No longer me....

Sproglet is doing a lot of talkin'. ALOT. Well, he is my child, so no surprise there. I didn't kiss the Blarney stone - I ate the bastard. Today he announced that I was not '*%$?@*~' (my first name) - I was 'Mummy.' Yes, I thought - I lost myself when you were born sunshine. I'm no longer miss 'one for the road, and the ditch... and the field etc etc'; no longer miss spontaneity, miss cartwheel while drunk in ridiculous heels; miss lusting after cute young boys that are in the box marked 'wrong 'uns' - no, now I am Mummy. I don't have sexy candlelit baths with Husband, but bubble filled splash fest baths with Sproglet. I don't stay up til dawn - I get up at dawn. I don't pontificate about bad dates and good sex, but about bad childrens' behaviour and good potty training tips.

And you know what? I'm pretty happy with all that. Sure potty training aint a picnic - we are going through pants at a rate of nothing - but when Sproglet throws his arms round me for no apparent reason and plants a wet kiss on my cheek - nothing comes close. Lately, apart from the talkin' he has been reading his books aloud to me and discussing the merits of the 'Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.' He points out all the time what is mine and what is Daddy's - the kid is smart as the house and car are mine, Daddy gets the garden hose and the bin. I'll be using Sproglet as a mediator should we ever divorce. Things are pretty good with Husband as well. He's getting weekends off and we are getting to spend some time together and discovering - we actually like each other - sometimes! we even took in a crappy schlock horror on Saturday night 'Drag me to Hell.' Even though I was already there watching this rubbish - it was great to just hang out and be us again.

This weekend chez CrummyMummy is a biggie. Sproglet is 3 - well he refuses to accept this - he says he is 4. I like his reasoning; it makes me 28. Anyway, we have enough party food to feed an army - all top hat buns, chocolate fingers, pizzas, sarnies, iced rings and cupcakes. We have a tonne of Pimms for the frazzled parents and we have a secret weapon - a kid's entertainer 'Simon Says.' He was the only one who didn't look like a paedo sweating in a playground in his pictures. He has a comedy stuffed parrot and everything - what's not to love? 23 adults, 10 kids (from 4 - 8 weeks old) and of course Simple - sorry - Simon Says. The house aint that big and the weather forecast typically is predicting rain (gotta love those British summers - the moment someone mentions Wimbledon the heavens open) - it could all be chaos.

I'm going to drink as much Pimms as I can get down my neck and keep smiling throughout. As long as I don't make penis refences to Simon's magnificient balloon display all should go well. I'll letcha know.