The F Word…

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Being a woman and not having a penis left me at a serious disadvantage when it came to explaining puberty and sex education to my eldest son. I thought I’d experienced enough embarrassment to last me a lifetime during labour. The last thing I remember about labour was looking down at my feet and seeing a random stranger sewing my vagina back up. I didn’t think anything could top that amount of embarrassment, not even a smear test. Imagine my complete mortification when I had to take my son to see the Doctor because he had a sore willy and couldn’t wee properly.

Like any mom, I’d already self diagnosed it as a water infection and expected the Doctor to write out a prescription for Antibiotics, how wrong was I? After an examination, the diagnosis was to be a lot more sinister.

As soon as I heard the F word or ‘foreskin’ I knew we were in trouble. My son and I both looked at each other with a fear in our eyes I never want to experience again. Neither of us wanted to be in that Doctor’s surgery, especially with each other. After we were informed that boys need to start pulling their foreskin back to ensure a thorough clean, I cursed his dad for not taking him. By the time we got to the word ‘circumcision’ I was ready to pass out. This was even worse than when my three year old stuck all my sanitary towels over his jumper and I didn’t realize till we got to nursery. After our sex education lesson, I nodded in the right places and we left with red faces and no Antibiotics. In my defence, I haven’t got a penis and trying to explain to a ten year old how I know about a man’s foreskin is a conversation I don’t want to get into. Life with girls must be so much easier, because at least I know what they are going through. After the dreaded walk of shame past the Rottweiler receptionist, who I had fought with to get an emergency appointment, I tried to explain to my son about the foreskin in the only way a woman knows how…… ‘Son, next time, ask your dad’..

Just lie back and think of England..

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When did sex stop being kinky?

I vividly remember having a sex life before I had children, and not even the lie back and think of England kind. I’m talking about the can’t keep your hands off each other, going at it like rabbits kind of kinky sex. Having sex for the first time after you’ve been through the trauma of labour is like losing your virginity again, but much scarier. kinky sex now is just staying awake during sex or making the effort to take your socks off. Sexy lingerie is a thing of the past, because now you have to shoe horn yourself into it and that can take longer than the sex. Messing around with stockings and suspenders is an impossible challenge of coordination when you’ve only had three hours sleep. Sexy lingerie is now anything matching, anything that hasn’t turned grey in the wash or anything you can find clean in the drawer. Dirty sex is sex with your t-shirt on, the t-shirt which still has the baked beans stain down the front that your toddler wiped all over you at breakfast.
Remembering to shave your legs is not even a priority these days, because when you have to explain to two little boys why you’re trying to get your leg behind your head you just cant be bothered. I’ve never been to a yoga class in my life, but some of the positions I need to get my legs into to be hair free requires way too much flexibility. I can’t even remember the last time I had a bath without a World War breaking out or without somebody pleading with me to ‘come and wipe my bum’.
Sleep deprivation and the pressures of motherhood can leave you with the libido of a slug, but everything improves with time, everybody gets back into the groove. My advice is to embrace the quickie, and if you want to get your sex life back on track and you don’t want any more children , tell your partner to keep a sock on..

Thou shalt not f&*king swear.

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Today’s moanermum commandment… Thou shalt not f&*king swear

After hearing my 3 year old blurt out “for fuck sake” at a family birthday party, I knew I had to give up swearing like Gordon Ramsay and drastically modify my language. I now have the internal monologue of a tourette’s sufferer, and thanks to the swear box that takes my money like a fruit machine, I may need to take Kerry Katona up on her payday loan offer. Self-censorship is so hard after you’ve stepped on another piece of Lego and wiped shit off the bathroom wall for the tenth time. Don’t ask me why my boys refuse to use the toilet paper I’m the only one who replaces, but it’s the cause of most of my colourful language.

Swearing has a legitimate function, Kids can push your buttons, and swearing can prevent you from hurting somebody. We’re warned that smacking and swearing at your kids doesn’t work, but how many times can you put a kid on the naughty step before it renders it powerless. Sometimes I wish somebody would put me on the naughty step, just so I could get some ‘me’ time.

Parenting pushes you to your limits. Sometimes there’s just no substitute for a F-bomb when the pressure’s really on and it’s way to early for a glass/bottle of wine. Driving in rush hour traffic can see you spitting out profanities like Catherine Tate’s nan, and even a nun with a vow of silence would fire out expletives after she’s sat in piss because somebody’s forgotten to lift the toilet seat, AGAIN. Not being able to swear is like having an itch you can’t scratch, a spot you cant pick. But Kids are like parrots, and if you don’t want to be cleaning potty mouths along side potty bums , stop fucking swearing.

why are my nipples down there?

