My Breasts Have Been Measured

I’m off to a wedding on Sunday and I’m very excited. I purchased a gorgeous dress. Well it would be gorgeous on someone else. I look like 5 pounds of shit shoved into a 4 pound bag but there’s nothing I can do about that now. It’s a raspberry asymmetrical dress. Short at the front long at the back and is extremely comfortable.

I have had the nails done, the hair done, eyelash extensions and the last thing on my list was to get good undergarments to make sure the dress sits as well as it can.

Off I went to a local lingerie shop in Kilkenny called Belle Femme. Walking into these places is always intimidating for me. When you are my size, bras are mostly functional. You can’t just pick one up on a whim because the majority of shops don’t cater for the bigger bust. So you see rows of delicate items and just think… I don’t belong.

However I trusted my friends who told me this was the place to go so I braved it out and in I went. A warm greeting awaited me and I was whisked behind a pair of luxurious curtains to be measured for my over the shoulder boulder holder. The impeccably turned out Bridget asked me to remove my top and bra…..

Jesus Bridget buy a girl a drink at least!

I started to witter on about every time I’ve bought a bra since I was 16 and Bridget worked her magic. ‘I don’t use tape to measure’ she assured me as if she was some sort of breast jedi who could sense their size just by being in their presence. And surely enough without so much as asking me what size I thought I was, I was wearing a bra that did everything you hoped a bra would do.

They had shape, they were raised off my belly and they were secure in their pleasantly pleasing black lace brassiere. I was so impressed. The bra didn’t resemble something I’ve seen elderly women wear back in the 50’s. Usually it’s all flesh coloured and full cups not a hint of an underwire anywhere. This was stylish and modern. I tried on my dress and the difference was noticeable. I had a shape and I was thrilled. Bridget left me to get myself dressed and putting on the old bra was such an anti climax.

Back to saggy baggy boobies!

Before Bridget took my purchase to pack it beautifully in delicate tissue and a branded carrier bag I managed to catch a glimpse of what size bra my breasts were worthy of. Well I nearly fainted 40HH…. who knew the letters even went up that far! Holy knocker lockers that is epic. I’m heading back to Bridget next month to get fitted for an everyday bra and I can’t wait. I just hope she doesn’t add any more letters onto the size!

Pee goes IN the toilet

I’ll never make a housekeeper. I have repeated this statement many times. I don’t have a regular routine in place to carry out my duties. I just do what I can when I feel like it. Now that feeling of wanting to do it does not come over me very often. I had a wave of it this week.

I bloody regret it now!

In most modern homes now there is more than one toilet. I get it. Everyone wants an ensuite. Then you have to have one for the other miniature terrorists in the house. In our modern inclusive society you now have to have a toilet downstairs to make the home wheelchair friendly. Obviously I have no issue with that.

Do you know what springs to mind when I think of three toilets?

Work, work and more work.

In the midst of my cleaning wave this week the toilets are the rooms I turned my attention to. All I can say is boys are disgusting. Neither of them will be any good at sports because their aim is sadly absent. I’m half thinking of getting them tested because their spatial awareness is way off.

I cleaned the three toilets and the only one that didn’t make me want to pull it out of the wall with my bare hands and replace it was the one in my ensuite because the kids rarely use it. There was urine splattered everywhere. The skirting board in the downstairs toilet looked like some sort of modern art installation. It was just vile.

So I gave the lads a quick lesson in how to get their wee into the toilet bowl. I began by telling them that they needed to pull up the toilet seat to avoid peeing on it and leaving it wet for the person who would follow after them. They argued why couldn’t the seat be left up and that if someone wanted to sit on it they could put it down?

I had to explain that that’s just not how it’s done.

I don’t know how or when or who made the rules but the toilet seat’s default position is down……. just deal with it.

Then I asked them to pee so I could watch their technique and give them pointers. The youngest started I could see nothing wrong with what he was doing until he turned to look at me for approval and like a drunk man riding a bike when he turned is head is willy followed and it went everywhere. I was screeching, in the toilet in the toilet, and he was clueless.

