we’ve all been there..


I thought I’d try my hand at blogging. I’ve tried many things, from selling a shit ton of kids clothes on eBay and finding ridiculous excuses to not post them when expected (mainly because one pyjama day has turned into three) to selling those mud masks everyone raved about at one point. As you can imagine, both were super successful.

For those who don’t know me, I’m Georgia, I’m 23 and have two (mostly feral) children. Before I go on, these kids have defined me, they’ve gave me purpose and they’ve made my life a lot more stable than it was before. But that doesn’t mean I don’t sit with my fellow mum army and moan until I’m blue in the face. I don’t moan because I have any regrets, far from it. I moan because it’s hard. So fucking hard. If you don’t agree you may as well stop reading now. There’s mums out there who paint the fairytale lifestyle, white living rooms, tidier than most show homes and absolutely bossing it as a mum. Then there’s me. I desperately want new fabric sofa’s, but continually tell myself brown leather is much easier to maintain. I want white, but Luna has the tendency to add her artwork to the walls. I want to be this earth mother, but in reality if Luna wants to eat yesterdays crisps off the side, I’m not gonna be the one to stand in her way. I want my house to be spotless, but I have a 3yr old and a 3month old, that is never gonna happen. Unless Zane caves in to my wish to have a cleaner. Zane. He’s the rock that’s stood beside me through it all. Unplanned pregnancy 5 months in to our relationship. Hangovers I was confident I’d never survive, ‘deployments’ which in all honesty always sounded like an extended holiday – especially that scubadiving one, and mood swings enough to make anyone bolt. He drives me absolutely insane, he’s like having another child. But I quite like him. He has this calming nature that I most definitely need in order to only lose my shit 4 times daily and not 72.

I’m not writing this to be the next blogger. They’re just my thoughts on paper. or a screen. whatever. It’s just life, and sometimes if you don’t laugh and talk about it, your head might actually explode (scientifically proven)

So here’s to the mums like me, who left all their weeks washing until Sunday, managed to bleach their sons navy sock to a beautiful shade of pink, and have had to tumble dry it all just to have clothes to wear tomorrow. To the mum’s already thinking ‘fuck it’s Monday tomorrow’ and realising you’ve gotta parent on your own for another 5 days. To the mums who keep saying ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’ with absolutely zero intention of doing it until at least Thursday.

You got this mama, tomorrow is a new day.


allergy life

I can’t be alone when I say a food shop without any children (including manchilds) is basically a mini holiday for us mums. We can browse the aisles without buying anything off the carefully planned shopping list you’ve written up, we can go back and forth to find the best bargains, we don’t have to pray we have a pound for the annoying 30second kids ride, and if we’re lucky enough to shop in a supermarket with a cafe we may even get to have a coffee. A hot coffee. A hot coffee you’ve not had to reheat in the microwave or down in one like a tequila shot on a night out. It really is as blissful as it sounds.

Food shops aren’t as easy as that for us anymore. For us, it means double & triple checking the ingredients. Yes we bought it last month, but this month they’ve added whey powder to our trusted gravy which makes it an absolute no go. It’s single-handedly the most frustrating part of my life. This isn’t down to lifestyle choices. It’s down to the allergies our youngest son has to live with. To name but a few, he has CMPA, which for those who don’t know means he can’t have anything at all containing dairy. No he’s not lactose intolerant, no he won’t be fine with lacto-free milk, and yes a little will massively hurt him. He also can’t tolerate eggs, soya milk, coconut, kiwi, mango, pineapple, strawberries, nuts, excessive wheat, latex, and life. There’s probably more but honestly, it’s exhausting to keep up with. Ultimately I had to give up breastfeeding him at 6 months as I just couldn’t keep up with reactions he was having through me. It was heartbreaking.

