Tantrums never stop...

They don't stop. Tantrums start around age two, and then they just develop, grow in size and in their formidable nature. I should know, I'm a living, breathing TANTRUM. (Please refer to mama is a potty-mouth for details)
They're the venting, uncontrollable f^%k f^%k f^%k f^%k swearing, Coprolalia (ooh - nice word!) but for people without Tourette's. Isn't  The Scream by Edvard Munch just a tantrum? Why not? It should be!
f^%k f^%k c*^t

I should probably proffer an explanation: the unhealthy obsession I have with tantrums is because my nearly-three-years-old son seems to be having an awful lot of them right now. And part of me just says 'oh well, it's age-appropriate' another part wants to give in, the other part wants to be incredibly stubborn and just say 'no' to well, everything, and the other part of me goes, 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Mama having tantrum! and I can do tantrum bigger and louder'
(by this stage you may well ask: how many parts can one person list? oh there are so many....)

self portrait

ho hum. what to do?

I think that quite possibly the best, easiest way out of this situation is to do as follows:

1. Eat a disgustingly large, obscene amount of chocolate-laden goodies
2. Stay calm when toddler having tantrum and then reiterate the fact that the tantrum will not have desired effect
3. Ensure that when parent (i.e. self) wants/needs/is about to have a tantrum, that I swear silently,  indiscriminately and internally ( f^%k c*^t sh*t, so on and so forth...)
4. repeat step 1, often.

I could take up boxing to release all pent-up tantrum-energy, but who has the time? Anyway, I like my teeth as they are. (in mouth, still attached)

Although after step 1 repetition, they may well end up falling out anyway.

TANTRUM TIME!

Just airbrush me… please

How is it that newborns have the uncanny ability to suck the life out of their parents in the space of a few short weeks? I’m not complaining, not really, I just… well … ever since having children I seem to have aged a helluva lot.

The general consensus is: don’t do drugs and that hard drinking and partying completely f**k you up and when you’re over 40 your face will reflect the life you have lived. To be sure, I have lived a rather, er… shall we say full life. But I have not aged so much back then as I have in the past 3 years. 

The reason? No, my hard-drinking-partying-days are NOT catching up with me. Those past years feel, in fact, a good deal more sedate in terms of staying up late and wrecking the body than the rearing children ones. That lacrosse accident that I had in high school or that time when I partied all night with my friends, showered and then went to work for 8am in the morning have not caught up with me. You might think this is completely absurd but no! I tell you, these things are not ongoing sustained abuses of the body without the chance for respite and recuperation but that child-rearing is.

What I am trying to say is…

I used to be able to sleep in until 2pm if I wanted to and now I wake up at 6am (sometimes 5.30am) after I have been up and down during the night, as has my partner (er. ok, so NOT as much as my partner) and we do it cos we LOVE our kids but they are sapping all the collagen and vitamin young from our faces and, as a result I look like this:

What I am trying to say, is...

that I am getting OLD and WRINKLY and I have been seriously thinking about facial resurfacing for my skin and laser treatment for my rapidly diminishing eyesight  but I'm afraid that it will all go expensively and horribly horribly wrong and that I'll end up looking like this:

or perhaps even this:

(let’s just not even speak about my hearing cos we ALL know that Caroline is a COMPLETE DEAFHEAD).

wot? oh yeah.

I am popping vitamins like they are lollies and eating lollies like they are, well, lollies, and all in all my diet has gone to God as has my figure and so I am wearing those suck-in-underpant thingies that only OLD WOMEN wear

NO! not the sexy ones but more like, you know...

yes, more like that, but squishier and in black because I can't seem to consider wearing anything flesh-toned, although I am sure that will change (but only if I find some good ones at a reasonable price).

Successful Toilet Train(ing); with trains.LOTS of trains. And perhaps a few construction vehicles…

We have bitten the bullet. We say (with much conviction) After Christmas there will be no nappies. That’s it! No more!

Yep, Christmas came and we changed nappies all day, chanted the no-nappy-mantra in our minds, then as the haze of our sugar-loaded bravado waned, and we fell into sleep (read sleep as diabetic coma) we braced ourselves for the onslaught of poo-pants and wee-wee puddles; oodles of washing and perhaps a little poo-painting along the way.
Oh god, no more nappies.
What are we going to do? 

But Boxing Day came and we opened the packet of Bob-the-Builder underpants and said 'oo look! would you like to wear Bob, Scoop or Dizzy?' to which he promptly replied 'Scoop!' and we all cheered that he had not chosen Muck and then had the little chat about how we were going to keep Scoop clean and dry all day and that there would be a reward for doing so.

It has been one week now and our boy is now sans-nappies (except for sleep) and it has been surprisingly easy.

The secret to our success?

TELEVISION.

We are simply replacing one addiction for another.

We have tried chocolate and cake as suitable diversions/incentives, but telly has won out I’m afraid.
Yes, in the same way that heroin addicts are given methadone as incentive to not jab a drug-filled needle into their arm, we are encouraging an episode of Chuggington for success with potty. (The going rate at present is one poo=one Chuggington. Wee-wees have lesser value at two wees for an episode). He understands the currency so well that when Chuggington finishes, he promptly tells us that he is going to try for another episode. We have had to instil the ‘wee-wee must cover the entire base of the potty to be considered’.

