Listen now, this is important.
If you cannot picture me dressed up as a giant root vegetable running around Manchester city centre, then I suggest you close this post down and come back another day.
I wouldn’t mind either because some things just aren’t meant to be.
Like, World Peace for instance.
Or even, my last set of false nails.
You think that’s a bit far fetched? That my extremely glittery, bombastically special talons couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the state of the new union, Rupert Murdoch and some bearded dude in Iran?
Well you would be wrong.
What? Where the hell am I going with this one?
I honestly do not know but seriously stick with me; it’ll be worth it in the end. I just know it.
(Obviously I can’t promise this and don’t sue me if you get to the end of this post and feel like a) wringing my neck or b) demanding your internet provider refund you the 7 minutes air time it will undoubtedly take you to decipher the insanity of this post or even c) digging up the back garden and planting a marrow. I take no responsibility for what is about to happen.)
This week the obligatory therapy sessions have left me feeling a little like I have been jumping on an emotional trampoline.
Wahhheyyyyy look at meeeeee I’m sooo hiiighhh I feel like a teenager againnn!!
Ooooooooooo fucking hell coming downs a bit hard on the old back oof!
Waheeeeeyyyy look at meeeeee I can do a star jump it feels so goooood!!
Waoooof was that my ankle that made that breaking noise? Campumf eck, my necks gone all tingly.
Wahhheyyyyy I’m going to try a sitting jump! I can do anything I’m amazinggg!
Awhaccckkk good god somebody help me up, my back is actually broken and im pretty sure I just bit my tongue in two!
Oh what the hell Waheeeeeyyyy one last go can’t hurt, I’m higherrr than everrrrr!!!! I am the QUEEEN OFFF THEEE WORRRLLLDDDDD.
Er, yes. That is wee running down my legs. Do you have a spare Tena? Anyone?
Seriously, it is such a shame there isn’t an Olympic sport for being a tit, because I seriously deserve an award. I would win it too.
‘And the gold/diamond Nork trophy, sponsored by tommee tippee and Lanosil angry nipple cream for how many emotions can you tear through in a ten minute period, goes to Lexy Ellis for being a prize floppy and floundering, utter mammary gland!!!
Congratulations all around. You are officially a pimpled teat.’
Seriously. (In case you felt I hadn’t already used the word seriously enough. I am totally serious. Seriously.)
Either that or someone should seriously consider casting me in an emotional version of Challenge Anneka. They could call it Challenge Knobby, and instead of dressing me up in a jumpsuit (because lets face it, this is tea time telly and no one needs to see that while they are tucking in to their reduced fat Bangers and Smash) they could dress me up as a giant cucumber and have me half run half waddle around shopping centers world wide trying to find hidden objects stashed under 3 wheeler prams without anyone noticing. I can see it now.
‘Mary, was that a giant cucumber that just walked past or are these sleepless nights getting too much for me?’
‘No Laura, I think I saw it too. Actually, I am sure it stole a bottle out of my changing bag. But then again, it may have been a gherkin.’
And I would be filmed scuttling off dressed as a huge vegetable (that Addison clearly wouldn’t eat) riddled with guilt about my thievery before doing an emotional 360 and coming back, bending over and battering them both with my elongated forehead because my mother never showed me enough affection.
Can you imagine?
I can see the headlines now.
Killer cucumber strikes again. Mr. Bloom involved in compostarium nightmare!!
First and only interview here!!
‘It wasn’t my allotment, there was fuck all to see!’ He sang with his northern twang ‘She was just a mentalist from up somewhere near me….’
BBC show gets out of hand!! Overtired mother finally loses the will to…
Moving on swiftly.
Today I bought Addison some foamy letters for the bath. Ever since I first saw those two pink lines sat on the bathroom side (pink lines not white lines, those days are long gone!) I have imagined walking in to the bathroom post bath time and seeing my daughter’s (oops I mean son’s) name emblazoned on the wall in foamy letters. It would be so romantic. This would mean we had made it as a proper family. I would be a proper mummy. Limping around Mothercare today (two toes, one sofa, a great divide) I spotted a bag of alphabet letters and bought them! I cannot wait to give Addison a bath and make this simple dream come true! As soon as he gets up it is bath time! Can’t wait to see what they look like! Will have to take photos! I will officially be mum to a toddler!
