Archive of ‘#OopsFiles’ category

#OopsFiles 28: Guest Blogger The Secret Life of the Baby

OopsFiles 28 featured image of surprised baby face for guest post by Secret Life of the Baby

I’m not sure we’ve had an #OopsFiles tale like this yet. Utterly hilarious and dare I say it a bit ‘Oh no she di’nt?!’ (sorry Michelle but you know what I mean!), it also has an absolutely cracking warm tingly aaaaaah factor to it. Can I also say the mastermind behind The Secret Life of the Baby has also made me realise that my erm ‘game’ [cough] wasn’t as bad as I thought it was back in the day. I may not have been as adept at landing the fellas like Samantha in Sex and the City but I don’t recall falling into any bushes either. Just sayin’.

If you want more belly laughs, you can catch up on the rest of the #OopsFiles series here.

If you feel like sharing this post on social media it would be great if you could use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you 🙂

OopsFiles 28 featured image of bush with caution sign for guest post by Secret Life of the Baby

The year was 2001. I was young, free and single – and looking to change the latter situation. And I knew who with. I had my eye on a tall, suited, dark haired fella who had caught my eye during my lunchtime wanderings around the city. Of course, I hadn’t approached him; instead I lived in hope of attracting his attention by staring at him from afar. Needless to say, my strategy, so far, had proven ineffective.

Fast forward a few weeks and I was out and about on a school night. And fair to say feeling rather ‘tired and emotional.’ Even though it wasn’t yet 7pm. Several bottles of Smirnoff Ice and numerous glasses of fizz will do that for you (the words ‘measured’ and ‘moderation’ could not be used to describe me, back in the day). And then, into my foggy vision walked a familiar face and after much squinting and peering (vanity meaning I’d left my much-needed specs at home) I realised it was the object of my admiration. Well. Here presented an opportunity.

A couple of glasses later (‘for courage’) I was feeling more confident. For ‘confident’ read ‘hammered’. In a great display of maturity, I sent my friend over to said chap to tell him that I liked him. Yep, alcohol had sent me back to the school playground. Fortunately, my friend managed to inveigle our way across to the table where the chap was sitting with his friends. Where, after a matter of seconds and in a bold/stupid move, I decided to not sit on the seat offered to me but his lap. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, aghast, to which I replied ‘Fnnnnrrrggggghhhhh.’ Still, I managed to recover (barely) enough from this epic faux pas and the evening continued until we decided to move on to another venue.

Stepping outside though, the cold hit me like an Andy Murray serve. Whoa. And the alcohol went straight to my legs. I managed to stumble along at the back of the group for a while until I met my match – a bush. I lost control of my limbs once and for all and fell completely into the prickly embrace of the foliage. If you’ve never fallen into a bush whilst drunk you may not know that it is surprisingly difficult to find your way out of all the greenery. I battled on valiantly for some time before the object of my affection came back to rescue me. ‘I wondered where you’d got to,’ he asked, bemused, shocked and confused.

It will come as no surprise to learn that our romance didn’t work out. Mainly, I think, because he thought I was insane.

That should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

Nine years later, and now living three hundred miles away, I was back in my home city for my birthday night out with my BFF. It was suitably classy, and as we walked into a pub/club renowned for being terrible, I spotted a familiar face. And he spotted me. ‘I know you, Michelle,’ he said. ‘And I know you,’ I replied as the chap from my past walked back into my life.

Within six months, I’d packed up and moved back home to a new job and to him. The following year we moved into our first home together. And then, a couple of years later, we got married before our beautiful daughter arrived. Fair to say I am significantly more moderate when it comes to vino these days.

The moral of the story is, I guess, that you can make an absolute fool of yourself – and still get the happy ending you want.

Now, the only worry I have is what on earth will I say when our girl asks ‘Mummy, how did you and Daddy meet?’

 The hilarious blog The Secret Life of the Baby is written by Baby Anon, a baby who shares her hilarious observations about the strange household she’s been born into and her thoughts on Mother and Father’s questionable attempts at parenting. It’s possible Baby Anon gets some help with the writing of said blog from mum Michelle who is a rather busy lady running another website, managing Baby Anon’s ambitions to be an author with the release of her first ever ebook AND managing Baby Anon’s Twitter profile.

*This post contains an affiliate link which basically means if you click and then buy the associated product, I earn a few pennies in commission (at no extra cost to you) to put towards my next much needed coffee or Mummy’s juice (ahem).*


#OopsFiles 27: Guest Blogger Intolerant Mum

intolerant mum oops files image of baby

Dear reader, please note that henceforth, this blog shall no longer go by the name of Absolutely Prabulous. It will be known as ‘the Blog of 24/7 Toilet Disasters’. Alright, I won’t change it but honestly, we’ve had so many cracking gems featuring hilarious toilet humour tales that I should! This story from Intolerant Mum (whose blog name I just love for its double meaning) made me blooming howl. I just thought it was perfection from start to finish and given that I live in a country where we do make good use of wetsuits and have a big summer swimming lifestyle, must thank her for the ‘wetsuit tip’!

If you want more belly laughs, you can catch up on the rest of the #OopsFiles series here.

If you feel like sharing this post on social media it would be great if you could use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you 🙂

It was an uneventful school pickup.

We made it home unscathed, no tales of best friend woes, no trips or falls and no tantrums from small boy wanting to escape the buggy. We successfully ran the gauntlet of the ice cream van who shamelessly loiters by school and we even spent an enjoyable half an hour in the park en route home. So far, so good.

Daughter hurtled inside, shouting “I need a wee!” She HATES the school toilets so tries not to use them.  They are pretty rank: picture the worst public loos you can, then just imagine small children using them largely unsupervised all day. Exactly. Daughter tells me they are smelly, nobody ever flushes and there is never any toilet roll.  You can see her point. So, the poor soul will often go all day without weeing.

Now, our downstairs bathroom has a lock on the outside, a relic from when it was in fact the understairs cupboard, before becoming a state-of-the-art teeny tiny saniflo.

Daughter is unable to open the door in time.

She pees all over the floor.

I do what any loving and understanding mother would do, which is to scream  “STOP WEEING! JUST! STOP! WEEING! Why can’t you STOP WEEING!!!”

We look at each other in horror as it cascades down her legs, hitting the  expensive wooden floor laminate in thunderous torrents.  She wees for what feels like forever. How can a seven year old child contain so much wee? Does she have a pelvic floor of steel? A bladder the size of a football? I stand watching helplessly, wondering when on earth it will stop.  A small lake is shimmering on the hall floor.

Small boy, meanwhile, runs to see what all the commotion is about.  In perfect slow motion, he glides through the enormous puddle of still steaming pee. He flails and crashes down on his back.  He is soaked, even his hair is dripping. FML, is this really happening?!!!!