The eldest lad was up and his problem was he liked to see how close he could get to the top of the bowl without spilling out. Well you don’t even need me to fill in those gaps! We had more conversation about toilet etiquette and they agreed to try and be better and I agreed to try and provide more than one roll of toilet paper that gets shouted for, by whoever is dropping the baby off in the pool.

So the moral of the story is I need to clean my toilets more often.

Also that little boys are really gross.

I’m not looking forward to the teenage years when other bodily fluids come into play but that’s a conversation for another night.

Clothes are so Uncomfortable

I’m sitting watching tv. The heroine is after being kidnapped. A bag shoved over her head and stuffed into the boot of a car by two large men. She struggles of course with little effect. What I want to know is with all that fuss how the hell do your trousers stay on!!!

I can’t walk from the car to the school without hitching up my pants at least once. I’m pretty sure if I was bucking like a bold child not wanting to get into the bath I would expose myself to all who cared to watch.

What’s more I wouldn’t have some fancy knickers on underneath. No no. If I were to be kidnapped I’d be wearing my oldest, grottiest thinnest pair of period stained excuse for a knickers. My arse would be a welcome distraction from the embarrassment of them.

Then they tied her to the chair and her hair was in her face naturally enough. They proceeded to torture her by showing someone beat up her sister. Well they wouldn’t even need to go that far with me. At this point those vile briefs are under my butt cheeks and I’m about to gnaw through the ropes with my bare teeth for that reason alone. My bra is driving me insane. I want to pull it down at the back and stuff my triple diddies back in at the front. Paired with the hair in my face I’m ready to tell them everything they want to know.

Then as if I thought the threat of them hurting my sister wouldn’t be bad enough (I mean who the hell would mind the kids while I line danced on a Monday. Went to see friends on a Wednesday. Got my hair done on a Friday…… I could go on.) I realise my runner sock had slipped under the heel of my foot. Heaven above is there no mercy!?

I imagine at this stage Beast Mam takes hold. This level of discomfort is more than I can take. I muster up strength reserved for mothers whose children are in grave danger. I break from the ropes. Fix the knickers, remove the hair from my face put my boobs back in my bra take off the socks and burn the bastards kill the bad guy and save the day!

Clothes grate on me. Nothing is comfortable. I could obviously lose some weight that might help me but problem solving is not my strong point. I often contemplate nudism if that’s a word but i don’t like to make other people feel inferior and let’s face it if this goddess was walking around nudey rudey that would be inevitable.

So I’ve slipped off the bra and I’m going to see if my heroine will save the world with or without exposing her arse in the process.

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Line lover

It took me almost 35 years to find a hobby I enjoy. I’ve started many things and promptly lost interest. That’s my usual progression but The Line Dancing has stuck. Yes you heard me right Line Dancing and before you break into the chorus of Achy Breaky Heart and ask me if I have cow boy boots ( I don’t YET) it’s not what you think it is.

There is of course a massive country influence because that’s where it started but it has progressed to include modern routines to chart songs as well. It’s really good fun and great exercise too. So the club were heading off to England to a social weekend of dancing and I decided to join them. I haven’t left the country in 8 years and that fact alone shocked me. What shocked me even more is the amount of preparation I had to do to get away for two nights.

It started months in advance with the weekly saving for my fare and spending money. Gone are the days of where I’d book it all on the credit card and worry about it when I came home. When you have little ones depending on you for like food and stuff you have to be a bit more responsible.

The beauty regime pre travel was nuts. I got the hair done, I got fake lashes, shellac and a spray tan… perks of my course. I exfoliated and moisturised I buffed and polished and it took a couple of weeks for me to head off looking pretty much the same as I always do.

me and dee

Then because the children were being minded by family on the Friday and going to their Dads on the Saturday I wanted to have the house nice ( passable ) for my sister to sleep and I needed to think ahead to the Saturday morning and have everything ready for her to send them off. I was a bit stressed that I’d forget something because well I tend to forget things.

