The forgotten prezzies of Christmas past...

If you're having a major stress-out about trying to buy your kids that "perfect" toy to make their face light up for Christmas, here's a thought.

Can you remember what you bought them last Christmas?

More to the point, can they remember?

Go on, I dare you. Ask them: "What did Santa leave you under the tree last year?"

I bet you all you'll get is a few blank looks and a possible: "Cadbury's Selection Box."

They won't recall the expensive Robo-raptor thing that only came out of its box the once on Christmas afternoon and then remained hidden under a bed until you found it while cleaning last week.

They won't remember the talking Iggle Piggle or the camera which stopped working after half an hour because the batteries packed in either.

And neither will you.

It makes you wonder why you bother buying them stuff at all.

And then there's your other half. Can you remember what you bought him/her?

I haven't a flipping clue, but I bet he took it back and exchanged it for the next brand up just like he always does.

I quite like doing a bit of Christmas shopping and wrapping up boxes and putting them under the tree on Christmas Eve.

But I refuse to get in a state of utter panic about it like some people.

The next time you feel yourself getting anxious because you haven't managed to afford one of those must-have life size talking dogs from John Lewis, take heart.

It would probably just have ended up as a handy place to fling clothes by about January 6.

Merry Christmas!

Gifts for teachers? Eh?

There was a woman on the bus the other day stressing about what she was going to get her DD’s teacher for Christmas.

Would chocolates be all right or would the teacher be fed up if she received 30 boxes of Maltesers?

Should she suggest that the other parents club together to get one big thing?

Should she get vouchers for somewhere or was that a bit off?

I sat transfixed and listened to this enlightening conversation, which she was having with a slightly bored looking friend.

And it suddenly stuck me.

Are you supposed to get a Christmas present for your child’s teacher then?

Because in all the year’s my 12-year-old DD has been going to school, I’ve never once bought her teacher a gift for Xmas.

Indeed thinking about it, I haven’t so much as given a card in previous years.

Does this make me a terrible person?

To be fair, I’ve never bought anything for the woman at Tesco’s, the postman, the bin man or the chap at the petrol station either.

But you’re not really expected to buy anything for them.

Are you?

Why should teachers particularly expect a gift anyway?

They’re only doing their job.

Nobody buys me a gift just for doing my job.

I wonder has this lack of present-buying affected my DD’s marks at school?

Or maybe the teachers have all got together in the staff room to slag me off behind my back.

My point is, with two kids of my own, plus four sisters and two brothers who have about seven million kids between them, I think I have enough people to buy prezzies for at Christmas.

Besides, DD is at secondary school now which means she has lots and lots of teachers every day.

I couldn’t possibly be expected to buy gifts for all of them.

Could I.....?

Telly talk...

I’m one of those people that get a tune stuck in their head and go round singing it ALL day.

It really annoys work colleagues.

Usually it’s a song that I’ve heard on the radio.

But lately, there seems to have been a general change in style.

Here’s an idea of what I sing a lot these days:

Wash, wipe, scrub and clean

Make the kitchen sparkling and clean...

do do do do do...

Or sometimes it can be:

Come for a walk

Come for a ride

There’s so much to see

So come outside....

And perhaps worst of all:

The summer is over....

And winter’s on its way.....

Of course the keen-eyed among you will have noticed that all these ditties have one thing in common.

They can all be heard 20 or 30 times a day on the CBeebies channel.

Yes, I think you’re right.

My toddler does watch far too much telly.

Big Cook, Little Cook is a big favourite, as is Come Outside or as every child in the country knows it, Pippin.

Regulars Andy, Chris, Mr Tumble and the lovely Poi are as familiar and reassuring to DD2 (who is now 19 months) as me and her dad.

Is it terrible, do you think, that as soon as she gets up in the morning, she starts repeating the word “telly” until we give in?

Am I likely to be turning her into a future axe murderer?

Is she destined for a low grade career serving burgers in McDonalds because of her TV addiction?

Maybe.

The funny thing is, though, watching telly doesn’t seem to be doing her any harm at all.

Her vocabulary has increased tenfold over the last couple of months.

And I’m pretty sure she hasn’t learned the words “cook”, “car” and “wash up” from me.

We’re always reading about how dangerous it is to use the TV as a “babysitter” for our young kids.

But I’m not convinced it’s always such a bad thing.

Which is better:

Letting her watch the talented Justin from Something Special doing his brilliant sign language thing for half an hour while I cook the tea?

Or making her sit in the high chair and “interact” with me as I swear like a trooper because I’ve burned yet another perfectly good chicken nugget?

I’ll let you decide.

Hair raising...

I seem to have been born without a basic skill that most females possess as a matter of course.
The ability to do hair up into pony tails and bunches and stuff.
I always made a right hash of the process when I was a little girl and wanted to copy my mates with their cute plaits and funky ponies.
And now I'm a parent, I'm subjecting my two DDs to similar humiliating attempts.
When DD1 was little, I tried everything to force her hair to behave itself so that I could create a nice neat "do." Hairspray, mousse, gel, conditioning spray - nothing worked. It always looked like she'd been dragged backwards through Sherwood Forest in the height of a bad storm.
And now I've got the same problem with DD2, who is 18 months.
She hasn't got that much hair to be honest. But what she has makes her look like a cross between Bobby Charlton doing his famous comb-over and Limahl from Kagagoogoo during his classic "mullet" period.
DP wants us to get it all cut - but I'm having none of that.
She already gets mistaken for a boy all the time - I WANT HER TO HAVE GIRLY PIG TAILS DARN IT!
All the other girls at toddler group have fabulous locks with gorgeous little clips and pretty bobbles. They look so effortlessly neat and tidy.
I've tried doing it with DD2, but my creations are laughable.
And if I do by some mad chance get a little clip in her hair which actually looks quite nice, DD2 immediately grabs it and tries to eat it.
Where am I going wrong?
Are their courses for doing hair up going on somewhere that I just haven't been made aware of?
Is there a website that tells you how to do it?
Or are you just supposed to KNOW?
Somebody point me in the right direction otherwise I fear DD2 will end up being the butt of cruel jokes as she grows older.
As for DD1, who is 11 now, she's come up with her own solution.
She dyed hers all bright red the other day. Looks brilliant.
Grrrrrrr.

