My Village

The number one thing that people say to me when they find out I’m a lone wolf mama to twins is “Oh my goodness! I don’t know how you do it!” It’s always people with kids who say it – those who know how hard it is, even with a partner around. Whenever they say it, I make some crap joke about “Oh I drink a lot!” (and then worry that they think I’m an alcoholic) or “Oh I cry a lot!” (and then worry that they think I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown). So here’s what I really want to say when people say to me “I don’t know how you do it!”

I do it because I chose to. I knew I was preggers with twins and I knew their dad wanted to do his own thing and I knew I’d be raising twins by myself.  My cousin and sister had twins, so as much as you can, I went into this eyes wide open.  Admittedly they’ve been opened a touch more since having the little gems*, but I had a pretty good idea of what I was letting myself in for…

So what was I letting myself in for? Endless exhaustion, bleeding money every step I take and – recently - developing negotiation skills that should see me in the diplomatic corps.  But also (and most importantly) a whole lot of fun.  Kids are fun.  They’re shitting annoying a lot of the time (when they insist they’re wearing their Batman pyjamas to the childminder’s and you only have 5 minutes in which to convince them otherwise, when they fight over everything even though there is two of everything and when they insist on BELLOWING EVERY SINGLE WORD AT YOU, EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE SAT RIGHT NEXT TO YOU!) but they’re also fun.  On the drive home from the childminder’s today I had the windows wide open.  As we drove along the river front, the wind whipped through the car and every time a strong gust blew through, I whooped, then they whooped, then we all pissed ourselves laughing.  They’re good for the soul and while they may be annoying at times (so many times), they also make me laugh, they make me do silly things and they make me happy.  So part of how I do it is them.  They’re awesome.

There’s a whole host of other people though, who are also awesome, who are also how I do it.  So, so many people.  My mum, who looks after them one day a week – anyone who can spend a day with my delinquent duo and stay sane deserves a medal.  Not a metaphorical one, an actual one. I’m expecting to see Mum on the Queen’s Honours List any day now.  My brother and my sister are always there if I need them.  Always.  They are a most magnificent back up team and I couldn’t be without them.  Their partners too, are part of the back up team and are so kind to me and my kids.  Their kids - my brilliant nieces and nephew – help as well, not least because they are being primed to babysit in a few years.  My friends who hang out with us – at the park, at each other’s houses, with coffee, with wine, with kindness, with love, with support – are another integral part of the team. The ones I see lots and the ones I only see a couple of times a year. The ones I’ve only just met and the ones I’ve known forever.  We - me and Daisy and Zachary - are so lucky.  We have a whole pack of people who have made this journey a whole lot easier than I thought it would be.  I might be a lone wolf, but I am never lonely.

I do it too because I’m really lucky with my job.  They let me work part time AND flexible hours (for a teacher, that is almost unheard of.  Two days a week I start a whole hour later than school actually starts, and finish a whole hour earlier than school finishes).  I’ve worked under three Heads of Department since having the twins, and every one of them has been kind, helpful and supportive.  My school as an employer has been great too – every year I’ve gone waaaaay over my allowed dependency (obvs – I’m allowed 3 days a year!! Lone Wolf mama + prem twins = a whole load of dependency).  I have never once been docked any wages, or made to feel bad, or that my job is at risk if I have to have another day off to take them to the doctors.   I am aware that this should be the norm and, probably, I shouldn’t feel grateful for being allowed to balance working and making sure my kids are healthy, but grateful I am.  I know many parents who do not have the same treatment that I have had.  While we’re on the subject of work, I can also do it because, when I’m at work, my colleagues are so kind to me.  I work in the loveliest department where everyone is funny, kind and generous.  They really are the dream team.  These things make a big difference.

So, in answer to “I don’t know how you do it!”, the one big thing that underpins me being able to do it, me being able to manage two children all by myself is, actually, that I’m not by myself.  I don’t have a partner and they don’t have a dad, but we have bucketfuls of love – more love than I ever knew was possible, from more people than I ever expected.  There’s a well-worn saying that goes ‘It takes a village to raise a child.’ I do it because I have a village. I do it because I have my village and man, it’s an awesome village.  Thank you, my fellow villagers, I – we - couldn’t do it without you.