By now, both kids are crying. I mop up the wee with about 26 kitchen rolls. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IT IS STILL WARM. Is this superhuman wee?  I must tell her never to wee in a wetsuit, she may boil herself alive.

Both children were immediately thrown into the bath and I toyed with the idea of   pretending it was in fact bed time. There will be no cooking tonight.


Just click on this THIS LINK and fill in boxes 1, 2 and 13. 
Super quick and easy!
(Voting closes July 2nd.)


intolerant mum logo for oops filesMy blog is about food and parenting. Clean eating, messy parenting. I am an intolerant mum of two (aged 7 and 2). Intolerant of wheat, lactose and my kids. That means I try not to eat too much wheat or dairy and, well I can’t really do a lot about the kids. Chanting “I must be more patient” and drinking wine helps a little with the child-intolerance but I think it’s essentially incurable. When not attempting to ‘eat clean’, you will find me bribing my children with chocolate and mooching in my local coffee shop where my two year old likes to breakfast upon crisps.
Follow Michelle on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and her blog Intolerant Mum 

OopsFiles 26: Not An Effing Fairytale Blog

shocked baby face featured image post by blogger not an effing fairytale If you don’t find this edition of the #OopsFiles by blogger Not An Effing Fairytale, funny, then…then…I actually have no idea how to even finish that sentence. Laugh? Sweet Mary, I nearly broke myself. I have to say (and this is not, I repeat this is NOT a complaint) the #OopsFiles actually get more and more [try to not to say ‘ridiculous’ Prabs] un-be-lievable with each edition. I’m sure I’ve said it somewhere previously in the series but you just could NOT make this stuff up!! As I’ve also no doubt said before:

Absolutely Prabulous cannot be held responsible for any weak mummy bladder issues that may occur (not sure what the male equivalent is) or abdominal injuries that are sustained, due to readers of this post laughing themselves silly.

You’re warned…

cartoon drawing of man and woman desperate for toilet

Yes. Toilets.

I will be the first to admit that I am quite a clumsy person, especially after a few drinks are involved, but the amount of unfortunate accidents I have had while traveling the world is pretty impressive and the list is growing by the year.  I fall over pretty frequently and I am also skilled in the art of falling down things.  Squat toilets in particular are my nemesis, especially when they are encased in a cubicle and I am lulled into a false sense of security that there is a wall mounted toilet in there. I back into said cubicle and whoosh; I’m knee deep in foreign urine wondering where it all went wrong.

It’s not just countries that favour squat toilets that are perilous for me; so are countries that insist on having beauty spots with no plumbing, and therefore insist on having toilets that are nothing more than a shed with a bucket in.

Visiting the lavatory while traveling is not the only everyday activity that I manage to turn into an extreme sport. Bike riding, snorkeling and even just walking have almost made me meet my maker over the years.  So, here in all their glory are a few of my stories of stupid injuries sustained while traveling:


1) Toilet injuries – mainly in China.

After the relative safety of a week in a hotel in Hong Kong and various malls and tourist attractions with their wall hung toilets, I was ill prepared for my entry into mainland China, the land of the squat toilet.

After two hours on the train from Hong Kong to Guangzhou where the toilet was broken (oh, the irony), arriving at my destination I was desperate for the loo. So I ran for it. I sprinted into the cubicle and immediately turned round to lock the door and drop my trousers…and there was nothing there bar the squat toilet. Expecting to bump into a toilet and to keep on going is not great, especially when your jeans are already around your ankles.  I ended up with one leg knee deep in the hole and the other leg stuck awkwardly underneath me.

Consequently, my first twelve hours in China were spent in a hospital, waiting for x-rays with a shoe covered in other peoples shit.  That was the worst part: The bastard before me didn’t flush.

I fell down a grand total of six toilets during the weeks I travelled China, but by far the worst one was while on a two day train journey across the vast country.  The facilities on the long distance,

Chinese trains are also squat toilets and if I can’t use the bastard things when they are stationary, how hard do you think I found it on a rickety train where the lights didn’t work?

I had to spend two days in a bunk bed, surrounded by five elderly Chinese women and an assortment of dead birds and mammals they were travelling with, nursing a swollen ankle and stinking of piss.

Other toilet related mishaps in China include pissing on myself while on the Great Wall of China. No, I wasn’t on some kind of weird and wonderful hen party, I was camping out on the wall for the night with a group of other travellers and some lovey Chinese tour guides.

I would love to say that my overriding memory of camping out on one of the great wonders of the world was falling asleep under a blanket of shooting stars, but alas, when I look back the thing that stands out most is peeing on my own leg, while drunk and trying to balancing precariously in a corner in the pitch black next to an ancient watch tower. I was balancing awkwardly after having twisted my ankle falling over while climbing up the wall whilst drinking the strongest Saki ever (don’t judge me; the locals were worse than us and were egging us on).

2) Kangaroo injuries, Queensland, Australia.

This one is fairy simple. While visiting friends in Brisbane we were having a few drinks at their local golf club, where the Kangaroos run wild. A burly Australian chap by the name of Brett took a shine to me and took me to, ahem, sink a few holes down the other end of the club in a golf buggy.

I took a swing with a golf club for the first time in my life and actually hit the ball! Unfortunately, that ball then hit a kangaroo that immediately bounded towards me with hate filled eyes. Still trying to impress me, burly Brett picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, ran towards the golf buggy, slipped over and dropped me, where I cracked my head open on the golf buggy bumper.

Meanwhile, the kangaroo of certain death was coming up fast, so do you know what burly Brett did? He left me on the floor and drove off. Thankfully, some other less cowardly people scared the kangaroo away and I lived to see another day after having my head glued back together at the local hospital. And Brett? He was most put out when I refused a date for the next evening on account of him being a complete tosser.


3) Morocco – another country, another squat toilet.

Yep, another falling down a squat toilet story. I was in Morocco, driving through the Atlas Mountains, which are obviously quite high. As we neared the top of the steep mountain road, I was over come by horrendous altitude sickness, so we had to stop at a settlement and beg to use their facilities.  By the time I’d asked in rusty French and mimed being sick and they finally knew what I was on about, I had to run into the toilet and what did I find?

There was a ****ing goat in the room. I fell over it and vomited in the squat toilet and then vomited some more when I saw and smelt what else was in the hole in the ground.

Then as I felt a tug on my back, I remembered the goat. It was eating my t-shirt.

It was at that point I thought the most ridiculous thing that has ever run through my head: “Please God, don’t let me die down a shit filled toilet being eaten by a goat”.