On top of this, there’s very minimal help to grasp it. We’ve been back and forth from Drs, Hospital appts & Health Visitors, and in all honesty, nobody has any idea what to tell you. You’re constantly being told conflicting advice, and some medical professionals are so poorly educated on it, you end up explaining it to them. There have been endless times I’ve sat and wanted to sob for my poor little boy who is just being failed time and time again. He’s constantly passed from pillar to post. The day of his first birthday, they removed his repeat prescription for the only formula milk there is out there that doesn’t cause him to borderline explode. It smelt like powdered death in a tin, but he drank it. Their reason for taking it off? It’s not a necessity for babies from one to have formula milk, especially not on prescription. Yes, they could order it in, but for a small 100g tin, it would be £32. Fantastic. Add that to my evergrowing pricetag on keeping my child healthy and alive. Seriously, what the fuck? There’s not a price for how much I’m willing to pay, but come on, his milk was his safety blanket. After endless reactions to unknown foods, a bottle would be his security. We knew it was the one thing he could safely have. I’d have paid a lot more than the £32 required, but unfortunately, 5 tins of that a week would have been my monthly wage. Who can justify that? There’s no financial or emotional support for this, you’re left to fend for yourself.

More recently we had another trip to the Drs for the little mites skin. It’s dreadful. It’s dry, it’s cracked, it’s sore. There’s one cream that seems to help (and trust me, you name it & we’ve tried it) & low and behold, the Nurse informs us it’s been taken off the list of medications they’re allowed to prescribe. Seriously!? She was lovely. She tried every possible avenue to have it prescribed, she called in Dr’s to try, she went the back route, but nothing. She advised I order it in bulk off Amazon, as I’d get a very small amount for the prescription price set. What infuriated me more, was after being told this we went to the chemist to pick up his steroids & in there were three of the most feral men you’ve ever seen. One by one going for their methadone. How much does that cost per person? How is it fair three men (and many many more) who chose their path get that for absolutely nothing, whilst my allergy ridden child is getting less and less for something he has no control over? Cutting the pharmaceutical debt by depriving children of basic necessities, and dishing out drug substitutes without batting an eyelid.

I could go on, I really could. But I’ll stop boring you. If anyone needs any help, needs to rant, wants advice please message me. It’s a confusing and isolating subject, but if I can help, I will.

back to work feels

Something a little unusual compared to my typical writing style. I recently joined a group of mums who wanted to help other mums feel better about their decisions regarding the dreaded subject of going back to work. It’s become a normal thing to ask new mums. You’ve barely been stitched back together & you’re being asked when you’re returning to work. I think sometimes people don’t understand the stress behind it all. When I was little, my sister and I spent a lot of our time being cared for by our grandparents, that was the norm, but these days grandparents are still working fulltime. Both sets of my children’s grandparents work fulltime, so we’re left with no other choice but to have to consider childcare & the costs, the work-life balance, what hours we want to do and what days. It’s hard. You spend less time cooing over your stale milk smelling baby & more time dreading the day you have to actually be a grown up and make a decision. To make things harder, I’m a Libra and we have a history of being extremely indecisive. Our aim was to answer the same questions but from different perspectives, in the hope at least one anxious mum could relate to it.

How soon after having your baby did you decide how you would continue after maternity leave?

Not long after Rex was born we priced up just how much we’d be paying for childcare fees for both children. Apparently, the going rate was more than our monthly mortgage repayment, so that became a big fat ‘no thank you’. I spent a lot of time anxiously wondering what to do for the best. There was absolutely no way we could justify spending all bar about £30 of my wages on childcare, what was the point? But on the flip side, we weren’t quite comfortable enough for me to totally give up work. Then TESCO came along. The job opportunity couldn’t be turned down. 16 hours a week, twilight shifts (7pm-12pm 3x a week) good pay, more holidays than you know what to do with… Surely there must be a catch? Nope. I’ve found my perfect working mum balance. I get to do every single school drop off and pick up, attend every school trip/assembly/sports day, whilst still caring for my littlest baby all day!.

Who else had influence over your decision?

It was solely down to me. Zane was of course ridiculously supportive and knowing I’d only be leaving the kids with him definitely put my mind at ease. But after having Rex my mental health was not its best. I was in a  hole and I needed to climb my way out. The thought of social interaction with people, meeting new people & having work friends absolutely terrified me at first – mainly because I don’t particularly like people, but within my first training week, I realised it was exactly what I needed!

To what extent did financial factors impact your decision?

Massively. Imagine working 30 hours a week, but between your youngest needing childcare every day & your eldest needing wraparound care, how much of your wages would you have left? After trying a million different scenarios, no matter how we went about it, childcare costs were a huge issue. We could afford it, but we’d be no better off. Was there any point? Taking this new job meant halving my hours, but the slight pay cut overrode the copious amounts we’d be paying out.

