Thud wanted to write down some family rules today. We all took it very seriously. All of us. Dead serious.
(Yes there will be swearing ahead in this tongue-in-cheek post. If that’s going to upset you, JOG ON, SUSAN)
A gorgeous Mum sent me a message recently, telling me an older lady at a pub bistro had very rudely told her to take her children home and discipline them because they were making noise (at 5.30pm, in an uncrowded bistro, while they ate sausage sangers – this was not fine dining). Old duck told this mum that *her* children had NEVER had tantrums when they were young.
I suggested some smack downs for the next time this happened and thought I’d share them with you too. Most can be applied to any situation where a delightful bystander (judgemental fuckwit) comments on your parenting abilities:
1. No please, tell me more about how fan-fucking-tastic you are. I’m so eager to learn.
2. I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over my kids’ screams, it sounded like you said your kids never had a tantrum but that’d be utter bullshit so I must have misheard.
3. Shit, you are UGLY.
Oh you’re offended? Soz, I thought we were doing this thing where we say wildly inappropriate things to each other. My bad.
4. Thanks so much for your suggestion but we prefer to let our children free-range tantrum in public because we don’t want to bring that negative energy into our home. You understand.
5. How about you go home and take a bath? You smell old.
6. Have you spoken to your doctor about your memory loss? It could be serious. Because your children 100% had tantrums, dear. Unless of course they’re dolls you treat like real children. Because you look like one of those women.
7. Excuse me, this is not a tantrum, how rude. This is a performance piece we’ve been working on for a year now and he is NAILING IT.
8. How about you go home and take a good hard look in the mirror and try to determine the exact moment you became a miserable old bitch who thinks it’s her place to make other people feel shit. And then just stay there because no one cares what you have to say.
9. You’re so right, I’m a terrible mother. I can’t cope with my children doing age appropriate things. It’s such a source of shame for me. Here you go, they’re yours now. You’d clearly do a better job. Tell them I love them. Goodbye.
10. How about you eat a bag of dicks?
So there you go, hope that helps. My pro tip: most effective when said with your best bitch face (as demonstrated above)
Do you have one to add?
#fuckwitsmackdownsbyLauren #tryonetoday #satisfactionguaranteed
This post first appeared on Instagram
You’ve just arrived at karate, or swimming, or soccer, or playgroup and all the kids are buzzing around, excited to get going. Except for you.
You’re sitting on the floor with your hysterical child wrapped around your throat, refusing to join in. You’re trying to pry those little hands off your arms as you awkwardly unfold yourself into an almost upright position with an 18-kilogram weight hanging off your neck. You keep talking, whispering how everything’s going to be ok and how they’re going to have fun but they’re now wailing and kicking and EVERYONE is staring.
The other kids, their parents, the teachers or coaches: all staring. Any minute now, someone is going to come up to ‘help’ but it’s going to make everything worse.
The coach comes up to say hi and a little face digs into your stomach.
You smile politely and speak on behalf of your child because you want to look like you’re encouraging good manners but the tears have started to well in your own eyes because it shouldn’t be this HARD to have fun with your child.
My brave boy,
You started preschool today.
You thought your uniform was amazing because it’s the same colour as the ones your big cousins wear. You thought your hat was really quite fetching and you couldn’t wait to use your new lunchbox. We’ve been talking about preschool for what seems like months.
We’ve gone over every aspect of what your day would look like, we practiced eating lunch from your gazillion lunchboxes, we even practiced how to make friends – with daddy playing the role of ‘that sad kid in the corner who might like a friend’.
We did as much as we could to make the unknown known to you.
It wasn’t enough.
You raced into your room, you showed me every corner of it, you seemed excited, no … maybe just a little bit… terrified.
The moment I had to leave, you unravelled. Your fingers dug into my arms, your eyes grew wide with horror, I could feel your fear in my bones.
You knew motherhood would be filled with sleepless nights, dirty nappies, self-doubt and constant worry. What you might not have known about, however, was the aching loneliness that comes with motherhood. After years in the workforce, surrounded by colleagues, meetings and lunch breaks; having a baby can leave you feeling very, very alone.
Yes you’ll always have your gorgeous new baby by your side, but – spoiler alert – their small talk skills are even worse than Rodney in Accounts. In fact, they’ll barely give you a second glance for the first 6 weeks or so. Unlike Rodney. Dirty perve.
Playground designers clearly give no fucks about parents. They go all out for the kids but honestly, you could give them some grass, some sort of platform to jump off, a few sticks and they’d be set. You really don’t need to try so hard.
But what about the poor bastards schlepping these chilluns to the park. What do we get? A couple of metal torture racks that are only ever sizzling or frozen. There’s no in between. Either way, you’re going to be injured sitting down. And that’s it. That’s all we get.
If I was designing a park for parents, this is what it would need:
This is a guest post by Dad, Simon Gamack from The Dad Zone Podcast
As a Dad, there’s nothing more coveted than Dad time. A moment that’s 100% just for you.
Like that one time you got home early from work, wife and kids were out, empty house… so many possibilities. It felt like walking into Wonka’s chocolate garden for the first time. A world of pure imagination.
That feeling of elation and wonder, which only lasted 4 minutes until everyone else got home, is why I’m writing this. I want to help you experience this amazing sensation. I’ve developed a list, nay a guide, nay a survival manual on how to capture the dad’s equivalent of Moby Dick. (We all know what Ahab really wanted. Why else would a man go off to sea, chasing a giant white whale unless he wanted some alone time. He probably had twins).
1. “I’ll do the dishes tonight babe”
Whether you have a dishwasher or you are the dishwasher (as is the case in my castle) this play is a win-win. Not only do you get a solid 35-40 mins of QDT (quality dad time) but you also get brownie points that can be redeemed at the concession stand for super bouncy balls and mini slinkies.
I sat in the paediatrician’s office and played him a video clip of my baby son. He studied it as I fretted beside him. When it finished I nervously asked if there was anything wrong with my child.
“Annnnd, um, what is it exactly that I should be noticing?” he asked cautiously.
“That weird way he’s talking!” I cried. “You see the way he’s trying to make babbling noises but he’s doing it with his mouth shut? That’s not normal, is it!?”
He gave me that look doctors sometimes give first time mums. You know the one where they’re trying to decide if you’re an over anxious mother or just a bit slow?
“He’s just fine,” he said with a carefulness that told me he’d decided I was one of the slow ones.
It wasn’t the first and certainly won’t be the last time I’ve worried over something ridiculous when it comes to my children. I’ve worried I worry too much and I’ve worried I’m not worrying enough. I’ve also worried that my worries are not quite sane… but I’ve spoken to enough mums now to know I’m perfectly normal. Whatever that means.