Cookie Kibbles is a comedy writer and stand up comic currently masquerading as a parenting, lifestyle and eff ups blogger at trying to laugh at life as it happens and hopefully, making you laugh too.
Find Cookie on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and her blog Not an Effing Fairytale

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If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


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#OopsFiles 25: “It Wasn’t Me” by Guest Mumbelievable

worried baby oopsfile usual title imageI first came across this week’s #OopsFiles guest Mumbelievable at BML16 when I spotted an Amazonian Goddess a few times throughout the day. I didn’t dare say hello which is unlike me as I’m not shy about introducing myself to strangers. But have you SEEN her?! I got back to Malta and found out during the course of a Twitter chat that she in fact knew my blog. Hilarious conversations were had. It was love at first tweet and then I started seeing her eye-catching and very clever confidence cards project on Instagram and was totally wowed by her flair and drive. That was during the boiling hot July of 2016 and I now sit here in fffffffrrrreeeeeezing January 2017 (not quite what you sign up for when you move to the Med) putting together her two #OopsFiles stories. Yep, you could call it a BOGOF edition of the #OopsFiles. Never say I don’t spoil you; well it’s Ursula spoiling you really with two very different but equally funny shenanigans. How I laughed…Ursula…what are you like?

If you feel like sharing this post on social media it would be great if you could use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you 🙂


guilty face of mumbelievableUrsula Tavender – AKA Mumbelievable – is a blogger and freelance PR from Hampshire. She set up her blog and Facebook community in 2015 to support and empower mums to rebuild their confidence and reconnect with themselves, after her own confidence took a nose-dive when she became a mum. Now on a mission to help as many women in the same position as possible, Ursula is getting ready to launch confidence workshops for mums heading back to work after having children.
Follow Ursula on FacebookTwitterInstagram  and on her blog Mumbelievable

So this is a bit of a weird one.  I got in touch with Prabs to let her know I had a definite #oopsfiles post for her back in August.  Once The Incident had happened and Prabs asked me to ping it over to her, I read the #oopfiles page (which is well worth a read as an intro to this brilliant guest series, BTW) and realised that actually, there was another – actually, far more oops-worthy – story of mine to be told.  So this is in two parts. (Bear with me; I’m hoping it’ll be worth reading to the end.)

Here’s part one; the original reason I tweeted Prabs:

Oops File 1

It’d been a run-of-the-mill trip to a playground for me and my 3yo, Xav, with two of my most awesome mum amigos and their kids.  

The kids were playing and we were routinely breaking up the standard fights over which direction the roundabout was going round.

They moved over to the climbing frame which included a set of monkey bars. At three, they’re all far too little to master them, but why would they let a little technicality like that get in the way when they have three perfectly able mummy slaves to lend their shoulders for safe crossing to the other side?

One of my friends is a super-fit, very agile (not to mention much-taller-than-me) waif-like wonder woman who handled the monkey bars with ease. Then our other friend challenged me to do the same. And here’s where the oops bit comes in.

Never one to shy away from a challenge, out came my game face.

I launched myself upwards and grasped the bars above me with one hand, but there must’ve been some grease on the next bar (ahem – I definitely did not just slip due to physical weakness and overestimation of my limits….) because before I knew it I was lying in a mangled heap on the floor in the worst pain I’ve experienced since childbirth.  I heard an audible gasp as EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE PLAYGROUND turned to see what a tit of myself had made. Trying pitifully to mask the excruciating agony and act as though I was fine…..obviously not achieving either.

The resulting injury was not pretty. Thankfully a casual trip to A&E confirmed my foot wasn’t broken (mahoosive relief….would’ve been a logistical NIGHTMARE) but the pain was horrific and my embarrassment even more palpable as I explained to the NHS why my stupidity was draining their precious resources *hangs head in shame*. I’m a prize twit who deserved to have months of limping agony. 

swollen foot

It turned out on this occasion that the kids were alright. It was the mums who needed reining in at the park.

I know….idiot.

Oops File 2:

And now for the hotly awaited (errrrr…) second oops moment.

I was a 20 year-old student, excitedly moving over to Italy for my third year of uni.

My parents had kindly agreed to fly over with me so I could steal their luggage allowance and smuggle more ripped bootleg jeans/duff chunky shoes/one shoulder tops/other cringe-worthy non-fashion items for my year abroad.

I’d merrily packed up my room at the end of the summer in the shared house I’d lived in in Reading and moved out – forgetting what I’d packed in which bags, obvs.

So I’m at the airport. Me, my mum and dad. Don’t get me wrong and all, they’re fun people but both a bit on the conservative side, love ‘em. (Well, at least they were until I got a bit older and got to know the real parentals!!)

God, my heart is racing just typing this. I will NEVER get over what happened next.

We’re going through security and my hand luggage bag – a rucksack – gets hauled into the ‘dodgy cargo’ line

And they start to look for its heinous owner who’s inevitably attempting to smuggle contraband into a foreign land.  No sweat, I thought. I’ve just neglected to remove the tweezers or nail scissors from my make-the up bag.

IF ONLY. *cringes*

I realised – too late – that the baggage scanning woman was trying to communicate with me with her eyes, like she had some sort of desperate SOS message.

She rummages through, and out pops a pair of black furry handcuffs.

At 7am. In broad daylight.

In front of a line full of travellers.

And my parents.

Right. *sweats*

I start laughing. Because this offensive item – that they presumably they thought I might use to trap the pilot in some sort of sexy coup – had been a stupid joke Secret Santa gift from my housemate the year before.

The handcuffs had been hung on a hook in my lilac student digs (I know…lilac. It was truly hideous. I even decorated that room myself….one of many catastrophic errors of student judgment). As I left the house for the last time he reminded me to take them with me as I’d left them on the wall.  He was adamant that they were a special gift and that I was to treasure them. I’d hurriedly shoved them in the rucksack and genuinely forgot they were in there.

No, I was not smuggling handcuffs to Italy in a bag of sex weapons.

She doth protest too much. Yeah, yeah.

But that’s the truth. Nothing to see here. My mum: “That’s a bit of a kinky thing to have in your hand luggage don’t you think, Ursula?”

Desperately trying to keep a straight face (I have this awful habit of smirking when I’m not guilty of something) I tell my handcuff story. In front of the entire airport security team and all the morning fliers.

I’m not sure, to this day that anyone believes me.





