mumlife – Playground Politics

If you have children, you have seen Peppa Pig. It’s inevitable. It doesn’t matter how old your child gets, it seems there is always a soft spot for that penis-shaped-head farm animal. The colours, catchy tunes and life lessons, I get it. But as a parent having to watch the show a million times over (there’s only 6 seasons since 2004 – make some more you tight arses!) there are a few things I owe to Peppa Pig…

Turdette is terrified of spiders thanks to Mr. Fucking Skinny Legs. At Halloween, she was all about the plastic spiders. She watches that damn episode and BOOM, she now cries when she sees an ant, let alone a spider.
“Urgh disgusting” – yeah thanks Peppa, every bloody meal time now. Cheers for that.
General brattish behaviour. This entails stomping, moaning and not allowing younger sibling to play. I know that’s a lot to blame on a TV show but my son never spoke to me in such a tone before Peppa Pig!
Distaste for the colour pink: George doesn’t like pink. Daddy can’t possibly wear a pink football shirt. Come on now, it’s not the eighties, let’s break down those gender stereotypes for the future generation.
Fat-shaming. “Daddy Pig has a big tummy. Daddy Pig is too big for that.” Poor Daddy Pig. He was probably rocking a six pack before these bratface kids came along and now all he has to look forward to is his cherished chocolate cake to see him through the day. Daddy Pig is like a brother from another mother to me.
Speaking of Daddy Pig…the poor sod has to do EVERYTHING for his family, from mowing the grass on his day off to traipsing all over the place to recover that teddy and for what?! To be continuously riddiculed for his weight and foolishness?! Disgraceful.
Feeling like an inadequate parent. Regardless of annoying and whiny their little piggies are, Mummy Pig and Daddy Pig keep it cool. They don’t shout. Or throw cereal. Threaten. Or bribe. Yet I do all of these before 9am every morning.

Thanks a lot Peppa Pig. As much I hate you, you bring hours of joy to my Turd and Turdette and are a definite upgrade since that illiterate and somewhat incestuous nonsense that was In The Night Garden.

Flowers and candles are all well and good, but if we have to do our normal duties, WTF is the point?!

Mums operate 365 days a year. Let that sink in. Every goddamn day. No sick days. No holidays. No duvet days. Mother’s Day should be an exception. I want to be selfish and not do anything for anyone else. Including my own mother and mother-in-law.

This is what I (and I’m sure other mums) really want on Mother’s Day but are too polite to say aloud:

To be left alone
To not wipe anything – no surfaces, no mouths, no bums (unless it is my own, may be taking it a bit too far otherwise)
To lie-in without any guilt
To not make breakfast, make lunch, cook dinner, obtain snacks. In fact, it even stresses me out watching the husband cook so takeaway would be great.
To watch what I want on TV. Screw you Peppa Pig, this is my day.
To chill. I want to play Xbox with the headset on max. I want to do some little craft projects. Probably nap. And read in bed (without any advances from the other half, thank you very much.)
Chocolate. Because everyday I want chocolate. If I didn’t actually have it on a special occasion then there is clearly grounds for divorce.

Call me harsh, but the idea of going out for dinner with kids on Mother’s Day also blows. Trying to restrain a toddler while waiting for food to arrive that they refuse to eat? To then stop them from stabbing themselves with a fork and knocking the knife on the floor for the freaking umpteenth time? And then be blackmailed into buying ice-cream for them by the pity-filled waitress which again they refuse to eat?! No thanks. I’m good.

Ideally, the other half should take the kids out and leave me the hell alone. Of course you can’t actually admit that so I’ll accept the other 7 things on my list.

My Mother’s Day motto: Not my problem.

So tell me, what do you really want this Mother’s Day?