04 Oct 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum Tags: Anniversary, Child, Husband, Mommy, School, School Run, Squidge
I have come to the conclusion that the School Run is not suited to a wedding anniversary. This is why…
7am: BLEEP BLEEP BLEEEP. The Husband’s built-in iPhone alarm wakes me up from a deep snore sleep. I realise I am still sick. I go back to sleep.
7:30am: Meep Meep Meep, WOOF. Meep Meep Meep WOOF. Squidge’s Animagic puppies (she got these for her birthday) are eeping at each other while she manages her doggy zoo on her bed. I place pillow over head. At this point the fact that it is a) our anniversary and b) my morning shift has not been remembered.
7:45am: “Mooooooommmeeeeee” The adorable voice howls, I mean, calls at me from the bottom of the stairs. I smell coffee. I rise, like a zombie (seriously, if you saw The Hair you would totally think I had been dragged out of a grave backwards) and head for the smell.
7:47 am: “Happy Anniversary darling,” says The Husband, looking annoyingly perky and talking to me before I have caffeine. I can get off on a technicality for that. He hands me a lovely card with blood on it, “Look,” he says, “I bled for you.” Suddenly a lightbulb goes off in my head. OH. My. Holy. Knickers. I have his card, but I haven’t written in it. I have his present, but it hasn’t arrived yet. I have his gift voucher, but I didn’t print it.
8am: I have shut the lounge door and am frantically writing in The Husband’s card. I pause for a moment to praise myself for its amusing joke involving the Kama Sutra. All the cards I buy him are rude. It’s important. I am also juggling a child who is not interested in remaining in the same room. She is like a cat. If the door is shut she has to go through it. I am trying to print Amazon voucher at the same time but screen faces kitchen and the door has glass panels so is blindingly obvious I have not prepared his present. The Husband is being rather sweet about pretending not to notice his Crap Wife.
8:01am: Fastest card writing and printing in the West. Duly handed over and I’m making French Toast for breakfast. We got some Manuka honey yesterday and, along with the Olbas oil tissues, the cough mixture, the Beechams, the honey and lemon tea, the rooibos tea and the echinacea it has been added to my “eff off you effing cold” armoury.
8:05am: Am frantically juggling hot spitty pan, temper is frazzling as coffee machine on a go slow and STILL no caffeine, and child has come into kitchen for the fourth time to argue about getting ready for school. “Mom, how am I supposed to get ready if I don’t have any school clothes to wear?” she asks. I snap. I pick her up and carry her into her room, dump her on floor, yank shirt, knickers, socks, and pinafore out of cupboard (all of which are in plain sight) while yelling (not REALLY yelling), “It is all here so stop coming up with excuses. WHY we have to go through this EVERY morning when *blah blah blah*”
8:15am: Sulky child sitting at table with French Toast. Husband glaring at Sulky Wife who knows she should not have gotten cross but is refusing to back down in spite of having now had some coffee. The Husband is also grumpy about being undermined by aforementioned wife when he weighed into Getting Dressed Argument. The Husband is tad sulky too. I attempt to lighten mood by going, “Ooooh, look, Manuka Honey!” The Husband responds with, “Bet it is just a marketing scam.” Child responds with, “It tastes funny! I don’t want it! Ack! Ack! It makes my throat burn.” I try to drown self in coffee mug.
8:25am: Child sits like angel while I brush her hair. She is, stubbornly, refusing to offer hugs and to make friends. She is a master manipulator and knows how to push her mother’s buttons. I am so pathetic.
8:30am: The Husband hurtles downstairs screaming, “TIME TO GO!!! We are late!!!” He insists Squidge goes as she is, sock-free, as she was told ages ago to get ready. He relents as he walks out the door, half carrying her and half putting her socks on. Silence reigns over the house.
8:55am: Email: Dear Husband, thank you for my lovely anniversary present. I love you. Not sure we should have our anniversary on a weekday anymore.
Reply: Well, quite.
22 Aug 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Parenthood Tags: Child, Fascinating, Husband, Mommy, Poo, Squidge
The Husband and I, since July 2006, have been haunted by the Inconvenient Poo.
It all started when Squidge was a baby. As we sat down to dinner, looking down at the adorable little baby in her playpen/cot/pram/baby holding device with fond eyes and happy smiles, she would get that focused expression that can only mean one thing. An enormous poo.
