I won!

I love sport.

There’s something you wouldn’t have expected me to start with. But I do. Well, some sports anyway. I am a great lover of Wimbledon tennis in the summer and I adore watching gymnastics, diving, swimming and athletics. I used to do gymnastics growing up from ages 6-12 and I also dabbled in wheelchair tennis in secondary school (it was hard to progress from dabbling when you are pretty much the only wheelchair user in a school in a small Cornish village).

But nevertheless, I think I would love to have nurtured some kind of sporting skill if my body had given me the chance, and the working nervous system that is quite fundamental to sporting victory.

But at age almost-31 I have just had my first major sporting success. The annual tournament is a family affair, previously revolving around a golf match (is it a match?) which took place at unsociably early hours on Sunday morning of the bank holiday weekend in August, and the women and children of the family occupied themselves with other activities for the day, such as making sandwiches and changing nappies until we all met up again when the golf was over and we’d have a big buffet-style tea in the garden of the previous year’s winner.

It is always lovely to see all the family in one place, and to try and remind myself of all the names of the great aunts, uncles, cousins removed, cousins’ children and second cousins etc (seriously, Great Granny, how on earth did you cope with six kids) and in recent years the sport has changed to a version of bowls (there are flags and string points markers involved but I don’t know what the actual name is. It just takes place on a bowling green with bowls balls so it seems appropriate to refer to it as bowls). Pretty much everyone in the family now gets involved, we are split into teams and play around the 8-flag course twice. Some members of the family already play bowls and so have an idea of how to throw the balls – they aren’t actually spherical and one side is weighted making it want to veer off to one side – but there is a handicap system in place allowing even novice players to be in with a chance of winning if they score highly enough.

But even with the handicap available, it still would not be a level playing field for me (insert bowling green pun here).

I have no muscle whatsoever in my hands and lower arms, any strength I do have has to come from my upper body, and the only way I can hold a ball is by relying on the tendon resistance in the extension in my wrists/hands (pictures to follow!). Even still, standard bowls are too heavy for me to lift let alone lob into the air (I mean, roll gracefully), so I play using two jacks, which are slightly smaller meaning my child-sized floppy hands can just about lift them. But even with this allowance, I would not be able to get the ball anywhere near the desired region due to my lack of strength, so I position myself about half way towards the post. Only then can I attempt to actually use some skill to get the balls as close to the post as I can, which is exactly what everyone else is trying to do.

I’m pretty sure my spacial awareness is slightly more ‘well-practiced’, than the average mum who doesn’t partake in a particular sport, simply because I have to use spatial awareness all day -steering an electric wheelchair through narrow doorways, or pushing a manual wheelchair amongst a room of small children and Duplo and trying not to break either. Also if I am trying to pick up a small item it takes a lot more concentration to persuade my hands into getting to the right place in order for something to hopefully fall perfectly and conveniently into my hands just so I can put moisturiser on my face, for example.

Well anyway, I am rambling. Cut a long story short, I won.

The family tournament which is in its 23rd year and is really a much-loved family tradition and something I hope my own children will still attend after I’m gone, I won. I scored 86 even without the handicap added, which I am most proud of. The coveted prize is my maternal Great Granny’s wooden walking stick which has been decorated with the winners’ names engraved on little silver shields since 1995 after Great Granny died.

We met at my Gran’s cousin’s house for a BBQ, feast, drinks and of course the awards ceremony. I knew I had scored quite well whilst we were playing but of course, I didn’t know others’ scores so when they announced my name as the ladies’ winner and overall winner it was a bit surreal. My first thought was “Oh shit. I’m going to have to make a speech”, and I hate talking to groups of people, and even more so when it involves speaking about myself. I’d much rather address the masses via computer keyboard where no one can hear my annoyingly quiet voice and see my awkward face. I sat for a few moments cleverly diverting attention to the kids who were playing with my prizes, all the while thinking “I’ve got to say something. They’re expecting me to say something. I want to leave now.”, but I managed a short, muddled and awkward little speech where most of what I said was trying to excuse my winning, and get across that I wouldn’t have had a chance against everyone else if I hadn’t been allowed use smaller balls and start closer to each post. Everyone clapped and congratulated me, my Gran’s youngest brother who organises a lot of it, seemed genuinely pleased that I’d finally won, after being close a few years ago. I worried some of the family might think I hadn’t really won, fair and or square but everyone seemed pleased. Tom was especially proud as was my mum who wasn’t there this year.

