An eighth birthday, an owl cake and a royally f*cked back

Parenting and life

It’s not very often that you’ll find me drinking on my own on a Monday, and even less often that I’ll write something as personal as this, but today has been particularly shit so please forgive me on both counts.

I’m taking inspiration from my dear friend Jamie, aka Daddy from Daddy and Dad who writes fairly illegible posts after many wines, and getting this out there because I just want to, OK?

My back has gone, and it’s bloody painful.

How did I do it?

Well, it’s almost a funny story. I’m not laughing about it yet, but I don’t mind if other people do. Really. Just don’t tell me.

Yesterday was my daughter’s eighth birthday, which is quite frankly insanity because I’m sure that a few weeks ago she was but a chubby toddler denying drawing on the walls with pen still in hand, and now she’s disappearing to her room to write about her brother in her secret diary and moaning about how homework is, like, so unfair.

I just liked this picture, apart from the basket of washing. Penguin onesies are very NOW.

It was a tough day for many reasons.

We were all over tired, as my daughter doesn’t really like sleeping very much anymore. Instead she likes to go to bed around 8pm, popping down every half hour or so to check on me or tell me she’s too tired to sleep, until I give up and head to bed too – at which point, regretting my limited ‘me time’ I scroll endlessly on my phone until my brain gives up for a few hours.

I’ll then try to go back to sleep, but more often than not attempt to quiet my brain with another scroll. Eventually I’ll drift off, if I’m lucky. Then my youngest (who used to wake up at the arse crack of dawn but now makes it until 7am most days, HALLELUJAH) will come and leap on me just as I’ve got back to sleep. It’s not the healthiest way to live and Aunty Fran definitely wouldn’t approve but right now I’m just getting by as best I can, waiting for my move in December.

Did I mention I’m moving? Well, I am.

Following some changes and upheaval at home over – i.e. a marital break up which hasn’t been easy, and I’d rather not talk about it to be honest, but I thought it was worthy of a mention after a year – it’s time for new starts, new beginnings, etc. Nothing cryptic, nothing shameful, but there it is.

Also, while I’m at it, massive amounts of love to all my friends who’ve been my absolute rocks this year, I would have been lost without you. Thank you also to all the people on social media who have sufficiently distracted me, and all the snogs for my tall and handsome new partner who honestly, puts up with a lot more than they really should.

Anyway, where was I?

Ah, the cake.

It was supposed to be an owl (and not a Furby, and not Bluey whoever the fuck that is). Obviously I had help making it; I’m 38 and yet to bake anything edible as I struggle to follow any kind of basic recipe.

Essentially, the good bits are someone else’s (thank you! I love you) and the mistakes are all mine. The nest is courtesy of my daughter, who ate more flakes than she actually used. She loved Mr Owl and was overwhelmed (even if his beak fell off).

I lit the compulsory ‘8’ candle in the kitchen and carried it through to the front room where my family and children were waiting to sing a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’… and upon setting it down on the table, my back gave out in the most painful way imaginable. I’m talking audible yelps, tears and collapsing type-painful.

Taken out by a sponge cake, of all things.

I then sat in a chair for three hours trying not to move at all until everybody left, and then dragged myself upstairs very slowly. I spent half an hour getting into the bath, wallowed until it was cold, and then dragged myself out again before shuffling to bed with my kids looking after me – honestly, get yourself an eight year old girl. They are the best.

Today, I’ve made myself a makeshift standing desk effort, in an attempt not to spend all day sat down seizing up, and spent it arguing with really stupid right wing idiots on the internet. Once more for the cheap seats at the back: If you have a full page article in the Daily Fail, you demonstrably haven’t been cancelled, ‘woke’ and ‘lefty’ really aren’t insults and GBeebies doesn’t have a billion viewers, Warren, you eejit, that’s more than one eighth of the world population…

I’m sure that more than one in eight people IN THE WORLD is tuning into to watch Nigel fucking Farage, Warren. 15 times the population of the UK, give or take. Arguing on the internet 101: If you’re going to make shit up, make it slightly believable.

But it’s bloody painful if I do say so myself.

This evening I am medicating with Naproxen and Tempranillo, then I’ll be attempting to lie on my Pranamat until I pass out.

Happy eight years of being a parent to me.

If you enjoyed this and you’re feeling generous, you can buy me a cup of tea or a glass of wine here.

PS, here are some things

Or maybe it’s COVID from not wearing a mask, who knows.
True story. My six year old keeps saying I’m ‘F-wording awesome’. Sterling parenting. Bracelet gifted by Anna at Truly Senti Metal.
I would actually watch, mind
Cannot WAIT to part with a kidney to fund these

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  1. H 16 November 2021
    • Fran 17 November 2021

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