Did logistics/travel impact your decision?

Luckily for me, no. This job was closer to home than my previous job – walking distance in fact! The late finishes and relying on work friends to get home gave me the kick up the backside to do my driving and pass my test (go me!) and now, the travel is much easier. Even when Zanes running late home from work, knowing it takes me 3 minutes in the car to get there leaves me chilled..ish.

Logistically it was initially a nightmare. Zane was at his previous job in Birmingham & wouldn’t be getting home ’til 6.30, and I’d be leaving at 6.45. We were literally passing ships for the first few months, eating at different times, having to leave notes with information on, literally like a shift changeover! But now he gets home for 5.30, we actually have time to eat as a family (not as idyllic as I’m making it sound!) and a conversation before I get ready to go.

Did you receive any judgment based on your decision?

Thankfully no. I felt a great deal of loyalty to my previous work, I’d been there fresh out of college and had grown with them over the last 5 years, but in my heart, I knew I needed a change and I knew I needed to put my family first. My manager was amazing, she completely got it and couldn’t have been more supportive – something I know a lot of people wouldn’t be able to confidently say. I guess it made it easier I was on maternity so other than handing my uniform back in, I didn’t really have to face the reality of it all. Had that not have been the case, I’d have found it very difficult and probably spent my remaining days profusely apologising for leaving!

How has your sense of identity/independence/confidence been affected?

Quite simply, I’m me again. In my deepest depths of PND, I was a shell of my former self, but slowly but surely I’m evolving into a  better version of myself. Importantly I have work friends (they’re terrible influencers, especially where jager or any shots are involved) but we have a great team, and that’s been so important. I work in a store with at least 100 other staff, and I’m quite happy to socialise with anyone I’m on shift with. Mainly because I’ve spent the entire day watching Masha and the Bear or Shimmer & Shine and to be honest, I’m craving human interaction! I’ve got the great advantage of having a job I physically can’t bring work home from. My work stays at work and that means minimal stress when I leave. I know I’m done for another day. Taking this job was probably the best thing I could have done for my mental health.

Do you have any prior or current career goals?

Yes! I’d love to join the police one day, but not until both children are older and in school. Let’s face it, I’m only 24, I’ve got plenty of time to jump on the career wagon, right now I’m settled where I am, and who knows, I might even find progression avenues here to pursue instead! Disclaimer – If you’re my manager and reading this, your role is safe… for now 😉

Mum guilt

Oh the guilt. The questioning of yourself. The repeatedly asking everyone else if you’re doing the right thing. It never stops. When I first started I was still breastfeeding, and the paranoia of leaking through my work clothes drove me insane. The relief I’d get home & after pumping the shit out of the milkbags was incredible. Working evenings can be tiring, it’s hard to wind down when you’re done, and if the kids decide to do that delightful early wakeup call, your day can seem like its lasted about a year! But I seem to have settled into a bit of a routine, I know to keep myself busy, I’m just about on top of keeping the house presentable, and surprisingly we always have clean clothes to wear so I must be doing ok? It kills me I miss bedtime, but it’s not every night, and sometimes you have to sacrifice some things. Zane has the bedtime routine down to a T, to the point where when I’m home for it, they’re both nightmares for me! I have friends who work full time, part time, stay at home and every single one of them feels guilty. I think as mothers we’re naturally our toughest critic and nothing we do ever seems quite good enough. But nobodies the ‘perfect mum’, just the perfect mum to our babies.

Biggest doubt/insecurity over your decision.

Failing. Not being good enough. Nobody liking me. Not understanding the job. Finding the hours hard. The kids missing me. Zane missing me. Missing out. Need I go on? You’ll always find something that’ll try to hold you back. Don’t let it. Take the step out of your comfort zone and try. You’ll never know unless you do. You can only fail if you never tried in the first place. A massive worry was mine and Zane’s relationship. We’re pretty good at adapting. We’ve gone through deployments, & excessive working hours. But I worried what my hours would do to us? I hated (and still do) the thought of him going to bed without me – mainly now because he sleeps diagonally and gets hella mad when I move him when I get home. We make time for each other, we help each other out, and it’s taken 6 months but we’ve got ourselves into a little routine that works for us.


