Now I’m on my 5th festive period as a parent… I’ve pretty much stopped thinking about myself at Christmas. My children are almost five and two, and since 1st December all I’ve done is rearrange all the baubles my toddler tries to feed to himself/my cats, eat my bodyweight in chocolate, and develop a tick every time I hear the word ‘Hatchimal’…
But despite the fact my husband thinks what I’d like is whatever he can panic buy via Amazon Prime two days before the big day, (thanks again for last year’s Slow Cooker that I’m secretly now very thankful for you bastard) I think I’m speaking for most Mummies when I say THIS is what I really want…:
- Gin (obviously)
- Cake (obviously)
- One of those Toblerones the size of a dog.
- For the aforementioned Toblerone to contain no calories. (Obviously) And for me to eat it in my own time, somewhere other than hiding behind the mystical door of the cupboard of shame…
- A designer handbag. Not to wear, that would be ridiculous. Just to look at… and occasionally sniff… or lick.
- See above and also apply to shoes.
- A self-cleaning, raisin-repelling house.
- (Please also apply the above to the children)
- (And the husband)
- Someone to magically restore my buggy to way it looked when I bought it. There is at least a 6-inch layer of rice-cake-debris and I’m terrified to put an ungloved hand too close to the bottom of the basket for fear of the strange sticky substance that hides in the back corner…
- Double Nectar Points for every time I manage not to say Shit, F@*k or Bollocks in front of my toddler.
- Just ONE bath without a plastic pink hippo eyeballing my vagina.
- A slice of toast ALL TO MY-BASTARD-SELF.
- Guilt free lie-ins. Actually scrap that – I’ll deal with the guilt… please just let me SLEEP… *cries a bit and eats another Jaffa Cake*
- Spray on toddler clothing. Buttons, poppers, zips and ALL SHOES have become my ultimate nemesis.
- Loo time… alone… with Candy Crush. Like a f@*king ninja.
- Ankles with a circumference smaller than my knees*. (*thighs)
- A legging free wardrobe… Which doesn’t freak me out because of the lack of leggings.
- To look good in something other than leggings*.
- *To look good in leggings.
- A NAP. Whenever I like. In my own giant footmuff-adorned-chariot. Pushed along by a tribe of pre-schoolers. Powered by fairies. Fuelled by gin. And made from the tears of a thousand toddlers.
- For fish fingers and chicken nuggets to contain vegetables. Secret vegetables. Which would mean they’d just f@*king eat it. And basically make me Mother of the Year. Definitely.
- For my toddler’s vocabulary to stretch past VERY ANGRY GRUNTING AND POINTING, mixed with ‘Cake’, ‘No’, ‘Twirlywoos’ and ‘Did it’. (Which incidentally is also his only sentence.) So that I can occasionally work out WHAT HE WANTS BEFORE HE IMPLODES.
- Peppa Pig. Shot. And her head brought to me on a Hello Kitty plate.
- A new vagina.
- (One that only accepts one way traffic…)
- To have somehow eaten and drunk ALLLLLL THE THINGS, yet still have lost weight by January.
- For 2017 to be the year that someone (*coughs and raises eyebrows in general husband direction) removes the decorations box from the landing and puts it back in the bastard loft before Easter. Please. Thanks.
- And some more gin.