*/fuckers.  Delete as appropriate

Bit By Bit: A Belated Mother’s Day Post

Mother’s Day really isn’t a big thing for me.  Don’t get me wrong, I like it because I get to see my family, and that’s always lovely, but I really don’t give two hoots about my children who have only just learnt to talk/sit up at a table (occasionally)/put their pants on (Zach: so proud), demonstrating their adoration and love for me because the world tells them to. They do that all day long, every single day (when they shit on my carpet, when they smack me in the face and tell me I’m boring, and when they refuse to do anything I ask them to).  That’s love, right there.

What Mother’s Day does for me, as I read all the mum blogs fired out and watch my nearest and dearest being mums, is make me think about where we’ve been and where we’re going.  And that has made me realise that, bit by bit, it’s getting easier.  I mean, it’s still fucking awful a lot of the time, but it’s less fucking awful, more of the time.  I am winning.

It’s less awful because they can walk places.  It takes quite a long time, and we have to stop to examine every single leaf/twig/stone/snail (“UGH, I HATE SNAILS! NO, I LOVE SNAILS! I WANT THE SNAIL MUMMY! WHY CAN’T I HAVE THE SNAIL?”), but it’s better than the shitting, unwieldy, anger-inducing, pain-inflicting double buggy. I am on lots of social media groups for twins and one of the main questions I see asked is “What’s the best double buggy to buy? We want something lightweight, easy to push and folds down small.” Hahahahhahahahhahahhahaaaaaaaaaaa! Nope.  Never going to happen.  That just doesn’t exist. Double buggies are heavy, and hard to push (because there’s two bloody children in them), and they don’t fold down small (because twins). If you’re expecting twins and looking for a double buggy, this is my advice:  don’t spend lots of money, accept that it’s going to be shit whatever you buy and know that this too shall pass.  Lastly, if anyone is ever mean to you about the double buggy (and they likely will be) tell them to fuck off. No decent human being is ever mean to a person who is trying to transport two babies at once.  They are, in all probability, a total tool and deserve being told to fuck off. 

It’s less awful because they do sleep a bit more.  Whenever I feel totally desperate – buttock clenching, teeth grinding, I-cannot-cope-with-this desperate – I remind myself that this time last year, they regularly got up at 4.30.  They get up at 5.30/6 now.  It’s not great (it’s awful, so bloody awful), but it is better than 4.30.  And they sleep through more than they used to.  Again, not every night and not even the majority of the time.  However, there was a point where they were up all night.  All the night, every night.  At least we are not still there (if we were, I absolutely would have given one of them away by now. Seriously.)

It’s less awful because I can get them to do stuff for me.  Yesterday, at my brother’s house, Zach asked for some squash.  I’d got up 47 thousand times already, and I just wanted to sit down for five fucking minutes.  I told him to get the beaker, then I’d get the squash (yes, yes I know you’re not supposed to give them squash in a beaker but a) I’m exhausted and b) they only have squash when we’re not at home and sometimes, you just have to let it go, if you’re going to come out the other side in one piece). He got the beaker, I got the squash and it was slightly less awful than having to do the whole job by myself.  Small wins people, small wins.  Plus, I’m setting him (& Dais) up for when they’re older, when they will erase the sleep debt by waiting on me, hand and foot!

These are small things.  But they are things, and they are better.  Parenthood, motherhood, single motherhood, single motherhood to twins, is a long game.  You have to keep your eyes on the prize (the love, the unparalleled, unconditional, unequivocal love that they offer you, even when you are being the grumpiest, shoutiest, worst parent in the world) and in the meantime, be kind to yourself.  Lower your expectations – of them, of you , of the rest of the world.  And if ever you find yourself feeling bottom-of-the-pit-can’t-do-this, remember that sleep deprivation is a weapon of torture.  It’s something that military powers use to get the enemy to break.  And you, despite weeks/months/years of sleep deprivation, are still standing.  You are a soldier on the front line of parenting and you have got this.  Not all at once, but bit by bit, you’ve got this. 

