Dear Mini: With These Teddies, You Are Taking the Piss.

This is kind of a post for Mini, but as I’m kind like that, I thought I’d share it with you all readers. Think of it as a support group for parent’s afflicted with bears as I am.

No, these are not my bears, they are Mini’s bears. There are fecking loads of the buggers. Or to be specific, its not just teddy bears. We have Hello Kitty. We have Beanie Bears. We have soft bodied dolls.

She has also stolen my childhood bear, Mrs Ted. As well as the three Mothers Day bears she has picked, supposedly for me, but which were pinched within five minutes of being handed over.

It takes me 20 minutes to remove and replace said Bed Bears (as this is just the bears etc on there, I’m not even sure how many are in the toy box under her bed, along with various variations of Barbie, Monster High and Bratz). If I fail to put them back in their “section” (I kid you not), she knows and moans at you whilst removing them to put them back.

Yes, they have categories and sections.

We have the Hello Kitty section. The Cat section. The Teddy White Family (not a section and sounding like a minor furry version of the mafia).

The one that makes me laugh the most is a recent variation. She got around £10 in birthday money, and a few days after, we popped into one of our local second hand shops. It was there that she spotted something she has coveted, and pleaded for, for months.

A Baby Oleg from Compare the Meerkat.

At one point, when we didn’t have transport, she tried to explain why it was perfectly reasonable for me to make up a car to purchase Insurance for simply so she could get a Baby Oleg. She saw no reason why this was completely ridiculous.

Seeing a brand spanking new one, in its box for £4 when she had £10 of her own made her jump up and down with glee.

However, this has started the newest “section” down to Oleg’s cot/box. The “Under ones” section.

Just a small selection of the bears…….

Included with Oleg is a George Pig, a Me to You Bear with her initial, amongst other little bears. They must stay in their box and they go every where with her indoors.  

I know later I will get told off as I changed her bedding. And I accidentally managed to knock the buggers out the box and I have no idea what bears go in bar Oleg and George.

So, despite me putting clean bedding on, that is new One Direction set, and I’ve put all the books back on the shelf that Littlest knocked off, she will not notice that, she will notice the bears being  in the wrong place.

How long does this bear nonsense last?  The only bears I had on my bed were the aforementioned Mrs Ted (a mothercare bear given to me a day after my birth in 1982), an orange bear I think I was given by a cousin and have no idea what happened to, and Roland Rat.

Littlest is just as mad about dogs.

Save me from the scourge of bears.

One more bear and neither child will fit in their bloody beds, and if they think they’re pitching up in mine, they can take their bears and sleep in the shed.

These are all the ones she wanted to take to her Aunts for ONE NIGHT!

Littlest and his Dog collection. Ridiculous

I think I may need to slyly lose some of the furry critters, especially as Boot Fair season is upon us and will no doubt bring in another influx.

No more bears. Just no. Or dogs. Or Hello Kittys. Enough children!

(Looks shiftily at the enormous pile of records I bought in the last two days and denies all knowledge of hoarding responsibility).

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Is It Just Me: Who Thinks Actually Those Who Knock People with Mental Health Issues Should Wear Wrist Bands?

……You know, so we can throw shade on the idiots when we see them come by?

A story in the Independent  today proves once again just how out of touch the Tories really are with potential voters. Despite increases in the amount of people aged 15-34 suffering from Mental Health Issues, one of their Parliamentary Candidates has voiced that those with Mental Health Issues- any and all- should be made to wear a wrist band.

Yes, you read that right. Wrist bands. For something you can’t be blamed for.

Chamali Fernando is now facing calls to resign or be sacked- and quite right too.

It is already hard enough for those with these issues to access help, and to come forward and admit there is an issue. I should know, as I’ve suffered depression in the past and, as a result of being too scared to admit I was struggling, suffered a Nervous Breakdown after Littlest was born.

According to this abhorrent waste of air, wearing colour coded wrist bands would help Police better identify those suffering. She says this as a seemingly intelligent Barrister.

