This is the hardest letter I’ve had to write. But so much has happened recently and I can’t keep stringing you along. I have to be honest with you, and true to myself. I’m sorry, gin. But it’s over. I’m in love with rum.
There! I’ve said it out loud. It’s going to be devastating for you, but I know you’ll get over it eventually. So much has changed here – the unicorn died, the flying monkeys were stolen, there was a surfeit of spaff – and it was kind of inevitable that you’d slide out of favour, wasn’t it? After all, one can’t align oneself with just one hard liquor for the rest of one’s life, can one?
Now, c’mon, don’t cry. I’ll always enjoy gin and tonic. It’s just… well… rum is so different, innit. Exotic. Spicy. A little bit dirty. It’s what PIRATES drink. And you know pirates are cool, yeah? Especially space pirates. Space pirates with giant lasers. And everyone knows THEY don’t drink gin. No way no how.
People change, the world moves on – you’ll find someone else. Indeed, I hear quite frequently about your myriad of lovers. I never felt like we were exclusive, gin. And that’s not good enough for me, d’y'hear? NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I demand to be treated with a bit more respect. Frankly, you can take your tonic and fark off, till you’ve sorted yourself out and considered the results of your loose ways. Shame on you. Shame.
Anyway. This is not over. You know I’ll keep coming back to you on the odd occasion, desperate for a remembrance of quenching juniper lushness. But this is MY fling, my mid-life crisis. I want a spirit with a bit more, erm, spirit. Rum has promised to transport me to sunnier, sweatier climates. It makes me wanna dance to a calypso rhythm, and feel sand between my toes, and have sex underneath a palm tree. Or something. Maybe I’ll just get pissed quicker.
So this is it. Farewell, gin. Take care. Look after yourself. Work on that image of yours, though, really, I don’t think anything will top space pirates.
So, in a little over 24 hours time, I’ll be in London for that blog-tastic gin-soaked hoopla-a-go-go funfest that is BritMums Live. I’ve not packed yet, which is increasingly worrying me, but I know my style: frenzied, last-minute and slapdash, baby. Just like all things in life. My beauty regime, housework, cooking. Oh yeah. Even the shmexy time.
Anyway, BritMums! WAHOO! LONDON BABY! etc etc. Erm, there’s just one snag. I’m not, um, taking you with me. Nope.
Now don’t cry. It’s undignified. You’ve got some snot dribbling down your lip. Jeezus. Rein it in. Calm. Lemme explain. I’ve decided to not take my laptop cos a) I’ll lose it, or b) I’ll break it, or c) I’ll sell it for cash so I can actually eat while I’m in London. And ALL of those things would be bad. Y’see?
I want to be able to come back and blog afterwards. And, to be honest, I think some offline time would be good for me. Checking emails and blazing a trail on Twitter and blogging ferociously and messaging and Skyping and Facebooking and
searching for some decent porn all the time can make one feel slightly otherworldly. Spending a good deal of your existence plugged online messes with your brains. Fact. Scientific doctors have PROVED that, in labs. And by labs, I mean laboratories, not Labradors. That’s a whole other scientific experiment. Innit.
It’s only for a few days. I’ll be back after the weekend. Heck, I may even blog tonight. And I’ll have my phone, so if you REALLY miss me, I can send the odd comforting Tweet out into the ether for y’all to slaver over.
So if you wonder why I haven’t pinged into your inbox (ooer) for a few days, that’s why. I am offline. And knocking back gin chasers with some of the best in the blogging world. WAHOOOOOOOO
*disappears in a puff of smoke*
We’re going on a gin hunt
We’re going to find a big bottle
What a beautiful day!
We’re not scared.
Uh-uh! Empty purse!
No money here.
We can’t just steal it.
We can’t just borrow it.
Oh no! We’ll have to use the debit card!
Overdraft, overdraft, overdraft!
We’re going on a gin hunt… etc
Uh-uh! A busy supermarket!
Too many people.
We can’t elbow past them.
We can’t shout at them.
Oh no! We’ll have to glare evilly at them instead!
Stabby stabby, stabby stabby, stabby stabby!
We’re going on a gin hunt… etc
Uh-uh! A stroppy child!
Having a tantrum.
We can’t just leave them.
We can’t just ignore them.
Oh no! We’ll have to bribe them with biscuits!
Crunch munch, crunch munch, peace and quiet!
We’re going on a gin hunt… etc
Uh-uh! The drinks aisle!
