Call me Bitch. Call me Honey. But don’t call me Mummy.

imageYou’ve  seen them. The rain mac brigade. Matching blue plastic  hoods engulfing their faces with only a hairy nostril poking out.

They always stride in synch; up a mountain track or dog walking on the beach. I don’t suppose they wake and decide twinsey outfits is the fashion statement of the day. But hey, who thinks electric blue bin bags or yellow padded ski  jackets ( minus the snow) in his and her double purchases is OK ? It is kind of funny and to be fair, they are  probably so in synch with each other it’s goes unnoticed in their day to day. I don’t think they wake up and plan to be carbon copies. Even the rich and famous get in on it. Who can remember the leather clad Posh and Beck’s ? Even Wills and Kate, bless them, have been known to double up on the country, rabbit hopping, wax jacket ensemble. Still future King and Queen aside, it’s a little creepy don’t you think ?

Which is why, way before I pushed out a baby I promised myself faithfully to never, NEVER ever, lose the essence of me in the singular. I wrote a list on the subject to endorse it.

My promise to me -  to keep my hippy and happy with the occasional designer tag sense of style.  And definitely , absolutely, will NOT be the  parent in the pair who A ) digs outs matching baby and mummy outfits B) allows herself to be called Mummy…….by her husband.

And yet here I find myself three years into mummydom  responding without a thought to my husbands question of ” Have you seen my I phone  Mummy ? “

OMG.

OMG.

OMG.

So how in hell did this morph of me and him to permanent parent status happen ?

And worse still. I can barely admit it….. I call him Daddy.

Yuk.

Just reading this back is making me PUKE.

I might as well admit it. We do it in public too…..

To be fair to us, we have contained it to only when Miss 3 is in earshot….I think. But still, its super cheese with extra mozzarella. It’s a big NO, NO – yes ?

My own parents did it of course. my main reason for the opposition. To the point that somewhere in my teenage years when mum finally, in a fit of rage one day ( I think Dad left the milk out or something)  referred to our Daddy as “Terry”  It totally threw me for a nano second.

Who the hell was Terry ?

Oh right….  Dad’s real name ? Who knew……

So yeah, I find myself in a conundrum with this one. I just cannot help myself and it seems neither can he. I desperately need and want to return to the days of “darling” or “sweetheart” but alas, for now, in this re invented life of two becomes three there is a new norm.

Still it’s not a big deal I suppose. It could be a whole lot worse…… that reminds me. I have to go now and check some recent new wardrobe purchases. I’ve got a horrible feeling about something………

Coffee Pig and Proud.

imageTwo cups of coffee. Ok, so one cup is a slightly bigger cup than the other – this is true. But really ? Does it matter that one of us gets an extra gulp or two from that first morning hit. Does it permit a comment, let alone a guilt trip as I place down his “Dad and proud” mug bedside and sheepishly protect my oversized bowl as I scuttle back under the covers. I mean it is mine after all. The words “Worlds greatest wife” confirm this…..AND I was the hero that got up to make it. This counts for something surely ? I am entitled to it by default.
It is inevitable he notices as I snuggle back down and cup slurp with both hands.
What ? I say, turning to face him – as if I don’t already know.
It is a ground-hog day ritual in our house and one I refuse to give into. One day I might be kind to him – surprise him on his birthday perhaps. Or maybe not…….after all he could always baton the morning barista duties and use a 3 litre jug to cypher it in whilst I tippled from a thimble.
I know this will never happen.
I will rile him to eternity instead.