Poo-poos? He understands the excitement and reward of the chocolate snail (as he calls it) in the potty, and has been successful thus far, but I think both he (and we) find the poo a rather stressful occasion.
First, we need to locate the exact right area for placement of potty and then we are all required to be calm, remove scoop-undies, sit and wait for the poo to come. Easier said than done. As adults we know that the poo can, and sometimes does, take a while to arrive. We also understand the difference between a fart and a solid mass emanating from our botty, and let's be completely honest here, the poo may also involve a fair bit of pushing. We know this, we are prepared for it. Hell, some of us even consider it a great way to catch up on current affairs and use the time to read the local paper. BUT, the toddler cannot read just yet and doesn't really grasp the fact that the grunting and face straining that he has done up to now has resulted in the poo. Poos just happen, they smell, are relatively warm and squishy and they get cleaned up by parents.

We live in hope.

All hail the wordle!

Even though we’re texters, (oops, sorry, txters) we’re a visually minded bunch! And I know they’re not new but… I have seriously and deeply fallen in love with the WORDLE. Why, well… I love words (er. DUH) but I also love they way that they can transform into a cloud( – takes me back to the good ‘ol days of watching re-runs of Monkey)

Back to the wordle.

I wordled my blog:

And then I began looking for better, funkier wordle-tagcloud-makers.

Yes, I am completely addicted, but then I found this animated flash tagcloud generator and have been desperately searching for a way to transform it into being blogger-compatable. But alas, alack, I will have to make do with the static cloud version. *sigh* . I think I like it so much because it's just a great visual, yet textual, representational... thingy. (Yes, all my love of words, of being text-enamoured yet the coffee just hasn't kicked in yet, er will it ever, so all I can think of as descriptor is... thingy.)

Well… I’ve been BUSY

Doing what?

Writing a research proposal. Yes, the addiction to study has returned full force and has booted me fair and square on the butt. I have applied for a PhD. Will find out in December whether I am successful or not. Don't ask. Just know that I am completely nuts. Nuts nuts nuts.

Speaking of completely… we are completely up-the-duff again. Yes, partner is with-child. We are due mid-Jan. This time I shall include partner in the nuts nuts nuts / we are crazy description of self.
We don't get enough sleep with one! What are we going to do with two, I ASK YOU!

Writing a book. Still trying to finish. Have been researching lots. I write on the bus and at lunchtimes.

Er…

Would like to perhaps meditate on a calm image right now.
but instead shall leave you with this:










And THAT means that I shall just go stuff myself with pie. 
Any kind.
possibly chicken, and then cherry.
in that order.
no, not on the same plate.

the party to end all parties...

My son turned two on the weekend. TWO! My, how time flies... and we, like the gullible parents we are, decided to throw a party, a hoedown, if you will. Or maybe just a SUGAR-FEST. Yes, we had fairy-bread. We also had a gigantic Bob-the-Builder cake, and an OBSCENE amount of presents.

I even bought a rocket-ship pinata, but am very glad that we decided to forego this little treat because the idea of the gorgeous little munchkins all hyped-up on sugar, blindfolded and running around with sticks trying to bash things was probably not a good idea. We'll save that for the next time we ever decide to hold a party for our kids. Maybe we'll save it for when they get married. Yes, that sounds like a good idea. all I can really say at this stage is...

I AM EXHAUSTED. (so what's new?)


I tried to take photos and managed a few of the cake, but I was too busy burning the spinach and ricotta triangles, stepping over what felt like millions of children and generally trying to keep myself out of the state of party-panic that I was in. My son? I think he had a good time. I didn't really see him. He could have been sneaking shots of whisky down the side of the house for all I know. I do remember at one stage saying to someone who had asked for a 'job' to 'just make sure he's ok... that's your job.'


and GODDAMIT! To the family whose kids were generally rude, overbearing, poking my son's cake and who complained about, well... EVERYTHING, and who ran amok and who, at the end of the party asked if there were any lolly-bags, (LOLLY-BAGS! I am getting old. You didn't ask for things at parties, you went, you ate, you played, had a good time and behaved yourself, but you didn't ask for LOLLY BAGS! I'll give you lolly-bags you little...)
Deep breath...
Yes, to that family. I cannot wait until there is a party at YOUR house, because I am going to HAVE A GOOD AND COMPLETELY OBNOXIOUS TIME.
another deeeeeeeeeep breath.

Parties when I was a kid just weren't like that.
Maybe they were? I don't know. I can't remember. I am too old. My neck has started to sag. I've seen photos of it - it's true.

However, all ranting aside, it went off! My son had a great time and I got to see friends I haven't seen in years.
Next time (assuming there is a next time, I may have done my dash) I think I'll just stick with the chip-n-dip and say 'to hell with the spinach and cheese triangles and mini-sushi'

oh... yep. indeedy-doody. oh yes. uh-huh.

do as I say... not as I do

Or should it perhaps be do as I do, not as I say?
(I don't think I ever got the hang of that maxim…)


and whilst I tried to ration my son's chocolate supply over Easter,
I did not ration myself and ate far too many creme eggs
and that's because I am a

hypocrite

I have not yet said this to my almost two-year-old son, but if I were to, I am sure he would repeat it.

repeat it.

