Have we reached the holy grail of parenting?

Mr MotherFudger took a big pause this weekend, moved closer to me and uttered the words I never thought we’d speak:

“I think we’ve reached it… I think we’ve reached the golden period of parenting. You know – the time we never thought we’d reach.”

Puzzled I looked at him while he smiled, a sort of halo forming around his head, a clink of light coming down from on high in an angle gleaming down on us while angels harmonised.

“We’ve hit the holy grail when the KIDS DON’T NEED US 100% OF THE TIME. The time when we can actually do stuff around them.”

I nodded sagely.

He was right.

cam kids train

It is happening. A time when the parenting leash has been loosened and we’re getting IT back a bit. IT being our own time, IT being a bit of space where we can breathe a little more. IT being a time when the children don’t need us shadowing them like over-bearing helicopter parents when we’re out.

We have just popped our cherry on a pub trip where we sat in the beer garden and the children played and made friends with the other kiddies like something from a Enid Blyton novel. It was magical. We sat, we drank, we chatted. The children ran over every so often for some crisps and a drink only to return to the fun that was the child collective. We did the acceptable smiles and nods to the other parents, but mainly we actually got to talk and catch up.

Although it’s unlikely any non-parents are reading this – just in case – you may be thinking this is just odd, of course this is how a trip would be.

Well not so.

Young children are basically on a suicide mission for their entire existence. Mix that together with a desire to push over another child/hit another child over the head/run into the face of danger and what you have there is essentially a trip out that revolves entirely around saving your child’s life/stopping your child hit or push over another child/apologise to another parent because your child has done the latter.

But it seems we’re there. We’ve moved up the phase hierarchy and felt even a tiny bit of smug looking back at our former selves. The possibilities of weekends seem endless. There was a fizzle of excitement in the air.

And while the air was still zinging, the boychild shouted from the garden that he wanted to wee outside AGAIN, the girlchild burst into tears about some injury she’d caused herself, before a fight between the duo ensued and we realised normality has resumed once more.

 

The 7 steps to getting a passport picture for your child

So this summer we’ve venturing abroad. As feeble as it is, it’s not a step we’ve ever braved before, because, well so many reasons I don’t envy any family: buggy on plane, child overheating, trying to get a baby to nap while wanting to sit on a beach, litres of suncream, panicking they haven’t got enough suncream on, insane stuff, just all the stuff you need for a younger child plus a flight with a baby. No thanks.

However, we finally felt we could handle it. Mr MotherFudger wasn’t so sure, but we’re going. Hoobloodyray.

So we cracked on with the kids’ passports, which obviously includes photos.

Now the smalls have a weird thing about photos – the girlchild basically hates having her picture taking. And currently we’re in a phase where the boychild copies her – so he hates it too.

I take a lot of pictures like this:

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So the whole passport taking process was an interesting one:

  1. “Kids you need your pictures taken for the passport”
    Imagine if you told your children you were banning Christmas or cancelling their birthday? Basically the same reaction. They groaned and moaned and said “noooooo” about a thousand times. The girlchild refused. I told her there wouldn’t be a holiday then as they wouldn’t let her on the plane. They came round in the end as I told them it wasn’t an option, they were having them done.
  2. “I can’t take them though – we have to get them done in a booth”
    Repeat response to 1.
  3. “I need to brush your hair and make sure you both look semi-respectable”
    More dramatic wailing. The boychild WAS OK before we left the house – as usual – by the time we arrived at the photo booth he already had dirt on his trousers, but at least his face wasn’t his usual look of ‘I’ve dipped my head in mud, glue and general muck’.
  4.  “Kids you’re going to have to kneel, hold your bottom up so we get at exactly the correct height…”
    Whoever changed the design from a twistable stool to the one big orange stool has never met a child or a person under 5ft. That big orange stool may look fabulous in their Shoreditch apartment but it’s shite at performing the function it was put there to do. Try encouraging a just four-year-old boy to stay at exactly the same height while on his kneels…followed by….
  5. “DO NOT SMILE. No, don’t move your head….keep looking forward. DON’T SMILE. Don’t look down. Keep your face exactly as it is.”
    What fun we had. How much I enjoyed the other shoppers in the supermarket watching me scream at the children like circus animals.
  6. “Well done children – we have the photos. Let’s go choose a treat as you were so good.”
    Phew. Big sigh of relief. Just to get the photos and form signed by my friend. So pleased the photos are all fine. Actually the boychild looked quite good. The girlchild looked, erm, somewhat strained, but hooray. Winning.
  7. Have photos refused at Post Office because there’s a tiny clink of light on their cheeks.
    Swear in front of PO woman. Curse entire photo system. Silently weep.