I am happy with my decision because I’m doing what’s best for my family, whilst still being able to afford Primark binges… I mean contribute financially. Same thing right?



What age is the right age to have a child? Or multiple children? How old do you have to look for it to become acceptable? How do you look like a Mum? I have so many questions but no answers.

I’ve been told endless times, mostly by people I barely know or don’t know at all, that I look ‘too young’ to have a child, then upon realising I have two, and my eldest is coming up to 4, its often met with a look of pure confusion, or my personal favourite, ‘Oh wow, you’ve been busy haven’t you’. Well when you don’t want to pay your TV licence, your limited to how you spend your evenings.. But what counts as too young? Since when has it been a bad thing to look young? People pay thousands to look youthful, yet team that with a child & you’re tarred with the ‘kids having kids’ brush. Like many of you, I’ve had the comments from snooty women, commenting on my parenting & forgetting what it’s like to have young Satans. One woman really boiled my blood, but then she mistook Luna for a boy so my focus was somewhat shifted. I mean, God forbid a child is bald til their 2nd birthday.

Seriously though, some people have absolutely no filter. Inappropriate comments & unnecessary judgements, by dare I say it, the older generation. It’s when your caught off guard & stood there as gobsmacked & horrified as when you find out who A is in PLL. I’ll set the scene; I’d literally just given birth, my hair hadn’t seen a hairbrush let alone shampoo in the last 5 days, my tits were like Katie Price’s & my nipples felt like they I’d rubbed sandpaper on them continuously for the last 72 hours. My hormones we’re incredibly scatty, & if I didn’t want to strangle you for being able to sleep, I definitely wanted to smell you to remember what it was like to not smell of baby vomit or tittymilk. Then this statement was made. “Well Georgia, you’re the last person I expected to settle down, two kids!? There’s not much that surprises me anymore, so well done” WELL DONE!? Jesus christ I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What happened to “Congratulations”!? Surprisingly I don’t plan out my life to meet other peoples expectations. So now before making any life choices, I consult said person, just to see if this is acceptable to them.

More importantly do I look 24 with two feral children, a mortgage, work evening shifts and juggle housework with school runs & failed catchups with friends? ‘Cos I think its very important that’s the image I portray.

boyfriends aka the extra child you never asked for..

I’m semi lucky in the sense that Zane is pretty easy on the eye and 72% of the time pretty manageable to live with. saying that there are days I want to suffocate him in his sleep just to alleviate the persistent snoring, fidgeting & sleep talking.

he’s been good to us & I know that, I just obviously can’t tell him. but theres an understanding with us. we know what presses each others buttons (so typically push them all the more) and we know every so often we’re gonna blow up, fight over who’ll get stuck with the kids – if I’m going for an easier life it’s only fair he takes them pair too. he spends half is time half heartedly doing a job, only to get distracted half way through & then assure me he hasn’t forgotten. during this time he’s usually interfering with what I’m doing, getting in my way, hopelessly thinking he’s being helpful when in reality he’s doing my bloody head in. I mean we have a dishwasher, but he continues to terribly wash the pots. I follow a pretty simple wash routine of DARKS|WHITES|COLOURS, yet here we are with another grey tinged tshirt that’s ‘slipped in’ with the darks. excuse me while I trip over his sliders at the back door that he insists on keeping there, but god forbid any of my shoes are left out. what I’m trying to say is, I’m starting to be more and more convinced they do annoying shit & do stuff wrong on purpose. there I said it. they purposely sabotage all chances of correctly doing something in the hope they won’t get asked again (sidenote – no matter how many times we have to play bin jenga, it will ALWAYS be your job to empty the bin) I’ve started to ENJOY hoovering up trimmed beard hairs, I hope that’s what they are anyway.. I LOVE to clean your horrible pissy stains on the toilet, although you’d think after 26 years his aim would be slightly better, and I absolute ADORE rewashing the pots everyday. and my absolute favourite? watching stupid NFL related programmes or some other terrible viewing while you fall asleep so peacefully and I fight to free myself from your death grip to get the remote.

you drive me absolutely insane, no I don’t want to marry you and yes I will continue to be your live-in maid until we can afford a proper one.

