Bad Arse Mummy

I do my best to be a great mummy but there are days that in all honesty, there are some days where I am no fool, I am just treading water. It's on these day's I become Bad Arse Mummy (BAM).

Confession one – The Set Up:

I have a fabulous sense of smell.  It can entertain….

BAM: ‘Did you enjoy that cheeseburger? ‘(really wants to add but doesn’t ‘Any reason why you didn’t bring one home for me?’)

Thoughtless Daddy (TD): ‘What? How do you know? Did I leave the wrapper in my pocket?’

BAM: ‘I can smell it’

It can save embarrassment...

BAM: ‘I suggest you either pop on a bra under that top or take an umbrella. It is going to rain’

Bra -free Saggy Boob Hippy Friend: ‘How do you know?’

BAM : 'I can smell it.’ (Honestly I can).

Sometimes, I turn the skill off. It’s not often that I do but sometimes, just when I need a break which is every day just after a coffee when the crave still hits, even after many many long years that I have quit smoking, I still crave a cigarette. To be precise a Silk Cut, long – out of a pack of ten…(used to be Marlboro Lights but I had a smoking relapse for a week while in Europe and was introduced to nasty nasty equally unhealthy and damaging Silk Cuts). 

So, when I need a break to fantasize about drawing back on a smooth long Silk Cut, I sometimes  ask TD, who in this instance should be called ‘I don’t have a sense of smell and am being set up by heartless BAM (IDHSOSAABSUBHBAM) to change the nappy.

Oh how I feign surprise when poor IDHSOSAABSUBHBD opens the nappy to find shit caked up and in every crevice, fold of fat allover healthy when clean, very kissable bum. Sometimes, I feel guilty and offer to help by holding baby’s feet.  Most times I don’t. I sit back; imagine the sensation of exhaling after a long drag on the fag.

Confession two: Saving on therapy costs. Short and sweet.

I screen calls. I call this managing my mental health for free, without therapy. I am a freak magnet. Put all my friends (and some family members) in one room and as lovely as I think they are, they are to a psychologist - a group of people that represent the possibility of a first class holiday every year for ten years. I need to manage my freaks appropriately. 

Confession three:  Warning - Armed Baby

Lately, I have started to warn people of baby’s bad habit of scratching. I don’t bother apologizing after the event, because I issued a warning when handing her over.

My face bears the brunt of my incompetence. I am often adorned with scratch marks.

Baby holder: ‘Oh, it hurts, you should cut her nails!’

BAM: ‘I know, look at my face’ (but thinks: ‘I told you and if had a heart, you would offer to cut them for me – clearly I CANT DO IT! This is a cry for help!’)

Confession four:  Post Natal Depression (PND) – work it, own it.

When I have decided on a ‘stay at home day’ I don’t bother taking baby out of her one piece sleep suit. I strongly believe my laziness is contributing to saving the environment. One less dirty outfit means one less load of washing.

I also stay in my PJs so I don’t appear selfish. If we have a surprise visit, I pretend we’re having a ‘bad day’. I don’t have PND  (well, I don’t know, I may) but I work the possibility.

Confession five:  Risk taker

When baby is soon to have a bath  and nappy needs changing, I occasionally don’t apply cream. I risk nappy rash. It can’t develop in an hour can it? This recklessness makes me feel alive! I wonder if I risk losing baby for bad parenting??? I hope not.

Confession six: The army drill

I really and I mean genuinely struggle to keep to a routine. I have to write down when I last fed baby so that I can remember to do it again in four hours. I tell people bedtime is at 7 pm, but it is really whenever I can manage to get her to sleep.  Oh and of course, she doesn’t have a pacifier that she is attached to, she has three, one of each end of her cot and one for her mouth. That way if one flies out of the cot, baby can reach out and shove another in her mouth. Trust me, it works..

Confession seven: When dad is away – mummy and baby play

TD sometimes travels for work.  Parenting rules collapse the minute he closes the front door.  

When TD was on his last trip, baby woke at 6 am  I swiftly  moved her to my bed. She promptly fell asleep. We snuggled – it was lovely.  

At 8.26 am she was still asleep. I was torn. Do I snuggle up and sleep OR should I wake her – get her on to some semblance of a routine. According to her routine, it's at 9.30 am. What to do? 

All this worrying made me want to go to the toilet – so I lined the bed and floor with pillows (we have already had one falling off the bed experience count that as confession number eight – I was putting on my face and didn’t see her fall….

Once a champion sprinter, I expertly RAN quietly to the toilet (so not to wake her) – pushed it out, washed my hands and was back within the minute.

I had to weigh up the risks:  risk baby falling out of bed or risk dying of a urinary infection – then who would look after baby badly?

Confession nine:  A balanced diet

Weaning and holidays don’t mix.  So I cheated and gave her yogurt for dinner instead of veg.

She is a fussy eater now and I wonder if that is the cause.I refuse to accept it could be my lousy cooking.

Confession ten:  Rock a bye baby – the challenge

I rock her to sleep to save me and her hours of tears. Apparently I will pay for it later. Bring it on I say. I will deal with that issue – when it arrives.

Confession eleven – Naughty thoughts

TD once said ‘I don’t know why you are so tired and grumpy – so what you have a baby, it’s not like you work’

Since then, I occasionally think about smothering him in his sleep. Particularly when it’s the seventh weekend in a row that he has slept in past 11 am.

And there you have it. Eleven confessions - documented in about ten minutes (while baby has her finger in a power socket – JOKING).