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#OopFiles 24: Desperate Measures by guest Maflingo


When the #OopsFiles series started, I really couldn’t have predicted the utter train-wreck like, voyeuristic, ‘you couldn’t make this up if you tried’ shenanigans that would unfold guest post after guest post.   For some reason, people are very VERY happy to send in their mortifying, excruciatingly embarrassing tales of mishap, unprompted by me.  Who am I to question that?! This week’s epic – and I mean E-P-I-C – #OopsFiles offering is by family and lifestyle blogger Jane of Maflingo who is one of my more recent blog discoveries and has a gorgeous blog full of useful DIY, interiors and household tips.  Yes, that’s code for ‘you’d never guess from her beautiful sleek blog that she’d unleash this hysterically funny tale on us all’.  Not only is it superbly written, let’s just say the phrase “I almost peed my pants laughing” was never more true.  It was also never more…erm…relevant.  (By the way, I had a similar incident when pregnant with my third child…without giving too much away for fear of causing a spoiler to my OopsFiler’s guest, just swap nappy for folding travel potty.) Right, go Jane.



Eight years ago, I was asked to be a Godmother to the daughter of a good friend of mine.

We live in Nottingham and the Christening was taking place on the south coast of England so we decided to break up the journey and booked for me, Mr T and the girls to stay in a hotel near Gloucester the night before. We slept well and woke the next day feeling refreshed and congratulating ourselves on our clever plan. We enjoyed a leisurely buffet breakfast before packing up the car ready for the next phase of our journey.


I entered the postcode of the church into the sat nav and that’s when everything started to go t*ts up!

To my horror, the Sat Nav informed me we would arrive at the church 5 minutes after the Christening started! How could I have made such a humongous miscalculation?  I couldn’t believe it. We’d spent half an hour in the restaurant having a leisurely breakfast. We even went back for seconds for goodness sakes! We read the complimentary newspaper.  We’d spent a fortune on a hotel for the night and we were still going to be late.

Plus, it wasn’t like I was invited as a guest. I was the GODMOTHER!   I could just imagine the look of distain on my friend’s mother’s face. Her intimidating grandmother would probably stab me with her hat pin.


Now, anyone who knows me will know there are two things I can’t bear

(well more than two but for the purposes of this ‘Oops file’ I’ll just pick two). Two things guaranteed to send me into a meltdown:

  1. Being late.
  2. Letting people down.

I started to panic. I could feel prickles of sweat beading on my forehead and my throat went dry.  We screeched out of the car park with a 3-hour journey ahead of us, praying we could make up some time on the way.



We’d only just joined the motorway when the traffic ground to a halt: a caravan had overturned just ahead of us.

By now my stress levels were going through the roof and when the traffic finally cleared, another 15 minutes had been added to our arrival time. I cringed at the thought of turning up late to a church filled with agitated relatives who we’d never even met.

To make matters worse, by this point I was absolutely desperate for a wee.  So desperate in fact, that every bump in the road posed a risk. I hardly dared breath. I hardly dared move. Plus, after having two kids, my pelvic floor muscles weren’t what they used to be.  As the miles and minutes ticked by, I got to the point where I just couldn’t hold on any longer. To add to our woes, I’d had to ring my friend’s husband to tell him we’d be 20 minutes late. I could tell from his voice things were already starting to get a bit tense.

Stopping was not an option.

I looked around the car frantically, trying to come up with a plan. Drinks bottle? No. Tupperware box? No. I didn’t know what to do.  That’s when I spotted my daughter’s changing bag. I hesitated. Had it really come to this?


Was I really going to wee into my daughter’s nappy. In a moving car?

Sometimes desperate times (and I really was desperate) call for desperate measures.  I swiped a nappy out of the bag as my husband looked on incredulously, (or was it enviously because at this point he was desperate for a wee too).

This wasn’t going to be an easy operation, but to make matters worse, I had other issues…In an effort to at least give the impression I’d lost some of my baby weight, I’d invested in a pair of super-tight, magic pants to suck everything in. They were practically vacuum sealed to my body and took me about fifteen minutes to get on.

I’m not talking about the briefs either, but the ones that are practically a body suit, starting just below my boobs and ending at the knee. Worse than that, I had a pair of support tights over the top of my magic pants…I know!!! I was leaving nothing to chance for this gig! No wobbly bits whatsoever!


So there I was, strapped into a car, magic pants on, support tights on, new chiffon dress on, seatbelt on, trying to attempt to wee into a nappy.

I tried discretely working my magic pants down from underneath my dress, just as we slowed to a crawl in a busy village full of pedestrians. I had to quickly retrieve my hand and pull my dress down again until we were back in the open countryside. After seemingly endless wriggled and jostling, I finally managed to peel my magic pants down far enough to slip the nappy into place. This was not an easy manoeuvre and I didn’t have much time because the rolled down magic pants were like a tourniquet, practically cutting off the circulation to my legs. Mind you, by the time the nappy was slotted into place I was past the point of caring about my limbs, I just needed to wee.

So I did.

I weed.

And weed.

And weed.

And weed.

It kept coming and by this point I couldn’t have stopped, even If I wanted to, (darned pelvic floor!)

My relief at finally being able to open the floodgates didn’t last. It was soon replaced by abject panic as I watched the nappy begin to swell to unnatural proportions. I knew in the face of this seemingly endless gush of wee it would eventually reach the limit of its absorptive abilities.


I hoped for the best as I continued to relieve myself, but as I feared, the relentless flow took the nappy to capacity and beyond (is that a line out of Toy Story?).

By the time I finally finished, so was the nappy. My lip curled in distaste as I attempted to manoeuvre the weighty, stodgy, mushy lump, barely recognisable as a nappy into a nappy sack. Then, to add insult to injury, I had to place the whiffy, urine soaked sack in the footwell of the car and stare at the evidence of my transgressions for the rest of the journey.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, knowing that my nappy experiment wasn’t entirely successful. I rolled my slightly damp magic pants back up, snapping them back into place and adjusted my now slightly damp chiffon dress.

I’d like to say our ordeal was over.

It wasn’t.

With 3 miles to go, we took a wrong turn and added 5 more excruciating minutes to our journey. When we finally reached our destination, 25 minutes late, we found my friend’s ashen-faced hubby wringing his hands at the church entrance.


By this point, my husband’s face was a mask of discomfort and pain from his own need to relieve himself, but there was no time for that. Instead, he got the kids out of the car and limped into church.

I followed, as did the faint whiff of urine from my damp clothes. With a sea of disgruntled eyes trained on us, including the withering gaze of Grandmother, we shuffled apologetically to our seats.

The Christening finally got underway. I played my part, with hubby’s look of agonised concentration twisting further as the vicar poured water onto the baby’s head. Then, before the vicar could draw breath at the end of his closing prayer, my husband launched himself from his seat and out through the church doors, disappearing around the back of the building.

