CV Lexy Ellis.
The institute of mental illness and chaos, 1 child -1 husband to be Road, Shatteredville, edgy town.
Can I one bell you? I honestly can’t remember it.
Date of Birth:
Sometime before now.
An occasionally positive, occasionally suicidal, dynamic and passionate multi-tasker and head case, with 2 years experience of wetting herself in public for no apparent reason, repeatedly scorching her ears with hair straighteners, running around in circles clearing up poop, accidentally interrupting funerals by running over squirrels and then screaming very loudly at the atrocity of it all, and managing to stand on a plug each and every time I am found running barefoot, who is also proudly bringing up, nipple-less, I may add, a two year old with fully functioning bite reflexes.
Highly personable and honest with a great impending sense of doom I am consistently task focused on accomplishing an incredible number of missions during an unrealistic time frame – such as but not limited to – feeding the world, and making it a better place for you and for me and the whole damn human race, liking 75 of my friends Facebook status’, organising a wedding and acting as camp councillor for the dog who seems more depressed than I am, all before the bedtime routine starts at a time when I would rather stick my head down the toilet and repeatedly brain myself with the lid.
I achieve all of this of course, while also smiling.
Mum – 2010 – present.
- To lead and develop a child in to a well rounded individual who doesn’t need therapy in his teens and who suffers no lasting damage caused by repeatedly having to have conversations with his mother while her head is down the toilet.
- To ensure a consistent quality of service by not appearing harassed when the dog vomits in the car just after being de-bollocked, by always talking in calming voices even when one feels close to a mental breakdown as the child has once again proudly announced he too has now shit his kecks all over the shag pile, and by always ensuring 5 back up dinners are cooking on the odd chance the child may not fancy his actual meal, and then eating them yourself because you like beans on toast, jam on toast, fish fingers on toast really and by this point the idea of cooking seems less appealing that drinking a pint glass of one’s own urine.
- To be positively, passionately and completely awake at all times. Sleeping with one eye open will only ensure you get poked in it, by a finger that smells suspiciously of bum.
- To instigate all areas of play as if one could not think of anything better one would like to do with ones time other than make another play doh snake, make a digger dance the Macarena dance for 4 hours, bring the sandpit in the house, act out the role of trampoline, cultivate an ant farm and be force fed a worm, just to prove that people don’t eat worms.
- To pretend to like the sound of whinging. To ignore the sound of whinging. To wish you have gone deaf to the sound of whinging. To eventually start whinging yourself, because if you cant beat them… to take this all out on your other half when he gets home and doesn’t understand why you have your head in the oven.
- To take Post Natal Depression and being sectioned in to a mental hospital in your stride and to not slap people when they ask you stupid questions like – do you feel guilty about it? Or even better – Do you feel selfish? To not forget to take your medication and when you do to completely deny your mood has anything to do with that and instead blame the fact your child flushed the toilet while you had your head down it.
- To pretend to want sex as much as your other half even when you haven’t slept in 8 months and you can smell something suspiciously like Bum. All. Of. The. Time. To moan and groan and make all the right noises while surreptitiously planning tomorrow’s activities (washing, ironing, world peace acquisition, cleaning up poop.)
- To mentor and coach and support your other half by consistently nipping to the local off licence and purchasing copious bottles of wine that undoubtedly increase productivity standards on his part. Using the time commonly known as ‘mummy time’ to set individual targets and feedback to your other half on why you are so much better than him at everything. Apologising like you really mean it when you sober up.
- Thinking outside of the box to develop possible solutions for situations such as having no childcare and having to work, only having enough money to buy beans and hiding mental illness by repeatedly singing ‘old MacDonald had a farm’ instead of a song you recently made up, titled ‘Shoot me in the head. Shoot me in the head now.’
- As a mother I have to consider and demonstrate sound and logical reasons for decisions such as ‘No eating poo.’ ‘No eating worms’ and ‘Stop putting your toys up the dogs bum.’ I also have to provide detailed and thoughtful responses to complex questions such as ‘Why is the grass green?’ ‘Why does the dog have a pink bum hole?’ and ‘What does dead mean?’
Normal Person – Up to 2010.
- Never weeing when one sneezed and enjoying control over all bodily functions.
- Judging all parents who didn’t seem to have a well behaved child. ‘God have they never watched Supernanny? My child will never behave like that!!’
- Avoiding children at all costs but marginally feeling broody when I did see one, for like, a second before returning to my life.
- Partying and showing my toned midriff. (Slight exaggeration possible.)
- Having an idealistic view of how happy and relaxed family life would be for me in the future and how well behaved and beautiful my child would be and how my figure would simply ‘snap’ back in to shape after pregnancy. No Impending sense of doom, basically.
- Lie in’s, without the sound of ‘Daddy’ screaming and losing control in the back ground, while I fight to stay in bed to the sound of all manner of chaos just outside the bedroom door.
- Television that didn’t involve three Channel Five presenters dressed like cucumbers doing the Macarena at 6 in the morning. (How have they not been victims of a bloody good beating yet?)
- Being able to call the Irish one by his name, instead of the now commonly used ‘Daddy’ or ‘Dickhead.’
- Reading a book in bed without the use of a torch.
Nipples that graze along the floor.
Ability to smile in the face of a hell of a lot of poop.
Bags under eyes that resemble extra cheeks.