But most importantly, I won Granny’s Stick before my big brother.

@shopgirlygm

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10 Signs You Love Parenting 

Disclaimer: please read 10 things you can’t stand about parenting’ if you’re not in a positive parenting place right now, like me most mornings. That fluffy focus-on-the-good parenting stuff needs balancing out a bit.

 

1. Spending ridiculous amounts of time just looking at your baby/child. You know their every detail to the extreme, and of course they are the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You often feel smug when you look at people who aren’t your child’s parent (so pretty much everyone else except your partner) and gloat inwardly that they don’t get to look at your child every day. You regularly feel the urge to ferociously approach strangers crying “look at her face, she is beautiful!” because, they didn’t seem to be paying much attention.

2. Feeling that aching proud feeling in your chest when they’re so scared to swim in the swimming gala but they do it eventually. Even though they came last, they did it. All the other kids were probably doping anyway.

3. Watching your kids hug each other. It’s quite a skill to have made a little pack of humans whom you hope will confide in each other when they’re bigger and always have a friend who knows them so well. This morning I overheard my two eldest discussing how they liked ‘their baby [brother]’.

4. Wanting to bottle the smell of your baby’s head. I know it’s a cliché but if one of my kids is sat on my lap it’s quite likely that I’ll have my nose in their head (that sounds normal), which is fine until they notice and tell you to stop sniffing them.

5. Loving the power that the iPad or sweet foods has over other humans. I am God. You can make them tidy anything with the promise of an ice lolly.

6. When their favourite song goes from ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ to something over 20 seconds long and becomes ‘Paranoid Android’ by Radiohead, like my 6 year old daughter (which Daddy is very proud of).

7. Watching them learn to read, or write their own name. The months of choosing their name suddenly becomes a lot more serious. (May have set the bar quite high for our daughter Geneviève, poor kid.)

8. Sitting on the floor and having your baby crawl over to you and rest their head on your thigh. Loving that you’re what they want right now, not a brightly coloured, obnoxiously noisy toy in the corner.

9. Spending weekends watching them run around in the sun and play in trees, or even just giggle at cartoons. This is their childhood. Remembering what you remember from your childhood and realising that this is that, for them, right now. Wanting to make it brilliant.

10. Having made some freshly squeezed brand new people that are largely part of you, but are also separate beings and wanting them to be a bit like you, but also have a better life than you. You know they will probably make the world a tiny bit better.

 @shopgirlygm

10 Things You Can’t Stand About Parenting 

Disclaimer: read ’10 signs you love parenting’ for if you need to be reminded that you do love it really.
1. When someone misidentifies the gender of your baby. You may like to think you’re quite a liberal parent and want to buy your girl a red truck for her birthday, saying ‘fuck you’ to gender stereotypes, but it’s still a little infuriating when your dainty little girl dressed in a blue dress and flowery sunhat gets told she is a handsome young man.

2. Mornings when you feel your stomach acid start to bubble up due to the rage caused by the amount of times you have to tell your daughter to not just stand there in yesterday’s pants for a further 23 minutes, but actually make movements – any freaking movements at all – to get some additional kind of clothing on. And also, when you ask what on Earth they’ve been doing for the last half an hour they seem to have no recollection of their activities. Astonishing. Like it’s been erased from their memory. Which reminds me…

3. Sometimes, they remember everything. Apart from important stuff. But they do somehow remember that last week you promised them they could have packed lunch at the end of this week, and now it is Friday, 8:27am and you now have an obligation to rustle up a nutritious picnic for the clever little thing.

4. You want to be a fly-on-the-wall at school lunch time and have the power to poke other kids when they say something mean to yours. You hate the idea that your daughter is sad and you’re not there.