A Day Out At The Docks

I’m lucky enough to work just four days a week, and Monday is my day off with the twins.  We’re always much more adventurous on a Monday than we are at the weekend, for the simple fact that it’s quieter, and managing two lunatic two year olds - who only do about 10% of what they’re asked to do - is significantly easier with fewer people around.  Plus, my mum is here on a Monday, so I have another body to help me corral them. So today, after months of saying “Oooh, we must go there,” we took them to the Historic Dockyard Chatham.  I’m not writing a normal review (it was ace though – absolutely go if you’re in the area) instead I’ll give you the six most typical moments of the day.

1. We Set Off An Alarm.  We buy our tickets then head to have lunch in The Mess Deck, which passes without incident (obviously there are 47 toilet trips but that’s par for the course).  Once we’re finished, we approach the electronic gates, tickets in hand.  I foolishly beep D&Z’s tickets first.  They run through and disappear down the slope, ignoring me bellowing “WAIT FOR MUMMY!”  I manage to get through the gate and chase after them.  I see that mum is struggling to get her ticket to work, so I firmly instruct my children to stay where they are (they ignore me) and go back to help mum.  Me approaching the gate makes it open.  Mum thinks it’s her ticket that’s made it open, so walks through.  “BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!” Mum stops and looks horrified and scurries back.  I’m bellowing at the children to stay where I can see them, whilst also snorting with laughter.  The nice lady who sold us our tickets arrives and helps mum through the gate.  We’re in.

2.  Mum Gets Confused.  After a brief chat with a Very Nice Lady about what there is to see (bonus points here to the other Very Nice Lady who talks to the twins while Very Nice Lady Number 1 is talking to me and Mum, and manages to keep them still and inoffensive for a good two minutes. Impressive, Lady, impressive).  We walk into the first room and there’s this boat:

The World's Tiniest Ship

I can’t tell you much about it, because having two year old twins means you don’t get to read much (and I’m on high alert, should Zachary attempt to climb on it) but I manage to glance at a sign that tells me it’s a model of The Victory.  Mum turns to me in absolute wonder and says “Blimey! I can’t believe how small it is!” I’m a bit confused – as models of ships go, it’s pretty huge.  I soon realise Mum thinks it’s an actual ship and I’m snorting again (I’m still a bit hysterical from the gate alarm).  I tell her it’s not a real ship and soon she’s snorting too.  The twins join in and we have a really lovely, giggly couple of minutes, where one of us keeps setting the other one off. 

3.  Zachary Wets Himself.  My son has peed all over England, so this really is inevitable. Technically, he’s potty trained.  Really, he just doesn’t wear nappies anymore and sometimes he wees in a toilet.  Often, he doesn’t.  Depends what mood he’s in.   We’re in an interactive gallery where they can pull ropes and use (pretend) two handed saws and the like and it’s all too exciting for him.  There’s pee forming in a giant puddle beneath him and Daisy’s shrieking “ZACHARY HAS WEED! HE HAS DONE A WEE!”  Fortunately, I am a pro at this* (and also fortunately, we’re the only ones in the room).  I get the wipes out, mop the wee up, chuck the wipes in the plastic bag that is always in my rucksack, strip his bottom half (while he wrestles me to get back to the rope pulling), redress his bottom half and we carry on. We finish the room with a video.  They sit down for at least two minutes and it’s just too cute: 

Still, For Two Minutes

4.  I Get A Bit Shrieky.  We go on a ship that’s in dry dock (HMS Gannet).  It’s fun.  It’s not that big.  We go into the cabin at the end and that’s where I get shrieky.  There’s a glass bottomed bit that makes me sh*t myself.  I hold onto a pole while my children look at me like I’m the lunatic and say “What is wrong, Mummy?”  Sweating, I tell them nothing is wrong but look! Look at the lovely glass bottomed bit of the boat. They both look terrified and I realise I need to pretend I am absolutely fine with my two most precious beings walking on the glass.  I smile brightly.  “Go on!” I say (whilst still clutching the pole) “You walk across it!” My mum (legend) braves it to show them it’s not scary (it bloody is scary!) They both walk across it.  Zach stamps.  I get shrieky.  We leave.  Standard.  I take some pictures first though:

Walking On Water

5. We Don’t Realise What We’re Getting Into.  Having left the terrifying (but brilliant) glass bottomed boat, we head to the war ship HMS Cavalier.  On our way in, another Very Nice Lady warns us to take care not to trip and to go down the steps backwards.  I spy what looks like some very treacherous steps and nod knowingly.  We make our way down them, one twin at a time.  We see some cool war-shippy stuff.  We reach some even steeper steps.  I tell my children to go up them (up is fine) and that mummy is below them.  Then there’s some more.  We go up those too.  Then Daisy tells me she needs a wee and wiggles her bum in a way that suggests weeing is imminent.  We’ve befriended a group of four in their 60s who smile indulgently.  “Come on, then,” I say much more confidently than I feel, “Let’s find a toilet.”

To find a toilet, we have to go back down the Very Very steep steps.  I am not good with heights.  Not good at all.  I take a deep breath and start to scale the first set.  I get halfway down, grip the hand rail and tell Dais to come to me.  She’s too scared to actually step so I have to carry her. “Very good, good idea,” says one of the chaps encouragingly.  Another lady is waiting at the bottom to come up; she offers to stay with Dais so I can go back up to get Zach (the kindness of strangers never fails to make my heart swell). I go back up (because what I want to do is scale these steps again), get Zach and repeat.  Mum gets down the steps.  We have two options: go back down another set of similarly hair-raising steps or go out of a mystery door.  I poke my head out of the mystery door, see water and some even steeper steps and opt for the former.  I repeat the process again (twice), this time getting wedged on the stairs at one point because of my bast*rd backpack.  We finally get back down to entry level, find our way back to the original set of steps (which now look practically horizontal) and hastily leave. I didn’t take photos of any of this; I was too busy trying not to wig out.

6.  We go to the soft play that’s there.  Me and my mum drink coffee and eat cake (really, really good lemon drizzle cake).  I tell the kids they have five minutes left.  They play some more.  I tell the kids their time is up.  Zachary willingly leaves.  Dais throws a sh*t fit. I tell her we’re going to leave her there. She screams some more.  I tell her I’m serious, we actually will leave her there.  She comes with us. Standard.

*What a thing to be ‘pro’ at: cleaning up piss. This motherhood malarkey really raises the self-esteem.

Lessons From My Dad

Today would have been my Dad’s 67^th birthday.  Dad died nearly two years ago and I miss him every day. This blog is for him.  He wasn’t a perfect parent (so, just like everyone else then) but he was my Dad and he taught me shit about being a parent.  Here’s what he taught me:

1.  It’s fine to swear in front of your kids.  Dad used to swear a lot.  One of his favourite childhood stories was of him and his brothers and sisters running around a tree when their mum and dad were out shouting “Shit-bum-bugger-arseholes!” When Dais did her infamous ‘Fuck’s sake’, part of me panicked.  The other part was like ‘It’s fine, Dad used to swear in front of us all the time, he just used to tell us we weren’t allowed to say those words.’  Which we didn’t.  In front of him.  Probably, my two year old daughter is lying upstairs now, muttering ‘Fuck’s sake’.  That’s fine.  I can’t hear her.    

2.  Make your kids believe they can do anything.  At aged 17 I, having never been anywhere abroad by myself, hatched a plan with a mate to go travelling around the world after we finished our A’ levels.  I planned us a route – we were going EVERYWHERE! Argentina, Jamaica, South Africa, New Zealand, Fiji, Papua New Guinea! The plan never came to fruition for various reasons (I eventually ended up inter-railing around Europe and Jesus, I barely survived that!) but at no point did my Dad try and stop me or tell me I was foolish for planning to see literally the whole world (some of it in the grips of guerrilla warfare!) in just six months.  I’m hoping that had I attempted to go to Papua New Guinea, he would have said something.  The point is, he didn’t piss on my parade when he didn’t need to.