a mothers expectation

Why when you’ve had a baby is there so much pressure to spring back into your pre-pregnancy jeans? Some people are blessed to instantly lose any ounce of baby weight they’ve accumulated over the 9 months, while others battle to try and recapture their pre baby figure. I’m somewhere in between. After having Luna I was one of the lucky ones who was back in their size 8’s after 3 weeks. A body riddled in stretch marks from harbouring a baby in my previously food deprived, drink induced frame, but nobody saw them. I did. Every single day. I couldn’t cope with the hideous angry red lines all across my sides, inside my thighs & running up and down my calves. I can remember being at work and one of the women being truly concerned about the ‘gauging’ marks on my hips & asking if everything was ok. She was mortified when discovering the truth, which led to another woman smugly stating “I’ve had four children and not one stretch-mark”. Well isn’t that fantastic, lets compare our stretch-marks& how our bodies adapt to pregnancy, like it’s not already a competitive subject.  11 months in I’d spent months anxiously trying everything to hide them, layers and layers of fake tan, expensive oils which of course did nothing except skint me. Then I had no choice but to face up to the fact we were going on holiday and sunbathing in a burkha was not an option for me. Turns out that was the most liberating week of my life. The sun massively reduced the redness, and changed them to little silvery lines that now, you can barely see.

I cannot stand the ‘you earnt your stripes, learn to love them’ quote. That’s unfair to the mums who are lucky enough to escape pregnancy without their bodies changing – other than the ever growing beachball on their body. Nobody ‘earns’ stretch marks, you go to bed one night glowing in all your pregnancy glory, and wake up looking like you’ve been mauled by a tiger. Somebody telling you to love what you hate isn’t gonna suddenly make you think ‘wow now you’ve said that i’m instantly going to change the way I feel about my body and love the parts of my body that I some days can’t bare to look at in the mirror’

I have a mum tum. It’s well hidden with high waisted jeans (9 times out of ten are fastened up by lying down on the bed and making several prayers to the lord) & ill fitting tops, but it’s there. Hats off to the mums who can resist the half sucked quavers, and can restrain themselves from eating the left over fish fingers and chips. I cannot. I’m so obsessed with my weight, I currently weigh nearly 2 stone more than before I had Luna, and nearly 3 stone heavier than when I was carrying Rex. (Hyperemesis is the best type of weight loss, its not at all mentally or physically draining & definitely doesn’t make you look like you’ve been dug up every morning… said no HG sufferer ever) But I have no desire to starve myself to fit back in my Magaluf 2013 short shorts, however if someone could chaperone me in supermarkets to ensure I don’t buy absolute shite I convince myself is for the kids or Zane, then proceed to eat at 9pm on a Friday evening after eating well all week that would be fantastic. Waffling aside, i’m not unhappy with my weight and/or figure because of how its changed through pregnancy and motherhood, I’ve carried two babies within my body, and of course it’s not gonna look the same as when I was 19 before this journey into motherhood began. There’s no point in beating yourself up over pictures you can’t go back to. By that I mean your hips won’t shrink, if you’ve breastfed, your titties aint ever gonna be as perky as they through pregnancy & feeding, your hairs gonna spend months attempting to grow back, only to be ripped out again by your baby who finds it hilarious to cause as much pain as possible, and most importantly your clothes will never be that clean. or new.

Bodies change, people change. Change yourself because you want to, not because of everyones expectations. It’s not easy but neither is childbirth or living with the father of your children who is in turn like an additional child you didn’t sign up for, and we manage that just fine.



