A family day out with a raging hangover.

Hubs and I went to a wedding reception last night. NannyGran was babysitting, hubs was driving and I let my hair down. Pretty sure I let it all the way down, in a way that would put Rapunzul to shame.

Fast forward to this morning, I hear my son calling for Mummy and hubs telling him ‘Mummy’s in bed. She got very drunk last night.’ I got up, drank two cups of tea and made poached eggs.

Impressed?

You shouldn’t be. The earlier I get up and the more functional I am, the more stinking the hangover will be when it finally kicks in.

Hubs and I decided last week that we’d take William to the air museum today. He loves watching planes fly over the garden and can spot them before anyone. I got dressed. My makeup still looked okay from last night so I put a bit more mascara on and was ready! (I’m not ashamed that I’m not ashamed of that.)

Hangover issue one: I’m in no fit state to drive.

No problem, hubs is driving.

We arrived at the museum with a very excited toddler, who kept exclaiming ‘Ooooohhh’ loudly whilst pointing at all the planes.

Then we encountered hangover problem number two: Museum smell. Most of the exhibition was outside, thank Lordy because the hungover body doesn’t tolerate smells very well. Chundering on an old jet engine wouldn’t have gone down very well with the over visitors.

Will was given the freedom of his reins, which leads me to hangover problem number three: when you can see the earth spinning the last thing you need to see if your toddler running round in circles. Pretty sure chundering on my son would have been frowned upon too.

We left the museum and popped to the supermarket. It was crowded and Will, after being an absolute treasure in the museum screamed blue bloody murder the whole way round. Hangover problem four: I’m barely humaning, parenting is out of the question.

On the way home my hangover hankering for a McDonalds peaked and we took a detour. Hubs doesn’t eat anything from this particular fast food outlet and only goes at my request. (or my preggo rage that could only be quelled by their chips!) Hangover problem five: do as we say not as we do. We’re trying to make sure Will eats the best possible food to help him grow into a healthy young man. He’s had one McDonalds in his life and we’re in no hurry for him to have a second. (Although he got so excited when we pulled in to the car park we have some questions for his grandparents…)

We’re home now and this hangover is really kicking in. (And kicking my arse) which leads us to hangover problem number six: Will has no idea I’m hungover. So he’s been climbing on me. Kicking a ball at my back (repeatedly) trying to claim the blanket I’ve wrapped round myself and yet more climbing on me, and needing all the things from me he always does. And throwing in a few extra tantrums for good measure. I’m letting hubs take the reins.

Can you have a family day out with a hangover?

Yes. Yes you can.

Should you?

Not unless you like torturing yourself.

In over news:

Will crushed a snail in his hand and then licked it. Must keep sharper eye out for snails. (Think of me as a one woman snail protection unit.)

Will has named his bedtime bunny ‘Me me’

I’m never drinking again. (Until Saturday)

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Am I a ‘helicopter mum’?

A while ago I took a quiz on Facebook, ‘What type of parent are you?’ More out of boredom than curiosity I answered the questions and gave a derisive snort when it informed me I was a ‘helicopter parent’ which is basically hovering around your child twenty four seven, not giving them an awful lot of freedom and being a smidge too helpful. Which transpires is actually ‘not very helpful’.

Not me I thought, carefree parenting, that’s my style. And I have noticed that when we are with family, I take a step back, relax, have a rare hot cup of tea. But when we’re out together, I allow him non of this freedom. I don’t let him out of my sight ( although my anxiety tells me if I look away, he’ll get abducted) I follow him around soft-play, at children’s parties, hovering a few feet away.

When William was a few hours old and I was in hospital with him alone, I looked at his tiny form and couldn’t bear the thought of him being hurt or upset. I saw it as my sole job to make sure that didn’t happen. So when I’m wedging myself around soft play, and helping him across the rope bridges, it stems purely from my want to keep him safe.

