Happy Fuck It Fri-ayyy

'Mummmmy .... Daddddy!'
'Commme On....'
'It's Fri - ayyy'
'Commme On....'
'Commme On Now!'
'Fri - ayyy  Fri - ayyy'

This is what we woke up to at 5.30am last Friday morning. If it had not been "Fri-ayyy", I would have said a completely different F word under my breath. I would have rolled over and told my husband to 'ignore him' and prayed to every God I'd ever heard of, "please just this once make him go back to sleep".

But because it was Friday, I laughed.
I laughed and my husband laughed and got up and bought him in for a cuddle. Because who can resist an enthusiastic, life affirming toddler on a Friday morning? Not us that's for sure. The cuddle didn't really work out (does it ever?), the constant wriggling and sticky feet jabs to the ribs soon put pay to that idea and by 6am we we were all watching Peter Rabbit and sipping warmed milk and tea.

'Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit...! Something something... Run for your life!' As he bounces up and down at the foot of the bed.

Why I'm Redefining Having It All

This post was originally featured on Littles Magazine.

The concept of having it all, is in my opinion a strange one. It's the idea that the woman, the Mother should strive to have an excellent career and a contented family life and that these things should exist in harmonious balance with one another. It's the idea that this is what all women want or at least should want, because its now (apparently) all available to us.

Ugh. How patronising.

I'm a full time working mother of one, with a husband who also works full time and co-parents with me in equal measures. Whilst I am not particularly qualified or financially well off, I would go as far as to call my vocation a career because it is specialised and I've been working on it for a long time.
Sounds like I've got it sorted doesn't it? Well some days I do, some days we get up, we get ready, I've made lunches the night before and everyone has clean underwear. Some days the toddler fully co-operates, he actually brushes his teeth and he lets us dress him without kicking Daddy in the balls. He's excited to see his Nanny or his friend Lily at nursery and he's bowling out the door with a huge grin on his face. On these days I've straightened my hair, I'm on time, I'm wearing that dress with the little brown belt and there are no ladders in my tights. These are the days that I, by definition look like I 'have it all'.

When Your Toddler Holds You Hostage In Superdrug

Sometimes I forget that I'm still a first time parent. I feel like I've been a Mum for a while, its not all shiny and new and I should just know the answers by now. I mean you get all that when you have a new born, that feeling of not knowing what you're doing, not knowing how to hold them without their head falling off. Unsure of the normal temperature, the normal colour of poo, the normal amount of crying. You're supposed to not know when they are new and you are new at being a parent, its expected, its accepted. Its ok to hold your hands up and say 'Sorry I'm new at this, I don't really know what I'm doing!'. 
Trouble is, I'm not really sure I can do that now my first baby is a new toddler. I mean I'm more confident with my parenting skills than I was in those first few months, his needs are easier to read, mostly because they are being screamed at me from across the supermarket. I can assess the right temperature because I've realised that its either just too fucking hot or too fucking cold, it doesn't matter if you're nine months old or ninety. I don't worry about the colour of poo, I no longer phone my Mum about it. Two and half years in, I've seen it all or at least please God, I hope I have. Its been on my hands, in my hair, on the carpet, there's nothing in the poo department that can worry me now. We've kept him alive and reasonably well behaved, we used to congratulate ourselves on what a 'good baby' he was.

Then three weeks ago, he held me hostage in Superdrug.

There's Too Much Fucking Swearing On This Blog

Its fair to say that there's a lot of swearing on this blog. None of it is particularly offensive in an aggressive sense, its all intended as tongue in cheek humour but I cannot deny that the profanity word count is pretty high. I'd never really considered it until recently, I'm pretty free and liberal with how I write, in that I write how I like and if I like it then I keep it. I don't write for other people, I write for myself and I've found it very therapeutic, cathartic even. I just start tapping away and if a 'shit' or a 'fuck' contributes to the giggles or exasperates my tone I go with it. Particularly if you're writing about something that pisses you off, I've found a couple of 'bastards' and 'arseholes' really help get your point across. Of course I'm thrilled to bits to discover that people actually read my nonsense and even if it is just mostly my Mum (hi mum!), I've enjoyed that I've made people laugh and engaged with them on a certain topic or event in my life. I've had some cracking comments and direct messages, many full of obscenities and 'Fuck Yes!' moments. I've laughed my arse off at some of the feedback I had on that tit post, apparently it is a real issue affecting mothers globally - not just me!

Mothering The Shit Out Of Life

Towards the end of last year I got pretty bogged down with all the things I had to do, the things I did do and things that were never going to get done. My mind became increasingly cluttered and stressed and over burdened by the demands of work, housework, my son, my husband and everything else that goes with it. There was always hoovering to do, always emails to respond to, always a dinner to cook. I was becoming increasingly frustrated with myself and my inability to get everything done. Everyone elses houses are always tidy, why was ours never ever tidy? We're never even here for fucks sake. At one point I was actually getting up in the middle of the night to hang up washing so it would dry in time. I would voluntarily opt out on reading my son a bedtime story, so that I could get dinner started so we wouldn't be eating at 9 o'clock again. I was giving a little of myself to everything, meaning nothing got my full attention, nothing truly ever got done or finished and well, I was fucking failing at everything.

Is Anyone Else Being Constantly Punched In The Tit?

Bar two days I've been off work with Finley all over Christmas. Its been lovely, Christmas and all its shenanigans and then just having normal days with him. Taking him to soft play, getting his breakfast, buying a multi pack of Petits Filous because he was actually around long enough to eat them all. We spread his Christmas over our two families, as you already know his upbringing is pretty much a family affair and its been great to be with him and everyone important in our lives. Its been pretty chilled, slow paced, relaxing and well just lovely.
Until I recount all the injuries I have sustained ... Seriously in a ten day period I have been bruised, poked, pinched, slam dunked and quite frankly conquered by my two year old. On the whole its been unintentional, but it all still hurts like a mother fucker. First up, he apparently likes to pinch my fat. If my muffin top is a bulging, he's right there pinching and giggling. Thanks kid, like I need that non so subtle reminder.  He also likes to tickle people, which is really sweet and all good fun in theory. Except his tickles aren't tickles, they are prods and pokes. He gets all his fingers together, comes at you from across the room and shouts "iggle iggle! iggle iggle!". And you have to grin and bear it because you love him and stuff but it really does hurt like a bitch. He's also taken to slam dunking people, this situation arises when he wants you to be a horsey but you haven't figured that out in time. So he launches himself at your back, knees to the kidneys and arms tight around your neck. You either go down and submit or you choke to death in seconds.