5. Dressing babies. Due to my disability I can’t do this myself but I’m usually the one trying to pin said baby down while others try to insert him into trousers. They should use this activity to torture prisoners – see how long they last with a baby (okay maybe just a doll) who, just when you’re getting leg #2 into place, they retract leg #1. Leg #2 then becomes leg #1 and the ordeal is repeated about ten times. It’s the same with sleeves and shoes. You all end up screaming and you put your son in a dress and be done with it.

6. They do not want you to sleep. Babies are arseholes during the night and that’s all I have to say on the situation.

7. When you’re supposed to cook something nutritious to fuel their growing bodies but you’ve just got home and it’s 6pm – fridge tapas will have to do. You boil up some pasta, add cheese and a bit of sandwich pickle, some sliced up cold sausage from the weekend BBQ, and throw in some frozen mixed veg to pretend it’s healthy. They don’t eat it, and instead have some questionable yoghurt from the back of the fridge for dinner. If they get the runs it’s their own fault.

8. Meltdowns which occur outside the home. Nothing screams “look how shit I am at parenting!” than when your child decides to lie down on the floor in the frozen section in Morrisons. You’re a mum in a wheelchair and the verbal attempts to get your child to stand up are not working. Then the Parent Samaritans rock up and offer help and you just want to scream “You can fuck off too. Leave me alone.” in their face. You’d quite like to just ignore your child and leave them to their tantrum as you might at home, but unfortunately it is frowned upon in the public arena.

9. Morning wake-up calls before 7am when you’re not getting up early to go on holiday. I love that my kids want to snuggle in bed next to me in the mornings but when they are 3 and 6 years old, it is 5.48am and within 3 minutes they are arguing about not having enough space or any covers, you regularly scream “it is MY bed, it’s not even 6 o’clock, bugger off”. You load YouTube on your phone and some sickly sweet video of some girls unwrapping Frozen-themed Kinder Eggs, and send them on their way. You’ll deal with the post-YouTube comedown later on.

10. After all the other trivial, albeit shitty stuff that happens day-to-day as a parent, you have the overwhelming sense of disappointment that you can’t give them everything you want to. You can’t promise the world will be nice to them always and you can’t promise nothing bad will happen, and that sucks.*

*Although you can help them to be strong, loving and open-minded people, and that might help with those things.

@shopgirlygm

When the world seems awful

I woke up this Sunday morning distracted after having frantically called and messaged my Mum and stepdad last night to check they were safe after the BBC News app pinged up on my phone informing us of the London Bridge incident. They had been to see Depeche Mode at the Olympic Stadium that night, and seeing as I have little-to-no geographical awareness of where things are in London, I didn’t know if they were anywhere near there, or if anything else had happened near them.

It had become somewhat of a dark joke last year; everytime we heard the percussive ping of the breaking news headlines pop up on either of our phones, we dreaded hearing that another celebrity had been found dead in their homes, and secretly hoping David Attenborough was still alive and well. On Christmas Day at my brother’s house, we heard the noise-of-doom on my partner’s phone whilst we were sat round trying to answer the ridiculous questions of my brother’s Christmas Quiz, and I sarcastically piped up, “oh no, who’s died now?”, which in hindsight, isn’t the most appropriate thing to have said but unfortunately that is what I said. Tom took his phone out of the space between the sofa cushions, glanced at the lock-screen and replied, “oh no, I don’t think I want to say!”. It was of course, a notification to say that George Michael had been found dead, aged 53. We sat in shock for quite a while, discussing how bad 2016 had been for bad news, and for famous people passing-away and wondered how many more faces would be talked about in the past before the year was up.

But of course these are individual people and most of them died by either natural, drug-induced or suicide related reasons. It was achingly sad to hear about Bowie and Prince’s passings and even those who I did not personally know much about. Not many high-profile deaths come as good news. However when the news is of yet another terrorist attack on a city, or a nightclub, a famous building or even just a bus, the thing we want to hear next is that the police have caught and ended the lives of the perpetrators. The lemmings, blindly and irrationally following commands of their cowardly leaders who are intent on spreading hate, ruining the lives of people who have nothing to do with them. All in the name of an imaginary being.

