The Frazzled Mam’s Christmas Meltdown

Have a heart attack realising how much 10 year-olds expect for Christmas. 

Arrange for a bank loan to purchase meaningless Xbox game complete with capitalistic plastic figure that does fuck all but costs a small fortune. 

Verge upon Bankruptcy as you consider the real cost of ‘a few Christmas drinks at a quiet bar in town’.

Empty the DVD rack as you try to recycle funds to pay for the ‘must have’ CD’s of the moment. 

Attend first AA meeting as Xmas pressures start to manifest themselves in empty vodka bottles.

Make up some hair-brained excuse to not pay Council Tax, Rent, Water Rates because Bratzilla outfits are only £2 a pop in Home Bargains so of course, must buy twelve. 

Empty every single half opened packet of foodstuffs in the cupboard in an effort to create a meal, because this week’s shopping budget went on an Ipad.  (Fuck you Apple and your socially ingrained peer pressure).

Run down the road screaming because the HP men are here to recover the Christmas presents that haven’t even made it to 25^th December yet. 

Regret spending £10 on an amazing radio controlled car that just had to have, despite having no credit on the electric meter and sitting in the dark eating tea, playing I-spy.

Yearn for the days when the only financial outlay I had at Christmas was a fiver I chucked in works Bran Tub.

X-pect everything to sort itself out in time for Christmas Day.  Er, dream on. 

Make space in the garden for when I get that sick of seeing the fucking Christmas tree, I decide to launch it straight through front window, decorations and all.

Accept that despite what the adverts say, Christmas isn’t all about abandoned puppies, party food, cash donations and really crappy CD compilations. 

Sing the praises of the truly appreciated friends who’ve contributed to make this Christmas far more enjoyable than the last - thanks to their altruism, love, kindness, understanding and much valued presence in my life.  

Have a fantastic pissedmas everyone!

I wish each and everyone of you a prosperous 2014. 

x x x

Why sometimes being a Mum & getting old is a big bag of shit

I used to live life carefree, me.  Yearning, earning, partying and farting about. 

Until one day, the great conception star in the sky said:

‘Hey u! You’ve been spending far too much money on Jack Daniels, Yves St Laurent and Morgan De Toi.  Let’s give you something else to spend your money on instead.’

And ‘poof’ there I was, single mum to twins.

Now, I know we’re all supposed to say how wonderful being puked on and shat on is, how poignant our babies first steps/words/bowel movements are, how monumentally exquisite being a mum is but let’s be honest - being a mum is a big pile of shit, sometimes.

You slave your guts out for shit. You work your ass off for shit, you get covered in shit, you get fed full of shit. And if that wasn’t enough, you have to go through shit, eat shit and not give a shit by the time you learn how to deal with the shit.

Believe me. The ‘pregnant’ blooming glow is a barrel of bollocks.  Having kids sucks dick.

Behind the Quinny, The anti-MMR brigade, the banal and completely unnecessary birthday parties, etc - you’ll still end up a bashed in, ground down, wrinkly, haggard looking old bastard.

If it’s not your child’s clothes, hair, shoes, manners, road/internet/personal safety you’re worrying about, it’s whether they’re going to shop you to Child Protection Services because every teatime, you lose the plot.

And let’s face it, no designer handbag, amazing school-play costume/disco outfit, Ugg Boots or 4x4 is going to disguise that really.