group is like mecca to me, I generally couldn’t live without them.

They’re cheap, not at my house and you get drinks and biscuits thrown in. What’s not to like?!

Yes, of course, like anything there are a few potholes in this plan. One being that you normally have to make really awkward small talk to a bunch of people you’ve never met, and keep a smile plastered on your face, even though Little Jimmy is screaming he wants to go home at the top of his lungs. To be honest, I don’t mind a bit of small talk. After all, small talk or not, it’s still an actual conversation with an adult, which is normally better than debating with my four-year-old on why I’m such a poo poo face, for the millionth time.

And anyway, baby groups can be fun, if you know how to navigate them right.

Issue One – Money

Unless you are one of those crazy mums who have spare time and energy to dedicate to other kids and let’s be honest, who has, then you will have to pay to get it. Cheap and cheerful, coughing up a quid shouldn’t be too hard, even if it is in five pence pieces because you’ve had to raid Freddie’s money box again.

Issue Two- Squash and Biscuits

What you don’t know is that before the group opens, all the saintly volunteers pick a straw to see which unlucky sod will be manning the refreshment counter this time. Ever tried to defuse a raging toddler who is told they can’t lick all the biscuits then put them back? It’s NOT a proper baby group without a couple of the little darlings going nuclear because they drunk each others squash either…

Issue Three- Ride Ons

What is it with playgroups and bloody ride ons? Isn’t it bad enough that my ankles get hit at home every three seconds? That I then have to pay to enter, to then have thirty little shits also drive into my poor ankles!

Then there’s the Cosy Coupe….. Directly my eyes lay sight on those plastic cars my heart sinks. Especially after explaining why they need to share the blasted thing, to then finally get a go, and then lose it because they run over to show me they now have it! Argh! Surely I can’t be the only one who dreams about killing the bloody thing, right?

Issue Four- Happy Smiley People

There are some days I turn up looking haggard on three hours sleep, and other times I’ve accidently switched the kids into ‘whinge mode’ and plan on hiding in the corner stalking childless couple’s photos on Facebook.

Telling me your John has slept for twenty-three hours and now only eats green food is NOT what baby group is about.

Baby group is about letting your kids run riot in a controlled environment while you keep one eye on them and bitch to the just as exhausted mum next to you about how come you can’t seem to “breed sleepers” like everyone else.

Issue Five- The Craft Table

My issue is this. The eldest one hates craft, while the youngest one loves it. So I’m torn between the constant pull of sitting with the little one and having her colour outside the lines on MY sheet of paper or being screamed up from the other side of the room by a child who can’t bear to play by herself for thirty seconds.

 Issue Six- Handbags at Dawn

The similarities between a playgroup and Keeping up with the Kardashians is uncanny if you think about it…

 Issue Seven- Puzzles

Just accept that none of the right pieces will ever be in the right box and deal with it woman!

Issue Eight- Packing Up

And of course, this is when they really want to play with the kitchen set, they haven’t touched all session!

Issue Nine- Singing

In any other social situation, having a bunch of adults sit around on the floor grumbling songs they barely know under their breaths would normally result in some sort of arrest or mass exorcism.

It’s okay, though, it’s almost over. Just have to get through this awkward bit then we’ve done enough parenting to warrant putting the TV on for a bit at home. Yes, this is the most boring bit ever, and you do let your mind wonder and silently ponder if this hell will ever end.

Don’t worry it does. Because before you know it, you’ll be begging to return to this group with biscuits and cheap squash after playing £4.50 a session at baby French for your little monkey to call you poo poo head in two languages. Brilliant!


The Green Food Strike

As most of you are probably aware by now, my kids are pretty crap picky eaters. That’s right. As a mother I have failed to make vegetables fun and fruit smoothies that actually taste good.  So it won’t surprise you to find out that The Kid won’t eat any vegetables and only eats bananas, pears and apples.  


So when The Baby came along, I lived in hope that the allotted fruit and vegetable gene distribution would be kinder to me this time and start dishing out some love. No such luck.

And so it pains me to say it but we’ve been having a 1 in 3 success rate with The Baby’s green to beige plate ratio, which of course only means one thing. Both Spratts are going to get scurvy and have mutant babies of their own. 

But why? I did everything right. I weaned them on gag inducing pea puree and chip shaped sweet potatoes. (Ok, and the odd bit of cheesy pasta bake and Wotsits.)  

If only I could ask them what the hell is going on in their crazy brains right now…..

Me: So errr, I was wondering girls, why don’t you eat any fruit and vegetables anymore?

The Kid: I hate anything and everything green mummy. Except green ice lollies and play doh.

The Baby: What she said. You know how it is when you’re 2 years old. Why put food in your mouth when you can try a table leg or part of daddy’s belt?  