It is scarring and scary, and we don’t seem to be able to do enough about it. I know that  sounds monumentally defeatest but there is internet, there is print, there is travel, there is free-speech and there is unstoppable influence and these things can be, and usually are fantastic tools for movement and for good causes. But people will continue to follow blindly and be brainwashed as they have done for thousands of years. Years decorated by the untimely and unwarrented events to blame for the sudden decline in a specific population going about their daily lives. These foolish few will continue to be able to buy household products and make bombs that could kill innocent people enjoying a pop concert. I hated having to write that last sentence, but can we actually say that anti-terror movements and procedures will mean that this NEVER happens again? No, we cannot. We can’t control people and monitor their every movement, and that is frustratingly fair and right.

However we can one-by-one teach our children that they have their own minds. They can question and they can have good powers, just as forceful as the preachers of evil ideology living out their anger-filled desires through impressionable young people. We can wrap our kids in bubble wrap and not go and visit the local music festival because we are scared it might be a target for attackers, or we can pop the bubbles in the plastic, rip it off, stamp on it or whatever floats your boat and allow them to see, to hear and to be brave. They will see or hear about more terror attacks, as will we, and I will still frantically try and contact my loved ones if the attacks happen in a place near to them, as my family did when I was due to travel on the Picadilly Line on the morning of the 7/7 bombings with my stepsister, but thanks to her friend being a little too hungover to get up as early as we had planned, we were still in bed when it happened.

I am scared. Scared that it will happen near us or our beautiful children and family members elsewhere. But I am also scared that the fear of it happening will stop us from living our lives. So I think we just have to let the fear subside just enough, and teach our kids that they are brilliant, and brave and powerful and they can do good, have good values and good morals just because they want to, as opposed to needing a god or other source of scaremongering hierarchy to ‘make them behave and be good people’.

 

@shopgirlygm

The morning routine with three kids

I sit leaning over the sink with a mouthful of white foam shouting “HEEF HIME!!!” as loud as I can whilst trying not to spray toothpaste everywhere.  The children do not respond to such demands. It is playing time, not heef hime. Brushing their teeth is really not important right now, they have still got to dress Supergirl, even though she wears the same fucking outfit every day and she’s only just been undressed.

“HEEF HIME…HAN ANYONE HEAR NE?” That’ll be a no then. I spit out the remaining toothfoam and shout even louder, well as loud as I can with my croaky morning voice. “HELLOOO? WOULD ANYONE LIKE A BISCUIT?”

“ME!! I WANT A BISCUIT!” come the stereo replies as they elephant up the stairs still without shoes or socks on, despite having been downstairs to finish getting ready for a whole 9 minutes.

“So you can hear me! I am pleased! You’re not having a biscuit though, I was just checking your ears worked properly, which I have concluded they do, so here you are. Now brush.”

Two faces look at me like I’ve just cancelled Christmas, and I feel smug. I win. They do not. The older child then finishes brushing her teeth and goes for a lie down on my bed. That’s normal isn’t it. I finish brushing the younger one’s teeth and wheel into our bedroom to see the 6 year-old looking rather relaxed amongst the unmade bed, and I feel it is necessary to question her whereabouts.

“Why on Earth are you lying down in here? Are you finished getting ready? Have you found your shoes from the depths of the shoeboxfromhell? [They are actually on her bedroom floor in clear view of the doorway from where I saw them, but I want her to discover this for herself] You haven’t even got any socks on. Then you need to brush your hair.”

The younger child then feels the urge to perform her ritualistic hand-grabbing involving her baby brother who is crawling around in their bedroom, unaware although, really fully aware that doing so will mean he falls on his face.

“LEAVE him alone please. If he’s crawling you can’t just grab his hands, how many times do I need to tell you that nugget of information?”

“Ohhhwa. Don’t want to.”

“‘Don’t want to’ what? I haven’t offered you anything, I have told you to leave him alone or he’ll get hurt. You really need to go and find some shoes now.”

