Have I told you that I've moved on to another blog? 

I needed to start a new journal. Virtual or not.

Happy birthday, Charlie.

Today, my little star , you would have been two.

Today, I would have gone through two years of  sleepless nights, aching arms from endless jigging and extreme joy of having you in my life.

Today you might have been able to tell me what you would have liked to do on your birthday. I have learned to bake now, Charlie. I would have baked a massive pink monstrosity of a cake covered in marshmallows and strawberry jam and watched you go mental with sugar rush.

Today, I am reminded of how incomplete my life is.

I have missed you so, so much.

I don't need to breathe.

A few weeks ago I went out and got myself Control Pants. To be honest I did not even set out to get myself the pants. It was in a charity store still in its original package. For 50p. Because I am not even dedicated enough to go and get the pants at its original price which might have been £20. In a minute I will try and explain why the pants might have ended up in the charity store.

Control Pants, as in Underwear to those of us in UK, not shorts for those of you outside. Hint: Yanks. At this point of time when we are getting Siberian winds and I have mates posting about moving their clocks forward for Spring, I want to be a Yank. Let them English twats talk shit about me. I am a Yank and One Direction is made up of musical prodigies instead of a bunch of young, annoying twats.

I digress. My Control Pants are to be worn on the inside and will never see the light of day. It will make its journey after being plastered to my arse straight into the washer and then it will be dried Indoors on top of the bedroom radiator. It will not even be seeing any other toilet other than my own because there is no way I am battling to stick it back on when I am in a foreign place while at the same time worrying about my own mortality. You see, in my own bathroom I know which corners to avoid and how to position myself so that I don't take a wall out and end up in the living room covered in rubble with pants halfway up my thighs.

When I first took the pants out of package I laughed. It was a weird laugh. Bordering on physical and psychological anguish kind of laugh. It looked like bicycle shorts for 6 year old girls. No wonder it went straight to Goodwill. If I were to stick that in the bin for things that will be given away it will be for Illwill. I couldn't even bring myself to look at that thing outside the package so let's see some tight, insecure, fat fucker try and squeeze into it.

If you were going to tell me that I just need to watch my diet and do some exercises, you can kill yourself. I am fucking lazy and that is why I subject myself to such torture.

A tip for those who secretly owns such a pair of pants. Don't stick in on after a bath or a shower. It is like Velcro on damp skin. If it slides on easily without you breaking out in sweat and hives, it is too big and it will do fuck all.

I will come clean now and say it was not good luck that the pants were in my size. It was not. I am a size 16 and the pants were a size 8. My thighs were bigger than the waistband. But this is like I said, Lycra. 

I made it happen. I plastered in on. I am now wearing pre-pregnancy size jeans. It doesn't matter that I cannot breathe. I don't need to. I just need to suck it in and smile. As I scrub the bathroom floors. In my new jeans. Because I don't go out much. Which is a good thing really because all that squeezing of internal organs makes me want to pee a lot and since I am on the bathroom floor, scrubbing, I just have to get up, pee and re-battle to pull the fucking pants back up.

Fancy Tickler hasn't noticed. I asked. He said No, you don't look any slimmer. Because he is an honest bloke with a death wish like that. 

Mummy In Captivity

I am a Stuck At Home Mum. I am held indoors against my will. If it is up to me I would rather be in Central London licking the windows of Harrods and try to make sense of the music churned out by the abominations that are Nicki Minaj and Lady Gaga.

I am a Mummy In Captivity because my House Pride and Need For Control have morphed into this massive monster with bad hair and lopsided tits.

It is not my desire to wear the many pretty tops I have acquired during my trips into the outside world whilst scrubbing the limescale out of the toilet bowl. It is not my desire to wear my expensive, organic make-up as I attack pots and pans with steel wool. I did not do my hair just to go on a mad hunt for The Other Fucking Sock. My Control Pants are going to break my ribs into smithereens if I have to bend down one more time to pick shit up off the floor that other people are choosing to not take notice off. One of these days someone else can trip over said thing and slam their faces on the wall and hopefully Die.