At first we didn’t notice but after a few weeks we realised that, no matter how we shifted the timing, Squidge would have a poo as we sat down to eat our dinner. I am surprised that I wasn’t really thin back then. It is hard to return to cold food after having wrestled, for ten minutes, with a crap that has possible sentience.
We even named her poos after Scottish distilleries when Squidge had the most powerful and utterly terrifying poo ever at the Glenmorangie distillery. I was off on the tour, sipping whiskey and licking whisky caskets (no, not really) while The Husband had to race into the nearest loo and literally CUT her clothes off her and throw them in the bin. There was, apparently, poo up to her neck.
So, those violent and messy poos are Glenmorangies, the ones that are accompanied by lots of noise and dramatic crashing noises but somehow yield no real results are called Dalwhinnies, and the Glenfiddich is the more casual and yet alarmingly whiffy poo.
To this day Squidge will declare, usually in a loud voice and usually at a restaurant (with non-child carrying friends trying not to look horrified), that she requires a poo JUST as the food lands on the table.
However, the Inconvenient Poo does not just strike when food is nearby. It has a plan. It wants me to have a nervous breakdown and cause my last nerve endings to collapse in anguish. For the Inconvenient Poo will almost always arrive WHEN WE HAVE JUST LEFT THE LAST TOILET BEHIND.
And when I say last toilet I mean – it is late and we are in town and all the shops are closed and there are no nearby pubs or restaurants, we have just hiked to the beach where there are NO public toilets in reach and an accident WILL occur by the time we hike to the ones we can find, on a bus, on a train when I am carrying 16 bags and then have to wrestle them, her and ME into the tiny toilet, on a train where all the toilets are out of order and there are still 1.5 hours to go (this HAS happened), and when all the toilets in the surrounding area are out of order…
We have also had the, “Oh I didn’t realise I had a poo” while standing in it on the floor of a restaurant. The “Oh god what the hell do I do with this” poo that appeared while walking through a nearby farm and resulted in my burying it. I still feel faintly worried about that farmer hunting me down somehow. And the “I appear to have had an accident mum” when in the car on the M25 where (apparently) nobody is allowed to wee because there are NO TOILETS.
Actually, am considering a side business of opening up some rent-a-toilets on the M25 for people like me who drank an entire large skinny latte before hitting the M25 and then realising, in a massive traffic jam, that Houston had a Problem.
To this day we are haunted by the Inconvenient Poo, an all powerful being that remains utterly in control. The only weapons we have are wipes and spare knickers. Stay on your guard parents, next time it could be you…
15 Aug 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum Tags: Husband, Mommy, School, Squidge
On Friday morning I was running around the house like a blue-arsed fly, trying to get all my ducks in a row before I went to meet up with other mums in the park. This whole “juggle a full time workload with a school holiday” thing is rather tough. I am so tired I may need a holiday off on my own when Squidge goes back to school. Am SUCH a lightweight…
ANYWAY
I am pootling this way and beetling that when I suddenly realise that I’ve failed to call my poor father in two weeks. “Shit,” I say, believing it to be a barely heard mutter. I should know by now that I am incapable of anything quiet. I was born without volume control…
Squidge looks up at me in horror.
“Mummy!” she says, “Did you just say ‘shit‘?”
I look at her guiltily.
She shakes her head and says, “Daddy is supposed to say that, not you.”
I am NOT kidding…
I laughed so hard I sneezed.
05 Aug 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Fascinating Things Tags: Mommy, School, Squidge, The Naked Dream
Picture of hot naked men. There isn't a valid reason for including this.
I have spent my entire life listening to people talk about that dream. You know, the one where you are walking into work/school/family get together and suddenly realise that you are completely naked. You are horrified. You suddenly panic about your wibbly bits.
I have listened with rapt attention, riveted by the idea, wondering when I will get my turn.
Finally I have.
Although I wasn’t naked.
Instead my dream had me rushing Squidge and her best friend, G, to school. It was definitely a panic morning with mad dashes to get the lunchboxes packed, hair brushed, sun lotion on, clothes in decent array. We are running to school, late as late can be, and barrel into the playground where everyone gathers before the bell rings.
I am panting (both with relief and total unfitness), the kids are laughing and running behind me. We did it. We arrived on time. Suddenly I realise that all the other parents are staring at me. Some in wide-eyed horror, some with their hands over their mouths as they try not to laugh, others look away and cover their children’s eyes.