    I’m pleased to report I then went somewhere where THEY took the picture.

My matchy matchy life with Anastasia Steele

I’ve just watched the second Fifty Shades film and it struck me just how similar my life is to Anastasia Steele. It’s like we’re besties.

For those of you who know me, I don’t hide my sheer love of the Fifty Shades trilogy – hell I celebrate it. I couldn’t give a toss how low-brow, low-rent it all is – it’s fun and the books were ace and the films not bad either. (Jamie Dornan = purr.)

But as I perved, sos, watched the film, I thoughts crumbs – our lives are basically parallel:

OUR WARDROBES/FIGURE

ANA – Size 6. Lots of very tight fitting dresses.

ME – Add a 1 in front of that 6 so basically the same and our clothes are so matchy matchy with the faded leggings I still wear five years after giving birth. People must think we’re twins.

OUR VEHICLE COLLECTION

ANA – The cars. All the cars. It’s basically a fleet of shiny vehicles.

ME – We have a fleet of vehicles too – it’s insane…

fleet-of-vehicles

A HELICOPTER

ANA – Able to ride in a helicopter at any time.

ME – Yup, us too! Erm kinda.

helicopter

THE UNDERWEAR

ANA – Beautiful, lacey, small, pretty.

ME – You know how hers are beautiful, ermm and lacey and small and pretty….you know in the supermarket you get those packs of 5 for £5. Yeah, think those but older than my daughter. But give Ana a few years and we’ll be Team Supermarket Undies together!

supermarket-underwear

WHEN SHE SOLD HER CAR

ANA – Her old skool Beetle made $24000.

ME – My first car cost me approximately £2400 after I decided to replace pretty much everything under the bonnet because I loved it so much. See – basically the same numbers.

THE RED ROOM

ANA – Full of heaps of old things she’s not quite sure what they’re there for and has to keep asking Mr Grey.

ME – Well our red room is our study, which is also full of a load of old crap, mostly old electronics Mr MF refuses to bin, that I often pick up and ask why we have it and what it’s for, before he smiles and says it’s all totally essential.

THE LIFT SCENE

ANA – Snigger. Winky face.

ME – NEVER HAPPENED. EVER. Mentioned to Mr MotherFudger. He laughed and said that was ‘highly inappropriate’.

 

So I think you’ll agree, our lives basically mirror each other’s. Uncanny.

Why kittens are just like having a newborn

 

Perhaps it was my ovaries clacking for a third child, or because I grew up with lot of animals, or maybe I wanted my children to experience how amazing it is to have a pet, but for years I’ve wanted a cat.

And like many things I’ve wanted, it’s only a matter of time before Mr MotherFudger is so fed up with my incessant going on that he gives up and agrees. So, at the end of November, we welcomed our twins – two beautiful fluffy little fur babies – into our lives…

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…they are the CUTEST. THINGS. EVER.

We are all absolutely obsessed with them.

Now here’s the thing – Mr MF wasn’t a cat lover. In fact, he was a bit anti cats. But the strangest thing has happened. Mr MotherFudger is absolutely obsessed. Like properly can’t stop talking about them, sending me texts about them, sharing memes about cats, and cooing over them just like they were a newborn.

In fact, we’re all cooing over them as if they were precious little babies. Well, the girlchild, Mr MF and I are. The boychild is basically terrorising them or asking them to play rock, paper, scissors. The other day he was walking one on its back legs. He’s on a journey with the kittens shall we say. Luckily they’re insanely chilled out.