The Fancy Tickler, He Who Tickles My Fancy, has a teenage son who lives with us. Teenage Son, like all teenage boys are, is The Vortex Of Misery. He is too young to be left on his own yet old enough to create a mess of epic proportions. It is truly a superpower on its own, to be able to make a space look like the back end of the Bowels of Tartarus. One minute the kitchen is gleaming, the next it looks like a troll just shat all over the sink and deposited a mountain of dirty dishes with cereal welded to the bottom of each and every fucking bowl.

I am stuck at home because not being stuck at home would mean that the whole brood would be released into the wild that is the Outside World. That would mean having to lug around a baby bag that in shade Hideous that is jam-packed with anything and everything. It would also mean a moaning baby that might decide he might start to teeth and therefore be in extreme infant agony. Add to that, an impatient Fancy Tickler who is no longer impressed with my feminine whims that is sniffing every bottle of shampoo on sale or rubbing every soft-looking material on the back of my hands. If the Vortex of Misery is left at home then Fancy Tickler would get extra antsy. What if he torches the flat? What if he runs out of food to stuff his face with in our absence? Oh the horror. If the Vortex comes with then I have to put up with incessant teeth sucking. Everything bores him. It is too cold. It is boiling. He is starving. He is too full up he is bursting at the seams. Some days I picture a knuckle duster. No teeth sucking when there is no more teeth.

I would rather be held in captivity.

It is no wonder sometimes I run into other Mums on their own in Boots and we end up doing the same thing. Just staring at a bottle of shampoo for longer than is necessary. Our stolen moments with toiletries. Taking our own sweet time and being as fickle-minded as we pleased. We may have given up our freedom to pee without an audience but at least we can still have great-smelling hair. Even if it reeks slightly of Eau du Bebe Vomit.

Parenting 101

I would not call what I am doing with The Human Child parenting, to be honest. What it feels like most of the time is Amusing The Child.

I have since learnt to pull incredibly stupid, hideous faces whilst having dinner just so that he will stay amused and not moan incessantly, which will result in Shit Dinnertime followed by Indigestion. Dinner has since become a somewhat uncivilised and borderline barbaric affair where I have to make loud gobbly noises and sometimes chew with my mouth open so that he can laugh at the contents of my mouth.

It is common knowledge that little human children love it when you hurt yourself. The Human Child giggles when I feign injury and he also seems to really like it when I pretend to gasp for air. This will not go well when one day shit happens and I am dying of an asthma attack. I don't know if I should encourage him enjoying it when people have hurt themselves. I mean, he giggles watching Dexter and American Horror Story. Spawn of Satan, are you about to dethrone your Mother? I do wonder.

He loves the dark. There were a few times when I was watching American Horror Story in the dark on my own in the bedroom and suddenly I could hear a giggle in the darkest corner of the room when his cot is. I might have soiled myself. I have no idea how long he had been awake for and how he was amusing himself in the dark like that. Highly intriguing.

He is going to have shit coming his way if in a few years time he starts moaning about going to bed with no lights on.

The few hours he is awake in the day, he is watching shit that I watch. Mainly because the few hours I get to watch mind-numbing crap on the telly, I am not going to watch Chuggington or a bunch of grown men act like idiots with learning difficulties constantly amazed at whatever mundane shit going on around them. I do that on a constant basis any way. OOOH WHAT IS THAT? A HOOVER! ZOOOOOOOOOM! ZOOOOOOOM! Shit, don't cry... LOOK IT'S A HOOVER! Bloody dog. Get out of the way! LOOK, MUMMY'S HOOVERING! ZOOOOOOOM!

Look, Human Child, it's CSI: Miami! Horatio is so cool when he takes off his sunnies. Looks like a twat, don't he?

I know... I need to stop cussing around him. He might just end up calling me Twat and his dad Knob. Not good. Not good at all.

Merry Whatever Doesn't Offend You.