3.  Make your kids stand on their own two feet.  I have had a job since I was 14*.  Aged 14, my Dad got me a job at a village pub, waiting tables.  I was a really, really shit waitress.  (Mainly because I was terrified the whole time!) But it taught me to be a bit more confident.  It took me out of my safe little bubble of school and family.  It taught me that I could do shit that made me nervous.  Most importantly though, it gave me cash to buy Just Seventeen, lip gloss and Diamond White**.

4. Be generous.  Dad was so generous, in many ways, but mainly with his hospitality.  He loved a good party and would always provide booze and food aplenty, whatever the occasion.  When he died, some of the loveliest comments my friends made were about his generosity – how he cooked them a great bacon sandwich whenever they stayed over or about how he splashed the wine around readily. I’m nowhere near as gregarious as my Dad was but I hope, when they’re older, D&Z  will be as happy bringing their friends home as I was. 

5.  Just care.  Care in any way you can.  Dad was not an affectionate man.  He rarely hugged me, and he often struggled to say what he wanted to, if what he wanted to say was ‘soppy’ or ‘emotional’.  But he loved me, and I knew it.  I knew it because he worked hard for me when I was growing up, so I could have the things that other kids had.  I knew it because he wanted to send me to the best school he could.  I knew it because, when I told him I was up the duff, with twins, by some guy he’d never met, he got pissed and then cried and said how actually we should celebrate that two new babies were coming into the world and that could only ever be a great thing and that was what mattered. 

My Dad was my partner in crime.  He was a fellow lover of spreadsheets, wine, fags and swearing.  I miss him. 

*Just to be clear, the job was part time. I also attended school.  I just re-read that sentence and it sounded a bit like I was forced to leave school to work at the pub.  Not the case!

**In the early 90s, Diamond White was a very fashionable drink.  Very Fashionable.  If you were 14.  

Parenting Pop Quiz

See if you can survive parenting a toddler (or two) by taking this pop quiz!

1) Your child pees in the potty (which is in the living room because screw social conventions, who can actually be arsed to take them to the bathroom all the live long day?) He picks the potty full of wee up and starts trying to carry it to the loo himself.  Which option do you choose?

a) Let him.  He’s learning to be independent/it means you don’t have to move.

b) Take the potty off him and do it yourself.

c) Engage your hostage negotiator voice (recognising that this is a potential wee-on-carpet situation) and get him to give it to you.

Correct answer: c). This is the option least likely to result in piss everywhere.  I mean, there is still a chance because you’ve got a maverick toddler holding a pot full of piss, but this option lessens the likelihood of said piss being thrown all over the place.  a) will likely end up in him sloshing pee everywhere as he drunkenly wobbles to the toilet, clutching the potty and b) will lead to an undignified scuffle that results in the pee splashing on you, which is obviously even worse than the pee going on the carpet.  I know this because I opted for b).

 

2.  You go to see a friend for the afternoon.  Once you’ve left, your son refuses to get in the car, kicking and screaming, because he wants to go back and say bye for the 47^th time. Which option do you choose?

a) Tell him no, and put him in the car seat.

b) Tell him no, attempt to put him in the car seat while he twats you around the face and proves that, despite the fact he is 34 years younger than you and a quarter the size of you, he is still stronger than you, get to a point where you think that you might weep, then jubilantly remember you put some Haribo in the bag before you left and tell him he can have a bag if he gets in the seat.

c) Let him go back – your hosts will think it’s charmingly cute that he wants to come back to say goodbye again.

Correct answer: b), although it doesn’t have to be Haribo – any horribly unhealthy, sugar filled bribe will do.  If you answered a) I’m pretty sure you can’t actually have toddlers (or if you do they are significantly better behaved/less violent than mine) and c) only temporarily delays the problem – this is twattish toddler behaviour: they will not do what you ask them to just because you’ve conceded and let them do what they wanted to.  That is not how this works.  You are their hostage and you need to do everything you can to overpower them.