Younger child then seems to melt into the bedroom floor, flailing about like beached octopus, ensuring her feet go very close to her brother’s face, enough for him to try and eat her toes, at which point she shouts-

“NOOO, GET OFF MEEEYUH”

You’re on him! You get off, just stand up and he won’t be able to eat your feet and then you will be able to choose yourself some shoes, that’s handy isn’t it.”

I sit near the door frame incase I need to bang my head against it. Older child is standing next to her shoes and does not know where they are.

“Look down.”

Child looks down to discover the elusive shoes that have been there for over 12 hours, and then grins at me with an alluring coyness that I do not find cute.

We eventually make it downstairs, ten minutes later than would be helpful and the sloth-like children have yet to choose a coat. The younger chid has decided to drape herself over the shoe box, definitely sure that she cannot find her other purple shoe. I wheel past her and glance into the shoe box and sure enough, the shoe is literally under her hand. Well no wonder she couldn’t see it, her hand had blocked it out from all vision and discovery. Understandable.

“It is right there. I can see it. Under your hand. Lift your hand up. The other hand. *Oh for fuck’s sake* The OTHER hand, you only have two. See, now put it on.”

“Why do I have to?” she ponders, at least I think that is what she says. It’s hard to tell what a 3-year-old is saying when her face is squished against the shoe box and the moaning tone of voice would seem like I’ve asked her to complete a 1000 piece baked-bean jigsaw puzzle.

“No no you’re right, you can of course go to nursery with one shoe on.”

“Don’t want toooo”

Mummy gives up, and plans a mental timetable by which she will have consumed the children’s Easter egg chocolate before the day is out. They’ve brought it on themselves.

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Access to life

Yesterday I wrote an article about Accessibility for DisabledGo, you can read the article below or click here to view it on their website.

Access to life….

For as long as I can remember, the word ‘accessible’ has been such a frequent word in my vocabulary. It’s not the most exciting or tantalising word, but it is a word that I can imagine most people only associate with a primary-school spelling test; ‘is it one S or two?’ Or noticing a sign on a shop door allowing ‘guide dogs only’, regardless of the shop staff’s own awareness of impairments.

The definition of accessible is that something can be reached or attained. How accessible is our society for the majority of people? I’d say pretty accessible – I’m not for a moment suggesting life is easy, but you finish school and go to the same college as your friends, you skip lectures to go to Burger King for lunch instead, and then you catch a bus home and watch MTV all afternoon while your parents think you’re at lectures. Then if you’re lucky, you’ll get good enough grades to go to uni pretty much anywhere in the country, and that means you could pick any course that you qualify for, knowing that the only test of your limitations will be whether you’re too hungover to sit an exam on a Monday morning.
But for someone with a severe physical disability, this isn’t how the stereotype goes. If you’re able to study what you want to in school (see my post about how this might not happen) you might go to college and study what you’re interested in, albeit with tedious roadblocks along the way, like whether the carer that college has provided for you will let you use the iron in textiles class, even though you’re 17 and know that you’re quite capable of not scalding yourself whilst ironing a piece of material. The attitudes aren’t always accessible, and stereotypes mixed with ignorance compliment this. Whilst the other students in your English Language class sit in groups of quickly-made friends, you sit at the edge because it’s the most ‘accessible’ table, as far as positioning a wheelchair goes. As far as feeling equal to your peers and always having someone to chat to about the coursework, sitting nearest the door in every classroom was not the most accessible place. Kids like to huddle in the corner together and laugh about what they’ve drawn on their maths book, they don’t like to be in the place where everyone can see what you’re up to. Uni isn’t always accessible either. Before I started uni, we had to argue with several of the accommodation team that the room wasn’t big enough for me to move my wheelchair around in, and as they had extended a room for another student in a wheelchair, we argued that they could do the same for me. Then at the end of my first year of uni, the porters tried to fine all 6 of us in the apartment for damage to the kitchen involving the fire extinguisher being taken off the wall, and one of the flat-mates climbing in and out of the window for convenience. Didn’t he realise there was a handy door at the front of the building? I of course denied any wrong-doing as far as kitchen windows and extinguishers were concerned, but I secretly quite liked that the uni had the audacity to try and charge me for it. Ironically that was quite inclusive of them. Either that or they just didn’t think and automatically charged us all. I’d like to think it was the former.