Why?
Because I have rocked up at school in my ancient tatty pyjamas that have holes in bad places and show off bits they definitely should not. My hair is in disarray (well, more so than usual) and I have slippers on my feet. I am completely and utterly mortified.
I woke up sweating. I was panting. I was DELIGHTED!
At last I have had the dream! YES!
P.S. Those PJs are no longer in use. They have become scruffy cloths and floor cleaners. Just so you know…
P.P.S Did you know that people do naked yoga? NAKED YOGA? I found this out while trying to find a funny pic to go with this post. NAKED YOGA?? Wtf
13 Jun 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Saffa Tags: Blog, British Mummy Bloggers, Mommy, Pattern
So about a year ago, probably less but time has turned into chewing gum lately, I applied for a chance to do a blogging carnival with Mommy Bloggers and then, as usual, promptly forgot about it. If it wasn’t for a chance comment by a lovely reader, 21 June would have arrived and, along with it, a ton of emails that would have completely bewildered me.
If you happen to want fame and fortune and glory (Oh yes, a blogging carnival does do such amazing things) then please do join in. It’s free. Hahahaha.
Now the rules, as I can gather, are simple. I host the carnival by chatting about it here. I link up to all those amazing humans who have written posts and I admire their genius. I also take the day off because reading all those blogs is definitely going to be fascinating and I doubt I will finish quickly.
Then I panic after writing this post because I just spent half an hour searching the BMB carnival list to see what the bloggers before me had done and found nothing. Yeah. That’s right. Nothing. Mummy from the Heart did mention hers in May but I’ve seen nothing on her site. So if these finalists for the MAD awards are not getting responses, then I may well be that sad git in a dark blogging corner swinging her legs morosely.
Or I can pretend I didn’t want you here anyway and why do I care. Which is obviously the truth. Right?
The carnival cometh and I am hosting it. If you fancy sending me a post on 21 June and participating in this amazing exercise, then please, please do.
You are allowed to dictate a theme so here is my theme: Grumpy and funny
If you are grumpy and you wrote a funny post, send it here.
If you are funny because you are grumpy I’d like to read it.
Actually, just tell me why you are grumpy.
I am about to turn 40 and adopt the moniker Grumpy Old Woman. Join me. Share the grimace. Be at one with your inner GRRRRRRRR.
Ha!
09 May 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum Tags: Child, Husband, Mommy, Poo, Sneeze, Squidge, Vomit, Wee
Hmmm, I think I'm hungry...
I love my child, I do. But there are times when I can only stare at her and wonder where on Earth she came from.
From the day she was born she had this uncanny ability to sense just when we were about to sit down for dinner. Happily snoozing or burbling would change to crying, screaming or an enormous nappy changing emergency JUST when we were about to eat.
The more delicious the food, the more likely it would take a while to sort things out. I got used to cold food.
She got older. She ate with us. She was at the table. Did this change?
No
To this day (and my GOD she is going to hate me for this when she hits 18) she will require the toilet just as supper is placed gently upon the table.
However, while this no longer presents (include disclaimer about poo disasters here) a barrier to our enjoyment of a tasty repast, the other spectacular knack she has inherited (from only WHO knows where) is The Sneeze.
My daughter, for no particular reason that I can fathom, will let out a hearty, Earth shattering sneeze while in the middle of a mouthful of food.
This results in sneezed out masticated food particles landing on ME including my hair, my food, my clothes, and my phone. Not The Husband. No. Like vomiting, she shares this joyful experience only with me. When I prayed for membership to an exclusive club THIS was NOT what I meant.
The Sneeze is violent, disgusting and omnipresent – it goes everywhere.
Into the salad at the picnic we attended last week (never seen a woman move that fast as I removed salad from table as innocent human reached towards it)
Onto my yummy Mars Bar last night.
I am honestly amazed that I’m not stick thin, seriously, because I do not have the stomach to cope with The Sneeze. Vomit, poo, wee – fine (sort of) but sneeze? URGH
22 Mar 2011
by Tamsinin Slightly Insane Tags: Husband, Mommy, Turning 40
So yes. I had one. A midlife crisis. A full on mind blowing, heart bleeding ball of crap. I judged where I was in my life. My home. My weight. The singularity that has become my butt. It was pretty weird and intense.
