Tag: humour

  • Parenting fails, slugs and snails

    Parenting fails, slugs and snails

    We all have those “what the actual fuck” moments — you know, when you’re sitting there minding your own business, sipping on what’s now lukewarm coffee, and your child strolls in with pockets full of snails and a slug clutched in their tiny hand.
    They proudly announce, “These are my new pets,” and apparently, there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

    No? Just me then?

    Parenting doesn’t come with a handbook — not even a “How to Make Your Child Eat Vegetables and Sleep for Twelve Hours Straight” edition. Nope. It’s our own journey, our own collection of fails, our own story to write.

    Sure, we can seek advice, read all the parenting books, listen to our elders, or even turn to Super Nanny 🤣 — but let’s be real, we’re all just winging it, one day at a time.

    Keeping our children safe, clothed, and (mostly) fed — on their terms, not ours — that’s the foundation. Everything else falls into place. Watching them explore the world, absorb its wonders, and seeing their little minds tick over as they do… it’s magical, unfiltered, and raw.

    As parents, we often forget to pause and take it all in. They’re literally growing right in front of our eyes — too fast.

    So, the next time you find yourself the proud co-owner of a pet slug, remember: that slimy little creature is their world, and you’re part of it.
    Name the slug. Feed the slug. And for the love of all things holy, keep it away from the salt. 🐌

  • The In-Between Mum

    The In-Between Mum

    She’s not the mum baking organic raw cacao brownies or proving sourdough on the kitchen side. But she’s also not serving turkey dinosaurs and Haribo for dinner every night. She loves a wholesome home-cooked meal (spag bol and beef stew are a win in our house), yet she’s also the first to order pizza on a Friday because—well—life.

    She’s the mum in gym leggings on the school run. Not because she’s an influencer or about to smash a HIIT session, but because they’re comfortable for the 127 errands that need doing. Pushing the buggy on a long walk counts as her cardio. Not a fitness fanatic, not a couch potato—just somewhere in between.

    She’s the mum without a “perfect routine.” The one who doesn’t run on a strict schedule, but whose kids are always bathed, fed, and clothed. She might not time meals to the minute, but she never misses a drop-off, a pick-up, or the endless after-school clubs her kids enjoy but still love to moan about.

    She’s the mum who finds peace in nature, yoga, and spirituality, but also can’t function without coffee and has an unhealthy relationship with Amazon Prime deliveries. She takes mindful walks to clear her head, but is equally capable of a late-night Netflix binge that leaves her eyes stinging. Balance in its truest form.

    She’s the mum who lets her kids climb too high, scrape their knees, and race ahead on bikes—because that’s how they learn. But she’s always there when they tumble, arms open, steady and safe. She gives them freedom without recklessness, boundaries without smothering.

    She’s the mum that likes to share a bottle of wine (or two) with friends and loves dancefloor moment when the mood is right. But she also knows her limits—because after 1am, she’s more likely to be asleep in the corner than queuing for kebabs.

    We live in a world that craves labels: the “fit” mum, the “natural” mum, the “strict” mum, the “party” mum, the “bad” mum. But what about the in-between mum? The one who is a little bit of all of them, and a lot of neither. The one muddling through, doing her best—like most of us.

    Because here’s the truth: nobody is perfect. Nobody is nailing it all. And nobody is failing as much as they fear. We’re all just navigating the same storm, raising kids in a world that often feels upside down.

    So here’s to the in-between mums. The real ones. The ones holding it all together—quietly, imperfectly, every single day.

    Cheers!

    Disclaimer: As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. This means that if you click on a link to a product and make a purchase, I may receive a small commission at no extra cost to you. This helps support my blog and allows me to continue sharing honest reviews and recommendations. Thank you for your support!

  • Parenting, Profanity, and the F-Bomb Dilemma

    Parenting, Profanity, and the F-Bomb Dilemma

    One of the small but mighty perks of adulthood is the ability to swear whenever you damn well please. Stubbed your toe? Let a few colourful syllables fly. Missed your train? Drop a spicy four-letter haiku into the air. Accidentally cut your finger while chopping onions? That “Fuuuuu—” is practically medicinal. Nobody’s going to send you to the headteacher’s office anymore. Freedom!

    But then… we become parents.

    Suddenly we find ourselves living with tiny parrots, the kind that not only repeat everything we say but also have a knack for deploying it at the absolute worst possible moment. You haven’t known true horror until your three-year-old shouts “FOR F***’S SAKE” while trying to fit a triangle block into the square hole—loudly, in public, at a playgroup led by a woman named Mildred who has never said anything stronger than “bother.”

    So begins the delicate dance: how do you, a full-grown human who knows the exquisite relief of a well-placed swear word, suddenly filter yourself in your own home?

    The Sweary Parent Paradox

    Here’s the thing: I don’t actually think swearing is inherently evil. Language is about context, tone, and audience. There’s a world of difference between:

    “This lasagne is fucking incredible, Mum” (compliment, take the win).

    Versus: “You’re a fucking idiot, Mum” (therapy fund just doubled).

    But children are not natural connoisseurs of nuance. They are blunt-force creatures who will shout “bollocks!” in Tesco because you once said it while looking for your car keys.

    Swearing as a Life Skill

    What I’d like to teach my children is that swearing is like wine, power tools, or TikTok: it’s not inherently bad, but you have to be old enough and responsible enough to use it without accidentally hurting yourself or others. A well-deployed “bloody hell” can be cathartic. A casual “shit” when you drop something on your toe? Fine. But bellowing “motherf***er” during the school nativity play? Less fine.

    So maybe the key is this: not banning swearing entirely, but teaching our kids that words have power. That sometimes restraint is powerful. And sometimes, when you’ve just reversed into a bollard in the Sainsbury’s car park, restraint is not the vibe.

    The Dream

    One day, perhaps, I’ll make a lasagne so magnificent that one of my offspring will pause, fork midair, and exclaim with reverence:
    “Mum… this is fucking amazing.”

    And on that day, I will not correct them. I will raise my glass, toast their impeccable use of context, and whisper, “Language, darling. But yes. You’re right.”