Does she not realise the full ramifications of this? Firstly, straight away, you wear a wrist band and sadly we live in a country that has prejudice fuckwits in it who already make life hell for your race, your sex, and your size, not to mention your orientation.

You could end up losing your job as no doubt employers wont want to employ someone who may need time off if they relapse.

As for the Police, not to be rude, but no doubt if you have a crime committed and there is someone with a wrist band on marking them out, they are immediately going to heap blame regardless of whether the wearer is responsible.

The most worrying effect is whether those who are yet to be diagnosed will go and get help at all for fear of wearing a wrist band. Then, those who really are a risk- to themselves or to others if untreated- will have that potential risk more likely.

There is already enough stigma around depression and similar illnesses. Why make people wear a band to mark them out for scorn?  I fail to see what it will achieve for the wearer?

The thing that makes me sick is there are plenty of groups who I would prefer to be marked out for my safety. How about paedophiles wearing a wrist band to warn me if they happen to be in my area? Or rapists?

Suffering a mental health issue is not a crime. Its not a weakness. Its a bloody awful illness that not one sufferer would wish on themselves or anyone else.

How about putting more effort into de-stigmatizing mental health problems? I’m sure that’s a vote winner, right there.

Dear Mini. No, I Am Not Embarrassing (Yet)

As I said in the last post, its my darling daughter’s birthday on Friday and her party Saturday. It seems we should be OK with attendees now as we have around 25 kids coming to dance, stuff their faces with food and generally have a good time (well, that’s the idea anyway).

With that in mind, I’m baking up a storm in the kitchen, trying to make sure everything is completely allergy OK for Littlest (after all, you don’t want to have to call 999 in the middle of a kids party).

I was doing just that for the last hour, aided and abetted by my MP3 player.

At which point, Mini, never shy of telling us what she thinks, caught me in the kitchen dancing to Taylor Swift. Which is only on my MP3 player for walks home with her in the first place.  In my defence its a nice sunny day, all is good so I do tend to sing along to anything that happens to pop up on it when my hands are covered in biscuit batter and I can’t skip the song.

If looks could kill, readers, I would be pushing up daisies and my biscuits would be handed round as a teary eyed last hurrah at my wake.

Back in the day (when she was under 6), she would love coming in the kitchen and dancing and singing with me. Not anymore.

According to her strict law, if I dare dance, sing, or horror of horrors (as I did suggest it) twerk, she will never speak to me again, and her name, even worse, will be “mud” at school (I kid you not, her words, not mine).

She flounced out the kitchen and grabbed her iPod to no doubt diva strop up in her room.

Surely, fellow parents, the whole “my parents are so embarrassing” thing is not really meant to rear its ugly “yes you can pay for and organise my party at great cost but please fade into the background pronto” head until she turns 13? Not 8!

Nope, not in our house.

It was the same at the disco, which I stayed at as there were quite a few lovely Mums from school helping out and actually, for a school disco the DJ played some top tunes at the Junior part.

I got death stares, all night. Despite one of the year 6 girls telling her “your Mum can really dance, how cool”, I think Mini would have much preferred me to bugger off home and stay there in my slippers.

I’m only 33. I don’t even feel like I’m in my 30s (I actually have good excuse for that as I’m constantly asked if I am travelling with a student bus pass). So frankly, I don’t consider myself in the OAP, embarrassing parent bracket quite yet.

I think I shall just hide at the party and dance in the corner. Behind a curtain. Quietly.

How about you guys? Do you get told you’re embarrassing? How old is your child?

🙂 Enjoy the sunshine 🙂

Organising Parties: Pre-Kids and After

Can you believe it, Mini is 8 next Friday. Eight! Where did the time go?

(Although, to be fair, sometimes she acts far older than 8. I have to remind myself that she is so young still).

Thus, after much moaning by Mini discussion by us parents, we decided to have our first party for a birthday since her 5th one.

Its taken three

At the last party. No those aren’t very big 5 year olds at the front. 

years to get over that one. The mess, the screaming masses of kids running around and the cost- blimey the cost alone could have paid for a small weekend mini break away from the Brats. Which was frankly what we would have liked to have done directly after said party but no such luck.