So much gin.
We can’t choose just one.
We CAN’T CHOOSE JUST ONE.
Oh no! We’ll have to choose them all!
Clink clink, clink clink, clink clink!
A cool, clear liquid. A smell of fragrant juniper. A tickling, delightful fizz…
Quick! To the cash register! Run run run!
Pay for the gin! What’s my farking PIN?
Out of the supermarket! Must get home!
Get into the house! Is it nap time?
Get a glass.
Get some ice.
Get some tonic.
Pour some gin.
Pour a bit more gin.
Pour a bit more farking gin.
Collapse on the floor.
Drink the gin.
We’re not going on a gin hunt again. No, wait, we are. Once this bottle is finished.
Inspired by We’re Going On A Bear Hunt written by the great Michael Rosen, which I have had to read to Moo 340 million times this week. I think I hate it now.
A mantra is a sound, syllable, word, or group of words that is considered capable of ‘creating transformation’ – innit. That is what Wiki-wiki-wakka-pedia says anyways. And we ALL KNOW whatever Wikipedia says is TRUE and IMMOVABLE.
So when I was tagged in a new meme by the high priestess of gorgeousness Melksham Mum called The Voice Within, it made me stop and think about what my mantras might be. The meme asks us to reveal ten things we say to ourselves every day. Ten things, that, with any luck, with repetition, will CREATE SOME FARKING TRANSFORMATION. Mahaha! Not bloody likely.
Yeah I am so street. I am streeter than YOU. And how do I know this? Because I say ‘innit though’ at the end of EVERYTHING I SAY. Like a mook. Like a street mook. A street mook hanging out on the street. Wassup, blud? Innit though.
This TOTALLY NEGATES any street cred I may have instilled from the previous paragraph. It is necessary, however, as my daughter has decided climbing on shizzle is the bestest thing ever. So I inevitably find myself chanting ‘Steady teddy’ as she teeters towards some precipice with undisguised glee in her eyes. The crazy bastard child.
Can I blog about that?
The ultimate question. And the answer is always ‘yes’.
This can be issued as a demand, an instruction, a question and a general statement of fact. I utter it almost hourly.
No, no, no, no, no, no
Also chanted at my daughter on numerous and various occasions. This will HONESTLY BE the first word/phrase she will parrot back at me. Unless that’s ‘fark off innit though’.
I don’t really swear a lot. Really. At all, really. I mean, I obvs swear a lot here. But in real life? Nah. Not one bit. Rarely. Ever. Except for… oh. And, um. But I don’t really swear. Not every day. Not EVERY DAY. Not like a mantra. Oh.
You bastard cunting motherfarking noob of a mook of a bastard
That’s not SWEARING per se. Just a rather EXPRESSIVE form of expletive. It’s almost creative, so should be allowed.
OK I’m running out of actual phrases now. But I laugh every day: at Moo, at pigeons with gammy legs, at myself when I write funny stuff, at the recent discovery that SAHDandproud used to be a competitive disco dancer, and at the unfairness and futility of life as we know it. And when I laugh, I always think of ‘mahahahahahahahahahaha’ coming out of my mouth. It’s like a thing. I write ‘mahahaha’ in tweets, texts etc. It’s MY thing. So therefore should be included.
I love you
If anything, this meme has taught me that my daily vocabulary is limited and mostly negative. So thanks for that. Of course, I purposely left out any technical unicorn grooming terms, and magical voodoo phrases that I utilise when I’m hexing people. Not everyone can handle that shit.
I think I’m s’posed to tag some other people now, but in the spirit of my previous form with memes, I’m not gunna. If you feel sufficiently tickled by my fancy then by all means, go for it. And good luck. Innit though.
Sugar. The white stuff. The devilish, dastardly, bastard sweet white stuff. I can’t get enough. I love it. I’m addicted. I knock it back in shots. I smoke it in roll-ups. I inject it straight into my veins. I’m hooked up to an IV of the stuff right now. I rub it on my teeth to get that sugary hit. I even snorted it once, but that melted my septum and now my face has collapsed.