Then the packing for the airport. Trying to compress my make up was a week long job in itself. We were only bringing carry on and then all your liquids had to fit into this one little tiny bag. I mourned for the eye cream that I couldn’t squeeze in. I apologised to the toner that had to be left behind and vowed to bring it on the next trip. I was distressed.

I managed to pack for me and for them and to leave the house organised by my standards ( low low standards ) I left instructions and directions and before I even stood foot on a plane I was exhausted.

group

This is where the divide between men and women becomes apparent to me. Take away the fact that I’m on my own. Let’s just imagine as I often do that I have a loving, extremely attractive,well built, tattooed husband who likes to bring me out dancing and who plays guitar and…… Hang on I got a bit distracted there….. What was I saying? Oh yeah… Let’s cut it right down. When men go away they only have to worry about themselves. When women go they have to think of EVERYTHING.

Exhausted as I sat on the plane I got a little anxious. It was bizarre it’s not like I’ve never been away from the children but it was almost as if leaving the country was a bit more serious. I actually cried after take off and was mortified. My emotions were haywire. I felt such guilt because I was going away and not bringing them. Then I made the huge mistake of telling The Sun that I was going on a plane. They’ve never been on a plane. Silly silly silly Mammy.

Once I had let my extremely practical and honest friends talk sense into me I relaxed and thoroughly enjoyed my weekend away. I learned a few things. I learned that I’m shit at line dancing but am going to try harder because I really do love it. I learned that a tan makes everything better… fake tan of course. I learned that it’s ok to have a life apart from your children. In fact it’s essential. I came back in fantastic form and grateful for my children and grateful for the support I had  that allowed be to go.

The next trip is to Latvia in August…… I started prepping yesterday. Honest!!!!

 

from behind

The Cross we Bear

kyle-oakwood

I recently attended mass. I can’t say that I am a regular attendee but this was a mark of respect for the anniversaries of a number of family members. The children were with me this particular weekend so it was time to don the best clothes and put our best foot forward and I was looking forward to showing off my beautiful little family. This enthusiasm was soon dampened when I found out the anniversary mass was at 9;30 in the morning. Three plus myself all to be suited and booted and up and out for that hour on a Sunday. We were not off to a good start!

My darling sister said she would help by taking one of my wee cherubs over on a sleep over so that I only had two to suit and boot.  See who ever said that prayers aren’t answered?

Off we headed to mass and when we parked up on the college road the eldest refused to get out of the car. Did I mention that it was raining? Continue reading “The Cross we Bear”

Bedtime Battles

I want to talk about something that is causing me a great deal of anxiety. It’s something I have to deal with everyday and it’s making me very unhappy. I have no way of avoiding it and I do feel like a problem shared is a problem halved. I know I’m not alone and that there are others in my situation. I’m not sure how I’m going to cope with it anymore so I’m going to talk it out hoping someone out there will help.

The problem is called. BEDTIME.

Not mine now, I could sleep standing up like a horse no bother to me at all. I can sleep on buses and trains and boats and I think I have even slept with my eyes open on an occasion. No the bedtime that I speak of is that of my three adorable children who, when it comes to going to getting them asleep, I like to refer to them as the spawns of Satan.

As a rational adult I cannot come to terms with the fact that at 7, 5 and 3 the children do not realise that every night without fail they have to go to sleep. I try to get across to them that this whole sleeping craic was not my idea. It’s not something I’ve conjured up to wreck their buzz or just be mean. This is a biological necessity.  When seven o’ clock arrives it’s like a shock to them that they have to go to sleep. It’s like it’s crept up on them unexpected like a big scary spider and the screams and protests are just as loud as if a big hairy one dropped onto their chubby little faces.

Now before the suggestions come flooding in I have tried many techniques. I have tried staggering the bedtimes starting at 7 with the youngest and working my way up to the eldest. Well sure I was putting children to bed for hours. It was like Groundhog Day from one child to the next, the teeth brushing the story telling the rubbing and me all the while doing my best not to fall asleep with each one. I’d start at 7 and I think I was still at it come half nine on more than one occasion.

