If you tell me you are coming between 10 and 11, there’s a chance that I’ll be ready for 10.05 at a push. Don’t turn up at 9.25am or you will find me in a vest and pants, devoid of make up, with lion hair. There’ll be breakfast all over the floor, the children will be feral and undressed, the iron will be out and life is likely to be in general chaos. So, apologies Mr Upholsterer for the utter disgrace that is me.
I’m sorry that you found it difficult to look me in the eye. Perhaps it was due to the lack of make up and the fact that I was wearing a vest that was practically see through with just one Ugg boot, as I couldn’t get the other one on quick enough. And I thank you for pretending to ignore what looked like a tiny bit of hardened dog poo on the sofa. Honestly I’m not sure what it was, but I personally wouldn’t have touched it with my human hand. It was discarded, wrapped in a piece of kitchen roll as soon as you’d gone. All I can say is it had hairs in it. Sorry. Also, when you pulled the chaise longue out, I apologise for the layer of dust, fluff, old plastic toys, tissues and a small child’s coat hanger, that it revealed.
Please don’t tell the husband that the beautiful home and immaculately presented wife and children that welcome him home every evening is in fact, a charade.
A (somewhat tatty, crazy looking, embarrassed, disgraced) Confused Take That Fan, 30+
Check out more of Jo Avery’s musings on life at her ‘A Confused Take That Fan‘ blog.
We have another guest blog from our lovely friend Jo Avery on how to handle THAT tricky question from your little one.
Do you worry about how you’re going to handle the, ‘where do babies come from mummy?’ conversation?
I’ve been dreading it.
I remember finding out, aged 8 from Sarah Martin at school.
I was disgusted. That night in the bath I said to my mum, ‘BUT YOU DID IT TWICE!’ in horror.
My four year old started this conversation the other morning.
‘When you and daddy got married was I in your belly?’
‘How did I get in your belly?’
‘You were made with love, a seed and an egg and you became a baby.’
… ‘Did I come out of your private parts?’
‘Did everyone laugh?’
‘No. I didn’t have an audience, but a nurse came to help. Some people have to have their bellies cut open to get the baby out.’
‘Not with scissors. A knife.’
‘I’m never having a baby. What’s for breakfast?’
The facts of life at 7.50am. Done.
Check out more of Jo’s musings on life at her ‘A Confused Take That Fan‘ blog.
I’ve always thought that much as we resist, we are genetically programmed to turn into our parents at some point. My lovely friend Jo Avery sums it up quite nicely on her blog.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, I am my mother after all.
The final realisation hit me as I bit down into my crackerbreads and light cheese spread that I can hide from it no more. I am my mother.
I have become a 1976 housewife.
I ride to school on my bicycle with a basket on the front. Just like my Mum.
I eat two crackerbread’s for lunch whilst watching Australian soaps. Just like my Mum. Only she watched The Sullivans and Sons and Daughters. I watch Neighbours and Home & Away.
I help out at my children’s school listening to children read. Just like my Mum.
I tell my children to not sit on public toilets. Just like my Mum.
I wipe muckiness off their faces with my own spit. Just like my Mum.
I go to coffee mornings whilst the kids are at school. Just like my Mum.
I buy all my school uniform from M&S because, ‘it washes well.’ Just like my Mum.
I don’t like going out on Saturday nights anymore. I used to chastise my Mum for this as a teenager, seeing it as a sure sign of having no life. Now I am to be found with a cup of tea (not even alcohol) on the sofa watching Strictly Come Dancing on a Saturday night. Just like my Mum.
God help my other half…