I exaggerate. But yeah. Sugar. Farking evil buggering shite. Where did it come from? Is there such thing as a sugar tree? A sugar bush? Actually, sugar bush would make a good stripper’s name. Sweet and hairy. Sticky and tickling. I’m rambling. I’m rambling in a nonsensical manner cos I’ve had some sugar contained within some biscuits and it’s befuddling my brain cells. This is what sugar is doing to me: it makes me talk arse. It rots my already fragile and decaying teeth. It makes my skin so sensitive that if I am scratched my flesh goes all red and warm and bumpy, like I have the Red Warm Bumpy Plague or something. It clunges up my scalp and makes it go all flaky and weird. It makes me use words like ‘clunges’ which aren’t real but kind of are. Sugar is nefarious.
‘Give it up!’ I hear you cry. ‘Just cut sugar out of your diet! It’s really easy to do that. And you’ll feel so much better. Your skin will unclunge itself.’
Yeah yeah, smart-arses. ‘Unclunge’ is so not a word. And, seriously? Sugar. What the actual fark? It’s in EVERYTHING. Even bread. And bread is savoury. I swear I saw sugar listed on the ingredients of some hummus. Bastard hummus makers. It would not be a simple thing to remove sugar from my diet. My diet consists of: biscuits, bread, chocolate, and fruit. Except for the fruit. Which is SUGAR anyway, just a fancy form of it with a scientific name. Wait – WAIT A FARKING MINUTE – is there sugar in GIN??
People who don’t eat sugar are weirdos anyway. They are usually the ones who don’t let their kids eat cake, or play with toys made out of plastic. But maybe they have a point. Maybe they know something we don’t – maybe the sugarless freaks will smugly inherit the earth, and live in yurts and wear hessian robes, while all the sugar addicts dissolve into a gargantuan puddle of sticky viscous flesh. I am getting slightly paranoid now. This is also a side-effect of sugar consumption.
OK so I need to cut down on the sugar. I need motivation. Determination. Self-control. And for someone to remove all the sugary stuff left in the house before I hoover it all up through my nose like a desperate starving addicted sugar-obsessed hobo.
My nutritional health is in the balance. How can I cut the crap?
And – seriously – is there sugar in gin? Cos I am in real trouble if there is. *frets*
I’m going to BritMums Live! My ticket is purchased. My hotel room is reserved. I have pursued and snared an unwitting bedfellow – the lusciously curly-haired goddess Melksham Mum – and once I get over the idea that June is farking MONTHS away, I will start the preparations necessary for such an exciting and magnificent event! (I have to shave. All over. I’m like a cavewoman. And I heard there’s obligatory bikini-wearing to these things, right? *sucks in stomach* *fails* )
To make the task of turning up and introducing yourself to a room full of thousands of bloggers all wearing bikinis a bit easier on the old nerves, the blogger Claire Louise at A Boy With Asperger’s set up this marvellous meme thing which I was tagged on by Mummy Pink Wellies. Thanks for that, missus. Now I can check out exactly who I want to meet, who I’d like to lick, who I will take home with me, and who looks like they’re best avoided. Hoopla!
All I have to do is answer some questions and link up. I can answer questions. I’m renowned for it, in fact. My middle name is Answering Questions. (It’s not).
What’s your blog title/URL and how long have you been blogging?
Hello my name is motherventing. My URL is http://motherventing.wordpress.com. I don’t even really know what a URL is. When I see the word URL, in my head, I say ‘Uuuuuurrrrrllll’ to myself. I have been blogging for a year.
Will BritMums Live be your first blogging conference?
Sort of. Ish. I went to a Blog Camp last year. It was not an overnighter though. And I did not lick anyone.
Did you bag yourself a sponsor?
No. I am holding out for a major gin manufacturer to see the light, do the right thing, and give me lots of free gin. I can definitely be a promoter of gin. And unicorns. Am also waiting for unicorn manufacturers to get in touch.
Are you attending both days?
Yes. They won’t be able to get rid of me. You’ll have to prise me off.
What are you most looking forward to about the conference?
Getting drunk and licking people. The free stuff. Playing hide and seek in the hotel.
Are you wearing branded clothing? (i.e. your sponsor’s brand)
What is your planned style for this event?
To look better than anybody else there, which is highly unlikely, cos I Am Wit Wit Woo is going and she’s a fox. And also, I can’t wear my tartan cape in June. Tartan bikini?
Are you hoping to be nominated for a BIB award?
If so, what category?
It will be a TRAVESTY OF JUSTICE if I don’t win an award in the Tasty! category for all my awesome cooking posts. I really really REALLY want to win that one. Or the Dad Blogger one.
Will you be looking to network with brands?
