There have always been bullies on the playground and mean girls lurking in the school washroom. Their presence on the internet was inevitable—it's a more convenient place to beat up the nerd, shame the slut, and humiliate the chubby kid.
To understand that my daughter will likely never become a mother guts me. So I try not to think about it. But it’s hard to ignore the facts when your kid is patting your neighbour’s pregnant belly saying, “Dares a baby in dare? Awwwww. I can’t wait to see your baby. I’m going to have a baby too.” For weeks since my daughter found out this new baby was on the way, she’s been walking around with her rubber Dora ball tucked up inside her shirt, rubbing her tummy saying, “I’m going to be a mummy!
There are some catch phrases that start out cute and you're like, "That's so funny. I LOVE that expression. Say it again. More, more!" Until everyone jumps on the bandwagon and suddenly you're like, "Lop off my ears with a butter knife if you must, but please make it stop!"
I'm not talking about grammar gaffes like, "I seen it on the T.V." or "That's what youse guys said, supposebly." Those are unfortunate linguistic errors that don't warrant mockery. That would just be mean.
Mother Nature doesn't give a rat's ass that you're trapped indoors without wifi or TV with a pack of wrangy children. If she has rain on her agenda, that's too bad for you. I know this from experience. We spent a week last summer at a rustic family cottage and it rained four out of seven days. Thanks to sheer will and sangria, we made it through. But just barely.
This year we're heading into the wild armed with activities aplenty. So bring it on Mother Nature — we're ready for you.
Perhaps as a by-product of the hyper politically correct society we've created, the word fat has become the new "F" word. You can no longer elude to fatness in public without running the risk of being called a "Fat Shamer"—even if you're referring to yourself! I called myself "Skinny Fat" online and it ruffled some feathers.
Nowhere is the expression “the days are long, but the years are short” more fitting than when we’re talking motherhood. When I was home on mat leave with my first child, by 5pm you'd often find me with my forehead pressed against the front window, mentally willing my husband’s car to pull into the driveway. Those early days felt painfully long. But twelve years later, I long for those days, painfully.
My daughter was born to party. This playful little kid of mine is incredibly social. The crazy thing is, when she was diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder as an infant, doctors told us that in addition to the possibility that she might not walk or talk, she would almost certainly fall somewhere on the autism spectrum. I found it impossible to believe that my smiley baby would one day recede into herself, possibly preferring solitude over the company of others.
I was pretty shy growing up so it took years and plenty of practice before I felt comfortable-ish engaging in small talk. I'm horrible with names, easily distracted, and my brain-to-mouth filter is unreliable. These factors, plus my fear of awkward pauses (I over-compensate by spouting ridiculous random facts) can take small talk from "mildly awkward" to "stick an olive fork in me, I'm done" in seconds.
The original "Fun With Auto-Correct" game (totally made up and ridiculous) takes advantage of Auto-Correct’s persistent need to decide on your behalf what twisted word you were mayyyyyyybe thinking of typing.
I’m not a beauty blogger (if you could see what I’m wearing right now you’d laugh your printed leggings off). So why is Party Mummy writing about hair? Good hair can pretty much guarantee a good time. Bad hair and you’ll skulk around your next party looking for a lampshade to pop on your head.
So I'm here to share a pretty cool hair trick. Some might suggest I’m only trying to curl your hair with such a controversial topic.