Yes, he has got the case of the copies. Copies. And everything that my partner or I say, say, is repeated, repeated, until it becomes a case of echo... echo... echo...

Although I do have to admit that there are some words I rather enjoy hearing him say, like: dungarees

Duggarees

Rungadees

Dungarees

third time lucky I suppose.

We have this A-B-C cat book at home that has all kinds of ridiculously long and unusual descriptive terms in it (describing the cats) and I am dying to read it to him. It has fragments like 'daringly eats dragees, devilled drumsticks and donuts' and 'his name is Wilberforce, he lives in West Wittering' and I want my son to attempt saying West Wittering because, well, I admit it, I find it AMUSING. 

Does this make me a bad parent?




hell no... 
...
hey - what can I say... he called me Caroline the other day. CAROLINE not MAMA!
the nerve!
the cheek!


I almost wet my pants laughing.
kids - they're great - you get a belly laugh a day.

It's a LUCKY DAY

If I get extra change from a small business owner, then I give it back, always.

If, however, I get extra change... or let's say one of the items is not scanned... or... well... if SOMETHING happens to my advantage and the perpetrator of said 'advantage' is an employee of a large, faceless corporation that most likely has many subsidiaries that wreak awful damage to the environment in one breath and yet financially supports high-profile 'reducing carbon emissions' strategies on the other hand...

Er... what I mean to say is that if I go to a supermarket that shall remain un-named and they undercharge me, then it's a LUCKY DAY.

No - I do NOT give it back. In fact, I goddamn well think I deserve a treat of free tampons, or 'buy ten items get eleventh free'. No I do not think that this will karmically (is karmically a word?) seek to bite me in the butt (hang on... maybe it will... see last post to find out exactly how this karma could be returned)

Maybe it's their karma as a large, faceless organisation to have this happen to them.

If, however, I went to the newsagent and they gave me change from a fifty and I only gave them a twenty - I would let them know. Why? 

Because I like them. Because it's their livelihood

Supermarket chains, however, are not people; so I say suffer in your mass-market-undies you corporate-[INSERT EXPLETIVE HERE].

what would YOU,

yes... YOU do if you had a lucky day at the expense of a large corporation?

I once bought an outdoor setting from a large hardware-chain-store that shall, again, remain un-named.

They charged me for one chair, not two. Every time I sit in that chair I feel lucky.

Call me dishonest, if you will. (Actually, please don't, I like to pride myself on my being honest and forthright for the most part, in fact if my friends saw me as dishonest I think it may well hurt my feelings.)

speaking of lucky... Happy St Pat's Day to all. May your day be filled with everything green and clover-ish, and may it be lucky lucky lucky!

Just don't do what some Chicago residents did to their river:

that can't be lucky for their fish.

just call me bubble-butt

or, bubble-gum-butt to be precise.

When I got dressed this morning, I though to myself, hell, why not, wear your good 'going-for-an-interview' garb. Not that I was going for an interview, there are just some days when it pays to look smart. Maybe it's a self-esteem thing, I dunno. But TODAY was ONE OF THOSE DAYS. So here I am, avec white shirt, waistcoat, good pants. oh yeah... I look gooooood...

And then I sat in chewing gum... could be bubble gum, not sure, I didn't want to check the flavour of it. Especially because it's located in that particular spot that is right between the cheeks, oh yes, it is in seam-land.
I look like I crapped my pants. (Lime-green crap to be sure.)

And there aint nothin' I can do about it until I get home.

GODDAMN IT. TODAY, OF ALL DAYS WHEN I HAVE A TRILLION F#*%KING MEETINGS I LOOK LIKE I CRAPPED MY PANTS.

Had to spend an inordinate amount of time this morning picking my butt in a disgustingly concentrated sphincter-fondling sort of way. And every time I get off a chair I have a velcro-moment. All I need now is someone to write 'kick me' on my white shirt and quite possibly shave off one of my eyebrows.

mama is a potty-mouth

F**K, sh*t, f**k, sh*t, f**k, f**k, f**k, c**t.

believe it or not, I am trying NOT to swear, in fact, I am attempting to eradicate all manner of foul language from my vocabulary, because I don't want my son thinking that saying c**t is the socially appropriate thing to do - at least in pre-school anyway. Thing is, I never realised exactly how much I swore until I tried to prevent these words from escaping. In fact, I may well be developing a sh*t-f**k-f**k-crap form of tourettes because whenever I feel an opportunity for 'swearing-in-this-context-and-in-this-company-is-ok' I seize it with all the power my potty-mouth can muster.

Is it alright for parents to swear?

No it's not bloody alright, in fact it's completely f**ked. We are also not allowed to drink, smoke or, er... have sex. We are perfect, not puerile.

But I love the puerile. I miss the puerile.

in fact...