Let’s talk ‘Mother’s Day’.
Let’s get a few things straight for next weekend shall we…
It’s not your day. It’s mine. You’re only a Mummy because of ME. Ergo – MY DAY. Buy me shit.
You’ve had your fun. If you think for a second I haven’t spotted you on facebook during the seventh verse of The Wheels on the Bus, you’re wrong. I see you. I see EVERYTHING. Like Jesus.
So. Here are my requirements on this, the other day of the year celebrating my birth:
I want a unicorn.
And some chips.
I’d suggest some kind of unicorn-based-chip-transport to kill two birds with one stone…
On a side note. Please put some bloody mascara or lipgloss on when we go out from now on. I saw that ‘no make-up selfie’ you put on Facebook this week. I threw up in my mouth a little bit.
No. I won’t give you a life in candy crush so stop shitting asking.
At bedtime, I wish to not only pick the story, but also decide in which order we read the pages.
I should like to spend any time I’m not eating surrounded by balls. Of all colours. Except orange. F@*k you orange.
Please cut the crusts from my sandwiches. Just before I refuse to eat them anyway. And demand a sausage.
When I tip the beaker before it reaches my mouth showering myself in drink that’s because that’s the way I BASTARD WELL LIKE IT OK.
Sniff my arse in public again and I’ll have your kidneys removed with spoons and made into shoes.
From now on I should like to go swimming at least once a day…. And by swimming I mean wear my swimming costume and arm bands to the edge of the pool and then scream the second my foot touches the water before leaving clung to your neck like a agoraphobic koala.
I shall now be moving everywhere via the medium of ‘Ballet’. When things get ugly around the house, I shall also be using Ballet as a martial art to put shit back in line.
Don’t touch my hair again. (The kidneys-spoon-thing from earlier applies to this too.)
Also. I hiss now. The cats taught me.
I can wear hats, I just choose not to. You, however, should not wear hats. Just saying.
You were mistaken. My version of ‘Dinkle, Dinkle, Little Start’ is clearly far superior… But I forgive you. Because you’re pretty. And bring me pizza.
Oh yeah, and Daddy says yes, he got all your very unsubtle hints about wanting something Mulberry shaped by way of a Mother’s Day gift from me, but he’s gone with my suggestion of some Mummy Pig socks and a Curly-Wurly. Thank me later. I got your back.