3. You arrive back from your friend’s house.  There is only one parking space near your house and it’s going to require a reverse park (and you live on a massive fucking hill and you have to park half on the pavement, half off it).  Your bellend of a neighbour is on the pavement, ready to judge you if you fail the reverse park, some knob in a white van is behind you revving his engine and World War 3 is going on in the back of the car, despite you bellowing ‘WILL YOU STOP FIGHTING? MUMMY CANNOT PARK WHEN YOU ARE SCREAMING LIKE THIS.  IT IS VERY DANGEROUS. IF MUMMY HITS A CAR AGAIN BECAUSE SHE CAN’T CONCENTRATE WHEN YOU ARE FIGHTING THEN MUMMY WILL BE VERY CROSS.’ Which option do you choose?

a) Fuck this shit. Park miles away and drag your warring children down the street, kicking and screaming, making sure one of them catches the bellend neighbour on the shins as you go past.

b) Make a nervous, half assed attempt at reverse parking, cave in to the pressure of those watching you and assuming you will fail, give up, feel like crying, park miles away, wait five minutes in the car in the hope that the bellend neighbour will have gone in by the time you have to walk past.

c) Reverse park the fucking car.  Let the naysayers hear you ROAR: you are a lone wolf*, you are raising children all by yourself on approximately three hours sleep a night and no-one is going to make you believe you can’t do difficult shit because you do difficult shit all day long, every waking hour (and man there are so many waking hours – so many) and if there is one thing that raising children all by yourself has taught you, it is that you can do absolutely anything.  Anything. Reverse park the fucking car, get the kids out of the car, walk past the judgey neighbour and give him your best withering, smell-the-shit look.

Correct answer: c)  Always c). Prove the fuckers wrong, believe in yourself, you’ve got this.  (NB – but don’t beat yourself up if it turns into b).  Reverse parking is really difficult at the best of times, never mind trying to do it at the same time as trying to stop your children from killing each other on the back seat.)

4.  At tea time, your daughter wants to bring a fucking torch to the table with her and says she won’t sit up unless you let her have the torch.  Do you:

a) Acknowledge that it’s the end of the day: you are tired, you have no energy with which to fight her and let her bring the effing torch to the table, accepting that you will now eat your dinner with a torch being shone directly into your eyes.

b) Tell her she can’t bring the torch to the table, wrestle her to get it off her and watch the five act toddler tantrum that ensues when you’re finally victorious. 

c) Throw the torch in the bin.  You are not allowing a fucking torch at the dinner table.

Correct answer: a). You’ve got to pick your battles. In an ideal world, you’d get to eat your dinner without a two year old tyrant shining a torch in your eyes and bellowing “CAN YOU SEE MUMMY? CAN YOU SEE WHEN I DO THIS?’  but this is not an ideal world. This is a world in which people piss, shit and vomit on you regularly and yet you still love them. b) is just not worth it at this stage of the game – you’re so nearly at the finishing line: let some things go.  c) is what I wanted to do but I managed to stop myself.  Just.

5.  You’ve made it to bed time.  Everyone is still alive.  You’ve sat through 82 episodes of Peppa Pig (plus one last one, three times), you’ve read/shouted your way through some stories and you’ve managed to wrestle the little bastards into bed. You’ve kissed them goodnight and told them you love them millions and millions, so much, more than they will ever know, forever and ever, now go to sleep and do not get out of bed because mummy will get very cross.  You’ve closed the door, walked downstairs and heard nothing for five minutes.  Which option do you choose?

a) Go to bed yourself.  Sleep is precious and you need to get it where you can.

b) Tidy up – your house looks like someone has come in and maliciously trashed it and you just cannot cope with the mess.

c) Pour a glass of wine.  Everything seems much easier when you are mildly pissed.  Proceed to then watch several hours of shit TV, culminating in ‘staying up late’ (to 10.30) so you can watch TOWIE and imagine what it must be like to be young and free, and to go out to restaurants and bars and clubs without a care in a world, because although you know you did used to be and do these things, having children is not dissimilar to being lobotomised and your memories of such fun are hazy and incomplete. 

Correct answer: c) obviously. Always c). If you didn’t answer c) I’m not sure we can be friends.

