Twinnies, tantrums and Mondays

Boom! Monday’s almost done – I’ve survived! Hooo-fucking-ray!

I’ve got to be honest, the day didn’t get off to a promising start because Eli was being a massive pain in the arse but it’s been alright really. I’ve not set the world alight by discovering a cure for tiny penis syndrome or helped a granny cross the road or owt but the day has passed and both Eli and I are still alive. Oh and Christiaan, we’ve not finished him off have Eli and I, it’s just that Monday is generally solo parenting day so it’s just me and the wee man against the world.

It’s a big thing; looking after him on my own when I’m going through a shit spell but it’s got to be done. We can’t get him into nursery for any extra days, there’s no space for him and even if we could it’s another drain on the finances; so it’s me and him and we do alright you know. I need to keep reminding myself that it won’t be this bad forever health wise; this is hopefully only temporary and I’ll come out the other side soon. That’s not to say I’ll recover from M.E. I don’t think, the statistics are very much against me at this age and having been ill for as along, but I’ll likely move back towards the middle of the scale with moderate pain and fatigue at some point… I hope. That’s way more manageable than where we are just now, in fact it’s fucking heavenly compared to where we are now, which is nuts because it’s still miles away from normal. I don’t even want to entertain the notion this is what normal looks like for me now, its depressing and… well it just needs to fuck off really.

Regardless of your health situation I think anyone with kids of a certain age wakes up every morning and thinks “shit, I need to entertain this little freeloader all day…. how the fuck am I going to do that?” and I’m no different. I’ve got to be sensible about what we plan for very obvious reasons but that doesn’t mean I can get away with lying on the couch while he watches CBeebies all day. Even on the worst days, I have to put my big girl pants on and do SOMETHING to entertain the beast; whether that’s a sticker book, or drawing or pretending to play hide and seek (he’s shit at it) depends on his mood but I can’t leave him feral. He’d be smearing the walls with shite using the cat. Thankfully it’s never been so bad that I’ve had to entertain the idea of “crafts”; that box is well and truly still sealed and hidden deep in the kitchen cupboard. I know that sounds cruel but honestly, the kid hates his hands being messy and I fucking hate it; especially the glitter – it looks like Christmas has wanked all over the house and I’m STILL finding it months later. It ends up on plates, up the walls, burrowed deep into the carpet, on the cats, in my pubes, up my nose – I probably even shit glitter. I hate it.  I look at the other Mums who love all that shit and I have a momentary pang of guilt for Eli, maybe he’d really like to get stuck in? Then I give myself a shake and remember that I pay nursery a lot of money to look after him and give him a fully rounded craft experience. They can deal with the fall out from that. I refuse. I am not a “lets make a piece of art out of this used nappy and straws” kind of mum, I am a “quiet jigsaw and book” kind of mum.  UNLESS I have an ounce of energy and then I’m a “fuck it, go wild and run for miles and I’ll walk slowly behind you” kind of mum.  He might never be the next Rolf Harris but look how that turned out.

SO, this morning. I knew we had plans for the morning, my oldest, loveliest friend (Hi Ted) and her wee twinnies were coming for a visit. I’ve not seen them in ages because of normal life reasons, you know what it’s like, or maybe you don’t but basically when you have kids their social calendar becomes the priority. You sign up to all of these mental classes in the hope you’re not only entertaining them but giving them the foundations of some solid social skills and a chance to meet “future friends” either for you or for the kids. It’s a big fucking lie. You pay a fortune and your kid/s basically make a cunt of you and run around wild listening to nothing and taking part in none of the activity or class. It seems to be a different mums turn to own the worst kid every week mind, often the sour faced up their own arse mum gets it tight first when their little darlings hit the deck, or another kid. They do what we all do; the embarrassed mum dance of “Oh I’m really sorry! Arbuthnot say you’re sorry RIGHT NOW to little… Chablis. He’s never normally like this honestly, he’s normally so gentle with other kids and REALLY happy to share. I just don’t know what’s got into him… honestly”. We drag the snotty nosed brat we swapped our figure for and make it apologise to the other kid who has descended into bubbles of snot and wailing and of course, OF COURSE they refuse to say sorry, because they’re toddlers and toddlers are twats. Anyway, everyone takes their turn and it generally brings all the mums down to the same level…. or they leave. It’s a brutal landscape and only the strong, or ignorant survive.

Anyway, it had been ages since I’d seen D and I was itching to squeeze those wee baba’s – they’re growing so fast and changing all the time and there’s nothing lovelier to see than friends wee ones grow…. because you can enjoy the good bits knowing that their mum deals with the rest of the shit. I was also looking forward to hearing her chat. I say hearing her chat but with three under the age of three we spent more time making sure they weren’t trying to kill themselves, or each other, or a cat so I think we managed about 4 minutes chat over the space of an hour, all in scatter gun form. It was smashin though, the wee ones all tottered around, they played nicely together – at one point we were both smiling proudly at them, until Eli got precious over an Iggle Piggle jigsaw and hulked out. It was a nice easy start to the day and it was an activity I could absolutely do sitting down. Win win that.

It could have gone one of two ways though to be fair. Eli was riding the 50/50 between angel and pyscho so I had no idea how he was going to be with an audience. They make an arse of you at this age regardless so I just let it play out and tried to ignore the bad bits but this was just glimpse of the morning – taken 5 minutes apart. The only thing that had changed was that I had dressed him, so it could be that his colourful gear cheered him but I suspect it was just that he chose to stop being a dick.



You can see Bear staring at him from his bed of judgement. He’s got some need to judge the furry screamy arsehole, if he doesn’t stop patting me awake for a cuddle at 4 every morning I’m putting him on eBay.