I tried the whole bath and bedtime routine. Drops of lavender in the bath and nicely warmed towels all designed to soothe and relax. Well not my three reprobates. The water touched them and like gremlins they came alive.  They were drinking the bathwater and splashing each other and wriggling out of my hands like eels as I tried to wrestle them into their pyjamas. It was exhausting.

At the moment I’m at the stage where I’m turning off the electronics a half hour before bedtime to see if it will wind them down and prepare them for sleep. Paired with a story and lots deep breathes I can’t say that it’s getting any better. Macy has to have one story because she’s in a separate room and then to get the boys to agree on a story I’d need to employ a skilled negotiator and all the while I’m deep breathing to stop myself from putting a whole in the wall with my bare hands.

I’m sure it’s the same in every house with young children. But on a serious note I hate putting them to sleep when my last words to them are negative ones spouted out through gritted teeth. Every morning I explain to them how their behaviour was unacceptable the night before and how tonight has to be different and everyday they vow to do better and every day I believe them.

I’m studying at the moment and I need the evenings to get some work done or catch up on the housework and the longer it takes me to get them to bed the less time I have to get the things done that I’ll never have enough time to do anyway.

It’s not all about me despite what you may have heard. The Children need their sleep. I see such a difference in them when they have had a few nights of good quality sleep. It’s when their bodies grow and repair. It’s also the time that their brains organise all their thoughts from the day. Knowing my three the thoughts that they organising is new and inventive ways on how are they going to thwart their mother at bedtime tonight.  Is it 7 o clock yet? No? Great because I need time to prepare for tonight’s battle. Wish me luck.

 

 

Teenage Delusions

So motherhood happened. Not once but three times. Yet despite my experience I really don’t feel like a mother nor do I feel like a grown up. It’s like a poster I saw on Facebook. I think they call them memes or something even though I have no idea what that means or how to pronounce it. When a crisis occurs and you look for someone more adulty than you. Woah there Nelly. I’m the adult. Well I must have missed that memo.

adult.

My son told me I was just a kid cause I still had a Mammy and Daddy.  And yes he used the word kid. Because, yes he watches too much American television. He even asked me for candy one day. I was like I’ll candy stripe your arse for you and attempted to get him to watch Fraggle Rock on tg4. That’ll snap any Yankee notions out of ya boyo.  By his estimation I’m not an adult and I’m beginning to think he’s wise beyond his years. Continue reading “Teenage Delusions”

I’m eating nothing!!

If you have read other posts you will be aware of my battle with the bulge. Without trying to sound dramatic, that wouldn’t be like me at all, I liken it to a serious addiction. Food is my drug of choice and I don’t know how to become rehabilitated. I literally flip flop from wanting to loose weight and swearing to make a massive effort to throwing in the towel and accepting that I’ll never be slim. That switch could happen at least four times an hour. Every time professing to anyone that will listen…. this time will be different…..and it never is.

Writing this tonight I’m in binge mode and weight loss is the furthest thing from my mind I’m having a fat food Friday and I’m loving every minute of it. Until tomorrow when I try on my jeans and I’m like 7 pounds of rice shoved into a 5 pound bag. (I think the correct  phrase is 7 pound of shit but you know… I didn’t want to be vulgar). Continue reading “I’m eating nothing!!”

I know you’ve seen these before

You can’t swing a cat without stumbling across lists of these kind on social media at the moment. I’m not one to shy away from the proverbial bandwagon so I thought I would compile a list of my own. I can’t tell you whether this is going to be a top ten, a top three or a top twenty list, it really depends on how many my baby brain will allow me to recount. I can tell you however that the list is not exhaustive and you may even have a few of your own. Feel free to share them with me. Then I’ll quietly rage that I didn’t think of that one myself.

Here is my list of things I didn’t realise I appreciated until I had children.

Neutral Colours

Once my life was full of tasteful shades of brown with an odd splash of muted colour here and there. If I was feeling particularly brave I might throw in an aul bit of purple which is my favourite color. Now my life is overwhelmed by primary colours. Continue reading “I know you’ve seen these before”