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But they’ve become our new babies. My ovaries have calmed down, because we’re all playing out our love through the kittens. So I’ve realised – they are like having a newborn in so many ways – only a shitload cheaper…

  • Despite mocking others when they talk to their babies/pets in silly voices Mr MF and I can’t stop talking to them in those exact stupid baby voices. I put on this crazy annoying voice. It’s impossible to stop doing it.
  • All the things we said we wouldn’t do have gone out of the window. “We won’t have them in our bed”. By the end of the first week we’re encouraging them into our bed to co-sleep. Although for three nights in the first week Mr MF slept on the sofa with them “because they looked so so sad every time I got up to come upstairs.”
  • We’re obsessed about what they’re eating, when they’re eating, how much they’re eating and what they weigh. I nearly shed a tear when the vet said they’d gained a great amount of weight. Proud mummy.
  • We keep carrying them around with us, as if they will have neglect issues in later life if we don’t.
  • Just like a baby – before you have one your husband doesn’t give a shit about babies, now they’re here, he’s absolutely obsessed. It takes me right back to the time I had the girlchild. He’d call me and check she was fine and that she had slept and ate and played. He’s doing the same with the kittens. He texts me to check they’re OK and happy. He even asked me the other day to get my parents to go to the house (while I was at work) “just in case the kittens need cuddles”.
  • They have more toys than they can or want to play with, but we just can’t resist buying more, because, you know, a kitten cannot have too many pretend cat nip mice!
  • Even when they’re a bit naughty, they’re still so damn cute and you can’t be cross. They’ve ruined the large floor lamp in the lounge – and we just laughed – because THEY’RE KITTENS. Awww.
  • The immediate protection you feel is akin to a lioness. If anyone hurt them I would go wild!
  • There’s so much love. Who knew such small things can generate such wonderful feelings of love in a house…just like a newborn.
  • You start thinking about the next one you may get/have because why not – they’re just so lovely.

We’re definitely smitten kittens!

 

Don’t put me in a box

I’d be somewhat of a broken record to say how weird this year has been, or how nuts Brexit was and now Trump. It seems to have become the mantra of the moment.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m saddened by it all and have felt the whole rainbow of emotions from anger, worry, fear and a big slab of luckiness that hopefully (and selfishly) we, Team MF, probably won’t be affected that much. Then that’s quickly followed by guilt.

I heard the KKK will carry out a victory march in honour of Donald Trump and it made me feel sick.

However, this isn’t a post where I rant about how wrong the world is, or how much I hate Trump or how leaving Europe makes me want to put on a hair shirt. It’s all made me really angry.

Anger is a really good emotion at times – it makes us stand up, protect ourselves, put up a fight and shout back about our families, communities and the wider world. It makes us talk, argue, debate, blog, read, take an interest, start a conversation. It’s a good force. At times.

But recently I’m aware how so much of that anger has been aimed at putting people, everyone basically, into some kind of box. Basically one of either two boxes:

Box 1 – Guardian reading, left-wing, remain voting, Trump hating, Daily Mail hating, Hillary voting (if in the US), feminist, left wing person who is good and moral and lovely. Selfless. GOOD.

Box 2 – Right wing, Cameron loving, Trump supporting, Daily Mail reading, fascist, racist, immigration hating, nasty horrible wicked person. Selfish. EVIL.

I’m left wing. I’m also a feminist. I read the Guardian and voted remain. I’m not a racist and there are things about the Mail I don’t like. So I’m a clear runner for box 1 I guess.

But box 1ers read this and let me watch your heads spin: I also read the Daily Mail from time to time. I read it because the crappy celeb gossip is better. I read it because I read all newspapers. I also don’t think people who vote Conservative are evil. I used to, but I’ve listened over the years to their arguments why, and over the last few days I’ve been fascinated as to why you’d vote for Trump. And The Guardian’s middle class privileged viewpoint has started to piss me off.