So imagine how I felt when I noticed that when I wasn’t right beside him, despite my encouragement, he would not explore on his own. Oh lordy, it’s happening, I’m fucking him up already! My desire to keep him from harm, free from worry has backfired slightly. Like it or not I can’t always be there for him, first day of school, new job, driving tests I can’t be there, he’s got to do it alone and I’m seriously restricting his opportunities to be independent with my helicoptering! And how can he ever learn about coping with worry and upset if I never allow him to expose himself to it?

I need to take a step back, I want an independent little boy so I need to let him be just that.

I also need to not think of myself of any type of parent other than ‘parent’. Because doesn’t society already try to put enough labels on us already?

In other news:

I’m furious that hubs has avoided TWO toxic poo nappies.

The boy is becoming quite the bookworm. So reading the same sodding book fifty million times is now part of our daily routine.

My son has just head butted me and acted like I’m the one in the wrong…

The terrible twos… three months early.

The boy is entering a new phase. One that I hope will be over soon. Our once angelic, blue eyed, golden haired boy has changed to a blue eyed, golden haired tantrum machine. His brand new today thing is to shout ‘ow!’ When you try to move him/strap him into his car seat/ put his shoes on.

To the passer-by it looks as if this poor boy is being mistreated by his witch of a mother. To me (and others experiencing a similar phase) It’s the reason why we drink. Toddlers don’t care how loud they scream or how many people are around when they do it. To be perfectly honest I don’t care that much either but why do they insist on being at their worst with an audience? When I’m trying to get us home and he point blank refuses to get in the car:

‘Come on William, get in the car.’

‘We’re going home to see Daddy and the pussy cats.’

‘Come on in you get!’

*Resist urge to shout GET IN THE FUCKING CAR WILLIAM!!! Go to take his hand to lead him in*

He pulls away crouches in the street screaming. I pick him up to put him in the car, he arches his back screaming ‘No no no!’ Get him into car, try and get him in car seat he starts planking, try to bend child so I can get his seatbelt on. Child. Won’t. Bend. Wonder when my child was replaced by steel girder. Child become less plank like as occupied with hitting Mummy. Use window of flexibility to click in seatbelt. Say in calmest voice can muster ‘We don’t smack’, tighten seatbelt to ensure child safe. Child starts shouting ‘Ow! Ow! Owww!!’

Try and placate child with favourite toy.

Child throws favourite toy.

Clamber out and climb into drivers seat with toddler wailing in the back.

Ignore glares from passers by. Drive off with child still wailing.

Question life choices.

Every time we’ve got in the car today.

Every.

Time.

He’s also doing the fun thing of wanting something (food, toy, seat) then instantly changing his mind when he gets it. This causes a tantrum. We are at the mercy of the whim of a toddler. If you need me, I’ll be hiding in the summerhouse drinking wine.

In other news:

Writing this post was interrupted when the boy broke his ‘splat mat’ the one that only yesterday I insisted to friends was ‘very strong’. The boy thought pouring the water that was in it onto the carpet was lots of fun. I grabbed it off him, chucked it in the sink then started mopping up the puddle on the living room carpet. Whilst I was clearing up, the boy pulled the splat mat out of the sink and started pouring the water on the kitchen floor. Spinning round to ensure full cupboard coverage too. I got mad, he laughed at me.

Captain has been trying to catch bees in the garden. It’s obviously been a while since we’ve had an expensive vet bill.

My two year old niece (for reasons unknown) did a poo in her back garden today.

Time to get fit(ish)

I’ve been rather alarmed by my growing waistline. The final straw came on Friday. The boy and I were changing the bedding. This is mostly arsing about, pretending the duvet is trying to eat him, putting the fitted sheet over him and exclaiming ‘where’s the baby?’, etc. Half way through the process we were rolling around on the bed doing our ‘Oh no I’ve fallen over and I can’t get up’ routine, when the boy clocked my belly. He was mesmerised by it. Pressing his hands into it and wiggling them about, slapping it and watching it ripple and finally (which nearly tipped me over the edge) grabbing handfuls of it. (Yes. HANDFULS) As much as I’m all for anything that keeps him amused I’m drawing the line at my belly.

