It’s not just parenting fails anymore – oh no, I thought I would let you lucky bastards in on the car crash that my life as a whole is.
Buckle up tight now and take a trip in the Skoda of fuck ups that is my life, because the past week was not kind to me at all.
On Monday, I decided that my mother in law actually hates me. I have emailed her no less than three times over the past week with light, fluffy, “How are you” kind of things and she hasn’t replied to one of them. I know she’s not dead as my husband has spoken to her on the phone most days. I am racking my brains thinking of ways I could have offended her the last time we met, but seeing as she is a bigger piss head than me with a far more extensive vocabulary of swear words no less than three languages, she’s pretty hard to piss off.
I also spent most of the day absolutely fucking petrified because my two year old has taken to hiding in corners and saying in a growling, menacing voice “Edie dead, I’M MONSTERRRRRRR”. That shit will freak you right the fuck out and will have you googling exorcists in no time.
Thankfully she stopped before her head spun round and she vomited pea soup. Actaully, I wouldn’t mind If she had vomited pea soup; it would mean the child had actually eaten something containing a vegetable. I’d be standing there doing a little victory dance and offering her a prize of chocolate buttons as the horrified priests looked on.
Tuesday was more sensory shit. I’ve so got this now.
This time it was a roll of kitchen towel. I know, I know I am a childcare genius. Maria Montessori is spinning in her grave in jealousy at my inventiveness. Unfortunately, all the paper ended up shredded and embedded in the shag pile rug.
She then suddenly decided that she wanted to use her potty for the first time ever. She sat on the potty until she had a deep red ring around her arse and the potty was still bone dry. The second she got up, she pissed like a racehorse all over the shredded paper on the rug and asked for a nappy.
I had my own evening of sensory shit with a wallpaper scraper and the hoover trying to clean the now dried and hardened paper all up again. I can therefore tell you than in my experience, sensory play is shit: I learned precisely fuck all, apart from never trust a two year old who says they want to start using the potty.
Wednesday came around and I completely abandoned my children to become feral beasts so I could conquer the world of Snapchat.
About three hours in, I realised that Snapchat is entirely pointless. I somehow mastered how to take a photo and write a lot of shit all over it, but then what? I don’t have any Snapchat ‘friends’, being that is largely used by chavs sending cock photos, so it all seemed a little fruitless.
I call it Snapcrap
This was the same day that Instagram stories was launched and I thought, “finally! Something middle class that I can do!”. I have friends in the world of Instagram and the whole video yourself thing appears to have been made with technophobe middle-aged people in mind, so I had a go. I didn’t end up actually recording anything though as I couldn’t get an angle where I didn’t have a huge double chin.
On Thursday evening, I got very drunk. I always promise myself that when I drink lots I will hide my phone to limit any damage and embarrassment I can cause over social media, but I never quite get round to it.
Last Thursday shall be forever referred to as ‘Black Thursday’ in this house, as I was that sort of drunk where I thought I was hilarious and a comedy genius. Sadly, I am neither, so I just came across as a massive wanker.
In one evening I slagged off Donald trump, Gwyneth Paltrow and Barack Obama. That’s got to be some record right? Who am I, The Daily Mail?
Anyway, Gwyneth Paltrow blocked me on Instagram for a couple of ill thought out comments I made, one being “I don’t like you, but I wouldn’t wish ten years of enforced Coldplay listening on anyone, so you have my sympathies at least”. Darling Gwynnie didn’t think that was funny and I got a rather shitty-in-tone message from one of her ‘people’, which I responded to with a clip form Family Guy where they compare Gwynnie to a ‘sad Labrador’.
I also made an ill thought out comment on Barack Obama’s Facebook page alluding to him being gay. Now I am probably on some FBI list somewhere.
Oh and no body liked my Donald Trump tweet! I thought it was witty; the rest of the internet scrolled on:
Friday morning I woke with a hangover and a craving for a McDonalds breakfast. The trouble with being all over social media is waking up at 5am, dying of thirst with a head full of regrets and having to check Instagram, Twitter and Facebook to see what the fuck you said and to implement level ten damage limitation. Add in text messages and Whatsapp and OH MY GOD – l should be employed go to AA meetings and scare people into sobriety.
I had to get my shit together as I was helping out at a fun day for under fives. Because that’s what you need with a pounding head – fifty shouting children. My own child was in full on shit storm mode. I think she’s agoraphobic, because from the second we arrived though the door she was screaming “go hooooooome! Go hooooooome” in my ear.
I ended up having to carry her around fro two hours while I did everything one handed. Then I lost my rag and made her go an join in with the princess entertainers (I may have told her to sod off and play with the princesses if she loves the bastards so much. Not my finest parenting moment). She promptly thrust her hand into a bubble machine, got told off and immediately had the biggest meltdown I have ever seen in my life. Ear splitting screaming, hitting, snot flying and shouting in my face “YOU STINK OF PANTS” (her favourite insult).
Taken a second before she lost her shit
Friday was also my father’s 80th birthday. And yes, I bought the cake, pretended I made it and took all the praise and glory. Why not? I’ve got to get my kicks from somewhere and passing off Sainsbury’s ready made food as my own just does it for me. As I took the cake ‘out of the oven’, I felt no guilt, for on my seventh birthday my parents were on a health kick, so I didn’t get a cake, I got a FRUIT TOWER. Let’s just say I can hold a grudge. There is no worry of him ever working out that I am a big fat fake – he doesn’t go to Sainsbury’s. Now, if it was an Asda cake, then I’d be fucked
Taking the cake out of the oven. You’ll see me next on Bake Off, furiously hiding boxes
It’s now Saturday and do you know what has pissed me off the most so far? Pizza companies sending me their special deals via text. I AM ON A DIET YOU WANKERS. I might get that printed up into leaflets and post it through their letter box three times a day like they do to me, see how they bloody like it.
I might get drunk tonight and see what other celebrities I can make hate me.
(If you’d like to see more of the ridiculous shit I get up to everyday, I mostly live on Instagram https://www.instagram.com/cookiekibbles/ and twitter https://twitter.com/cookiekibbles come follow me and laugh)