- Forgot the bastard Harvest Festival until the moment we were leaving for school. Had to send child 1 with a rusty tin of kidney beans and child 2 with a box of lasagne sheets. Thank fuck the local food-bank don’t rely on self-absorbed arse-holes like me for donations. Oh wait, they do.
- Got the following message from the teacher in child 2’s reading record: Have given S these books for another week as he said he has not read them yet. Yep, I’ve had over a week to read these with him and I’ve not even taken them out of his bag.
- Put child 2 in the wrong boxer shorts on Wednesday. You see, it’s P.E. on a Wednesday. It’s of paramount importance to him that he wears a particular pair of boxer shorts on this day so that his bollocks don’t come out at the sides when he’s getting changed in front of his friends. Let’s just say I was entirely to blame for the inevitable free-balling situation at changing time.
- Used Grand Theft Auto as a baby-sitter for my 5-year-old whilst I applied fake-tan. To be fair I put it on mute.
- “Recycled” school uniforms for 4 days in a row and will almost certainly send the buggers in the same attire tomorrow.
AND THE SHIT MUM AWARD GOES TO …..
I’ve just got back from the school run. This morning and every Wednesday morning at my son’s school, we (parents, grandparents) are invited to stay from 8.50 until 9.10 for “Stay and Read”. The school website advertises these sessions as “the opportunity to enjoy sharing a book with your child”. Completely false advertising may I point out. I’ve re-worded the advert ever so slightly, to give parents/grandparents/anyone-who-gives-a-shit a little bit more of an insight into what these sessions are actually about ….
We would like to welcome all parents and grandparents to attend our weekly “Stay and Read” sessions. These sessions involve:
- Sitting on miniature chairs and/or a filthy carpet in the noisiest and most rammed classroom in the world.
- Pretending to “share” a book with your child, who has absolutely no fucking interest in the book and cannot actually read yet.
- Making small talk with other stay-and-readers/members of school staff about how fantastic these sessions are, when really you would rather be licking a tramp’s arse.
- Making over enthusiastic comments like “wow, isn’t this book amazing?!” and adopting silly voices for the different characters in the book (what a knob-head I sound) so that the aforementioned stay-and-readers/members of school staff think that you are a complete pro at animatedly “sharing” books with your child when, in actual fact, sharing a book with your child usually consists of skimming through multiple pages at lightning speed before declaring “The End, Night Night!”.
- Being surrounded/poked/harassed by other children whose parents are working/busy/ wanted to get home to watch the end of Lorraine/could not be arsed to attend Stay and Read. And having to be nice to them whilst your own child has fucked off to find the lego.
- Taking your eye off your own child for 10 seconds, during which time he manages to get into trouble from the teacher for running around the classroom, leaving you looking like a completely incompetent moron.
- Please note: If you can manage to forget about Stay and Read until you actually arrive at school, that’s even better. That way you can keep your coat on the whole time because you still have your PJ top (with no bra of course!) underneath. Coming close to dying of over-heating whilst your titties swing free will make the session more enjoyable.
- Also note: Bring an unreasonable and destructive toddler along too. All welcome!
I cried this morning because the dog chewed my make up sponge and I’ve caught pink-eye from my youngest child (the dirty little bastard) and my life is fucking shit and I want to smash my husband’s face in with a breeze block.
Not really. I just have P.M.T. Which basically means I am my normal self, but a fat-bastard version, with acne of the ENTIRE FACE AND BODY and an extreme hatred of everyone on the planet, including my hideous, greedy, ugly, fat-twat self. Other than that, I feel fine. Perfectly fine. Although did I also mention that I fucking hate everyone?
I’m planning on getting through the rest of the day by: a) looking at my ugly face crying in the mirror, b) eating chocolate digestives and crying some more into the mirror and c) hating my shitty existence and crying into the mirror a bit more. Just kidding. I have to work/clean/prepare tea/walk the bastard dog/wash the pink-eye pillow cases/look after small people/buy a new make-up sponge/generally act like a non-psychopath in public.
Anyway, I wanted to make sure it was normal to be experiencing what can only be described as intense feelings of abhorrence at my own life in the days leading up to the kind visit from Aunt Flo, so I googled it. And according to google I’m either: a) going through early menopause (cue further googling to convince myself that yes, I am menopausal, and my husband should take this shit seriously and start having some fucking sympathy); b) dying (cue further googling to rule out death); or c) preparing to expel an unfertilised egg and shit loads of womb lining out of my fanny within the next few days (the most plausible explanation, of course, and hardly surprising as I’ve done it 9 times so far this year).
In my self-diagnosis, I came across a rather useless and unhelpful diagram of the female menstrual cycle. You know the one you have to look at in Biology lessons? It’s about as useful as my white jeans will be this time next week. (By the way, have you seen that sanitary towel advert where the girl is wearing white jeans and smiling away at the fact that it’s 5am and she’s still out partying with friends? Go home and get a shower you mucky bitch!) So I decided to edit the diagram slightly. I do hope it’s useful now.
Remember those days when you first got together and had regular serial shag-a-thons and your tits didn’t look like windsocks and your pre-baby fanny didn’t look and feel like it’s got the vaginal version of Bell’s Palsy and your man didn’t pick his arse in front of you?
Spontaneous sex is now a lost art, and quite frankly it faded out a bloody long time ago. There is the issue of kids of course, but even if they are not around, ample time needs to be earmarked for me to give my fanny a quick shave and for him to wash his knob in the sink.
Sexy time is now always premeditated, requires some rather strategic planning and follows a predictable series of steps. Who said romance was dead? (Give that man a cigar!)
Step 1: Husband tries to initiate sex using one or more of the following methods:
- Sneaks up behind me and puts a bag over my face (just kidding)
- Takes a £20 note from his pocket and throws it on the bed (again, just kidding. Though that could work)
- Slaps me in the face with his penis (not kidding)
Step 2: I establish probability of intercourse (see bar chart below)
Step 3: Adequate time is allocated for aforementioned fanny-shaving and cock-washing. Whilst splashing willy around in the sink, husband takes the opportunity to tell me how lucky I am to have someone so well-endowed.
Step 4: Husband goes downstairs to get sky remote to poorly illustrate point made in Step 3, using sky remote as a comparison tool for his semi-on.
Step 5: A suitable spunk-rag is located for dealing with the aftermath of what’s about to go down (which, by the way, probably won’t be husband). Usually an item from the dirty wash basket, such as husband’s T-shirt. Or jimjams belonging to one of the kids – what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.
Step 6: Husband starts erotic proceedings with a final couple of inquiries:
Step 7: Shit gets underway:
Step 8: Tandem crab-walk onto carefully laid-out spunk rag to collect spillage. Slim chance of pillow talk. Small chance of spooning. High chance of husband farting. Straight to sleep.