I’ve not been taking care of myself recently. I’ve been leaving that up to the various pharmaceuticals I’m on. But I need to take responsibility for my own health, I need to help it along and as much as I enjoy sharing an Easter egg with hubs I’m certainly not blessed with a metabolism that lets me get away with that. And I’ve said it before my clothes size is closely linked with my self esteem.

Today I exercised. I’d downloaded an app that gives me a little routine to follow. William found this fascinating, which caused a problem. When I was planking he decided to lay on me and exclaim ‘ahhhh’, when I did a wall sit, he tried to climb on my lap with a book and when I did crunches, he straddled me, bounced up and down squealing and slapped my tum like it was his tambourine. Thankfully hubs removed him before I was winded.

Will this health kick last? Probably not, but I’ll make the most of the enthusiasm I currently feel.

In other news:

The boy has started going to Nursery half a day a week. He’s not too happy about this.

Cat/bald kitten relations are going very well. (If you ignore Marms) although Captain wasn’t too sure what to do when he had a sippy cup thrust in his face.

It seems I am the current favourite parent, and although I’m enjoying being flavour of the month I know how upsetting some of the rejection is for hubs. (Although he’s pretty stoked that I get the pleasure of reading the sodding alphabet book eleventy billion times a day.)

It takes a village to raise a child.

Now I’m not sure if the saying is ‘a’ village or ‘the’ village but what I do know is I don’t agree. 

You see support is a wonderful thing, no question. Offers to babysit/look after the little one are great. Advice, when it’s asked for delivered in a non-judgemental way in truely invaluable, but the village…. no thank you. 

You see raising a baby is hard enough but it’s even harder when everyone has slightly different ideas on the right way to do things. It’s even harder when people take you ignoring their advice and doing your own thing personally. What do you do if that happens? Let ’em be upset, don’t try and justify how you’re choosing to raise your child or you’ll spend the next 18 years apologising!

It’s also worth bearing in mind that all of these villagers were once exactly where you are now, no matter how authoritative their advice no-one is born knowing exactly what to do with a tiny human in all situations. 

In other news:

The boy has a cold. So. Much. Snot.

The cats appear to have called a truce.

The winter wardrobe is out the loft.

It’s 2017 – Why is taking a baby out so frustrating?! 

The UK is a modern country. I feel living here qualifies me to say that. We have all the mod cons, men can marry men, women can marry women, we’ve embraced boutique coffee shops and the future king did the school run this week.

Not too shabby, all in all.

But now I experience this ‘green and pleasant land’  a little differently. Because now I am a parent, and I can’t tell you how frigging frustrating it can get sometimes.

Firstly, let’s look at parking. Most places provide spaces for parents and children. A lot of people moan about these spaces (‘We didn’t have them in my day’, well no, you didn’t but your toilet was also in the back garden so change is good Brenda.) Any way these spaces are supposed to be helpful and designed so you can get tiny people strapped in safely without bashing the car next to you. Or they would be if you could ever actually park in one. They are either taken by ignorant dicks (usually in the more expensive cars) or other ignorant dicks whose kids are teenagers. Often the number of parent and child spaces are woefully inadequate in number. There is a large multi-story in Coventry with only 6 parent and child spaces. 6.

Now if by some miracle I have managed to park in a space that gives me adequate room to extract my child from his seat, I have to consider trolleys. This isn’t an issue now. but when he was tiny and needed the shopping trolley (cart) with the baby seat in, our local Tesco supermarket (apparently the largest in the UK) has only four of these trolleys. When I couldn’t find one of these trolleys I was forced to put William’s car seat in an ordinary trolley which left no room for the groceries. If I did happen to get a trolley with the baby seat on I found their design such that I  couldn’t actually see where you I was going. Nice one.

