Aaaah I’m totes excited that I’m now big time enough to have a proper funny blogger guesting on my site! I only had to beg for six weeks and she relented after the third delivery from Interflora, I think she was getting pissed off looking for vases. Anyway, The Unsung Mum is here!
If you’ve not seen her blog yet, you really should wang on over to her site and take a look. She draws clever pictures, she swears a lot, and she’s brutally honest – what’s not to love? Anyway, over to the funny…
Today is only Wednesday and The Unsung Mum has already had enough.
Between the delights of the kids painting (each other) and lunch, The Unsung Mum is struggling to pick a high point.
Probably somewhere between The Kid rolling on The Baby and kicking her in the head or The Baby drawing on the freshly painted white hallway walls with blue marker.
So as of this second, The Unsung Mum is counting down the minutes until she can put both of her horrid Spratts to bed and have more than a sip of her Pinot Grigio.
The Hub, conveniently, is late, though The Unsung Mum is pretty sure this has been done intentionally to avoid the same boring bedtime routine their crazy brood have come to expect.
Before The Unsung Mum can shut her devil children in for the night, though, dinner is served to two of the toughest food critics around.
Feeling pretty chuffed with her posh BBC recipe dinner, The Unsung Mum swears under her breath while her own flesh and blood call it “pissdugting” and “uck” while howling for their normal beige grub. The Unsung Mum lies through her wonky teeth and proclaims loudly that “if you only eat beige food then you’ll turn into Oompa Lumpas.” The Kid is chuffed. She likes orange apparently.
When the dreaded word bath time is mentioned nuclear war erupts.
While The Unsung Mum pins down a squirming baby, The Kid shrieks that there’s shampoo in her eyes, her hair is wet and that the bubbles hurt her, even though The Unsung Mum hasn’t braved another bubble party since the last disaster.
The Unsung Mum hates bath time but fucking hates those parenting books more that tell her to include a relaxing bath at bedtime to help soothe them to sleep. The Hub believes in this shit, though, even after leaving every bath time drenched from head to foot and slipping on the wet floor more than once.
The Unsung Mum wonders daily if the knobs who write these books actually have children or if they just think it’s fun to write down impossible tasks for parents to try and achieve.
The Unsung Mum thinks anyone who calls bath time comforting and relaxing is a twat, and probably doesn’t have kids, or watches way too many TV adverts.
The Unsung Mum, in the hope of retaining some of her middle-classness, attempts to make her Spratts brush their teeth twice a day. But between The Baby’s manic Jaws impression and The Kid’s Jessica Ennis-Hill type throw of her toothbrush out the bathroom window, she concedes.
“Right. We won’t be going to grandma’s tomorrow now.” Of course, this is a lie and The Unsung Mum knows it. No way in hell is she up for having to actually parent by herself for another fucking day just because a £2 toothbrush was hurled out of the window.
Once the Olympic sport that is getting both of them dry and into their pajamas is complete, it’s book time.
“I want the Eye Spy book,” says The Kid.
“One book,” replies The Unsung Mum.
The Unsung Mum thinks book time is boring as shit, partly because reading the same fucking books day in and day out is bonkers, but having to stop The Baby twatting her sister over the head with The Jungle Book every single night is getting far too predictable.
“Well, that wasn’t very nice. If you do that again you can forget coming shopping with me tomorrow young lady.” ‘Bollocks’ The Unsung Mum thinks. That wasn’t very thought out, was it?!
“We’ll read The Tiger That Came to Tea,” The Unsung Mum declares, feeling her middle-class roots fighting back. It may make fuck all sense but they’re only two lines per page and even she knows it off by bloody heart now.
Book time finally over, The Unsung Mum does what any self-respecting middle-class parent does and warns her offspring that if they get out of bed tonight then there will be trouble.
Tightly secured, The Unsung Mum attempts to leave the room while being bombarded by annoying questions like “if dogs were cats what would they say?” and “who do you like more mummy? Pedro or Daddy Pig?”
The Unsung Mum doesn’t give a shit about any of this. All she keeps muttering to herself is “cake, Masterchef, wine. Cake, Masterchef, wine.” Over and over again. These are sane words.
Now that the feral ones are in bed, The Unsung Mum sips her ice cool Pinot while watching Greg Wallace. She doesn’t really care what he says, for Greg Wallace is king of the food world as far as The Unsung Mum is concerned.
“Mummmmmy. Help! Mummy!” yells The Kid from the top of the stairs.
Dashing up the stairs two at a time, The Unsung Mum sweeps the hallway quickly for murderers, drug dealers and spiders.
“I think there might be a fly in my room,” sniffs The Kid.
“Why do you think there’s a fly in your room?”
“I just do mummy.” says The Kid indignantly.
“There’s not a fly in your room, go to bed.”
“Can I have a drink?”
“GO TO BED!!!!!” The Unsung Mum yells then kicks herself. Waking The Baby would not be good.
“But what if the fly eats me when I’m asleep?” asks The Kid.
“If you don’t get back into bed now I’m going to phone Riley’s mum and tell her they can’t come round tomorrow.” Riley’s mum doesn’t talk about Paw Patrol or ask to race The Unsung Mum up the stairs every five minutes. The Unsung Mum likes Riley’s mum.
“But my arm hurts mummy. What if it falls off? I’ll only have one arm then. Like a pirate.”
“What? Just go to bed child. Please.” The Unsung Mum is not below begging or bribing. “If you don’t stay in bed, all night, I’m going to eat all your chocolate biscuits.”
The Unsung Mum regrets saying that as she now has a wailing child who is sure to wake The Baby.
“Can I give you a hug?” asks The Kid.
The Unsung Mum has had enough. An hour later, The Kid is finally asleep and The Unsung Mum has gone back to swooning over Greg Wallace and her warm Pinot.
The Hub walks in.
“How are you love? Had a good day? I see the kids have settled for you alright.”
That night a murder is committed in The Pit.
**Please note, no husbands or children were harmed in the making of this piece.**
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