I can see why people go slightly off the rails and wander off with hot Latino men on motorbikes. Although that seriously is not my cup of tea. The Husband drives me nuts but he is adorable.
I am vile at motorbikes, as my brother will tell you. When he tried to teach me I panicked, forgot where the brakes were and jumped off the bike. Sad, sad, sad.
So those options were out.
The next line of midlife crisising took me down the route of the pneumatic blonde. Yeah. Couple of issues there. Firstly I don’t have a secretary, much less a hot blonde one, and secondly I am not entirely sure that a faintly poor wordsmith is what those types go for. I’d need a BMW in my non-existent garage at the very least.
So it became a journey of thought. I read up about Woman vs. Midlife Crisis. I had meaningful baths. I ate cake. I ate even more cake (I now regret the cake). I shouted at things.
Then I decided to do one thing I have always wanted to do. I decided to get a dragon tattoo.
No. Not like the movie. I am older than her.
Since I was 12 I loved the Anne McCaffrey Pern series. I desperately wanted my own telepathic link with a dragon. I was gutted that they were not real. They transported me as I read, re-read and read them again and again.
I am re-reading them now. Again.
I realised that, at the tender age of 39-going-on-40 I could actually turn off my father’s voice in my head that said, “You will NOT get a tattoo!!” and actually just go and get a tattoo.
So I did. Last Saturday I went into the tattoo parlour and started the outline of my dragon.
Now it took planning. I didn’t just amble down the road and think, “Oooh needles!” and bounce gaily into the tattoo parlour, stripping clothes as I skipped.
Nope. I spent hours searching for the artists who did the cover art. Found the cover that had me mesmerised as a child. Printed it out, and the artist then adapted it for my back. The picture you see above is without a wing on the left, my tattoo has that wing.
It hurt. Ooooh that left shoulder hurt. No idea why it hurt more than the right, but it hurt.
I don’t think it makes me white trash, or weird (ok, it probably makes me weird) or any of the other stupid stereotypes attached to big tattoos. It makes me feel gorgeous and young and fabulous.
Below is the shot of my shoulder being tattooed by the artist. The needle looks very terrifying. Zoinks, as Scooby would say…
Next week I go in for the shading, and then the next week will be the colouring. I will share each stage. There will be no scabby, bleeding, shocking back shots. Ok? I have SOME self esteem. The shot below is a bit red but, hey, it isn’t bleeding or leaking. Look if you dare.
The red at the bottom is from sticky tape. Yeah, he wrapped me in clingfilm…
11 Mar 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Slightly Insane Tags: Blog, Husband, Mommy, Mother, Tired, Zombie
This is hilarious.
Boy I have been invisible of late. It’s amazing how busy things have been and how quickly I’ve come to neglect poor Saffa. You see, I have just launched another webiste and it has taken up all of my free time. The Canny Crafter is my little baby and it needs lots of TLC. Still massively in development, this site is my dream come true.
You know, one of those things that you think of and think of until one day you go, “If I don’t do this now I am going to have to take my head off and leave it somewhere.”
So off I went and did it. Boy is it scary. Scaaaaaary. I have a massively loud negative internal voice. Actually, if any of you know of a way of switching the bugger off, let me know. The voice says things like, “Rubbish” and “Pah” – a lot. Stupid voice.
I also need to thank (as if this is some kind of insane Oscar speech by a deranged lunatic) The Husband for his patience and help, and The Person for HER patience and help. I have always said that the two of them are like brother and sister from another mother, and the help they have given me (as well as the rolling of eyes) has proven that quite thoroughly.
Why the Invisible Mother? Because I am shattered. My poor offspring is spending a lot of time with a zombie. I even drool slightly. Yesterday I fell asleep on my keyboard. My computer (thanks Windows. Not…) rebooted thanks to updates and while I was waiting for it to restart itself I fell asleep. How sad is that.
So, here’s to your weekend! May it be full and fluffy and lovely. Mine is going to be about a wedding! C and K are getting married (they sound like a designer brand advert, snort) and The Husband and I are their photographers.
Yes, I also think they are NUTS for choosing me, but hey…
We are off to Bath for three days of shooting, bonding, chatting and laughing. And celebrating the marriage of two amazing humans. Wahoo!!!
I promise to update here more often, and to try and be more entertaining. Promise.
