In which we are grateful for professional help…

I don’t really raise my children. I’m very much a part-timer when it comes to parenting. I should probably feel terribly guilty about this. And occasionally I do. Sort of. Mostly, I’m fine with it. I’m a big believer in playing to your strengths and I learned during the long, long (oh so fucking long) days of maternity leave that being with The Boys all day, every day, is not one of my strengths. Certainly not in the way that drinking gin, swearing and masterminding outstanding combinations of nibbles are my strengths, anyway.

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In which we try to accept the unacceptable…

There is much that is splendid about The Boys. They are funny. They are reasonably polite. They are, when they put their minds to it, quite well-behaved. All in all, they are pretty good company much of the time.

In which we try not to f***ing swear….

One of the most…challenging…things about having children is the fact that you are not supposed to swear in front of them. I realise that for many people this isn’t a challenge at all. Lots of people just don’t swear much. They are perfectly able to express their views, frustration, irritation and amusement without using offensive language. And well done to them. Many of my very best friends aren’t very sweary.

In which we wave goodbye to lovely Friday…

After the Big One was born, I was on maternity leave for six months. It was mostly quite jolly because I spent an extraordinary amount of time drinking tea with my NCT chums. Or getting shitfaced with them. We were that sort of NCT crowd (much to the chagrin of our somewhat earnest teacher who was of the bury-your-placenta-in-the-garden variety). We had limited interest in learning how to bath a baby, most of us just signed up to meet other people who’d bought buggies based on how many bottles of Malbec would fit in the bottom. Or gin. We didn't judge.

In which we ask some parenting questions…

As the owner of small children, I find I have come to accept certain odd things in the world. Things that a few years ago would have left me asking genuine questions. Not the big stuff. As you’ve probably gathered, I’m not that way inclined. The meaning of life, for example, is probably worth a good think about, but I don’t have time. And I don’t care very much. I’m more likely to spend my hours pondering such posers as “Is there enough white wine in the fridge?” and “will The Boys become serial killers if I give them their tablets a day early this week?”

In which we find ourselves raising boys…

My first words when the Little One was born and I was told he was a boy were “Oh, bugger!” I got a bit of a look from the midwife, as I recall. Obviously I was glad he was healthy and we were all safe, but my first thought was that I already had a boy. I’d wanted girls.

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