Me: Most other kids at least eat fruit you know…

The Kid: Those kids are weak.  

Me: Eating all your fruit and vegetables will make you grow big and strong. Like Daddy.  

 The Baby: Screw Daddy.

 Me: Most baby books suggest that….

 The Kid: Hate books.

Me… should eat at least five fruit and vegetables a day.

 The Kid: Goodness woman! Get a grip! We aren’t eating anything that looks green/purple/orange or red. Maybe even yellow if the feeling takes us.  

Me: You’d feel a lot better if you did you know.

 The Baby: And you’d feel better if you just stopped banging on about it. And all this ‘here comes the fire engine’ in that twat of a voice makes you sound like a dick. Soz.

 Me: I wish someone would cook ME healthy meals…

The Kid: Here we go again…’boo hoo for you’. If you don’t stop complaining, then I’ll stop drinking those smoothies Grandma makes too.

Me: All right all right, lets not be to hasty here. I was just commenting that at three and two….

The Baby: Oh cut the crap lady. We know your game here.

Me: I don’t know what you mean sweetie?

The Kid: Yeah. We see you nervously clutching your phone ready to Google “how to get my kids to poo quickly” again. I haven’t been for three days now! Go me!

Me: I know darling. We can smell you from a mile away. See if you just ate your veg… and anyway, you make Googling sound like a luxury!

The Baby: Well isn’t it?

 Me: Err yes but…

 The Kid: What’s your game plan here? Hoping we both take a shit before we get in the car? Or are you bored of the twenty-minute toilet musical statues I make you play?

The Baby: Or my sudden need to wriggle my legs uncontrollably? 

 Me: I’m only ever thinking of you two!

The Kid: Well, I’m not eating anything that isn’t beige and covered in ketchup.

 The Baby: And don’t bother trying to grate them all up or hide them in Spag Bols. I’ll just go f*cking mental and chuck the cutlery at my sister and throw myself out my chair again. Try explaining that away to A&E this time!

Me: Okay….

The Kid: So let us make this crystal clear for you. We eat all kinds of food for Grandma, including mashed stuff. We don’t eat anything that looks or smells healthy at home. ESPECIALLY if you’ve spent an hour cooking it. Got it?

Me: Well sort of yes, but, er, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to switch it round every so often?

The Baby: No. Well now that’s sorted….

The Kid: The park!

 The Baby: But I wanted soft play…

The Kid: I SAID THE PARK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 Me: Sweethearts, it’s the weekend and blowing a gale. We’re going to be flipping cold at the park and I hate soft play.  

The Baby: Shoes. On. Now.   




Mums Let Loose

Whoop! The day has finally arrived. You know the one right? This one event that you’ve been planning for months along with the other 6785 parent bloggers who have paid to attend.

That’s right. It’s Blogfest16 baby!

Well, today is the day and everyone who’s anyone can attend.

Wait. Is that Bridie on the phone?

Never mind girls. Who ever said three’s a crowd probably wasn’t a mum anyway.


Tutters Lip: Self-Immunisation Strategies

If you’ve watched the news recently (and let’s be honest, you’ve probably got time for such leisure because you don’t have kids) then you’ll know that there is a serious epidemic of Tutters Lip currently spreading across the UK.

Myths and conspiracies include:

The primary trigger point for Tutters Lip is the everyday child. The disease is thought to have started in nice cafes and trendy bistros in the capital where parents are preoccupied with life and temporarily unable to dispense disciplinary tactics. A high number of incidents have been reported where patients have been trying to enjoy a peaceful cup of tea, attempting to run the Waitrose gauntlet avoiding buggy lash, or innocently waiting for the local bus.

Unfortunate symptoms may include emitting a devil stare to the perpetrating child, uncontrollable eye rolling towards the parent, and the blurting of heinous clichés to sleep deprived members of society.


Yummy vs Slummy: A Normal Mums Demise

If the media are to be believed, then there are only two types of mum is this world.



and Slummy.

Yummy Mummy likes to look rad, cook organic food and have her kids in a very strict routine. Slummy Mummy is a bit of a rebel. Slummy Mummy swears openly, drinks like a fish and reads her phone while her kids are running riot at baby group.

Yummy and Slummy are so opposite, that they sit outside of each other’s houses with pitchforks and mean banners to try and put each other off. (Not really.)

But what happened to Middling Mummy? You know the one. Middling Mummy who openly admits that she doesn’t bath her kids every night and lets them get away with having an extra biscuit at bedtime.

Middling Mum who loves the fucking bones off her kids, even when they call Granny Dotty “poo poo face” and ask why she smells of cabbage.


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.


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.)


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

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?

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