There are no fecking eses’s in the bag. (Like the letter s. Not Esse like some Spanish mafia type. I’m bloody glad there are no Spanish mafia types in the bag! The last thing I need at bath time what with all the wailing and splashing already going on, is a little Spanish man in a straw hat holding a machine gun to my head. What the hell kind of pressure would that put on me? Why the hell would Mothercare do that to me? A B C D E F YO SOY JOSE!! And what if the mafia type got hungry? What would I feed him? Do mafia types eat paella?) What the bloody hell kind of alphabet doesn’t have an S in it???? MY son’s name has two BLOODY ese’s in it. (Again the letter S. My sons name does not have two Spanish men holding machine guns and plates of badly made paella behind their backs in it.) So there goes that daydream. I couldn’t even swear. All the swear words I can think of have an S in them! (Except the c word and although I was tempted, I was that angry! There is always a chance that grandma could call round and I’m not sure even I could make excuses and get away with having the word c*nt written in bouncy letters on the bathroom wall with a one year old in the house.) How does one make paella?
So pleased with my sparkly new nails! They look wonderful. Feel a little more human again after the nightmares of weeks gone by. Sarah did such a good job on them and I feel proper glam.
Within 2 days of having my nails done, the plague hit. I broke 4 in a terrible car door accident following on from shit up back –gate, and then managed to not only get my puke under the remaining 6, but also had a feeling there may have been some of Addison’s and Doodle the Poodle’s puke lodged under them too. It was a chance I couldn’t take. I ripped the remaining 6 off in a fit of fury and disgust. My hands are in tatters. (And so is my arse but that is another story all together.) I officially resemble Fagan from Oliver but with less britches and more swearing. Damn stomach bug spreading like wildfire. Bloody motherhood!
Dear diary, I met Jo Frost. She was amazing. She gave me some great advice.
Dear Diary, I got too excited and screamed in Jo frosts face. She was covered in spit.
Dear Diary, I am writing this from the naughty corner.
Dear Diary, I have met some truly lovely and amazing people this week.
Dear Diary, I dropped a red-hot fishcake on my foot. It hurt.
Dear Diary, The Irish one and I are going to spend some quality time together tonight.
Dear Diary, Was forced to watch Planet of the Apes. What a load of guff! How can you be romantic after watching that? For the love of god.
Dear Diary, Had a dream I was being attacked by a monkey in a smoking jacket. Woke up sweaty.
Dear Diary, Blame Tim Burton for full night of unrest.
Dear Diary, Took Addison to see the planes at the airfield. We had a great time.
Dear Diary, Until he shit up his back while I was talking to a pilot. It smelt like somebody died. The guy clearly thought it was me. Addison found this hilarious. I did not.
Dear Diary, The council say I can’t build a compostarium. I only want to grow shoes.
Dear Diary, Must find other ways of enticing Mr. bloom. I think I fancy him. What is wrong with me?
Dear Diary, Therapy is supposed to regulate my moods.
Dear Diary, Just laughed, cried, sneezed and weed in the space of twenty minutes.
Dear Diary, Have put on 5 pounds.
Dear Diary, The Irish One said that ‘compared to the empty water balloon’ my stomach resembled after giving birth I have done really well. He said he was a ‘bit worried’ it would never go and said he thought ‘what the hell is that?’ when he saw me straight afterwards ‘sitting with it plonked in front of me.’
Dear Diary, Have dug a man shaped hole in the back garden.
Dear Diary, Will this week ever end?
Dear Diary, Will I ever be an organized mother?
Dear Diary, Some things just aren’t meant to be.
Like Monkey’s ruling the world.
Or Being the perfect mother.
I think you must just have to let go and enjoy the moment.
But I see these other mothers and they look so restrained and in control! Surely they aren’t having secret rumblings for a northern man in wellies who own’s a talking cabbage? Surely they don’t forget to clean dishes and end up eating soup out of the pan? Surely they aren’t scared of turning in to Nanny from count Duckula?
Think I will retire my plans and settle down for a while, in the here and now. I am what I am, que sera sera and whatever will be will be. Once a brick always a brick.
(I may have made that last one up.)
But seriously, if you happen to see a giant cucumber toddling down the road looking a bit confused and carrying and Aldi bag, keep an eye on your belongings sure, but don’t write it off, maybe give it a wave. Or maybe a hug.
But be warned, it may swear at you. Or cry. Or gush, or laugh, or dance, or potentially bend over and get in to fight mode…. you just never know with those root veg.
They can be a bit unpredictable.
Just like new mothers.