The Tales of The Unsung Mum

Stories from The Unsung Mum

The Unsung Mum and Petty Parenteral Expectations

The Unsung Mum woke this morning feeling pretty rad. The Spratts between them only woke twice and even though she was awake most of the night wondering if one of them had been Sprattnapped or eaten by zombies, she feels weirdly refreshed.

That changed pretty quickly thought when The Hub mentioned the word ‘Shopping.’

“No,” replies The Unsung Mum. The Unsung Mum hates food shopping with a passion. Unless it’s after eight pm and she can go alone and casually look round the aisles without having to check what The Kid has sneaked into the basket or search every clothing rail for a hidden baby.

“Well I could go alone…”

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The Unsung Mum and the Halloween Howler

It’s Saturday afternoon and The Spratts are trying on their Halloween costumes for a friend’s Halloween party later on. The Unsung Mum is weirdly chirpy today, and can’t wait to see her little cherubs in their delightful costumes.

Nothing will break her happy mood. Not even when The Kid changes her mind 34567 times over which costume to wear.

The Unsung Mum is not deterred, though. How hard could it be to find a princess ninja spaceman suit?

Grabbing her trusted phone, she starts to google like a fucking maniac on heat, hoping beyond hope that a local shop might still have a few costumes left on Halloween eve eve. While her little darlings are playing quietly, she frantically opens and shuts the front door hoping that Poundland has mysteriously moved next door to her house.

Crap, it hasn’t.

While making a wholesome lunch for her sweethearts, she overhears them playing together and thinks what lovely children she is raising.

‘Right,’ she thinks. ‘I must look harder.’

While The Spratts sit down and eat ALL their lunch, The Unsung Mum quickly scurries through Pinterest and finds some really great ideas from other top mums.

Here we are, a homemade spaceman princess ninja suit. No, wait a second, that’s a fetish site, how the hell did she get there?

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The Unsung Mum and the Terrifying Twonado  

It’s early morning and all is quiet on the western front. Which is strange, as The Spratts have been awake since 5.30am and since 5.31am have been shouting, screaming and whining as loud as humanly possible.

Knowing she will pay the price for her lack of parenting later, The Unsung Mum decides to take advantage anyway and puts her feet up, looking forward to a few alone time minutes with a certain Mr. Greg Wallace, when she was suddenly attacked by a great force.Shit.

The offending object, also known as the home phone to more civilized folk, rebounded off The Unsung Mum’s head and hit the floor.

Waiting for her war wound to appear, she silently scrutinizes her second born. Killer look in the eye. Check. Blunt object in hand. Check.

Crap. It can only mean one thing.

Babyhood has gone and toddlerhood part 2 has begun.

The Unsung Mum wonders how the hell she missed it. Had she suddenly run out of brain room and just forgot about this part or had it really been that traumatising the first time that she blanked it out.

The Unsung Mum, deciding to take the offending object, paid the ultimate price.

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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.

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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.”

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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.

pnd-pic-4

“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.

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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.

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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

A Zoo Special: A Tale of Two Giraffes

So last week consisted of many epic parenting fails, but there is one that sticks out plain and centre.

I made the stupid mistake of taking my two monkeys to the zoo, by myself, without any sort of play date buffer to help distract them (i.e an unglorified babysitter so I don’t have to watch them 24/7.)

We headed to The Kids favourite spot. The giraffe enclosure where an array of these beautiful creatures were eating/shitting/licking everything in sight when The Kid asked the one question every parent dreads (okay, maybe the second question.)

“Mummy, what’s that?” She asked pointing at the giraffes neither regions.

“A giraffe H.” I replied, purposely ignoring what she was really pointing at.

“No mummy. That?”

There it is. That four letter word. That. What do I say? Tell her the truth or lie through my teeth? Ummm.

“That’s a penis H.” I said wearily knowing full well where this was going.

“Yes, but what does it do?” She asked, her cute little questioning face squashed up in confusion.

“Well.” I puffed trying to regain my composure. “It doesn’t really do anything.”  Well apart from the obvious of course.  “Apart from weeing.” I said quickly. “That’s how they wee.”

“Like Daddy.” She said confidently, with a very proud look on her face.

“Right.”

Hoping that was the end of that I dragged the kids outside and we watched them being fed by the keeper.

“Mummy mummy there’s something wrong with that one.”

Panicked that one was going to die right in front of us I looked quickly. Not seeing any raging zombie giraffes or whatever I stood confused.

“Mummy what’s up with it?”

I swear to God I stared and couldn’t see anything but five giraffes with long weird tongues eating a bunch of leaves.

“That one mummy.” She pointed again, her voice rising. “That one’s penis has dropped off.”

I spat out laughing and quickly covered my mouth as the keeper scowled in my direction.

“It hasn’t fallen off H, she’s a girl giraffe.”

Complete chaos. I could see her processing it. What? No PENIS?!

“But mummy, you have a penis too don’t you?”

By this point, the mum next to me had given up and packed her kids up and hurried away. Couldn’t blame her to be honest. If I could have beamed H anywhere else, I would have.

“No baby, mummies don’t have penises remember? We have vaginas.” I replied in what I hoped was a very pleasant and patient voice.

“Oh.” She stared directly into my eyes, all sad. “Has yours dropped off too?”

Oh, come on! Please let a natural disaster hit me right now! Please.

“No H. I’ve never had a penis. Err…sorry?” I said, trying to smile but grimacing instead.

If only that was the end of it. But the darn daddy giraffe decided to use that exact second to mount the mummy one.

“Come on H. We’re going.”

“But why mummy?” She asked head turned, staring at the naughty giraffes.

“Because we are.” I muttered, half dragging half pulling her while trying to steer a buggy that suddenly didn’t want to go the same way as me.

“But mummy I want to stayyyyyy!” She screamed, kicking off the mother of all tantrums and consequently, as The Baby loves to do, starts her crocodile crying and Houdini trick, trying to get out the buggy.

Face palm.

Note to self: Skip the giraffe pen next time, it just ain’t worth it. Oh, and telling the truth ALL the time, to a three-year-old is a shit idea. Darn fancy assed parenting books!