January 2023

We don’t get out much, us mums. But when we do, it’s in December. Cards at the ready – you’re about to play babysitting bingo! Christmas throws upon us the heady mix of more social occasions than the rest of the year put together, and the organisational nightmare of arranging childcare so we can attend. You are pitted against the other parents in the town in pursuit of a babysitter not only for one night, but potentially several. School occasions see you competing for sitters against your own classmates, from a pool of often common childcarers. Your fourth favourite girl at your child’s old nursery now seems like a golden option. Throw into the mix your work / husband’s work parties and you’re in Diary-Gate. Whose occasion is more worthy? If you’re the one expected to babysit that night, is your event eligible for engaging a sitter? Like most people, we end up negotiating madly and in the end our social scene in December is dictated by babysitter availability, not personal preference. I’d rather disclose my bra size than my babysitter’s number If there’s a secret you keep closer to your chest, I should like to know it. It’s all very well in, say, March, to succumb to another mum’s plight and give out a reliable babysitter’s number. But come December and you’re both going to the same class drinks, you will rue that day, mark my words. Rue it. I’d rather offer to babysit myself than give up my premium sitter, whom I have wooed over months and bamboozled into somehow liking my children enough to enter the evening with enthusiasm. If I were to help a friend in need by sharing a top sitter’s number, I would have to privately enforce an embargo, whereby I should always get first refusal. All this is laughable, of course. Market forces are at work here as in every other sphere, and she with the most generous hourly rate and the handsomest plate of biscuits shall win the prize. Loyalty counts for nothing in the face of M&S’s chocolate biscuit selection box. Christmas Day – the calm before the babysitting storm At least when the big day dawns, there are no babysitting dilemmas to be overcome. Roast potato rows – how many is enough? – yes. Present palavers – yes. But no baby-sitting bust-ups. But after a few days of Quality Street-induced inertia, we seek to rise again, like the social phoenix from the ashes. For it is time to see in the New Year. It is time to nail down the prize. The most elusive of all things – the New Years’ Eve babysitter This is someone whom I’ve yet to meet. Every NYE since I’ve had children has been spent in with a curry, my husband and, occasionally, other parents who’ve put the kids to bed upstairs. Which has been lovely. Good job, as the cost and gamesmanship of obtaining a NYE sitter is pretty much beyond me. I have semi-secured one on a couple of occasions, only to be let down with some spurious flu or family-related excuse and 12 hours’ notice. But by that time, I am battle-weary. I’m quite happy to give up the chase and stay in for the next eleven months. Happy Christmas Countdown!

I usually get broody when my baby approaches the age of one. This time last year was no exception. But instead of going for number four, I started a blog. Like most hasty decisions I’ve made – with the massive exception of those made in the hairdresser – it turned out to be a good one. It took about 5 minutes tapping on Google (how I wish I’d gone WordPress!) and at 11.55pm September 10, 2013, Wry Mummy was born. My first post was Cleaning Up Chunks – A Mother’s Glory. My baby had been sick the previous night, and as I sluiced the cot sheets at 3am my only consolation was the thought that upstairs, the sick bug was silently infiltrating my husband’s pores as he cuddled the baby in bed, “because clearing up sick makes me gag”. Funnily enough, as is so often the case, there was no one around to share this amusing thought with, and lest my world-changing insights go unrecorded forever, I felt compelled to put them on the blog.   Blogging is so fast-moving, with new blogs and innovations coming out every month, that a calendar year is actually 12 blog years. Like dog years, but with (slightly) less poop-scooping. And, thanks to you, I’ve enjoyed every one of them. If you’re celebrating your first year around now:

A bank holiday means one thing: a lie-in. But whose? Maybe you had Saturday and your partner had Sunday or vice versa. But who gets the bonus snooze? Use my handy flowchart to decide!

Money, housework, sex and kids are the most common causes of arguments between couples, science says. But I’d like to add the unsung anti-hero of marital discord – surely the most heated topic of every weekend: The Lie-In.

The Lie-In:

The Holy Grail of Parenting.

The Sanity-Saver.

The Energy-Reviver.

The only thing that makes another day with the babies bearable.

We haven’t got a newborn any more. but ye gads do we get woken up a lot. Only a couple of nights ago, we had not one, not two, but SEVEN wake-ups, spread at hourly intervals by our considerate three. Two each and one for luck from the baby.

We’re definitely a couple that need their lie-ins. We have tried both getting up and it’s a miracle our marriage survived.

On normal weekends we have a civilised quid pro quo, where one of us gets up on the Saturday and the other on the Sunday. It works. But on bank holidays, the gloves are off. Who deserves the bonus bed time?

Is it the one who got up in the night?

The one who had the shortest lie-in of the weekend (oh yes, we keep records)?

The one who has a hard week at work ahead of them?

The one who carried three babies for nine months and brought them into the world?

Just to make it fair, I drew up the handy flowchart above. It’s based not just on our own “discussions” but on a very scientific survey I conducted – amongst a few of my mummy mates.

Does it work? Well, put it this way. My husband had the lie-in this morning…

Sound familiar? Does the “I went through labour!” argument work for you?

Can you name the 1980s Clive Anderson show referred to in the title? Answer in the comments and I’ll send you a virtual tube of Smarties.