I think you’ll find they’ll be looking to network with me.
What do you hope to walk away with having gained from the conference?
Anything but syphilis.
Will you be dressing up in the toilets for the Friday night BIBs?
What, change bikini? I s’pose so, my day bikini is not that glitzy.
Are you speaking at the conference? If so, when, where, and how do you feel about doing so?
I’ll be speaking at some points quite regularly during the two days, to lots of people and at some volume, I expect. I feel OK about it, I tend to speak to people every day.
Will you be joining in the early morning bloggercise on Saturday?
*hysterical laughter* *wipes eyes*
What speakers are you most looking forward to listening to?
I’ve heard Michelle Obama is going. She’ll be there, right? In her bikini? No? The Queen, then. Wait – the Queen’s not going either??
What workshops will you be attending on the Friday?
I have not decided yet. Maybe Unicorn Spinning. Or Kitten Stamping for beginners.
What workshops held on the Saturday have grabbed your attention?
I may be too hungover from Friday to attend any, but am determined to go to the Dad Blogger’s one and heckle the fit dad bloggers.
Are you booked into a hotel for Friday night? If so, which one?
I am staying at the Hoxton Hotel, baby! All welcome back to my room. But I am NOT sharing Melksham Mum. She’s mine.
Will you be looking for after party drinks?
Are you worried about not knowing anyone or being confident and socialising on the day?
Absolutely terrified. I am so shy and retiring.
What are you most likely to be found doing while attending BritMums Live?
Licking fit dad bloggers and drinking all the gin.
I think you’ll all agree my answer are exemplary and now everyone is desperate to meet me. It’s fine. I won’t disappoint. As long as I get to lick people, talk to bloggers in bikinis and drink copious amounts of gin, it’ll be a blast.
Fancy doing the meme? Knock yourself out. And see you at BritMums Live.
And so, it was on the 20th of January 2012, which was a Friday, and it was a good day, that Friday, that some people, collectively known as Bloggers, did gather together, and they did drink, and chat, and verily, they did join (unbeknownst to them) the Cult of Venting.
Praise the Venting!
Sing Hallelujah and buy me gin! I did travel far, and long, and came upon The London, and was met by an acolyte with the eyes of dazzling blue that did not seem OF THIS WORLD, which was how I knew he was SPECIAL and PROBABLY MOST LIKELY to be SAHDandproud, sent to collect me and transport me under the ground to my hallowed destination. Sure, there was a brief moment when he did not seem to know the way, and I worried that I would be bundled into a blacked-out van and trafficked to Russia and forced at gunpoint to marry an oligarch called Vladimir and remain forever his British bargain bride, but SAHDandproud is a noble man and true, and didn’t traffic me, and actually just got a bit lost.
And yea, we did descend upon the Grace bar in Soho in The London, where there were more acolytes awaiting the presence of Venting, and yea, they were A Mummy Too, who looked ridiculously gorgeous and awake and sane despite giving birth to a baby 13 weeks ago, and Richmond Mummy, who was beautiful and glamorous and had a nice necklace which Venting did covet (coveting is allowed in the Cult of Venting).
And Venting did sit upon her black, carved throne within the private room of the Grace bar in Soho in The London, and await the arrival of the remaining disciples. There was South of the River Mum, and Not A Notting Hill Mum, both valiant ladies, and Romanian Mum, who did endure the Venting’s attempts at rudimentary Romanian with grace and good cheer. The Cult of Venting did also welcome From Fun To Mum within its bosom, who brought sparkle and light and Italian va-va-voom to the chamber.
Then the peaceful atmosphere and gentle chanting was shattered by the entrance of Mammasaurus and Actually Mummy, and there was some honking to be done, and much touching of breasts, which is usual, and indeed, expected within the Cult, and to be impressed upon any new and eager member. Anyone interested in receiving religious honking instruction should contact Mammasaurus, who is the High Priestess of Honk and most well-versed in the quality honkage.
By now the Venting was hungry and wanted cheese. Some tardy members of the Cult did finally arrive and bestow gifts of bosomy cuddles upon the Venting. There was Just Above Average Mummy and Ministry of Mum, who are equally adorable and awesome people, and worthy of much praise from all of us, and Venting did love them verily. Hallelujah!