To wish or not to wish. Chances are when you wish someone a Merry Christmas, said person is not a Christian or a big fan of this Jesus person anyway. Might as well say Merry Capitalism, as most Conspiracy Theorists would agree. I, for one, don't give a shit if you wish me a Merry Christmas. I will not be offended, being a person without faith in anything, and it will just be one of the many things my brain will process and store into that Don't Know, Don't Care, Not Worth Giving A Shit About Right Now space. I honestly do not care. If Merry Wishes were given to me out of the kindness of someone's heart or, more likely the case, something the staffs of TESCO has to say as per the daily morning briefings leading up to the fucktarded mayhem that is Last Minute Christmas Shopping, I'll take it. Or, like for myself, for lack of a better thing to say out of awkwardness when leaving the the doctor's after my son getting his second lot of jabs on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, and have a good evening. Like I care, because it in no way affects me but I will just say it anyway so as not to come off as the social retard I actually am. No, really. Even if the person were to ramble about her husband's mid-life crisis after that I'd just sympathetically nod and worry about how on Earth are we going to survive until the next pay day when we have spunked hideous amounts of money on dinner for this one night and gifts for the children that they will be grateful for for the next ten to fifteen minutes upon opening them. The next day they are just going to open the kitchen cupboards and moan about there being fuck all for when The Munchies hit anyway.

What am I going to tell Kai about the meaning of Christmas? I don't know, mate, I don't do Christmas growing up. I just jumped on the bandwagon because presents and getting shit-faced on chocs and sweets appeals to me. There is no God but there is Santa, according to Daddy. Look, Santa ate the mince pies and left a fuckload of glitter all over the carpets. Guess we are all going to look strippers all the way to Easter then, my child.

I do get a kick out of  telling Jaz's other children that Christmas is not really Jesus' birthday anyway. His real birthday was on the 11th of March and the 25th of December is actually one of the many Pagan holidays the Christians took and made their own. Give the Pagans credit where it is due, I say!

Okay, it may or may not be the 11th of March but that is like saying the first sighting of Unicorns may or may not be during the Ice Age.

Fact is Pope Julius I declared Christmas on 25th December to convince the Roman Pagans to convert to Christianity because that the day Pagans celebrate Saturnalia to honour the God of Agriculture. An agricultural bloke is worth honouring, me thinks.

But who cares? I don't.

Just have a good holiday, rip open a lot of gifts, go mad with sugar rush, have a traditional family row, chuck roasting pans about in retaliation. It's just another day anyway. Do whatever you want with it. It is the end of the year and if you partake in Christmas you will definitely be skint as fuck, no matter what your household income is, so just enjoy the ride while you pork out on that obscenely massive dinner and harbour hate for your family members.

For me I am just glad that this year Jaz and I are no longer homeless. We have a home and if I want to kick shit up I am entitled to it. Men love when bitches go crazy during Festive seasons.

I should start blogging again.

Jaz said that I should probably start blogging again. I have a feeling he has never read any of my entries and he has no bloody idea what I've been going on about. My guess is he is probably, most definitely, sick of my running commentary on every single thing and clocked that my verbal diarrhoea re-surfaced each time I come away for too long.

Poor man. He has no idea that my desire to bludgeon people with blunt objects has got fuck all to do with my menstrual cycle. No idea at all. I just time my verbal assault to fit that time of the month so that I behave like a fully-functional woman, all stereotypically-pre-menstrual-y and stuff.

I came away to have a baby, just in case you're wondering, if you're not on my personal Faceshet account. He's three months old now. A slobbering little lunatic. He has yet to showcase the full extent of his lunacy but if Genetic Make-Up is a proven fact then I am sure some of mine and Jaz's would spill onto his person's personality. He is an amazing cuddler when he is not trying to force himself awake by spasming violently and planking. Amazing little human being with his own brand of Eau du Bebe Sick. Oh how I love him and his little sticky-outy ears and grabby Monkey Boy toes. Love. Every time I stare at him sleeping I get filled with love for the spit-encrusted baby. And then he will usually violently jerk himself awake, be extremely annoyed that he fell for that jiggy-bounce trick again and moan. Then, I will just look at him and think 'Oh, you silly little gibbon'. That was the toned-down version. Days on end of not enough sleep and what comes out of both my mouth and Jaz will make you question our characters.

So yeah... I will be back. But don't you worry. I won't be posting any of those Elf on the Shelf shite or Mummy and Baby Craft bollocks.

Until then, have a Happy Festivus, Restivus Pastafarians. Hope you attended Mass at the Church of The Flying Spaghetti Monster and properly aired your grievances at dinner.