Yes, to cap our day off, and not content with attending a Christening in the church, my husband actually christened the church too.


maflingo-words-tag-636x175pxcropI’m Jane, a Northern lass living in Nottingham with my husband, Richard, and our two girls. Maflingo (flamingo to grown-ups who can pronounce it) is my lifestyle blog with a twist, borne out of my desire to be creative and pursue my passion for writing, photography and homemaking after more than twenty years in a non-creative job. I blog about: interiors; DIY; crafts; money-saving, family life and randomness.
Follow Jane on Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, YouTube and Google + and her blog: Google+: 


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#OopsFiles Guest Blogger: This Mum’s Life

this-mums-life-featuredI’ll be honest, I kind of stared open-mouthed when I read This Mum’s Life #OopsFile submission.  I mean I don’t think I shock that easily but knowing Lucy the little bit that I do, and knowing that she’s not a loud extrovert, I just can’t think of anyone I would least associate with the ‘art form’ mentioned in this tale. So I found myself laughing partly at the actual humour of the story but mainly in a sort of shocked state.  “OMG she di’nt?!’ factor aside, this post is signature This Mum’s Life. Her opening gambit about tummy and boobs…ah yes…that’s our Lucy…!


#OopsFiles Post by This Mum’s Life

In my pre baby days, where my stomach was flat (not resembling a cats asshole embedded in a giants scrotum,) and my boobs didn’t require rounding up from the floor by a sheepdog to be unceremoniously repositioned to a loftier position,

I used to dance in a burlesque troupe. It was a delightful dose of makeup, feathers, and fun, which provided me with relief and escapism from my daily life. Think, less nipple tassles and striptease, often more dancing, with a bra and knickers reveal at the end. Anyhow, in what I thought would be my final show performance before I hung up my feather boa, I happened to be 8 months pregnant with baby number 1.

The weekend of the show also happened to be the weekend we were moving house. Me and my husband were in a huge chaos of having half of our stuff at our old house, a lot of it in storage, and very little in the actual house we were now supposed to be living in. On the final Saturday morning dress rehearsal before the opening night of the show, I woke up in the new house, with only my performance outfit, and makeup available to me. I got ready, my husband dropped me at the theatre, and as I ran (well, not really, gracefully waddled I suppose,) into the theatre, I shouted over my shoulder ‘you will be at the new house when I get back won’t you?’ I could see him nodding, so continued my graceful waddling.

After the dress rehearsal, I grabbed a lift from one of the other dancers, back to my house. She drove away while I was still rummaging in my bag for a key. I only realised when I’d thrown every single item out of my bag, that I didn’t actually have one. In between this, I was banging hard on the door, wondering what the heck my husband was doing that he couldn’t hear me, before realising that our car was nowhere to be seen, and it dawned on me that he wasn’t actually there…

I had broken a fundamental rule of communication when you casually throw over your shoulder the sentence ‘you will be at the new house when I get back won’t you?’ You should really follow it up with ‘because if you’re not, I have no other clothes on me other than these fishnet tights, hot pants, see through top, red stilletos, feather boa, full show makeup, and curled and backcombed hair to within an inch of its life, I also have no coat, it’s October, I’m 8 months pregnant, and oh, I don’t know it yet, but the only key I have is for our old house-right over the other side of the city.’ Yes, that the follow up that was really required…

To finally set the scene, my phone had died, so I was unable to phone my husband to tell him to get the bloody heck back, right effing now inform him of my unfortunate predicament. I didn’t know any of the new neighbours, and didn’t want to knock on their doors to ask for help-I could just imagine the look on their faces when a half naked pregnant woman rocked up on their doorsteps. Besides, I had no idea what my husband’s number was off the top of my head. I decided my best (and only) option was just to sit on the doorstep and curl up into a ball, and experiment with making myself invisible, while I waited for my husband to get back.

It did not take long for me to notice the curtains in the house opposite twitching… Then the front door opening and an elderly man looking right at me. I bowed my head as low as I could without breaking my neck, and curled up as much as my bump would allow. I knew without looking up again, that he was heading straight for me. I found myself wanting to do that thing that my children do when they think they’re hiding, when they put their hands over their eyes and genuinely believe you can’t see them. It’s the shittest hiding strategy ever, but when I recollect this moment, I can understand why they do it. ‘Hello??’ he thundered. He sounded a lot like Gru from Despicable Me. Not knowing what to do, I continued to stare at my bump. ‘Yes, you??’ he continued. ‘What are you doing here?’ I knew I was going to have to address him. ‘Oh me?! Oh, I ummmm, I live here…’ ‘NO YOU DO NOT,’ (his voice was rising in decibels at an alarming rate,) ‘THIS HOUSE IS EMPTY, IT HAS BEEN FOR A LONG TIME.’ ‘Yes, I know, I bought it…’ I was still faltering, because when I’m put on the spot, in a situation I’m not expecting, I just do not know what to do, and end up talking in the smallest voice, with no conviction to what I’m actually saying. The situation looked worse because although I was claiming to live there, none of our things were visible-the house still looked empty.

I made the terrible decision to stand up, to try and at least be on the same level as him. That was it, as soon as he saw my bump, he virtually went into cardiac arrest-I thought I’d have to catch his eyes popping right out of their sockets, and he turned a dangerous shade of puce, presumably as the words ‘pregnant prostitute’ entered his head. It didn’t take long for him to utter ‘I THINK YOU NEED TO MOVE ALONG.’ Yes, he was actually ushering me from the neighbourhood, in the mistaken notion that I was a scarlet woman, bringing fifty shades of harlot to leafy suburbia-during the daytime too.

Finally finding my voice, I started to tell him the real reason I was dressed this way, but it was way too late. He was having none of my ‘it’s just a bit of fun for a burlesque show, I’m not really a lady of the night’ explanations. I heaved a sigh of relief when my husband turned up. But he only succeeded in making matters worse by getting out of the car, wolf whistling, and shouting ‘whoop! What a welcome to the neighbourhood!! Does everyone who moves here get this service?!’ CRINGE! He couldn’t have picked a worse time to try and be funny. Now my explanation of ‘oh, here’s my husband, he’ll vouch for me,’ definitely fell on deaf ears, and the man resumed his shouting that I must vacate the neighbourhood RIGHT THIS SECOND!