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Pregnancy does strange things to your body, but even stranger things to your breasts…….

We know our stomachs will probably take most of the damage caused by the daily diet of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and whatever else you shovelled into your mouth because you were eating for two. We know there’s a possibility that you might not be able to jump on a Trampoline or laugh without peeing yourself ever again. But why did nobody confess how damaging the whole baby thing is to your poor boobs. Why aren’t we warned that there’s a chance they might sag, droop, be covered in stretch marks, and could even end up looking like a snooker ball in a sock?

The road from pregnancy to post-pregnancy is a long and bumpy one for your chest. Even if you aren’t blessed in the boob department, your breasts can go from Kate Moss bee stings to something Dolly Parton would sing about. At first you’re pretty smug that they’ve expanded to Jordan size, but it doesn’t last forever. Mother nature can be cruel, and things can rapidly go down hill, leaving you with saggy breast syndrome. After the milk has dried up and your balloons have deflated, you could end up needing a structurally engineered bra to stop them migrating to under your armpits. You don’t need to study Isaac Newton’s theory of Gravity to know that what goes up must come down, and even David Blaine’s magic won’t be able to restore them to their former glory. Even your Nipples experience significant changes and look like something out of Bullseye. If you freeboobed in your twenties, nipples had the potential to poke eyes out and had a bewitching perfect symmetry. After months of your child sucking the life out of them, they point in every direction, except up.

Breasts go through a lot of changes during a woman’s lifetime, but saggy or perky, big or small, men and babies will always be captivated by them. So love your post-pregnancy breasts because shape and size doesn’t matter -that’s what push-up bras are for.  Just support them, whatever direction they are heading. 

 

‘It’s like throwing a Hot dog up an alleyway’….

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You’ve just had an a 9lb baby with the head the size of a football, and the last thing you want to think about is resuming your sex life. You wish you’d seriously considered dating the Mr Bean look -alike, with the ridiculously small head that all your friends had laughed at, but at least you wouldn’t have needed that episiotomy with his son. The broad rugby shoulders and body that attracted you to your partner actually don’t seem that attractive when you’ve had to have forceps to get your baby out. And once you’ve really taken into consideration how enormous your husbands head is, the chance of your child having a sibling is very slim.

Labour is painful, you’ve been torn and stitched back up again, so the idea of having sex again seems as appealing as running a marathon in your nursing bra and Bridget Jones passion killers. Before having children, playing with your breast was welcomed foreplay, now it’s a motive for murder. Your bed is no longer 50 shades of Grey, but more 40 winks. I remember when I used to sneak off to bed to have a quickie with my partner, now a quickie is a twenty minute catnap before I’m forced to get up and start feeding or wiping bums again.

Once you do get back to feeling normal and the 3rd degree tear has repaired, there’s always that worry of you going back to normal ‘down there’. Your partner has seen a baby destroy something that has given him so much pleasure. It’s been stretched so much you’ll be doing your pelvic floor exercises at Bingo, so that it doesn’t feel like a Wizard’s sleeve.

But there is hope ladies, it does go back to normal – the sex life and the vagina, but if it doesn’t, then you need to consider dating somebody with a smaller head or bigger Hot dog.

when did shopping get so painful?

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People say you forget the pain of childbirth, but believe me, you never forget the painful shopping trips with two screaming kids who want everything that they can’t have. I used to give disapproving looks to parents who stuffed their children with sweets before they even got to the check-out. Things have changed now I have two children of my own. Now I feel their pain, and before I’ve even found my way to the fruit and veg aisle, my 2 year old has eaten a packet of whatever crisps are on offer, a banana, three biscuits and half a Dairylea dunker packet. Shopping trips can be torture, and a parent will do anything to make sure it goes as smooth as possible, even if it means breaking a few rules.

Shopping used to be a joy, even fun. I used to book holidays with friends to other Cities to see what designer bargains I could fight over. I’m no longer impressed by how much a woman spends on a posh handbag or on a pair of designer shoes. The only thing that impresses me these days is any parent who manages to get through the check-out without buying a family bag of chocolate buttons, or a Peppa Pig Magazine that costs the same price as a bottle of wine. I’m not impressed with athletes who’ve won Gold medals or Actors who’ve won Oscars. My heroes are the parents who have got through an hour shopping trip without having to step over their child having a temper tantrum.

Shopping, especially food shopping, is a thankless task because nobody appreciates the endless supply of orange squash that’s always in the cupboard or the toilet roll that’s always ready to wipe a bottom. Every time I go shopping with my kids, I remember why I don’t want to go shopping with my kids.