1. Fuzzy. But Manageable. (FBM)
Pop some Alkaseltzer in a Berroca/Lucozade/gin fusion and let’s get this shitting party started. Down it in your hallway mirror whilst using your ‘I CAN F@*KING DO THIS’ eyes… Continue as normal. (try not to breath on anyone during baby sensory/rhyme time)
Head to the pub by 3pm for a hair of the toddler, or baby, or whatever…
2. Fuzzy. Not manageable. (FNM)
Cancel everything. The kids can just do whatever they bloody want today… Just let them roam free with the sofa-raisins and the radiator-rice-cakes whilst you set the TV to CBeebies for the day and avoid mirrors… Your main activities will be crisps. With a strong chance of crying. Whilst lying down. In a onesie.
3. The Fuzzy Feeder.
You’ve somehow made it to McDonalds (complete with all children in corresponding clothing which is pretty amazing *fist pump*) and eaten an entire sharer size Chicken McNuggets to yourself along with twelve Magnums, but it’s still not working… You’re gonna have to pull out the big guns and order a Dominos before midday. The toddler can have a personal pizza and the baby can just wean himself on chicken strippers and garlic dip… He’ll probably be fine. Probably.
4. Fuzzy. Pukey. Kill Me.
You can’t get both your eyes to look in the same direction at the same time which means you’re only able to focus on one child at a time… The toddler is the faster, smarter and more-likely-to-shit-under-the-furniture of the two so pin her down with YouTube on the iPad and a multipack of Pom-Bears.
Keep rocking the baby back to sleep no matter how much the motion makes you gag and squirt slightly wine-y sick out of your nose. It is not worth the risk of leaving the house. The effort of going upstairs to use your dry shampoo has resulted in you throwing up down your leggings and through some of the bars of the stair gate… Right now a greasy fringe is the least of your f@*king worries.
*note to self* do not do throw up in the bin outside Waitrose again… #somuchtutting
5. F@*k This I’m Calling Granny, Fuzzy.
Right now feeding your infant would be like sticking a giant gin nipple in their face and syphoning off last night’s post-3am Jaeger-Bombs… You’ve thrown up in your own hair and made the decision just to ‘brush it in’, and for the first hour you were awake this morning you couldn’t remember how many children you actually had…
Yeah. It’s time to call Granny. Or frankly anyone right now who could parent your children better than you can… (Which actually is anyone.) You’re going to be out-of-mummy-commission for at least the next 48 hours.
Good luck everyone. See you on the other side… *gags*