*This still works even if you’re not a lone wolf because having a toddler, regardless of how many adults are around, is hard fucking work.  You can just call yourself a wolf.  We are all part of the same pack and we are in this together.

How One Journeys From A Rice Cake To A Party Ring In Less Than A Year

When the kids first started eating solids, I got into the habit of giving them a rice cake when we first got up, to keep them going until I had enough energy to make breakfast.  Largely, this was because the little bastards used to get up at 4.30.  Four fucking thirty.  You can’t have breakfast at 4.30, but I had to give them something, so a rice cake it was.  Fast forward two years and the first thing they now eat is a Party Ring.  Obviously, I would rather they didn’t start the day with a Party Ring. (Who am I kidding? It’s at least two, if not three.  And sometimes a chocolate finger too.) But somehow, this is the reality.  This blog is the story of how we got there.

Last Easter, when they were nearly two, we went away with my lovely sister, her three lovely kids and my lovely mum.  We stayed at a really great farm stay place in St Osyth, Essex and a great time was had by all.  In fact, it’s where this gem of a picture was taken:

Zachary, having a great time.

On our first morning there, I’d neglected to bring any rice cakes. We did, however, have some digestive biscuits.  And so we seamlessly graduated from the gateway drug of a rice cake, to a digestive. There was no going back.

So for a few weeks, they began their day with a digestive.  Not so bad – they have wheat* in and other healthy stuff I’m sure.  And the very name suggests they are supportive in aiding digestion (not that either of my shitting-everywhere children seem to need help with their digestive system). It wasn’t the dream but I could live with it.

Then one of best friends came to stay with us.  At one point, she popped out to the shop and asked me if I needed anything.  I must have asked her to get some miIk because we always need milk, and I also asked her to get some biscuits.  Off she popped and soon she returned, biscuits in hand.  Nice biscuits.  You know, the little rectangular ones with actual granulated sugar on top.  They don’t even bother hiding the sugar.  It took seconds before my children sniffed out the fact there was a new biscuit on the block the next morning and so we graduated from digestives to Nice biscuits. The morning snack problem was spiralling out of control.

The final jump, to the Party Ring, was alcohol induced.  My cousin came to stay the night.  My cousin and I are a terrible combination, booze wise.  We’d talked about how we were going to have a civilised dinner and share a bottle of wine.  Three hours and three trips to the corner shop later, and four bottles of wine had been consumed.  No-one who is going to be in solo charge of two small children the next day should ever drink that amount of wine.  But drink them we did.

The next day wasn’t pretty.  I hauled my sorry hungover arse out of bed, got the kids up and dressed, and dragged my equally hungover cousin to Morrisons for a fry up.  (Glamorous, I know). My child free cousin then left to go back to London, and I was left alone with two hyperactive two year olds and a behemoth of a hangover.  On the way home, I stopped at the corner shop (the one that had sold me all the wine the night before - bastards) and bought some hangover food to keep me going.  Amongst my purchases was a packet of Party Rings. 

We got back home.  I was weak. I was hungover. I couldn’t move from the sofa to go and eat my contraband biscuits in secret, hiding behind the fridge door, which is what I normally do when I don’t want them to know a food exists.  I ate the Party Rings in front of them.  I gave them some too because when they were eating the Party Rings, they weren’t screaming two centimetres from my face or trying to get me to build a motherfucking tower or climbing on me and sweet Jesus I just needed them to be quiet.  

That’s right.  I introduced them to the sugar high that is the Party Ring, and from then on, there was no going back.  The next morning, when they got up at the crack of dawn, they demanded one.  ‘PARTY RING! PARTY RING! PARTY RING!’ they chanted, loudly and without stopping.  I am not a morning person.  I cannot function properly before 7am.  I need coffee and quiet and gentle movements.  I cannot do anything at 5.30 in the morning, other than plonk them in front of the telly and give them whatever food they ask for.  So a Party Ring they asked for, and a Party Ring they got.

And that, my friends, is how one journeys from a rice cake to a Party Ring in less than a year. 

*I have no idea if they have wheat in.  I just vaguely remember there being a picture of some wheat on the packet.  And wheat’s healthy, innit?