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Possibly the smuggest group of people ever?
They really irritate
my sister didn't brag about her kids for years, until they reached 7 and 11. Now I can't frigging stop her. EVER.
can't stop frigging her.
how about that may woman in eastenders eh? she's all crazy cos dawn won't give her her baby.
god, eastenders is shit.
they practically breathe Smug.
five more years to go then.
why do all new mums and dads just look either really depressed or really smug? They walk around with their little babies in front-pouch things( i dunno what theyre called, but think a backwards rucksack with a baby in it)
its annoying as hell
and they're great
theres a young mum at my work, and she said to be the other day, 'my child is a genius, he can speak three languages and he's only 5', i said 'really, thats quite impressive', she goes, 'yeh i know he can count from 1-5 in english, french and spanish'
not really 'speaking three languages' is it?
demand she gives you the fucker's IQ test results in writing. That'll shut her up.
the mother also said to me that jesus' father was called mufasa.
i had to explain jesus' dad = God, or excusably joseph, simba's dad = mufasa.
Its a good film, but not really on a "savior" level.
i went to a small child's birthday party a while ago...and wrote this afterwards as I was so traumatised, I think it sums up that horrible new motherness...enjoy or slag off, whatever (it's not meant to be great writing before anyone slags it off in that way, it's just a stylized diary entry)! (also nb, names changed etc):
I've experienced extreme social discomfort. And funnily enough, two of the most prominent occasions in my mind took place at the past two birthday parties of the little girl I used to babysit for. When she turned three, her ever-so-"yummy" mummy hosted a rather snazzy party at a local beach bar, where despite the initial fairy-tale nature of the party, we all descended into hideous drunken monsters, singing karaoke on Annie's new toy (not me), and telling the girlfriend of a crush extraordinaire whose band just happened to be playing there that same night that in fact, yes, I was in love with him, and, whilst apparently playfully slapping her, that it would all be "fiiiine" (guilty).
Last weekend, Annie reached the grand old age of four (going on fourteen), and celebrated with her new baby sister, and a garden-ful of specimens of parent equally delectable to her own, complete with seemingly graceful (but ultimately savage) little princesses. Upon arriving, it became clear that this wouldn't be quite the raucous event it was last year, if only not to disturb the five identical newborns gracing the party with their jaundiced presence (upon asking if it might be possible to take the wrong spawn home by accident, my question was met with a haughty, "well, I personally think that Coralie has a very distinctive look". I didn't think it was the time to point that she looked like a baked bean).
Naturally, the inclusion of the sproglets invoked much public breast-feeding and overly graphic discussion of birth. Whilst I am by no means a prude or a lesbian, the protrusion of five breasts at once caused a slight dilemma in quite where to look – would it be better to attempt to face my friend, or try and engage with a new lactating acquaintance? The desire to have a child of my own revealed itself for the first time that day, even if only to avoid accidentally staring into space in the exact direction of a half-topless woman. The best solution, I decided, was to leave the room altogether to graze on the olives and chorizo intended for the children. In light of a recent story of a young dad being berated on the bus for feeding his son an organic ricecake, I thought it best not to mention how "in my day" (only 13 years previously), we'd feasted on jelly and sausage rolls with the kind of wanton abandon that preceded the all-new size 00. However, leaving the room led to a torturous encounter with the new babysitter.
Worse than a yummy post-birth mummy togged up in Biba (having rediscovered her pre-pregnancy shape within seconds of giving birth) drinking organic Chardonnay, this woman had fashion sense which, unlike her clothing size, existed in the minus numbers, and had an unfortunate habit of barking at you with fag-end breath from only two inches away. And unlike your usual fridge-hogging, telephone-bill abusing teen, this babysitter was around 40, with "extensive experience of caring for children". I could tell you her entire life career, but like me, you might end up attempting to accidentally-on-purpose choke yourself with a slightly over-stringy slice of chorizo.