Like all teenagers, when uni finishes you have to think about growing up, which involves finding a job. Finding an accessible job is almost impossible for someone like me however, and despite having A-Levels, a degree and a post-grad qualification meaning I can teach early-years, I will always need a lot of help in any job I do. This can include someone to help me go to the toilet – even a so-called accessible toilet isn’t accessible when you can’t do your own jeans button up, and I don’t want to live in tracksuit bottoms when I have no intention of running a half-marathon in the same day. I recognise that this is a specific need that can’t easily be met without someone helping me, but to be asked to schedule your own toilet-trips when the local care-trust are working out how much personal-care you need for *toileting* (one of the most impersonal and ugly words in the world – at what stage of adolescence and disability does going for a wee become ‘toileting’?) is particularly inhumane and soul-destroying. I can’t describe the feeling of being thirsty and wondering if you should have a glass of water or cup of tea or if it’ll make you need to go again too soon, before your PA is scheduled to come back to you again. This is not an accessible way to live.

Neither is wanting desperately to go somewhere with other people who are able-bodied, and knowing that you cannot because the physical structure of the location won’t allow for it. I’ve been to newly built places and wondered how on Earth their accessibility-surveyors signed-off their facilities as meeting criteria. For instance late last year I was shopping with my friend and my newborn baby, and we went to the baby change/feeding room to change his nappy. They had a lovely comfortable and quiet area for breastfeeding mums, and out of curiosity I wheeled myself towards the door to look inside, only to find I could not get into the room. The doorway was unnecessarily narrow and there was no way it was regulation for either the modern or old-school requirement of doorway width. I then got in contact with the store, which is an internationally known brand, and then later met with somebody who tries to ensure their stores are inclusive of people with disabilities – even he couldn’t understand why the doorway was so narrow. This just proved that although the intention might be there from some areas of our world, the promises of being accessible don’t always stretch to something as simple as a breastfeeding room or a changing table that you can reach from a wheelchair. I expect the numbers of breastfeeding mums who also happen to be essential wheelchair users and who shop in that store, are so low it didn’t even enter the consciousness of the people who built the facilities to make them accessible from a wheelchair. However, the store has excelled in their idea of accessibility in other areas. Their accessible toilets are not only more spacious than I’ve usually found, but where possible there’s a choice of two rooms – one with a toilet on the left and one with a toilet on the right. Because guess what, people’s physical capabilities and needs are never the same as the next person with a colostomy bag or a wheelchair. Even something as simple as offering two layouts of toilet facility can make access to normal life, so much more attainable.

I could go on for days and days about accessibility, because it is not just about ramps or extended tap handles or braille on café menus (imagine that) it goes so much deeper, it is so vast and it affects just about everything. I’m lucky that the man I choose to share my life with is pretty strong and when we are faced with somewhere than I can’t easily access in my wheelchair, he will lift me out of my chair and into the restaurant for example, or he’ll lift my chair up so a few steps won’t stop us enjoying being somewhere. But it can’t always work that way and of course he’s not there for everyone else needing his muscular help!

So in order to make our beautiful world open to everyone who needs and wants to experience it, we need to look at what ‘accessible’ really means and who it affects. And then start the small task of making it right.

@shopgirlygm

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Reasons I love half-term

Well firstly I mean, is it really necessary? I’ve only just got over having Bertie the class bear to stay for the week in October half-term. They’ve only been back at school for about 6 weeks after having just had 2 weeks off and loads of presents and chocolate, I actually think being at school is a break for them. Calm and routine and less chocolate and movies. And they listen to teachers. They don’t bloody listen to me. They don’t even work as hard as us, why do they get a week off ‘work’ to do everything else, where is my parenting half-term? I work a lot harder than my kids and I don’t get a break. It’s just unfair.