I’m so fucked off with people just ranting about their own viewpoint being correct they’ve stopped listening to others. I cannot believe how many people said after Brexit “Well I just don’t understand who voted to leave because no one on my Facebook was saying that.” Of course not – you’re hardly likely to be friends with people who have contray views to your own.

And actually, in recent years, I think most right wing, Brexit voting peeps don’t voice their views. Let’s remember all those shy Tories eh. They shut the fuck up and then voted with their feet against the loud Labour supporters. Maybe we should’ve listened to why?

I think this was compounded yesterday at a conference I went to. Every single female speaker was a card carrying member of box 1 ready to go on and on about their political positions as if they spoke from everyone’s view point. They didn’t. I looked at the room and wondered how many voted to leave Europe. I viewed the room and wondered how many people would never admit it. I looked at the room and thought I bet loads of those women voted Conservative in the last election. Or how they secretly loved the Daily Mail. (because actually it’s the only newspaper still gaining readership).

And I looked at those female speakers, and most of the people in the room, and I thought how bloody middle class and privileged and white we all were. How easy it is for us to harp on from our positions of champagne socialism, yet never really be in a life threatening position of poverty or suffering or challenge. Not really, not like some people will be in their life.

I heard some stats after Trump was elected. Apparently in the 8 years of Bush and the 8 years of Obama those in America in low income jobs (not sure what that is exactly) had seen their salary reduce by about half. A HALF in 16 years. And the speaker was saying basically that’s probably why so many people voted for Trump. Why the fuck wouldn’t you? If you thought some crazy businessman was going to give you a damn sight more hope than the career politicians ever had, you’d be tempted.

And Brexit – when people jump on the easy ‘racism’ bandwagon about it all being about immigration and right wing people who hated migrants wanting to leave. I don’t think that’s the case. Not for everyone. We know it was across party lines. We know it was a raw nerve for the northern working classes.

It’s not always simple. And it’s not always easy to just put someone in a box about their views.

I feel the card carrying members of box 1 – myself included in this – are often so bloody naive and should listen up to what people are saying. What everyone is saying, not just slamming them down or branding them evil. And actually by not listening to all the debate, not hearing the voices who don’t want to talk for fear of being shouted down by those in box 1 – well they’ve won haven’t.

Quite literally. More fool us.

 

The school run coat

I think I’ve found a niche in the market. I probably should apply to Dragon’s Den. There’s millions to be made.

What doing? Making the perfect school run coat.

You’d think the fashion designers would’ve cracked it. Apparently not.

Of the thousands of coats on the market, when you combine with the school run they’re basically useless. And when I say thousands, I can guarantee I have scrolled through more internet shopping pages than Hilary Clinton has sent emails. I practically have RSI from clicking ‘add to basket’ and then changing my mind.

The problems – there are several…

  1. Coats without a hood – useless. Have you tried the school run in the rain while carrying your children’s rucksacks, your bag, grasping the hands of your kids AND holding an umbrella? No, doesn’t work. A hood isn’t optional. Many things leave your world once you’ve had a child – sleep, your social life, your disposable income, add an umbrella to that list. They’re pointless to you now.
  2. Coats that aren’t warm enough. So it has a hood. You think you’re onto a winner. You’re wrong. That rain mac seemed such a good idea in the heatwave of September, but wait till January and you’re going to be regretting that choice while stomping to school in the snow and freezing your tits off in the line of parenting.
  3. A coat that makes you look like you hate fashion. I’m no Kate Moss, but hell, I like to dip my podgy toe into the trending clothing pool on occasion. Want to mix a fashionable coat with the school run? That ain’t gonna happen sister. Because quite frankly the coat that does offer all-weather protection and includes a hood is going to make you look like you’ve never set foot in a clothing shop and buy most of your outfits from shops that cater for hardened ramblers.
  4. A fail on the keeping dry front. So I’ve found a few that have hoods, look toasty warm and make me look like I’ve flicked through Vogue once or twice in my life. So I do what every consumer in 2016 does – scrolls down to the reviews. “Q1 – will this be rainproof?” Answer: “No – you’ll get wet in a shower”. That’s fucking helpful then. I’ll plan this one for my trip to the Bahamas. Yet another coat fail. Sigh.

