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.
06 Jan 2011
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Fascinating Things Tags: Child, Doctor, Husband, Mommy, Saffa, South Africa, Spiders, Squidge
Seriously. Was I completely and utterly insane? Why did I allow myself to clamber onto that plane on Monday night?
When did I get all responsible?
What I should have done was what my dear friend S did. Call a friend, grab the kid, climb out the bedroom window and hide until it was too late to catch the plane.
Instead I flew with a fever, high on paracetamol and ibuprofen, with a child. Alone. 12 hours to Madrid. Two hours in Madrid. Two hours to London, Heathrow. Two hours to home by car.
THEN
I discovered a GIGANTIC hole in my leg while having a lovely bubble bath (cold as water not hot yet, but hey, at least there were bubbles).
A
hole
that had red lines emanating off it and looked terrifying
So what did I do? I did what every calm, self-respecting adult in the presence of a child would do. I shrieked, grabbed my child, ran upstairs and called The Husband (who was still wafting about Africa) on Skype.
“OMG I HAVE A GIGANTIC HOLE IN MY LEG AND I AM GOING TO DIE!” I explained calmly.
“Is it a mozzie bite,” he asked in a way that can only be described as maddening.
“A MOZZIE BITE?? I NEVER SAW A MOSQUITO THAT BIG? OH MY GOD IT WAS A SPIDER AND I AM GOING TO DIE!”
“Why don’t you go to the doctor? They are still open there, you know.”
Oh. Yeah.
Ten minutes later….
“Mrs O?”
“I have a gigantic thing on my leg and it has red lines emanating off it and I am also extremely ill. I think that they might be related, my throat is so sore I can’t swallow and I’m having hot and cold sweats!”
Then she said the first thing that made me stop and stare, “What do you think it is?”
WHY did she ask me this? If I knew what it was I would be in the chemist downing the relevant medicines already. If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t be sitting here imagining baby spiders hatching on my calf, I would be drinking tea and poking it affectionately.
What did she expect me to say?
Then the doctor poked my hole, declared that it could be (and I am NOT kidding here) “anything“(this was the second thing that made me stop and stare) and proceeded to give me antibiotics. I need to point out I was now giggling.
Then she said, “Draw a line around it and if it gets bigger in the next few days, go to A&E for IV antibiotics.”
I genuinely felt she wasn’t taking my potential limb falling off due to toxic poison from previously undiscovered spider all that seriously.
Fortunately I was lucky and today, two days later, I can swallow food again (although inability to eat has made me feel nice and skinny), the hole has stopped glaring and emanating and is nearly gone, and I am not hallucinating. Yay!
P.S. I plan to bore you to DEATH about Africa once I am entirely recovered, finished unpacking the suitcases (no, I haven’t, shut up) and slept more. Brace yourself.
07 Nov 2010
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum, Parenthood Tags: Child, Cleaning, Husband, Mommy, Mother, Poo, School, Squidge, Toilet, Wee
- by Stefan
I am doomed. My child will have no friends. She will officially divorce me at the age of 12. I will scuffle about in an anorak with lots of cats.
Why? Because I am cursed with the affliction of bodily functions.
Some of you may remember my first attempt at a playdate a couple of months ago. By the end of the afternoon, a mere two hours later, I had been wading in wee, covered in poo, and delivered a naked child to her parents. Fortunately they have not yet sued.
This Thursday it was time to try again. Squidge’s best friend ever (her words, not mine) was coming for the afternoon. Squidge adores this girl and couldn’t stop talking about her the whole half term. This playdate had to COUNT.
Monday to Thursday I cleaned, polished, washed, scrubbed, tidied, folded, wiped and shone every single part of the house. G’s mother was going to come in to a home that gleamed and sparkled. I had cake. I had cookies. I had coffee and I had tea. This was to be the Ultimate Playdate.
Things went so well. It was lovely. G’s mother was a honey. Fun, brilliant, open and hilarious. I loved her.
I went to sort Squidge out on the loo and realised that somehow the toilet had become blocked. Not just faintly blocked. No. This was water up to the edges with revolting toilet paper sludge and unidentifiable colours, blocked.