I am honoured to be on the BritMums’ Brilliance in Blogging awards shortlist for Family. If would like to vote me through to the final, I’d be delighted. You can vote in all the categories here.

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Call me English, but I have a natural aversion to thrusting myself in a stranger’s face demanding sugary goods. Is it just me who finds Halloween a little socially awkward? Are you too polite to trick or treat?

Accepting sweets from strangers after dark? What could be more natural? The very things we tell our kids not to do the rest of the year are suddenly positively encouraged on Halloween. Don’t get me wrong, I like the concept of Trick or Treating – I’m all for doing fun stuff with the kids, meeting new people and gorging on sweets. It’s just I’m not sure I want my neighbours’ first impression of me to be of a frazzled witch with a coven full of Haribo-crazed ghouls.

Of course, the key phrase here is: “first impression”. This is the crux of the problem – I don’t know the neighbours. The scariest thing about Halloween is that it highlights my failure to integrate with the people who live within earshot of my trampoline, to weave our family into the very fabric of the local community. And I just don’t like forcing introductions on people when sober, no matter how many baby groups I’ve had to break into over the years. After a drink, I’m everyone’s friend, obviously, but I’m pretty sure that being drunk in charge of a Trick or Treat posse is not my ticket to Neighbourhood Watch glory.

All right on the Fright Night

So it was, that last year, I did a pre-Trick or Treat. We’d just moved in and yes, I went round to a few neighbours’ houses in broad daylight, carrying the calling card of my cute little baby, and asked them if they were happy to receive us on Halloween dressed as zombies. Most were a little taken aback but very amenable; several were extremely friendly. A couple muttered that they didn’t have anything in – but I was ready for them! I had a carrier bag of Tangfastics to dole out, so there were no excuses. No crusty old cooking sultanas or broken Rich Tea fingers for us! So when it came to Halloween, it was all right on the fright night.

My pre-Trick or Treat round even sparked the beginning of a beautiful friendship with a couple of our nearest neighbours. We’re not best buds (they’re my grandma’s age) but we’re on swapping-recipes terms (read, me running round mid-carrot cake asking for cinnamon and, er, flour). But this Halloween, I face the awkward situation of not having seen most of the other neighbours for the whole intervening year. I created the first impression of a fairly normal local mother who is interested in matters such as the campaign for weekly bin collection and better street lighting. I did not completely sully this with our Halloween appearance – “if you scream on their doorstep, there’s no sweets for you, young Darth Maul!” But that’s as far as it went. But perhaps – like certain family members and Christmas – seeing the neighbours but once a year is the best way to keep up good relations?

Mum’s banging on about giving up chocolate for Lent – like that’s a big deal! We could give up way better things than that. Like spraying her hand when we’re weeing al fresco! The list is endless! Pretending not to hear a thing mummy says. Especially when she’s doing that weird counting out loud thing. You know, “ONE…TWO…THREEEEE!” Remembering everything mummy says and throwing it back at her. E.g. You said if I turned off the TV this morning I could have the IPad and a whole packet of Chocolate Fingers and five gold stars after school. And Pombears.

Loo-bombing: urgently needing the loo at the beginning of every meal / middle of any journey or supermarket / end of mum’s tether, despite having been asked repeatedly if we needed it.

Crying when given food. Even though it’s the exact same thing that yesterday we cried about because there wasn’t enough for seconds. Crying when not given food. Asking for a snack is like breathing for us.

Throwing our food, complete with plate, on the floor to signify the end of a meal. 

All shouting at mummy at the same time, all the time.

Screaming if the TV is obstructed. Ducking and diving around whatever hapless body part of mummy’s is spoiling our viewing pleasure for one microsecond, even if it’s to hand us the snacks we’ve been baying for.

Wading in mud at all opportunities. Especially on the way IN to school. Taking 20 minutes to get from car to chemist, a distance that would take mummy on her own 60 seconds to cover. Grabbing poo-ey nappies mid-change and trying to brandish them around our head. Mummy’s reflexes aren’t what they were. Mishearing mummy. When she says, ‘It’s time for school”, she’s clearly saying, “It’s time to take your trousers off, turn the TV back on, and get all the Lego out.”

Mistreating mummy’s person. Whacking her on the nose with a flat palm, elbowing her in the boob, flicking her with a stuffed snake, punching her on the bottom… Mixing up all the toy boxes after Mummy’s Big Sort-Out. The one that took a whole week and made her flushed with an inner pride. We don’t care if we can’t find a toy easily – we just tip them all out and swoosh them round every floor in the house. Coming back downstairs after we’ve had bedtime stories, cuddles, tickles, songs, hair-stroking and kisses, and frightening mummy into spilling the wine she’s pouring. The night-waking tag team. If it’s not one of us, it’s another. Sometimes it’s all of us, all at separate times.

You Love Us Just As We Are

We could give any of these things up in a flash – but we won’t. Cos we’re kids! Besides, what would our parents do with themselves all day?

I’m delighted to have been nominated for the MAD Blog Awards in Best New Blog, Most Entertaining, Best Writer and (by blood relatives) Blog of the Year – but every nomination counts, so please consider voting for me too!