lets talk PND because nobody really wants to. I’m not gonna sugar coat it, I’m not gonna turn it into a joke because it’s not. When I had Luna I was in this perfect little baby bubble and absolutely nothing could burst it. She was the perfect textbook baby; sleeping through by 5 weeks, she was so content and was honestly a dream. Fast forward 3 years and along came Rex. Now I definitely don’t feel any different about him, the baby blues hit me harder, but the early days of breastfeeding and an extremely uncomfortable nunny was enough to make anyone wince all day. He screamed from morning until night, and then through the night. 6 weeks later he was diagnosed with CMPA. That kickstarted our journey to be dairy free. I’ve never craved chocolate and cheese as much as when I was told I couldn’t have it anymore. Within two weeks he was honestly a different baby, if you’d of told me someone had switched him while I was having my 2hours (generous over exaggeration there) sleep a day I’d of definitely believed you. But that didn’t make me feel any better. To be frank I felt numb. I love the bones of my children, but nothing I did seemed good enough, like I couldn’t be the mum I’d once been. I was irritable – no sleep can do that to you – I wanted to rip Zane’s head off mainly for breathing and ridiculously jealous of everyone having the perfect life, whilst I felt like mine was spiralling out of control. You know that hungover state where you’re there, but everything’s hazy, you’re watching everything happen but not taking it in? Try that for 4 months and it starts to get frustrating. Pyjama days became more frequent & I was beginning to run out of excuses to not do anything. I felt ashamed and embarrassed of how I was feeling. I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t cope, I didn’t love my children & I couldn’t bare the thought of people pitying me. I psyched myself up to tell the HV, only to be told it was ‘normal’ and I couldn’t possibly have PND because I’m breastfeeding. I’m sorry but if this is normal I want out. The Dr however was much more helpful and steered me on the right track. I was suddenly ready to tackle this head on & get back in control.

Fast forward 6 months and out of nowhere little thoughts creep into my mind. Zane’s late home, he must have been in an accident. School are ringing me, Luna must need to go to hospital. On the rare occasion I’d let anyone have the kids I’d be constantly fretting something had happened to them. God forbid someone took longer than 37 seconds to reply to a text. I couldn’t help myself, no amount of reassurance was enough for me unless they were sitting right next to me, breathing in air from the same room I was sat in. On the outside I was fine, inside I was a paranoid wreck. I spent my days absolutely exhausted, but my nights tossing and turning desperate to sleep. how could I feel like this when everything I had ever wanted was around me? I couldn’t accept I needed help again, I couldn’t be that burden again, but I knew I needed it. Zane has been my rock throughout this all, supporting me, listening to my absurd theories, calming me down & convincing me to leave the house to socialise. Just like before I’m now back on track & starting to push through the haze.

But it’s ok not to be ok. It’s ok to ask for help. It’s so important to ask for help. Being a mum is hard, but don’t be hard on yourself. I love my babies and nothing will ever change that. They are my absolute world and I’d walk to the ends of the earth for them. I just want to be the mum they want to do the same for.


Gone are the days of packing an array of crop tops, short shorts and bikini’s that leave as little tan lines as possible. Now its packing up everything you own for a 10 day trip away. Let’s face it, it’s not a holiday anymore. Holidays are sipping cocktails & downing shots with the girls, dying around the pool and applying the lowest factor oil so you come home a bronzed goddess. Tomorrow marks Rex’s first time to Nanny and Grandads house in France, and Luna gets reunited with all her favourite blue tractors. I’ve bought bikini’s that will hold my whammers firmly in place, shorts that hide the cellulite and ‘slimming’ vest tops. We can’t guarantee nice weather (no matter how many times I check the forecast) but as it stands, it’s looking like we might be lucky. Usually the night before your holiday you get the butterflies of excitement, not being able to sleep like a kid at Christmas, instead I’m anxious. Anxious about everything. Will Luna make it to the other side without me gagging her? How many threats will I have to issue? Have I packed enough? Is this too much to go in the car? But honestly, I’m looking forward to getting away. Kind of. A little.

We packed last night (better late than never) and honestly, for a guy who spent 6 years packing to go on deployments and exercise, you’d think Zane had never packed a bag before. How he’s made it this far in life without me baffles me. Apparently my judgy looks and nagging put him off, but he managed to pack about 4 things before running out of room, didn’t want to stuff his socks in his shoes so he didn’t ‘stretch’ them and left his swimming shorts on the living room floor – not so naggy when I pointed this out surprisingly. I know for a fact once we get there I’ll have forgotten at least 4 things. Probably my sanity and patience amongst other things.

I’ve packed enough breast pads to soak up a small swimming pool, Luna’s entire legging and pants collection (just incase she turns all pissy pants on us) and 3 tops I’ve not tried on yet, so probably will make me look like a sack of shit once I’m wearing them. Most importantly, Luna’s bag of barbies. God forbid we forget them. This is a plus to driving over I guess, condensing my house into small suitcases just wouldn’t be possible if we were flying. But if we flew we’d be there in 1/4 of the time. Swings and roundabouts I guess. The back of the spaceship (honestly it is the biggest car I’ve ever seen) resembles Tetris and nothing can be touched until we get there. Hopefully we’ll leave the kids somewhere in France before we come back so at least thats more room in the car to bring back baguettes and stuff.