Of course, once my husband realised what was going on, after he finally pulled himself from the floor and stopped guffawing like a child at the misunderstanding, he could vouch for me being his actual wife, and produce a working key to the house to prove we lived there. Gru however, did not apologise for his mistake, he simply turned on his heel, and returned to curtain twitching in his front room. And the times I did bump into him after that, I could never meet his eye. He recently left his house for a care home, and part of me wondered whether it’d be fitting to wave my boobs at him out of the window as he left, just to finish my journey in his mind as Harlot Woman on meeting and departing….But I didn’t!

badgeI’m Lucy, a former nurse, now a full time cleaner/referee/PA/social and events planner/bum wiper/love giver to a 3 year old Deep Thinker, and a 2 year old Mini Assassin. I’ve been blogging about things that amuse and bemuse me on my blog, This Mum’s Life, while I figure out my new role in life and if I’ll ever work out what I’m doing. When I’m not blogging, I watch Netflix and drink wine, and wonder what the hell just happened to my life and my figure…
Follow Lucy on TwitterFacebookInstagram and over on her b

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#Oops Files 22: Guest Blogger My Petit Canard

my-petit-canard-featuredI loved this story by My Petit Canard (written when she was still pregnant) when I first read it and have just had another giggle  rereading it.  Not long before I put this post together, I’d been chuckling at Facebook comments by an old friend who was reminiscing about the many firemen who turned up at our university the night of the huge storm of October ’87 (yes I’m that old thanks).  It looks like our dear Emily caused a storm of her own with her antics as described here (frankly I’m surprised the temperature didn’t make her pregnant self pass out).  She reckons ‘the offending gadget’ in her house was having a bit of a sensitive turn on the night in question…yes there was a heavily pregnant woman in the house but it’s an electrical item that was the more sensitive out of the two.  I don’t know if that’s some sort of antifeminist slight but it does accurately sum up what happened!  Curious as to what I’m talking about?  Go see for yourself.

Guest Post by My Petit Canard


I have never been so embarrassed. The husband will never let me live this down.

Who would have thought my last day at work before maternity leave would have been so eventful. An hour later after the event and I am still reeling inside. Cringe worthy, humiliating and embarrassed don’t even begin to describe how I feel. Which is how any heavily pregnant woman would feel after answering the door to not one, but three fire engines packed with firemen at 9pm at night in her in lovely floral maternity nightdress sans make up. Not my finest hour to say the least.

All I wanted was a nice hot shower to unwind after my very busy last day in the office. Which has totally been my thing over the last couple of months. The more heavily pregnant I have got, the more I have needed a nice hot shower at the end of the day to help me relax and unwind. Who would have thought on this occasion that it would have been so momentous.

Like any other evening I stepped into a reasonably hot shower.

Not ridiculously hot, I am heavily pregnant after all, but hot enough that it was rather sauna-esque in the bathroom. Nothing unusual there. My showers are always steamy and the husband always complains about why I have them so hot. Except on this occasion I may have forgotten to open the window to let all the steam out, instead propping open the bathroom door and thinking nothing of it.

That was until about half way through my lovely shower, I heard the awful high pitched sound of what could only be our security alarm. Literally jumping out of the shower I yelled downstairs to the hubs something to the effect of “what on earth is going on” thinking he had done something completely stupid or ridiculous like burnt some toast or punched the wrong code into the alarm only to see him stomping up the stairs shouting something about having the shower on too hot. Incredulously I laughed at the ridiculousness of it all, not believing for one second that my shower could have set off the alarm. Until about 10 seconds later when the security company called to check why our alarm was going off and if we were all ok. At which point things got slightly more serious and I ran as fast as a 37 week pregnant woman can do to quickly open the bathroom window.

Thinking and hoping that would be the end of it I giggled, hand clamped over mouth

muttering to the husband about how unbelievable it was that the security company had called and retreated to the bedroom thinking that was that. I didn’t even take any notice of the sounds coming from outside the house until the husband said something about a fire engine. I think his exact words may have been something along the lines of “that had better not be a fire engine” at which point things started to get very real very quickly.

All I can say is thank goodness I had enough time to throw on my nightdress and quickly wipe off all the post shower smudged mascara under my eyes before the husband opened the door to the obviously not very impressed fireman standing at our door, flanked by not one, but three fire engines full of firemen. Excessive? Just a little! After unnecessarily causing them to have to come out in the first place and wasting the taxpayers money as the husband put it (yes, I now qualify as one of those awful people!) I do think that three fire engines may have been a bit much on their part. If it had been an actual fire then I would of course been very thankful for their very quick response time and how seriously they had taken the situation. But standing on the stairs, door wide open looking at the entourage of fire engines and all their flashing lights alerting all the neighbours of their presence, there were very few silver linings to this situation. In fact there were four to be precise;

  1. At least we knew that our expensive security system subscription worked
  2. We had recouped some of the cost of maintaining said security system
  3. I was wearing my one and only decent fitting and looking piece of nightware fresh out of the machine
  4. I was very visibly heavily pregnant and could easily use this in my defence for setting off the alarm, which the husband totally did without a seconds thought

However, in my defence I had no idea that it was even possible to set off an alarm with a shower. Please tell me I am not alone here! So when I actually think about it, the husband should really shoulder some of the blame having known and not shared this rather significant piece of information with me at any point over the last year. I mean, how else is a girl to know? I know this has all the makings of a story that you look back on and laugh about. Eventually. But right now all I can say is that I’m glad that my waters didn’t break from the shock of it all giving them a real reason to stick around, although perhaps that may have been a slightly less embarrassing story to tell the neighbours!

my petit canard logoEmily is a mum to a two year old little lady and the inspiration behind My Petit Canard. She writes about her experiences and musings as a first time mum, life as a family of three and her ongoing quest to find the elusive balance as a full time working mum in the city. Now she writes about it all over again as she prepares to find a new balance as she gets ready to welcome her second little one into the world. You can follow Emily and all her adventures on Twitter, InstagramYou Tube and over on her blog.

Psssst! If you feel like sharing this post on social media it would be great if you could use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you 🙂

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#OopsFiles 21: Guest Blogger Mum Muddling Through

oops files standard featured imageYippeeee, the Oops Files guest series is BACK!  And boy do I have a treat to come back with!  I feel a bit clichéd using phrases like “I’m so honoured” or “I’m totally excited to feature”.  But fact is, these words do apply when it comes to Mum Muddling Through as she’s one of my absolute favourite bloggers.  One of the best wordsmiths on the blog scene (there’s an intelligence, emotional pull and dry humour to just about everything she writes), she’s been featured in both #BlogStars 1 and #BlogStars 2.  In fact, I may have done a fist pump when I saw her submission sitting in my inbox.  Not telling.  Her writing also makes you think.  This story, for instance, made me think about which of my friends would be that friend described here.  It also reminded me of the uni friend who spent hours cleaning our college residence bathroom in the middle of the night after I’d ‘decorated’ it with my 1am bacardi-and-coke-induced chunder on my 22nd birthday. (Nice mental picture for you. You’re welcome.)  Frankly, it’s also made me wonder how on earth that friend is still in my life and whether I’d have done the same for her.  See? Told you she makes the reader think.

And laugh. You’ll definitely laugh.