31 Jan 2011
by Tamsinin Slightly Insane Tags: Fail, Husband, Mommy, Work
Last week I…
- Accidentally called one a publishing house that regularly commissions me. While on the toilet.
- Sent an overly familiar email to a commissioning editor that made me sound like buck-toothed, horsey laughing nutjob. Am expecting restraining order in post any day now.
- In Poo Emergency #9986733 my removal of her clothing got aforementioned substance all over toilet, floor, clothes and me. Urgh.
- Replied to an email saying, “Grrrr, now what!” It was supposed to be forwarded. To The Husband. Reply from lady was remarkably restrained. Felt like a total twit.
- Tweeted a very personal opinion on the wrong twitter account.
- Ate too much cake
One is hoping that this week is better and that one’s visa to Abu Dabi comes through in time…
20 Jan 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Parenthood Tags: Child, Husband, Mommy, Poo, Squidge, Wee
A lot like Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, this B-movie-esque drama had poor acting, rubbish special effects, and lots of screaming.
Squidge was sick. She had a raging fever that shot up to the enormously terrifying heights of 39.6. For two days I’d wrestled the thing armed with an alarm clock (to check on her every few hours), Calpol, Ibuprofen, and juice.
As Day Two of Hot Head dawned I realised it was time to take her poor little self off to the doctor. I called.
“Hey, my daughter has had a temperature of up to 39.6 for two days, we saw a doc last night and he said to call if she was still poorly.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs Oxford. I can see your notes. We’re going to need a urine sample so please bring one in.”
Urine sample
Two words designed to strike fear in the heart of any parent with a child under a certain age. Either the approaching bottle causes screams of horror and outrage that result in wee running down the toilet, your arm, your clothing and, occasionally, your face, OR they refuse to wee.
Being a human who knows that the bottle must be sterile, and being an incompetent and tired human who couldn’t be bothered to find out how on the interwebz, I decided to fill her up with juice and get a proper little bottle dude from the doctor.
When we get there I discover that they now cost 30p. “Sorry, but we have to pay for them now, so the charge is passed onto you.”
HA! 50p in pocket. I laugh in the face of hurdles. Is this the best that the Urine Sample can dish out? Mwaahahaha. etc.
Then, adopting the “I shall explain it all to you as we go so that hopefully you play along” parenting strategy I wave the bottle at Squidge and say, “Shall we go and see if you can wee in the bottle?”
Cue Option 1 of Urine Sample – crying, outrage, flailing and deep, deep parental embarrassment.
I dragged the now very unpleasant child to the loo while fixing a stupid grin to my face and saying calmly (well, I thought it sounded calm), “It will only take a second, please be brave. You can do it.”
The first toilet was a bust. Squidge disapproved of the colour of the walls. And by disapproved I mean, “NO I WILL NOT WEE IN THERE!”
I swear to god we scared the nice little old lady powdering her nose (not a euphemism, she was actually powdering her nose).
Finally I have Squidge on the toilet, I am kneeling in who knows WHAT on that floor, and I bring the bottle closer. It was like those alarms – bring it close, lots of squealing, take it away, noise abates. Eventually I whip it underneath her and she starts to wee.
All over my arm, my hands, my sleeves. Still, I thought, there is wee and there is a bottle underneath it – RESULT
Excitedly I whipped out the bottle to view my brilliance. There were about 1.4 drops. I stared at it and thought, this will just have to do. The end.
I also thought – you pillock.
The next 45 minutes (Doc was running late. WHY can’t they tell you that on the phone?) are happily spent playing with the toys. Then…
“Mommy, I need a wee.”
AWESOME
The bottle is whipped out, the child raced to the loo – I AM READY!
Urine sample, you are about to be defeated. THIS time I am the winner.
Amazingly there are no cries of outrage, no roars of disapproval, she lets me place the bottle in the correct position and we wait.
What happens next should not happen to anyone, ever. It’s not right, it isn’t.
A gigantic poo smashes into my hand knocking the 1.4 drops flying, the bottle into the toilet and me backwards in complete horror.
This time it was me screaming. But inside, yes, inside. It wouldn’t do to upset the child, would it?
When the doctor asked for the sample he got a flat stare and, “No sample. Don’t ask. Let’s move on.”
OF COURSE when The Husband came back the next day from his excursions in Zambia he got a sample without a sign of the Killer Poo.
Bastard.
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