It’s now 10.30 and I have to be up in 4 hours and as everyone else sleeping soundly, insomnia has kicked in. So lucky you Zane, you’ll get the wrath of grumpy, tired and probably hangry Georgia.

Au Revior


We’re at that really fun age. Well that’s what a lot of people refer to it as but I’m yet to find anything ‘fun’ about it. Maybe my humours a little off, but slamming doors, rolling eyes & repeating her favourite word ‘no’ isn’t my idea of a barrel of laughs. To the outside world she comes across like butter wouldn’t melt, in reality, it’s melted and isn’t too far off boiling actually. I spend my days making empty threats, counting to 3, giving her the look (that’s taken some perfecting) and marching her to her room. One of these days I’m going to have to follow through with these threats, I might actually throw all her toys in the bin, I might put her on eBay, but I will not stop the sleepover at Grandparents. That would be stupid, more like a punishment to myself. “Oh Luna you’ve been horrendous all day, instead of sending you to Nannie and Gangys I’m going to keep you here so you can stress me out even more if that’s ok?” Nope. Not gonna happen.

Last week I promised Luna if she was good while we were out, we’d go to the sweet shop as a treat. With only a minor hiccup – her taking an Umbrella off a stand and the whole thing collapsing on her obviously couldn’t be avoided – off we went to the sweet shop. Luna doesn’t choose sweets based on what looks nice, it’s based on whatever is pink. She knows full well half the sweets she’s chosen she’s never tried before, but if they’re pink we’re giving it a go. Sweets paid for we left to get Zane a bowtie. Thats when everything went horrifically wrong. Waiting in the shop for what seemed like the next 4 years of my life, desperately begging Luna to stop touching everything, trying to soothe Rex who was ready for his next fix of the tit & all the while thinking ‘I wish I was a Dad’. Luna continued to parade around, pretending she was some expert ballerina, checking herself out in every mirror possible & jumping around as if she viewed the store as a giant trampoline. I continued to politely smile at the other customers, grabbed Luna’s hand and gave her the ‘YOU WAIT TIL WE GET HOME’ look. A swift march home where she repeatedly reminded me how funny she was, and laughing at me every time I said ‘Carry on & I’ll eat your sweets’.

Little did I know, today was going to be the day I followed through with my threats, the day I reminded her who’s boss & the day I had a minor parenting win. I sat infront of her, eating her sweets, dramatically describing how delicious each and every one was. She sat stunned. Unable to even speak to stop me. I’ve waited 3 long years, but I had finally silenced her.

‘just in case’

Surely I can’t be the only person who packs things ‘just in case’?

Packing for one night away turns into boxing the house up looking like we’re ready to move. Whilst leaving one of the most important – and actually needed – items on the side. As it turns out, I panic pack. I leave everything until the last minute and throw everything in. Lilo? Well we’re not going to the beach but could come in handy. 12 lipsticks? Pretty sure I only had one pair of lips last time I checked but I could be wrong. Lightbulb? Never know if your light busts in the hotel and the hotel have just ran out of lightbulbs. All this thrown into an Ikea bag – classy as always – whilst lying in bed, trying to feed Rex without turning his face a shade of Orange from my tan and listing off another 20 items I should take ‘just incase’, this time it includes an extra pair of pjs, 3 more pairs of pants (I’ve been toilet trained for quite some years now so why I insist on packing 12 pairs of pants for a night away still confuses me) and maybe my dressing gown. Is that acceptable? I mean what if I get cold? Or someone steals all my pjs and just leaves my dressing gown? Ok, I’m convinced, dressing gown in. When you arrive you look at all the shit you’ve packed & think ‘Ok so maybe this is a little excessive’ & start to dread going home. Not because of the long journey or the hangover you know you’ll be enduring. But having to unpack. All that rammel you’ve deemed necessary to take, will then need returning to the 243 different places around the house you grabbed them from. That on top of hearing your mum didn’t realise you’d already packed clothes for the kids, so proceeds to transport their entire wardrobes (excluding the wardrobe) to her house, just pops the cherry on top.