If you feel like sharing this post on social media (and I’d be delighted if you do), please could you use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thank you! 

blond gir in car face covered with hair blowing

I have literally been agonising for months over which epic fail is #oopsfiles worthy to publish on an award winning bloggers site. I mean, how do you choose which epic f-up is worthy to publish on the internet? Hmmm…

Initially, I thought about referring to my Mums favourite story. The one which doesn’t fail to generate a laugh at my expense time and time again. But then Island living 365 went and took the ‘kids that dump in inappropriate places’ title for #oopsfiles2016. Granted, hers was a neighbours bidet, mine was a housing development showroom bathroom. Yes, you know the ones that aren’t plumbed in.

So moving on to something more original.

I’m taking you back with me now to circa 2010. The days pre kids when weddings, birthday shindigs and [any other excuse] resulted in a weekend of partying and ended in a vicious hangover. This particular occasion was a wedding – y’know the one where said friend moved away so you had the perfect excuse for a weekender with the gang. A road trip with pals, buddying up to save on petrol and gossip en route. Double bonus. Ah, the days when long drives weren’t ruled by back seat dictators and portable DVD players blaring out Peppa pig theme tune.

So a wonderful time was had by all. Champagne. Toasts. Jaegerbombs. Drunk dancing. Tagged photos of yours truly stumbling around in the travel lodge reception eating garage bough sausage rolls wearing a beautiful silk dress on loan (hmmm…no wonder I hate facebook). Classic pre-kids shizzle.


The morning after, it was bad. 8/10 bad.

Bad enough to turn down a fry up and pick at a fruity pancake alternative in a lame attempt to undo the damage. Water. Coffee. A nibble on a complimentary biscuit. Anything to get me ready to face that 3 hour drive home, albeit from the passenger seat.

And how we laughed, about how we could potentially avoid a vom-in-car situation. It wouldn’t happen for sure. But if it did, what did we have as a make shift sick-bag? A crisp packet? Funny… but no, not to hand. A carrier bag. Nope. All we had in the car was the beautifully ornate wedding invitation in a raw, organic, crisp, A5 envelope. I think you can guess where this story is heading.

With my hubby-to-be driving, and my work friend from the good old days in the rear passenger side, we were on the road. No-where to stop on that high speed motorway, and no were to hide. Then it hit. That moment of over-salivating when you know it’s imminent.

So let’s just say the envelope did the job.

For around twenty seconds.

And then it started to disintegrate, in my hands. With my now husband screaming at me to get it out of the car, and my friend and I generally hysterically screaming/laughing, we only had one option. I wound the window down and went for the rapid ejection of the envelope. Only physics had other ideas for the content of that envelope. The 70mph slip stream took that parcel in an unexpected direction – back into the car. Which was highly unfortunate for my friend sitting behind me in the rear passenger seat.

The next thirty seconds were intense hysteria.

I’m not sure who out of the three of us screamed more. I don’t know if it was screams of laughter or horror or just a combination of both. It was one of those moments that could have been horrendous if it hadn’t been so god damn hilarious, in a ‘did that just really happen’ way.

As my poor friend updated her Facebook status to say ‘Someone just threw an envelope of vomit in my face’, someone quickly replied with ‘Oh no…what a disgusting scumbag, have you reported them to the police?’

To which she replied ‘Oh no, it was just my friend Sarah’. We laughed so much I was sick again. This time, thankfully with the ability to pull over on a side road. Laughter may be the best therapy, but not, it would seem, when it comes to hangovers.

The moral of this story is that friendship is not always clean cut.

As life follows it’s twisty path, friends will come and go. Friends you always thought would be there will become partial to fair weather. And friends you thought would be long gone will end up being part of the furniture.

In the excitement and convenience of new found friendships at different stages of life, we can neglect some of our long time pals. I haven’t always been a great friend. I have let my own life get in the way. I’m far from perfect. But…I will never forget that a friend who can continue to laugh with me (at me). A friend who continues to love me, even in the face of an envelope of my puke in their face, is a friend worth hanging on to with both hands.

That is a first class friendship.


If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.

mmt-logo-web-versionMum Muddling Through is the place to hang out for imperfect parenting advice and a bit of blog based camaraderie. It ain’t no disco, but it ain’t no country club either. Join Sarah for banter, random crap and a spot of #coolmumclub each Thursday.  Follow Sarah on Twitter, Instagram. (Shocker: she doesn’t do Facebook.)



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#OopsFiles 20: Guest Blogger Naptime Natter

naptime-natter-featuredOh gosh, the curse of the ***s. I say ***s as I don’t want to be guilty of a spoiler.  I can’t remember how many times I’ve left my ***s inside the house, in the front door, on the WALL in front of our house, the list just goes on.  And I’m not the only who does this.  My OopsFilers do too as we’ve seen earlier in the series.  When Wendy’s fab post landed in my inbox, it made me smile; a deliciously funny mum on mission date night tale, wonderfully written from start to finish. So enjoy!

If you feel like sharing this post anywhere on social media (clearly I’d be delighted if you do), please can I ask you to use the hashtag #OopsFiles. Thanks! 


I have been following the hilarious #OopsFIles here on the fab Absolutely Prabulous blog from the very start and I’ve been wracking my brain to try and find a suitable story so I could get involved in all the fun. I think, at last, I have managed to recall the perfect anecdote. So here it is, my tale of misfortune that, in fact, cost my poor hubby a small fortune.

‘Date night’ and ‘baby brain’ are two phrases that people only really use once they become parents, aren’t they? Before kids ‘date night’ is simply known as a night out, it is not a rare occasion and therefore doesn’t need a prestigious title to celebrate it. Can you remember those days when going for a meal didn’t require military operation style planning and you could just be, what is that word again, spontaneous? I can just remember, if I sit and think really really hard. As for ‘baby brain’, for all you child free readers, this is the common phenomenon of a mother’s brain turning to complete mush and losing all its ability to retain the smallest piece of information for more than a matter of minutes. This condition usually begins the second you get a positive pregnancy test and it never completely goes away. Baby brain has been responsible for such WTF moments as trying to put the clean laundry in the bin and crying whenever your baby does anything remotely cute. So, how did baby brain manage to ruin date night for Oli and I?

Well, let me explain..

Some time in mid-November 2013, an idiot driver going about 60 in a 30mph speed limit, crossed over the white lines and smashed my wing mirror clean off. Oli and I had planned to go the cinema that night to watch the new Hunger Games film. Leo was 3 months old and I was desperate for a night out, there was no way I was missing it just because some fool in a range rover couldn’t drive. I managed to book my car in to the garage but as it was late in the day it was going have to stay there overnight. Oh well, no biggy I thought as I tossed my keys at the garage receptionist, we can just get a taxi to the cinema.