Contrary to the insistence of certain psychologists, I've never come under pressure from other people my age to have kids or pursue relationships further than I'd normally want to. Along with a lifelong career in childcare, that seemed to be the babysitter's job, along with making me feel like a complete imbecile when it came to looking after Annie – I'll have you know that more than once have I had to pick up a proudly-presented poo and return it to its rightful home.
"I've been told you're the person to speak to about my new job." Aha, the patronising "I'll lend you some temporary respect, but you're on your way down" conversation-opener. Thinking I'd be doing her a favour by telling her the truth about Annie's faecal obsession and extremely devious (yet highly intelligent) nature when it came to bedtime, my claims were met with, "never! She's been a perfect sweetheart to me – in bed by eight with no silliness whatsoever!" I never thought that three years of painful bedtime stories and endless episodes of Dora the sodding Explorer could be so heartlessly dismissed. For all the worldly intelligence this woman seemed to display, the fact that the majority (and I accept that it might be a shrinking majority) of 17 year olds don't have babies seemed to have passed her by.
"Do you know the best way to deal with your baby when it wakes up at 5am?" Flabbergasted at the question, I replied no. "Well, ifhewakesupthenIgivehimadrinkandifhe'sbeenawakealongtimethenI'llmakehimsomecerealtoobutyoushouldknowthatyouneverevertalktothembeforesevenoclock.I'llgetupsortthemoutbutIrefusetotalktothemuntilsevenambutthenI'mtheirbestfriendIam."
After mumbling something about giving it a try tomorrow, I began looking for an escape plan. Should I drink some more champagne, stick out my stomach and feign early contractions? Or go and alert the other mothers to the fact that their little fairy queens were ever-so gracefully peeing in the garden, led by the example of queen bee Annie?
Alas, any hope of escape was quickly quashed by the babysitter launching into another tale of midwifery. Masking my face with a glazed look and setting my response mechanisms to autopilot, I let conversation about terminally ill children slowly wash over me until I caught the end of a sentence – "you know as midwives, we care for all sorts of children, don't we?" WE?! Ok, a teenage mother, entirely possible, but somehow I doubt that there are any teenage midwives in Britain. What was this woman's obsession with imbuing me with responsibilities for children, whether my own or the thousands which I've clearly cared for in my long and successful career as a midwife? The desire to scream, "I DON'T HAVE ANY CHILDREN" loomed in my mind, but the maternal urge forced upon me by the various other mothers reared its ugly head again to answer with a defeated, "Yes, we do."
I finally managed to excuse myself to go to the toilet, and then seize some more alcohol to drown myself in lest any more talk of McRoberts' births. After watching the birthday girl rip through homemade wrapping paper with all the wild enthusiasm of Colleen Rooney looking for the latest Balenciaga, I decided it was time to take my imaginary baby home.
Anyway, I probably shouldn't complain so much – my discomfort seems to pale in comparison to that of the mother who underwent a 14-hour breach birth with no drugs (they can affect your baby's score in the AGPAR you know? – funnily enough, no I didn't). Pass the sausage rolls.
little girls are the WORST.
I hope I have boys. I know that karma will get me back big time otherwise.
So either you're lying or I'm god.
I know which option I prefer.
I'll go and destroy the shrine now. I think we'd have beautiful cowboy hat wearing children.
but it was a good one! :D
They're just happy and proud !
It isn't a problem...
they're generally quite bored and insecure. Hence needing to tell the world how wonderful their children are.
Their children will be artists, rock stars, NASA scientists, and make up for the utterly bland and meaningless lives they feel they've been subjected to so far.
I just get a glazed look in my eye and start conversations with other people when this happens. It's the best deterrent.
the people I cant stand are the people who seem to have children as a hobby.
I.e they like to research it, buy all the stuff to go with it, join a group to talk about it, and on top of that, there are some mums that seem to think they gave birth due to immaculate conception.
Pretty much the worst video ever
Nice enough song though
brides-to-be are worse. especially at hen parties.
the later sounds like an ancient egyptian themed yoghurt. which might contain sand.
New mums are annoying, there's loads of them at work, it's like a new toy, once one has one they all want one it seems..