  1. It’s 5 whole days. FIVE. Surrounded by 2 either side of the 5 days. That’s NINE days. 2 days at a time I can handle, and by Monday it’s a beautiful thing to wave to your kids at the school gates knowing they have to listen to someone else’s voice for an entire day, asking them to perform tedious tasks. Comeuppance, I say.
  2. Any sentence from a 3 year-old which begins “Shall we play…?”. Clear your throat and get ready to say ‘NO’, before the 6 year-old gets a chance to respond.
  3. Any sentence from a 6 year-old which begins “Shall we play…?”. Clear your throat again and get ready to say ‘NO’ before the 3 year-old works out what the 6 year-old wants to play and responds unfavourably.
  4. The sight, smell or mear mention of the term ‘Play-Doh’. The devil’s belly-button goo. My sister just bought a set of the bastarding pots for our now 6 year-old, and she is yet to hear what I will do to her as punishment. I haven’t decided yet but it will be harsh and she will learn never to do that again. It might start with me smearing it into her bedroom carpet and bedding.  When she has kids of her own and I get to buy them gifts, I will have the last laugh. (6 year old loves it, so that’s all that matters, apparently) 
    FullSizeRender[1467].jpg

    Play-Doom

  5. The requests for food throughout the day. They begin at 6am when the 3 year-old requests breakfast literally as soon as her feet touch the bedroom floor, we try and hold her off for at least 30 minutes after which time she will sit in the kitchen for an hour, and eat precisely one spoonful of cornflakes. Snack requests begin immediately after being dressed. They don’t stop until they go back to sleep in the evening. Nobody can afford these kind of children. I exist mainly on tea and Aldi digestive biscuits so I don’t see why they can’t also.
  6. The sight of other peoples’ facebook updates, photographs and love for half-term. No one else needs to see how #soblessed your week with the little darlings is. Stick them in front of a movie with Nutella on crumpets and get over yourself.
  7. The sight of other peoples’ holiday photos which show that these people are just not good with money. I refuse to spend 300% more on a holiday abroad booked in the half-term week when I know that holiday destinations will be littered with other holidaying families taking up poolside loungers with more irritating children and their verrucas. If we decide to go on holiday with three kids, it will be in term-time and I will happily sacrifice their education for a week or two. I’d find court quite exciting too I think.
  8. Teachers who say “oh but children need a week off to chill out at home, they get so tired and really need it, and so do we”. THINK OF THE PARENTS PLEASE. If you care about these kids, you’ll keep your watchful eye over them so I don’t have to say “go to the bloody toilet then!” 13 million times a day. They’ll listen and pee on demand for a teacher. Also, if one needs a week off one’s job every month and a half, maybe one is in the wrong job? *
  9. When a child mentions “Mummy, can we do some cutting/painting/sticking”. RUN. RUN FOR THE HILLS.
  10. The weather. It always rains in half-term week. It’s the rule and it’s stupid. It means we can’t really go out and do anything because getting wet sucks. Kids are obsessed with wearing wellies and wellies are stupid because kids trip up in them and fall in puddles and cry. Wellies should be reserved for river-wading only, the house gets covered in streaky wet muddy marks, and then if we stay indoors all day somebody goes insane and it’s me, always me.
  11. Another half-term gem has to be the older ones waking up the 6 month-old one. He’s taken to napping for about 7 minutes, so on the rare occasion it approaches the 8 minute mark, if another child so much as exhales near him I will scream. And cancel Christmas.
  12. Needing to get out of the house to relieve the steam building up in your head through stress, but dreading the thought of walking through anywhere with other people when your 3 year-old will definitely shout out offensive observations at passers-by. Like for example when we walked past an older lady with water retention and the child exclaims “Mummy look, fat legs!” and you look, because you’re a parent and when a child tells you to look, you look, or they will shout louder.

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    A very reasonably priced child I thought.

So I propose to the schools of this country, or at least my daughters’ school, that half term consists of just 2 days. A Saturday and a Sunday beginning immediately after the last Friday of term. Then by Monday we can all be okay again and Mummy doesn’t lose her shit.

*Disclaimer: I know teachers work ridiculously hard and do amazing things for our children, despite the growing pressure they are under. And despite kids being arseholes some of the time, their teachers still encourage them.

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Cute baby – hates sleep.

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