Are you a SMOG?

Heard a brand new acronym the other day and thought I’d share it here.
A woman I know got called a “SMOG” by a mate of hers and she couldn’t for the life of her work out what it stood for.
Silly Moo on Gin?
Sluts Make Odd Grandmothers?
Sensible Mums Own Guns?
But no - apparently it turns out this is a new term referring to Smug Mothers of Girls.
Obviously, it’s meant as some sort of insult. Are mothers of girls smug then? And if so, in what way?
Or are the people who came up with the term - mothers of boys, I’m guessing - just jealous?
Let’s face it, girls are much better than boys aren’t they?
I’m not just talking about better baby clothes and stuff, although obviously that is a pivotal consideration
They’re just so much more advanced at all the crucial developmental stages too - walking, talking, shopping…
And they aren’t as blardy naughty.
In fact, now I come to think of it, almost every small boy I know has at some point behaved like a proper little sod in front of me.
Kicking footballs at my head in my living room; breaking expensive furnishings; pulling my cat’s tail...
“Ooh, they just need to play fight sometimes - so much energy,” defend their parents.
Just need a good clip round the ear, more like.
Yet, apart from a few notable exceptions, all the little girls I know are lovely little pixies who sit quietly and do whatever they’re told without a fuss. Sigh.
Mothers of girls have every right to be smug in my humble opinion.
Until the girls reach the age of about 12.
Then you aren’t so much “smug” as just “relieved you’ve got through the entire day without committing murder.”

I'm fighting mad about DD2

DD2 got involved in a bit of an “accident” at the toddler group we go to this week.
I say “accident.” What I mean is she got jumped on and physically assaulted by another little girl.
If it had happened at Gatecrasher or Oceana, a couple of burly bouncers would have pounced on the culprit and escorted her off the premises at the very least.
But because DD2 is only 18 months and her attacker about two, I’m supposed to just accept this. Grrrr.
DD2 had been on the little red rocking ride, merrily perfecting her balancing prowess.
The other little girl decided to squeeze on behind her.
But as there isn’t room for two tots, she decided to sit directly on top of DD2 as though she wasn’t there and carry on rocking the device until they both fell to the floor bawling their eyes out.
This all happened in the space of ten seconds and though I rushed over as soon as I was able (ie when I could safely dispose of me cuppa), I was too late to prevent the inevitable.
The other girl’s mother was, of course, not watching at all.
She only came over to see what all the fuss was about when a crowd gathered to comfort the two “victims.”
“Oh what happened? Did they run into each other?” she enquired casually.
“No, actually your daughter sat on top of mine and pulled the ride over on top of both of them,” I corrected her.
Funnily enough this seemed to go completely over her head.
And when some other concerned people came over to ask what had happened, she confidently informed them: “They just ran into each other.” Double grrrr.
I was quite close to making a formal “breaking news” announcement about what had really happened, complete with corroborating evidence from three or four other witnesses who saw it too.
But it’s just not the done thing to make a fuss about that kind of behaviour in a toddler group setting, is it? Even when it’s the same terrible tots causing the trouble every time.
Shame really.
It would be quite nice to involve the police and make the little monkeys appear in court and get a hefty fine or whatever for bad behaviour.
Forget naughty steps. Let’s have a bit of proper discipline, eh?

A difficult relationship

I’ve lived with him for four years now and our relationship has hit a desperately rocky phase.
Oh, he has his good points. He’s good looking, cool, suave and sophisticated - I’m the envy of many of my friends, in fact.
But sometimes his behaviour is so cruel and despicable towards me, the kids, our neighbours - I just can’t bear the torment any more.
I think the time has finally come to admit it.
I hate my cat.
Honestly, he’s a complete git and I’m starting to wonder what is the point of him living in the Bad Mutha household at all.
He never gives any of us any affection - slinking away if you so much as try to give him a friendly pat.
If he deigns to come and join us as we relax in the living room in the evening, he won’t sit on my knee like cats are supposed to. He’ll trot off on his own to some remote corner, then start randomly clawing at the furniture or carpet until he annoys us so much we have to chuck him outside.
We had to withdraw his cat flap privileges several months ago because he kept bringing mice into the house.
Live mice.
Who then escaped and set up home in various other parts of our ground floor. One managed to live quite happily inside the sub woofer speaker underneath the telly for quite some weeks. Which was odd.
So now the cat is only allowed free access to the conservatory.
And that’s where he mainly prefers to stay now, the antisocial little lowlife.
The thing is, DD2, who is 17 months absolutely adores him.
She screams with delight whenever he comes inside to eat his food and tries to give him a kiss.
One of the first words she uttered was: “Cat!”
He repaid her last night by scratching her face.
Evil little tosser.
So what do I do?
I couldn’t bring myself to drop him off at the RSPCA - the guilt would be too much for me.
And much as he deserves throwing in the local pond, animal cruelty just isn’t Bad Mutha’s style.
My only hope is that he wanders off and finds some little old lady to move in with.
Or maybe you know someone who’s looking for a cruel, annoying, unfriendly, unlovable, selfish, not very clever, fairly violent pet to take care of?
Thought not.