HOW? HOW I ask you, did this happen? I could only stare at it in dismay. I don’t know how to unblock a toilet! (yes, is apparently epic failing).
I shuffled back to G’s mother and patently didn’t offer her anything else to drink just in case she needed to wee. Every so often I manufactured a reason to go back and flush the damn thing again and again. It stubbornly refused to play ball. It was hideous.
Then she asked me, “Where is the ladies?”
I was frozen. FROZEN I tell you. Then I confessed. Toilet blocked, utter disaster. I think my child dropped the entire roll in there. Many apologies.
She was very polite about it but then I heard her daughter ask if she could go to the loo and then a loud, “I don’t want to wee in this, it’s GROSS!” echoed down the hall. The ground didn’t even oblige me with some eating. Nothing. Just the mortification of them having to leave so G could go to a toilet she approved of.
Does this happen to other humans? DOES IT?
The Husband came home not ten minutes later and unblocked it in under 30 seconds.
Showing my face at the school gate on Friday was NOT easy. Fortunately G’s mother WAS there and actively came over to chat to me. My relief was tangible. Utter. Complete. She did not think I was a skanky, disease-ridden lunatic with hygiene issues.
Still. I did refuse to speak to the toilet for four days. Serve him right. The Bastard.
P.S. November 19th is World Toilet Day. Who knew?
02 Nov 2010
by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum Tags: Child, Cleaning, Mommy, Nits, Squidge
I have to tell you there are few things more revolting than nits. Actually, I’m not entirely sure what could match them for sheer hideousness. Especially when you discover them about two hours before you have to leave on a week long half-term tour of the various in-laws and parents and friends.
The original nit shampoo I bought last year (in the midst of a suspected outbreak at nursery that we thankfully avoided) failed magnificently. In fact, the nits seemed to think it was me throwing them a welcome party. I swear they got bigger as I dragged my poor offspring from the bath, into her clothes, down the street and into Boots.
I could even be persuaded to testify that the little buggers were singing, “Swing low sweet chariot” or somesuch chemically induced ditty as we raced down the road.
So my Nit Tip Number 1 is this: Do NOT buy: Licenex
My second tip is to definitely buy: Hedrin
and: The Nitty Gritty Comb
Now, let me explain why I went off and imported an arty farty shampoo from the US of A. It was because it said you didn’t need to comb. My daughter has extremely fine and extremely curly hair. About two hours after I’ve brushed it, she has dreadlocks and looks as if she grew up in a hippy commune somewhere in Jamaica.
I am still nervously expecting social services to turn up and accuse me of bad hair management.
ANYWAY.
I ended up combing her hair with a fine, fine comb regardless. I did it while putting in that one-hour lotion from Hedrin, and these revolting goggas were falling out of her hair. I swear to god it was only pure iron will that stopped me from slapping my hands to my face Munch-style and running screaming from the room while scratching myself like a flea-bitten hound.
YUK
When I was in LABOUR I was looking at my husband and going, “Oh god, what if she gets NITS!!??!”
I was also asking him whether she would like me when she was a teenager but I swear that was the influence of the drugs.
So that was how my half-term started. Vomit on the Wednesday night and nits on the Friday morning. I proceeded to scrape her hair every day for four days, and reapplied the one-hour nit shampoo on the seventh day as a final stamp.
I have to say that, while she was utterly miserable the first time I did it, she was an utter champion for the rest of the week. Her fine hair had to be dragged through a fine tooth comb (hur hur) for hours every day. It snagged and caught and pulled at her little scalp and there was not a word of complaint. I am SO proud of her I could just burst.
Oh and Hot Tip Number 4 is from all my lush ladies that I met up with for a faintly alcoholic mums dinner while on my Half Term Tour.
“Comb her hair with conditioner once a week anyway”
Apparently that will keep those nasty buggers at bay.
P.S the Licenex did come in handy as a washing powder. I used it to wash all the sheets, towels, clothes, and blankets that came into contact with us. I also spent an hour vacuuming every inch of every bed, carpet, pillow, duvet and cushion. Shudder.
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