However, being that she’s still relatively new, we thought that to aid her in the fitting in process we’d throw a kick ass disco and up her cool points. Or at least give me an excuse to go baking mad in the kitchen for the first week of the Easter holidays.

Invites went out at the end of last week, and I did expect a few yays and a few nays quite swiftly as I put my email and mobile number on them and a request for a response. After all, an email costs nothing, and, as with the old school, when we swapped numbers we’d immediately add said Mum or Dad to Whatsapp.

No such luck. We did get a few no answers as some folk (it would appear half of Earley) go away to far flung haunts the minute anyone cracks out the Easter Decorations. We have had a couple of yes votes, mainly though from Littlest’s little contingent of friends we’ve allowed him to invite so he doesn’t get too pissed off by the no doubt questionable music that Mini has personally chosen.

So now I’m kind of twiddling my thumbs, not quite knowing how many party bags we need, or how much food. I was going to collar some of the yet to answer lot yesterday but, alas, both the pair of them had succumbed to plague like symptoms so were confined to the sofa.

In desperation, I even group emailed all the rest of the Brownies that she had not had enough invites for to at least up the numbers. Responses thus far? Two. One yes, one no.

It makes me remember that organising a party pre kids was so much more easy and fun.

Before kids, you needed some crisps, perhaps some chicken nibbles from a very cheap box from Iceland, at the most a bit of a pasta salad.

Now, you have cupcakes with obligatory cupcake toppers. Ours are sadly and unforeseeably out of date now being that they feature the original line up of One Direction before Zayn buggered off to go in a, erm, another direction shall we say. If it wasn’t bad enough that him leaving made Mini bawl her eyes out (he was her fave that week), they cost me a bloody fiver for 10.

Then you have to make sure as not to offend anyone with certain food groups they don’t eat, or poison those with a genuine allergy, like Littlest.

Back in the heady no kids days, the main ingredient of a party, a barbecue or just a Saturday night was a good amount of alcoholic beverages. No one cared what type, if it said Vodka, Lager or Wine, so long as it didn’t feature Tesco Value stripes, it was all good.

Now its sugar free, organic, no fizzy, no added shite stuff. Preferably with bits of fruit in it. When I was a kid, no one cared how radioactive it looked, but now they do and folk prefer their kids to keep their teeth intact for as long as possible.

Then there is music. Pre-kids tunes were tunes, the bassier and throbbing the better. Turn it up loud, turn off the lights, Bobs ya Uncle. Party.

Now I have to spend 5 hours going through every single rubbish song that my daughter has liked since age 6. Swearing in music and sexual references are a complete no no. Which you’d think would mean spinning a Pop Party album as they’re meant for kids.

Hell no.

It was a good job I checked owing to the amount of use of the words “sex”, “fuck” and “shit” amongst others and variations of those that were peppered on these albums. Sesame Street words of the day these were not. One record started with the rallying cry of “Fuck you Muthafucka” shouted at top volume. Lovely.

No one wants to be that Mum who allowed the offspring of other Mums to come home swearing like a docker after their do. So even though the music is enough to bring me (and Littlest) out in a rash, it wont lead to children learning new vocab.

Then we have the hall hire, the disco hire (although we do luckily know a very nice mobile DJ so we do cheat a little on that one) the outfits and the party bags.

The bloody party bags. We didn’t have those bastards at parties before Brats. Can you imagine leaving a party as a young, child free adult and being given a party bag (or tat bag as I like to call them).

No such luck with this day and age.

Its not difficult to find stuff to shove in the buggers, in fact God bless Amazon and Job Lots on eBay for saving me cash. Its the stuffing the buggers afterwards. Its a military operation  of checking for anything sharp, anything inappropriate, and do you put sweets in or not? If so, how many and what do you do about allergies and religious food no nos?

See, its a mental minefield.

I can already feel new wrinkles and grey hairs sprouting with every day that passes before this sodding party. And its not even here yet.

I’m off to make 50 soft baps, and find more music.

I’ll let you know how it all goes down…..