When I’m not writing twaffly blogs or rearranging my condiments drawer or investigating my cleavage or having arguments with TV producers or opening and closing my fridge or picking Lego firemen off the kitchen floor or flossing my teeth or seeing if I can burp ‘The Archbishop Of Canterbury’ or trying to get my pants to be more comfortable or any of the other eleventy billion things I do on a daily basis to avoid writing books…. I write books.

These are mostly all about what it’s like to be a parent, which is generally enough to put anyone to sleep and probably accounts for the fact that all the people who have read my books are sleeping.
The ones who aren’t asleep are feigning sleep, very well, so that nobody asks them if they’d like to purchase my next book.

I have very clever readers.

Partly also, my books are about children, without whom it is very hard to be a parent.

In fact, children are what make being a parent worth it. They are the l’Oreal of the human race.

All the rest is just haemorrhaging cash, cooking pasta, buying pasta, and cleaning pasta off the floor/walls/plates/items of clothing, folding extreeeeeemely small mismatched socks, and saying “Would you please just bloody well go to sleep so that I can have some sex before I die of old age??? Yes I KNOW Daddy’s inJapan. And your point IS???”

Yes, it is our children who make the whole business of parenting not just bearable, but more happy and fun than you can have in a Happy Fun Factory on two-for-one Fun and Happiness Day. (Notice I said ‘our’ children, not ‘other people’s children’.  Other people’s children are generally OK, sometimes even very nice, but rarely Fanfuckingtastic.
They are the Tesco Value of the human race. Nice, but not the real deal.)

And it’s this very Fun-and happy-ness of my children that explains why I so often fall back on them to supply me with the best material for my blogs. Although of course the whole Lazy Arse thing mentioned in my previous blog may have a hand in it.

(Incidentally, if you have your hand in a lazy arse then you need to go and wash it straight away. And if you didn’t read my previous blog then WHAT ARE YOU DOING???? Go and read it as soon as you finished reading this one and washing your hands. Thank you.)

Anyway, children, while occasionally being so annoying they make you want to look skyward and call upon the Greatest Wrath of all the Very Wrath-filled Gods and ask them to please STRIKE THEM DOWN with Lego Lightning and do very Unpleasant Things To Them until they stop arguing over whose SODDING turn it is on the SODDING computer and why can’t they go and read a BOOK, and preferably not one about SODDING Boy Wizards, or climb a tree or fart the National Anthem or build a rocket out of the crumbs of their mother’s crumbled spirit or, or….ANYTHING else – for example – are also just the loveliest things that have ever walked this earth.

In all respects other that this last one, children are also a mirror unto us. What we show them, they show back. Until they’re teenagers of course, at which time what we show them they spit back in our faces, sighing,
“God Mum, that’s just so STUPID. I mean….GOD. As IF. Jeez. That’s well not sik. I’m going OUT.”

But until this joyful time they pretty much absorb a lot of what we tell them, and throw it right back at us.

And that’s when you get moments like this little note, written by my son to his two older sisters to let them know where we were, and what the rules were while we were gone.

I’d love to say I’ve never said any of these things….but I think we both know that’d be a load of wrinkly bollocks.
Mind you, I don’t recall saying anything about killing sefs. So technically it’s not QUITE what I say every single time I go out.

But the jist is there.

Jeez, Mum.

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August 1, 2011

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