Now I’m sure that there are lots of “gentle parenting” tips you could all helpfully share with me on how to deal with this kind of behaviour. You can stop right fucking there. I’m not a fan. I am not lying down on the floor with him and gently explaining that I know he has a lot of emotions that he doesn’t know how to express right now and it’s OK to let them out. It isn’t. He needs to stand up, quit whining and stop being a dick. I love him, but I’d be doing him no favours by letting him think that life revolves around his sensitive wee soul. Sometimes my son, your Mum shouts your name when your in the middle of doing a naughty thing (I still don’t know what he was doing), and you may well be pissed off you’ve been caught, but you need to stand the fuck up and style it out. Hitting the deck and crying convinces no one of your innocence.  It’s also about time you had a job.

He’s been on the precipice all fucking day to be honest. He cried because he didn’t want to eat his toast, because I gave him a fork to eat some hash browns instead, because he dropped his jigsaws, because the sticker book was “broke it”, because he didn’t want to eat the soup, because the soup was gone, because he was tired and because he didn’t want to go to sleep. Toddlers be crazy.

So he fought his nap, but went down after 45 mins and I retreated for my pre-weigh in shite fuel – a really strong coffee. It did the trick this week you’ll be chuffed to hear, we had a mass evacuation thank the lawd. I was kind of hoping Eli would sleep a bit longer, what with twatting around and going down later but he woke up at 1.30 on the dot and demanded an apple so that was that. Now I don’t want you thinking that he’s a No Treat Norman – tomorrow he could wake up and demand a chocolate ice cream, it depends which way the wind is blowing. Today he got his desire; an apple it was.


The afternoon had no plans attached, which always panics me slightly, especially when I’m feeling rotten.  I had thought we’d maybe walk up to the village but I knew I wasn’t up to it, I’m really fucking sore today and the thought of pushing myself and then either controlling, or pushing another 2 and a half stone of mental there and back was just too much. No, we were staying home. I was desperate for some fresh air though, both Eli and I had been farting all morning and the house was pungent so I togged us up and we pottered about in the garden of doom and concrete for an hour. I managed to plant a few of the plants we’d got yesterday, not properly mind, they’ll probably die, but they’re in the ground or pots and they’ve had water…. nature… it’s up to you now doll face- don’t let me down.



Now I thought I was being a right clever cow putting him in that “waterproof” to play at his water table. You can tell what’s coming can’t you? I found out the fucking thing isn’t waterproof when we came in – he was soaked. Every layer could have put an end to a dozen worldwide droughts. Fucks sake!  That meant I had to strip him down, walk up the stairs to fetch some new clobber AND re-dress him. Even to a normal person that’s a hassle, to me it’s like someone chucked Mount Everest on a rocket and asked me to hop it singing The Locomotion. It felt utterly impossible. I had fucked myself doing the planting, albeit that bit only took 15 mins and the rest of the time I was sat watching Eli. I didn’t need this; it was a big bag of sweaty donkey balls.

As luck would have it though Christiaan had emerged from his office for a piss so I begged him to help. I remain eternally grateful for us both being able to work from home and for his tiny bladder because I reckon I’d have actually wept if I’d had to do it all alone. I’m pathetic I know. That 5 minutes of help was more welcome than pizza at a party – glorious glorious man.

Eli’s all changed now, and still farting. I wish he would hurry up and have a shit to be honest, I’m fucked off smelling second time around broccoli but its his bed time now and there’s still no sign. I’d hoped it would happen when I left to go to fat club, i.e. when I didn’t have to deal with it but no, he’s betrayed me. It’ll either be a middle of the night turd which will have us all up or a first thing in the morning “present”. He’s a fucker.

The day ended on a high though, the new boiler and the pipe that has been responsible for ceiling vag will be sorted out later this week: it’s confirmed. That trumps the news of the royal baby for me to be honest; I’ve no idea what state Kate’s fanjo is in but I can bet she’s had more attention than my ceiling.

As well as the plumbing news I went to fat club and was chuffed to see another pound had gone. It’s always a result that. For a long time nothing was moving, I was doing the hokey kokey with the same pound for weeks and I don’t know why (because I’m doing the same as I always did) but all of a sudden it’s started coming off again. It’s a relief because I never really know to what extend M.E. is in the driving seat with my biological workings – this week and for the last few it’s had a double serving of fuck you with a side of IN YO FACE and I’m chuffed with that. Only 2.5lbs to go until I’ve shifted 3 stone, it’s taken since July but I don’t reckon that’s TOO bad with everything that’s going on.

Monday is normally a day where I relax a bit food wise, not go mental but allow myself some toast for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch and whatever we fancy for dinner. It’s very tame, I’m not rolling around in chocolate, crisps and McDonalds but I look forward to it all week. Today though I’ve stalled at toast. I couldn’t be arsed with lunch – I’ve missed the chance to have a lovely cheese sandwich which I know I’ll regret all week. We treated ourselves to a chippy for dinner and I’ve left three quarters of it and what I did eat was the salad, the wrap that came with it and a few chips – I’ve just no appetite today. Fucking sods law that on a Monday. I’ll want to eat a child tomorrow, nothing surer…. Monday, you really are a skidmark.

So, today’s synopsis:

  • Highlights
    • 50% of the solo parenting is done for the week
    • Ceiling Vag is getting her leak fixed
    • The new boiler will be installed which means we may have better hot water pressure AND less worry about the water tanks upstairs
    • Another 1lb gone
    • A smashin visit from my friend and her wee ones
    • Some of the plants are in the ground
  • Lowlights
    • Eli’s not had a shit, this is bad news for the night
    • I’m shit at binge eating
    • Not a good day pain or tiredness wise blah blah blah
  • What’s on the menu Mellars?
    • Well I’ve already told you up there innit ^^


2 thoughts on “Twinnies, tantrums and Mondays

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