Two people in the past 24 hours have asked me about the great mummy blogger wars of 2016. This took me by surprise. Both were, like, so what actually HAPPENED? And I’m, like, well, I wrote this blog, right, in which I said that maybe we shouldn’t go around worshipping dumbfuck humans (like, ANY dumbfuck humans, not just ONE dumbfuck human) as gods, goddesses or indeed queens. And one queen in particular got a bit upset, and suddenly my photo was being flashed up on The Project and Paul had to confiscate my phone and I cried for, like, a week. WHAT A VERY SILLY STATE OF AFFAIRS, EH? In retrospect, yes.
On the way to school, Frankie made a profound statement, as follows: “We grow into our names.” To which Alice responded: “When I grow up, my name will be Cheeky Bear.”
I love Frankie’s teacher. I love Alice’s teacher. I’d use the term hashtag blessed if I was a twat, but I’m not, so I’m won’t. I’ll just say that I’m very, very fucking lucky to have these teachers looking after my smallest children. They CARE. That is not to be underestimated. Frankie’s teacher TEXTED – fucking TEXTED – me at 6pm this evening to tell me that Frankie – my shy, anxious Frankie – read a book to the class today. She sent me PHOTOS, and said she’s so proud of him. I love this teacher.
My nan has a pet willy wagtail. She squats at the backdoor and feeds it breadcrumbs out of an eggcup. It sits on the back of granddad’s armchair, in the sunshine. Nan wouldn’t let Alice have one of granddad’s Yakults, and she cried.
Three days after the event and Paul’s still talking about the Royal Wedding. I mean, so am I, but I’m the target audience. He reckons that Charles, William and Harry had a dance-off at the evening do. I told him to get to FUCK. He swears it’s true. He reckons there was an after-AFTER-party at a night club, where everyone was given slippers to wear. And everyone who went to the wedding got a party bag containing a personalised Harry and Meghan bottle of water, a chocolate coin and a discount voucher for the Royal shop. I doubt this very much, and told him so. He swears it’s true.
A lady at my workshop today was wearing a bumbag. I was taken by surprise, but she was never sort of a pen.
We had the carpets cleaned yesterday. The carpet-cleaner man commented that our carpets were very grubby. I can’t stop thinking about this. Were our carpets grubbier than other people’s carpets? And if our carpets weren’t grubby, why would we bother getting them cleaned? And is he now talking about our grubby carpets with his carpet-cleaning buddies? Are we the talk of carpet-cleaning town? To be fair, I didn’t think they were THAT bad (they were). As an aside, while the carpet-cleaning man was in action, Frankie told Paul LOUDLY that he couldn’t imagine any job duller than being a carpet-cleaning man. I feel so bad about this.
Frankie’s spending $10 a day at the canteen, buying cans of fizzy pop for his friends. Paul said it’s okay to buy friends. I’m not sure. Frankie’s friend Calan said that if you burp while drinking fizzy pop that you’ll also spew. Frankie’s now scared about burping, in case he spews.
Frankie has a mealworm called Jasper. He lives in a lunchbox full of oatmeal, and we feed him carrots and spinach. Jasper is still alive, which is a surprise to everyone.
Alice bopped me over the head with Dolly Ivy in the night. I woke up saying FOR FUCK’S SAKE, loudly. It hurt like a motherfucker. I’ve got a sore eyebrow now. We’re going to have to get a king-size bed. There are too many people in my current fucking bed.
I feel bad that no one invited me to a Royal Wedding party on the weekend. FOMO, etc. Paul said that I would not have gone to a Royal Wedding party should I have been invited, but that is NOT THE POINT. Speaking of which, a little boy in Frankie’s class didn’t get invited to a party that all the other little boys had been invited to. His little face broke me.
My friend Trevor has started a new job and apparently, on their intranet, there’s a live, up-to-the-minute, as-it-happens pictorial guide to the current toilet cubicle situation. It SHOWS you which cubicles are free. That’s basically the future, right there.
I have this weird habit of asking people their life stories. I’m never just, like, hey, how are you? Instead I go straight in with: so exactly how DID you respond when the nurse suggested your son might have cancer? Or, like, is your ex husband still in LOVE with you, do you think? These are both questions I’ve asked this week. I don’t think before I ask these questions. I don’t consider that this is not what humans DO, as a rule. We discuss the weather, and the traffic on the freeway, and sometimes even what’s on special at Aldi, but we don’t – generally – go in with a full emotional interrogation. I’m only just realising this, and wondering if perhaps I should stop emotionally interrogating people. I’d be interested in other people’s thoughts on this.