So what does this leave me with? A limited range of coats that include ‘maroon’ in the colour options and make me look like I did at the beginning of my Slimming World journey. For fucks sake. How can it be that hard?

In the very limited chance anyone who designs coats will ever read this I’m going to say some phrases that may help you be onto a winner for the THOUSANDS of mummies out there who take their kids to school in the rain and want to look semi-OK in the process:

  • RAIN PROOF
  • FLIRTING WITH FASHION
  • NOT OVER A MILLION POUNDS
  • HAS A HOOD
  • DOESN’T MAKE ME LOOK LIKE A KNOB

Tick those boxes and I think you’ll have yourself a little gold mine.

Until then I’ll be the one that is either shaking in my rain mac, has dripping wet hair or looks decidedly dull in my all-weather-terrain coat that should be worn by someone over 60 who goes rambling.

Night night

x

I don’t want my son to grow up

Several weeks ago we received the letter informing us we need to apply for the boychild’s school place.

I was expecting its arrival and obviously was highly aware that next September he will start school.

Although I have until January to apply, I know which school is our first choice as it’s the same one the girlchild goes to (which I’m very happy with). Applying for his place is merely a 10-minute job I could do, cross off the list and crack on with the rest of thousand of daily chores I have to do.

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Yet there’s something stopping me filling in the form. Every time I go to do it, I just can’t. but maybe think it’s because I just don’t want to.

There are many moments in my week when I think how fabulous it will be when he’s at school with his sister:

  • No more separate drop offs. Currently a working day can mean dropping off the girlchild to breakfast club at 7.45am, travelling miles out of my way to take the boychild to meet his grandparents before I have to head onto work. Just one drop would be a big ole sigh of relief for us all.
  • More me time. Hell yes – those free week days when I don’t do paid work will mean I can kick arse at domestic duties – batch cook, clean the house, have a nap (shh don’t tell Mr MF) and possibly even write that book I desperately want to.
  • I can plan really fun stuff to do with the kids when they’re home. Crafts at the moment – pah. When the hell can I plan this stuff with the feral smalls under my feet? The other day we did Skittle rainbows and I basically felt like I’d won at mummying. Imagine when they’re at school – I can set up craft activities for when they’re back. Ooo the dream.

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  • I can go for coffee and not fear the ticking timebomb of when the boychild will get bored or do a Usain Bolt around a cafe while I desperately try to entertain him.
  • Maybe I can even learn a new skill, take a course, do more running. So many exciting opportunities.

But the thing is it feels like there’s so very many downsides:

  • No more toddler groups or day time playdates. I love them. Toddler groups = piss weak coffee, gossip and an entertained child – what’s not to love?
  • The final nail in the coffin for those early years. I’m not a mum with a baby or toddler. I can’t cling on to having a little tot running around. When you’ve been in that for years leaving it feels kinda odd.
  • We’ll never be in the cute phase again. Never in the same way anyway. The boychild currently calls Raphael from the Ninja Turtles ‘Fluffy Owl’. How adorable is that. We aren’t correcting him. By next September he won’t make those cute little errors that make me want to giggle. Sigh. He’ll be at school with bigger boys who’ll probably have him swearing by Christmas.
  • Currently he’s in that age where he doesn’t really care what people think of him. He bounces around and shouts and has so much fun. By school he’ll be more self aware, more concerned and more worried what people are thinking of him.
  • I won’t be in the baby crowd. Mums who smile in acknowledgement to those other mums with prams. I’m not part of that scene anymore. I’ll become one of those mums who refers to things like feeding and sleep patterns and anyone with a baby will just want me to shut up as I won’t be going through it with them at that time.
  • No more buggy. Jees that thing is a life saver. It’s the mum donkey we all love. I’ve had approximately 7 through my parenting life so far. It’s the ultimate accessory. How will I carry everything?
  • He won’t need me as much. *weeps* He’ll be more independent. He’ll have new friends and my role in getting him to school age will be done. A mum friend said to me once that raising children is basically a constant pushing them away from you and getting them prepared for the adult world. True and completely heartbreaking.
  • And mainly – he won’t be with me for most of the week. It’s like I’ll have to hand him over to the school system and they’ll have more influence than me. I just don’t know how I’ll cope.