Then we did eat, and imbibe, and chat raucously, and eat ice cream lasciviously, and fellate some Belgian waffle. There was laughter, foot stamping, eating of meat, sliding of doors, mass debating, anecdotal tomfoolery, more gin, physical acts of affection, leave-takings, further imbibings, and then trains had to be caught so we exited our sacred chamber and went forth into London and attempted some spaffing by the statue of Eros. Oh no wait, that was within Venting’s fevered imaginations.
Suffice to say and without any further ado, the Cult of Venting is well and truly open. The Cult empowers women and promotes gin-based commandments, which shall be revealed, written in stone, atop a mountain, after a great storm and parting of muff. Hallelujah, amen and all that stuff.
And the great Venting did say, ‘Innit’, and her will was done. Innit.
So yes, we all had a really nice time and I met some fab people, who I sincerely hope will be friends for life. I’m looking at YOU when I say that.
Roll on the next gathering! Hoopla!
That’s what the TV show is called, isn’t it?
Ah well, it’s SOMETHING along those lines, I’m sure. I don’t watch it. I liked Ant and Dec when they did SMTV with Cat Deeley, but then it all went horribly wrong, and Cat moved to America to be skinny and A&D are trapped in a jungle somewhere eating testicles. Yeah?
But THIS is a new meme doing the rounds. I have NO IDEA who started it now, but I’ve been tagged by the delightful We Love Peas and the supery-dupery New Mum Online. To both of whom I am eternally grateful.
What the dickens do I have to do? I have to:
Answer the ten questions and consider the mission.
Tag a blogger or two to do the same.
And then return to the original blog and tell them you’ve gone and done it, innit.
Not an Ant or a Dec in sight. Phew.
1. What is the one thing about being a parent that makes you scream, ‘GET ME OUT OF HERE!’
Oh man, kids are so SELFISH. I have to, like, buy food and clothes for Moo, when I want to buy that stuff for myself! It’s so unfair. AND she eats all my cake. Dammit.
2. What skills, if any, do you have that would be useful in the jungle?
I can wrestle lions rather effectively.
3. How are you likely to annoy people if you were stuck with them for three weeks?
Probably by attracting lions into the camp for the purposes of wrestling.
4. What is the worst thing you have ever eaten?
A two pence coin. A marble. The rubber of the end of a pencil that went up my nose first.
5. What luxury item would you take into the jungle with you?
6. What is the most daring thing you have ever done?
Naked kick-boxing on top of Mount Everest. Whilst wrestling lions.
7. Who would you miss most if you went into the jungle with a bunch of strangers?
No one. I would be in the zone, man.
8. What celebrity, alive or dead, would you like to have with you in the jungle?
Mammasaurus. She would totally wrestle lions with me. Naked.
9. What would scare you about being in the jungle?
No gin in my hotel mini-bar.
10. After leaving the jungle, you go to a luxury hotel. What’s the first thing you do?
Find the gin.
The mission – should I choose to accept it – is to tell everyone why the person/s who tagged you is a star. Ahem – I don’t know either of my taggers particularly well, but they both give good tweets and their respective blogs seem jolly good fun as well. Huzzah for them! Huzzah!
I am going to tag:
Purple Mum, and
…for they are both splendiferous and magnifico, and I bet they will answer these questions a modicum of sincerity and seriousness. Unlike me. Cough.
In my capacity as a Parent Of Excellence, I wanted to share the secrets of my astounding success with you desperate plebs in regards to the method of getting your child to sleep at nighttime. I know. I’m generous to a fault. Please, you can thank me later.
First, a brief questionnaire to see if you are ready to become a Parent Of Excellence.
When you see this picture:
Do you – a) Want to pick the child up and soothe it?
b) Want to pick the child up and throw it out of the window?
c) Want to scream, ‘Shit!’ and run for the hills?
If you answered b) or c), then congratulations, you are already on the journey to join me in Excellence. Here’s hoping my expert and well-practised advice will give you just that extra nudge you need on your way.
The Bedtime Routine
So here’s what you do. And bear in mind, this is the ONLY routine you’ll ever need! It’s simple – the trick to this routine is, there IS NO ROUTINE. That’s right, you read that correctly. There is no routine. Instead, flout convention by regularly changing what you do with the baby each evening until the little darling doesn’t know whether they’re coming or going! The confusion will be enough to transport them into a sleepy mood. Gave them a bath the previous evening? They don’t need another one, do they? How dirty do babies get, seriously? No, forsake the bath and make them watch Hollyoaks with you instead. Then you don’t miss your favourite teen soap and the baby is educated at the same time, and won’t even need a bedtime story. Win.