Today I took wills to get new shoes. I’d had to park in a regular space (standard) and the design of this particular place is very attractive but not really helpful if you have a pushchair. Shoes purchased, I headed for a loo. The particular shop I went to is forward thinking in that it’s one of the only places with a Father and baby changing room. This is brilliant and ‘Mother and baby’ has always irked me somewhat as I don’t feel that because I’m his mother I should be the one to change him. In the same way I don’t see how having a uterus makes cleaning my responsibility. Anyway huzzarh for father and child changing rooms, because if dad takes the baby out, there is somewhere he can go for a nappy change. Anyway, as is common the mother and baby changing facilities are in the women’s toilet. But I didn’t need to change him I needed a wee. Except, I couldn’t because all the neat little cubicles wouldn’t fit a pushchair in. If I took the bags and Wills from the pushchair how was I supposed to pee holding on to them all? There was no way I was going to go with the door open or leave Wills outside unattended and I was on my own, there was no one to wait with him! Luckily, they had disabled toilets. Plenty of room for us both, but I did feel a tad guilty for using them.

It reminded me of when I took Wills to town, once again I needed a wee, the changing facilities were just a room with a changing table and the cubicles too small to get a pushchair in. (But they were immaculate.) I found a disabled toilet, but it was locked. I had to ask an attendant for the key. The attendant was male. Call me old fashioned, but I don’t like asking strange men to unlock a loo for me, and have to apologise because I don’t need the disabled facility I just need somewhere big enough for me and my son. The guy was lovely but he did have to hover outside to lock it up again after I’d finished. It is kept locked to stop unsavoury things occurring in there. (I dread to think…)

Now if I’ve manage to survive parking, trolleys and peeing, lets look at the actual shops. So many shops with barely enough room to get your buggy through. If it happens to be a big shop, they tend to stick stuff in the way, ensuring it becomes an obstacle course. Lots of sticky out legs to catch the wheels on, tables with clothing draped over which your biscuit (cookie) covered toddler likes to grab at, and you can’t swerve to avoid because there is no sodding room!

So many things that used to be simple, no longer are, mostly down to a lack of thought. Do I expect it to change anytime soon? Sadly no, looks like I’ll be putting up with it. Fingers crossed by the time I’m a Gandma we’ll have it all sorted, and my complaints won’t be met with ‘Well you chose to have children..’

In other news:

Wills and Captain have managed to squish a sandwich into the floor and fill my travel cup with cheese. (I suspect Wills is responsible for the cheese in  the cup, Captain for helping the sandwich off the side)

It’s Marms four year adoptoversary today! She celebrated by getting soaking wet and laying on our bed.

Our little boy is becoming quite the chatterbox!

Public enemy number 1.

For some reason, I can do nothing right today. My son has spent the morning wailing. The causes have been various, his daddy went to work, I stopped him drinking my tea, I took the house phone off him, I had a shower, I took my foundation out of his mouth, I picked him up, I put him down… all sorts of unreasonable things a mother does! 

He’s currently stood on the sofa smacking the wall and I’m hovering so I can catch him if he falls but I’m not sure I could take another meltdown from him so I’m pretty much leaving him to it. 

Now would be a good time to point out that it’s only 9.50 in the morning. When I took my make up off him, he threw himself on the floor and beat the carpet with his fists. I haven’t eaten yet, I think taking him out would be a good idea but it’s a wet and miserable day, I’m not sure where we would go. He has absolutely no interest in his own toys today, finding amusement in anything/everything that is highly unsuitable/dangerous. 

I can’t decide if he’s tired (all hell broke loose when I put him into bed) if he’s teething or if he’s just decided to be monumental bum hole today. 

Either way, I shall continue my day, as public enemy number one. 

Please send ear plugs. 

In other news:

Yesterday, Wills thought it acceptable to smack Captain with that sodding loo brush!

Winter is here apparently, slightly peeved we didn’t have a summer in between…

My summer house has been erected (tee hee) I just need a couple of days sans rain so I can paint it (it’s never going to get painted).