I hate unpacking. If it was left to me, we’d still probably be living out of boxes from when we moved in.. 2 years ago. If it doesn’t need washing, you can bet I’ll put it in the wash bin anyway if it means I don’t have to put it away. No matter how many times I convince myself it’ll be easier to do tomorrow, it never is. Tomorrow means a 3yr old hanging off my leg & a 3 month old who is at his unhappiest left in his bouncer when he knows you’ve got shit to do.

Moral of the story, let your fella pack. Then you can take the bare minimum and moan about the other 143 things they forgot to pack so you have to spend a fortune in Tesco replacing it all


friendships do not always go hand in hand with motherhood. Unless you have your army of fellow mum moaners who completely get why its taken you 3 years to reply to a text asking you for a catch up, why you’re running 2 hours late for various reasons – including impromptu poo’s, naps, the battle to wear anything other than pjs – or cancelling because to put it politely, you just can’t face leaving the house because the devil has possessed your child. I’m lucky to have friends who totally get this. I literally couldn’t get through a day without my ‘mum army’. We have group messages sharing our days misfortunes, full of reassuring each other we’re not terrible people and absolutely no judging. Well a little bit of judging but we just don’t say it out loud. Luckily 80% of the time our kids also get on, that’s when they’re not falling out about wanting to play with the same toy neither of them were bothered about 30 seconds previously. They help contribute to a ginormous mess in various houses you feel obliged to try and tidy up every so often, whilst attempting to drink a warm drink and tell the gossip filled story you’ve tried to tell 7 times now, every time being interrupted by toilet breaks, world war 3 and sometimes even having to parent. 9 times out of 10 you never actually hear the end of the story so frantically text them the cliffhanger they’re dying to hear once you’ve left. They’re the friends I want and need to keep. Not only to maintain my sanity, but they’d have some serious dirt to dish on me if we ever fell out.. Sian & Charlotte, even when our kids are plotting against us, and doing everything possible to question our choices to parent, when we need to moan about the men in our lives, your both the people I want to contact first. After I’ve bollocked Zane and threatened for the millionth time to put Luna on eBay of course. Oh and if I don’t become a professional wedding planner after talking in depth about weddings with you both then I’m all out of ideas.

FYI having kids hasn’t made me boring, I’ve always been boring. Maybe the problem doesn’t lie with me, maybe you just don’t get it. Try one day of parenting a mini me (with a temper and sass I have no idea who from) , and having a baby literally suck the life out of one feed at a time, then convince someone they’re well behaved enough to be babysat whilst trying to find a pair of jeans that aren’t decorated with baby sick, yoghurt and sometimes a suspicious looking brown mark you don’t have the heart to investigate and a ‘nice top’. We all have a ‘nice top’ hanging in the wardrobe for special occasions. Zane tried his hand at lone parenting last night. It resulted in him trying to tell me it wasn’t hard after coming home to a broken toilet brush holder, him on his 5th glass of wine and relaying how ‘fun’ it was to bath them both at the same time.

We spent the best weekend up in Yorkshire a few weekends ago at one of my oldest friends wedding. An hour added on to our journey ‘cos we didn’t anticipate the York Races traffic and frantically putting up our 4.2 second pop up tent only to realise we had no tent pegs. A few beers later & texting Sian (still blame you) I somehow managed to drop my phone down the port-a-loo. But thats a story for another day. But despite all this nothing could take away from sharing the day with some great people – not even boffing up right outside the tent at the end of the night. She’s the best kind of friend. One I don’t have to frequently check in with, one I can go extended amounts of time without speaking to yet we pick up exactly where we left off, and one when I need the blunt truth, is there to give it me. P.s congrats again Mrs.Haywood!

So here’s a tip. Know your friends. Weigh up which ones which ones keep you sane and the ones that drive you insane. Politely reply to the fair weather friends with “Hi, new chapter in my life, nice to see you’ve come aboard, who dis?” and reply to your actual friends with “HAHAHA *insert child’s name* has just done something else soul destroying and it’s only 9am, how’s your day going?”.

Note – shoutout to all the people in our dysfunctional life.