When You Go to Bed
Now this is the tricky part. I totally advocate sleeping in the same room as your baby, it means when they cry in the night they’ll hear you shouting ‘Shut the fuck up!’ at them, whereas this may not be the case if you’re in a different room. When you’ve finished that third bottle of gin and there’s no Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food left in the house, it’s definitely bedtime for you, so my advice is to creep upstairs, quickly brush your teeth, and then creep into your room, where the baby will no doubt be restless and snuffling in their cot. Now if the baby wakes and sits up and sees you, it’s always best to say, ‘Hello, baby, hello my ducky wucky’ rather than just shushing it or ignoring it, because then the child knows that you love it and want to cuddle it, even though it’s the middle of the night. If the baby is soundly asleep and you still want to cuddle it, the best way to achieve this is to stub your toe on something and loudly say, ‘Shit fuck ow ow ow’ whilst hopping up and down and falling over things. Then when baby is awake, you can cuddle it and move onto the next step.
Bringing Baby into Bed With You
Ah, now this little practice is something I like to call ‘baby-wrestling’ and it is certainly popular in my household. Once the baby is in bed with you (and I definitely recommend having a single bed, it makes the baby-wrestling that bit more thrilling and dangerous) then there are several methods you can apply to ensure it goes back to sleep. Baby-wrestling is the most popular and effective. Basically it involves 3 simple moves:
- holding the baby’s arms down so it doesn’t flail around
- holding the baby’s legs down, ditto
- holding the baby close to your own body, pinioning arms AND legs at the same time
Now, babies can be wriggly little bastards, so I really suggest a tight grip here, and watch those heads – they’ll try anything to escape, and might even head butt you in the attempt! Bless them. I find it also helps to try shushing them at this point, rather than actually talking to them, and if you can get an edge of hysterical desperation in your voice as well, even better.
NOTE: If by this point, the baby seems wide awake and keen to play, may I suggest you indulge it. Keeping a bottle of gin under the cot is a good way of coping here.
Early Morning Manoeuvres
I’m assuming that the baby-wrestling has worked and your baby has finally fallen asleep gently cuddled up to you. By now you’ve realised that the baby is resting on your arm and in about 2 minutes time that arm will be full of pins and needles and completely unbearable. You have two options: a) suck it up, and lie awake till 6am – who needs two arms, anyway, or b) move the baby off your arm, waking it up in the process. Well, if you opt for b), there is something you can do: having slid the baby from your aching arm, find the most inconvenient position you can for the baby, which is also the most comfortable for it, and leave it there – guaranteed it will not wake up and what’s more, sleep the whole night through. This generally means the baby sleeping at right angles to you, so it’s feet are either in your ribs or your face, and if it moves at all, you get kicked and battered. Ease this minor incovenience by moving yourself to the edge of the bed, and try to get some sleep balanced on a sliver of mattress, while the baby snores away peacefully in the majority of the bed. Result.
By now, you’ll be worshipping my name in purpose-built shrines across the country, but there are still some sticky little issues to clear up, which I am more than happy to help with. These are the most troublesome, I find:
1) once assigned to your sliver of mattress, you are in totally the wrong place for the alarm clock light to shine in your eyes. The answer? Throw your pillow at it so it falls to the floor. If you’re lucky, the pillow will also drop ON it and absorb any residual light.
2) the baby wakes at the crack of dawn and wants to play. Now, conventional wisdom would suggest getting blackout blinds but I find these tend to work TOO well and we don’t get up till 3 in the afternoon. Instead, what I like to do is completely call the baby’s bluff, get up, take it downstairs, turn the TV on and bore it back to sleep with the breakfast news, which just plays on a loop until about 9am.
3) the baby is crying and won’t stop. Oh, I’ve heard all about ‘controlled crying’ but this seems a little unnecessary and cruel to me. What I like to do is, once I hear the baby crying on the monitor, switch it off and go down the pub. Invariably by the time I get back, I can’t hear any crying, and I’ve saved battery power on the monitor, too. Success!
Final Words of Wisdom
Really, people, it needn’t be so hard getting your child to sleep at bedtime. Just follow my advice and soon you’ll be laughing at all the other mums and dads who are still traipsing up and down the stairs each evening as their child whimpers and squawks from the comfort of their rooms. And if all else fails, there’s always earplugs. And gin.
Go on. You can thank me now.