Mr MotherFudger keeps saying every phase is wonderful and the kids move on and do such exciting new stuff that we have to appreciate. He’s right. But I’m not quite ready to let this huge big one of my son being by my side for most of the week pass just yet.

So for now, I’m going to linger just a little bit longer and wait a few more weeks while I stick my head in the sand before I have to admit defeat, fill in the form and continue to move forward for next September. And during that time I’m going to really savour the days I do get to have my little boy with me.

Or maybe I’ll just have to have another baby so I can do it all again?!*

*Absolutely no way, not at all, I’m totally done.

Is the school system turning me into a tiger mum?

Three weeks ago the girlchild went up to Year 1 at school. That’s the second year of primary school for anyone confused.

So far so good. We had a good reception year and I felt confident my independent mini me would be fine.

Over the summer everyone seemed to say ‘it’s soooo much harder in Year 1′, ;the step up is tough’, ‘there’s no playing now’ in that slightly fear-inducing way people with children who have been there before you do. So despite thinking it would be fine, there’s been a niggling spectre of concern she was in for a rough ride.

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But it’s been OK. Until last week.

Hello the weekly spelling test. WEEKLY.

She turned 5 in June.

So despite muttering to Mr MotherFudger that perhaps we should move to Sweden and let her climb trees until she’s 7, we cracked on and encouraged her to practise her words. Her 10 words included ‘fright’, ‘turnip’ and ‘brown’. Pretty full on I thought. Did I say she was only 5 in June?!

She really tried – like usual – and always makes us proud, but all week I was completely torn about encouraging her to do it the required three times (as stated by the note with the spelling test book) and just letting her have some much-needed rest time. I’ve tried to feel hugely positive about the process, that if we’re chilled out about a ‘test’ she will be too.

Mr MF and I both felt unchallenged and still remember being frustrated at our primary schools – so perhaps having a challenge to sink your teeth into isn’t so bad. But I just can’t help feeling it’s too much, too young.

Over the week I had various convos with my mum chums who were a mixed bag of love/hate/not really sure about it all.

But we did do the required homework. We sat with her and went through what was required. Each time a bit of me wondered whether my encouragement and enthusiasm was a bit too much of a tiger mum style. When she resisted doing it, I’m not going to lie – I didn’t say ‘oh well, go and play’, but instead my encouragement (and Mr MF’s) pushed her on to finishing it and telling her she needed to do it. Eek. It’s not sat entirely comfortably with me.

It’s also taken up pretty much the only time I have to spend with my daughter. Once in from work, it’s a rush to sort tea, do bath and bed. Squeezing in all the homework has sapped that brief period in between.

Then the night before she had a meltdown while practising. And I didn’t blame her. She’s exhausted.

IN CASE YOU MISSED IT – SHE’S 5.

Friday came, she did the test and did very well. We’re really proud – mainly because she worked hard all week and tried. But now we’re onto the next set of questions and the next test on Friday. That’s as well as the maths homework she has, the daily reading of her own reading book and us reading to her.

So I’m sat here wondering how right it all is. Surely it’s too much? How gently coercing her to do all this through the week is a good thing? She’s engaged now – but will she be week after week of doing the same thing every evening? I hoped school would inspire and engage, not just force-feed the building blocks of learning…and not turn us into parents who are supporting our daughter by becoming tiger parents about what she’s ‘learning’.

 

The wedding and the age spot

This morning I woke up and noticed I have an age spot. A pale little mole-like spot on my cheek screaming “fuck girl, you’re getting old”.

agespot

Funny how these moments often occur at such perfect – or rather utterly shite – timing.

You see last night I went to a wedding. I was my bestie’s plus one, so I didn’t know the couple, but however close you are to the bride and groom there’s something so emotional about a wedding. Even before I was hitched I always found myself welling up about the commitment two people were making to each other. The future they were about to start, the adventure, the anticipation, the new chapter. Now I’m married myself, weddings always make me think about my wonderful wedding to Mr MotherFudger. The start of us being Team MF.

When you’re a bit of a bystander at a wedding it makes you notice the detail even more so – especially as I was ‘Des’ so wasn’t drinking. The thing that totally stood out was how many hipsters there were. Most of the groom’s mates were beardy coiffured men in their 20s with neck tattoos and skinny trousers.

Mr MF doesn’t look like a hipster. Neither do his friends.

It was a sledgehammer of reality that actually, we’re not the young kids on the block anymore. We are aging, with kids, mortgages, commitments and age spots.

Now normally I’m a dancer, I love shaking my big ole booty but honestly, I really struggled with the music. So much of it was really clubby dancey stuff I hadn’t even heard of. Even thinking that made me want to reach for a full syringe of Botox.

Drunk Bestie was encouraging me to dance and I honestly thought ‘I can’t’. How the fuck do you move to ‘Soulja Boy’?* Well the hipster lads knew – there’s even a chuffing dance routine. Clearly I’ve aged myself out of getting the memos…even the word memos would be lost on them. Fuck.

It made me feel really bloody old. And if I’m honest I couldn’t help but think how shite a lot of modern music is.

None of this was helped by a large percentage of our current home chat revolving around our shit heap of a car and what we’re going to do after spending £1000 in the last few months and it still not working properly. Growing up rocks, it really does.

As I love my friend, I did dance, and eventually found the groove I thought I’d left back in 2003. Then, as if the DJ knew, he put on “On a Ragga Tip”, SL2, 1992.** WHAT A TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON. It was our time. It was immense. And from there on in we were all over that dance floor and mixing with the hipsters. Who needs Soulja Boy?!

I may be getting old, we may have handed over the yoff baton to those younger kids. My 20s couldn’t have been more of a blast, it was truly the hedonistic decade I hope my children enjoy, but actually, that time has passed. As I sit in my lounge, with my babes asleep in bed, my shitheap of a Zafira in the driveway, a secure job and a happy marriage to a lovely man I’m more than happy to embrace my 30s, and middle age.

Plus – we have YouTube, so there can always be lounge discos every night of the week:

*When I searched for the video I typed in Soldier Boy – nuff said.

**No need to look that one up!

When opposites just don’t attract

“It’s so easy to find something we both want to watch” said no couple ever.

Why is it so hard to find a middle ground with your partner?

Again Mr MotherFudger and I said “Let’s sit and watch something together tonight”, which followed with the inevitable 30 minutes of scrolling through Netflix/SKY while I was secretly thinking I just wanted to catch up on Bake Off and Eastenders.

As Mr MF did his usual TV Tourette’s routine of shouting out things like “Dinosaurs” “Blue Planet” “River Monsters” I slipped into my safe space again of wondering what it must be like to be in a relationship/live with someone who wants to watch the same thing. Why’s it so fucking hard?

Currently we’re watching this…

jeremy

…not familiar with this beauty of a specimen. Jeremy Wade. He presents River Monsters. A dull as arse programme where he travels the world claiming to find the world’s deadliest fish. He is so overly dramatic. In one episode he nearly wept with ‘fear’ just when standing in a few inches of water because the fish in water could’ve caught him and dragged them in. Really Jeremy, really?

Every episode is peppered with phrases like “bone crunching”, “deadly” and climatic music as he pulls in his macho catch while we sit gasping about whether he will catch the ‘monster’. Jeeeeeeeeeeez. Fuck off Jeremy. I’m not sucked in by your bullshit.

Sadly Mr MF is, and he seemed to win the telly choice tonight.

Mr MotherFudger and I are truly opposite and I’m cool with that. Yin and Yang. Billy and Honey (Eastenders – natch). Salt and Pepper. (Not Salt N Pepper as in Push Push It Reeeeal Good.) And it works. Most of the time. Until we reach the TV discussion.

I hear of those urban myth couples who go through 7-series box sets together or can’t wait to download certain films. Not us.