I got home, explained the situation to Oli and got Leo ready for his evening at the babysitter’s. Being only 3 months old we had not left him with friends many times before. I was slightly nervous but my excitement for an evening watching a film in an actual cinema, an evening out of the prison house, stopped me from cancelling our plans. So, Leo was ready, Oli and I were ready, I had got changed out of my pyjamas and had even done something with my hair and chucked some mascara on. I totally felt like I was winning at life. We cuddled Leo up in his pram and headed off to the babysitter’s, joyfully slamming the door behind us.

Leo happily went to our friend’s house, all smiles and cute baby gurgles while Oli and I made our eager escape, jumped in a taxi and headed to town. We got to the cinema, gorged on popcorn and chocolate and Oli even treated me to a bottle of overpriced cinema booze. For the next 2 hours we sat and watched a group of teens fight to the death, get mixed up in love triangles and generally just be awesome. Oli got to watch Jennifer Lawrence run around in a skin tight wetsuit and I got to eye up Liam Hemsworth and that guy who plays Finnick. Popcorn, booze, beautiful actors and each other’s company.  It’s safe to say we were having a pretty great evening.

The film finished, it was time to come home and as we drove back in the taxi we were blissfully unaware of the massive eff up my baby brain had made earlier that day. We picked Leo up from the babysitter, thanked our lovely friend a thousand times and set off on the short walk home in the cold November air. This is what happened when we arrived on our front step..

Oli: “Open the door then.”
Me: “What, I don’t have the keys.”
Oli: “Yes you do.”
Me: Frantically searches bag

Me: “I don’t have them.”
Oli: “Please tell me they’re not still on your car keys at the garage?”

Yep, I had let myself get caught up in the excitement of the elusive date night and had not even thought about taking my house keys off my key ring when I handed them over and waltzed out the garage earlier that day.

After the initial argument:
Oli: “We should smash the window.”
Me: “There is no way I’m sleeping in a house with a smashed window. We have a BABY for £$%& sake!”
Oli decided to phone a locksmith, luckily 24 hour ones do exist, and I headed back to the babysitters with Leo to keep warm. While I sat and fed Leo, had a cuppa and chatted to our lovely friend, Oli sat and waited in the cold for the locksmith to arrive. Once the work was done and Oli had coughed up a small fortune to get us back in our house, it is safe to say he was not in the mood for any post date night action. I don’t blame him really, our trip to the cinema, in a taxi, plus the need to rectify the mistakes of my baby brain had cost him almost 200 quid. Can I say oops again?!

So, if you take anything away from this tale my friends let it be this…when it comes to being victorious over baby brain, the odds are never in your favour.

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


naptime natterHi, my name is Wendy and I blog over at Naptime Natter. I am mum to my cheeky toddler Leo and wife to my lovely Oli, we are expecting baby number 2 in October. I blog about all the ups and downs of motherhood and all our fun family days out. When I am not blogging or chasing Leo around I am probably reading, secretly eating chocolate or binge watching Netlix. I can often be found exploring in the woods or walking on the beach.
Follow Wendy on Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest and her blog


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#OopsFiles 19: Guest Blogger Island Living 365

island-living-featuredYou know when someone says “I hurt myself laughing”/”I almost fell off the sofa in hysterics”/”I literally howled at this”? Well, they’re usually just phrases aren’t they?  Yes you read something funny but actually physically hurting yourself?  Hmmmm…  Guess what?  When the Island Living 365 #OopsFiles submission by Emma landed in my inbox, I actually did all of those things.  I snorted so hard and so many times that I actually hurt the inside of my nose about half way through reading and had to take a break.  Nope, not making that up for dramatic effect…actually hurt the inside of my nose.  (By the way, it’s only about the second time in my blogging life that I’ve had to read a blog post in two stages.  Seriously, I challenge you to actually read this all the way through in one sitting without pausing to get your breath back or give your abdominal muscles a rest.)  I then resumed reading, howled, startled my husband (he’s never startled) and then kind of slid off the sofa onto the rug mid howl.  The only thing missing in this whole scenario is the mention of “I wet myself laughing”.  All I can say is, I’ve had three kids; my bladder is not what it once was.  So I guess that answers that one then.  Talking of nether regions, things are about to get worse…a lot worse.



So when the lovely Prabs asked me if I would write something for the #OopsFiles series my first reaction was to run and hide. I mean I have a lot of embarrassing tales, a plethora if you like. What’s the saying? “I have a list as long as my arm” except my arms aren’t unusually long so that saying really does not convey just how many embarrassing tales that I have. I mean every day, I embarrass myself. Every. Single. Sodding. Day. To stop myself from becoming a nervous wreck, I have blocked most of them out. However, for the lovely Prabs, I have agreed to revisit some of these tales again.

I guess I should start at the beginning. Apparently when I was young, I’m talking 4 years old, I liked to leave a calling card whenever I went somewhere new. Yes, that’s right every time we went somewhere, I would promptly ask to be excused so that I could go and use the toilet and leave a massive dump. I know. I was a classy four year old. I guess I saw it as a creative expression, a way of leaving my mark on the world. I left massive poos in some very auspicious places, from the vicarage to our local supermarket. I wasn’t fussy, as long as it was new. One day my Mum and Dad announced we were going to go round for a cup of tea to our lovely elderly neighbours that lived at the back of our house in the biggest bungalow I had ever seen. I was convinced that because they lived on one floor, they must be indeed very posh and therefore a very worthy recipient of my calling card. It had been drummed into me that I should behave myself. I was not to touch the pretty ornaments nor was I to climb over the antique furniture. However, no one had told me that I couldn’t go to the toilet. So soon after arriving I made my excuses to go to the toilet.

Oh what a glorious posh bathroom it was too. A huge corner bath…fancy! Gold taps…even fancier. And all in glorious avocado…and hang on…what’s this? A toilet with taps? Ooooh, triple fancy!! So I sat on this new lovely toilet. Praising myself on finding the latest posh toilet. Oh my bottom was in for a treat. After curling one out, I struggled to locate the toilet paper and then realised that it was sat on the ‘regular’ toilet. I carefully wiped my bottom. I liked to use a lot of paper to make sure that I was clean, I’m not an animal you know! I deposited it in the ‘posh’ toilet then looked for the flush. Only there wasn’t one, just two taps. So obviously I turned them both on but instead of taking the poo away it started to fill up, my toilet paper blocking the plug at the bottom and now my poo was swimming dangerously close to the top. In fact it was close to breaching. I quickly switched the taps off and took the approach I still take today. Just roll with it, all will be fine.

See? I look quite pleased with myself don't I?

See? I look quite pleased with myself don’t I?


When we got home I found myself desperate to share with my mum the posh toilet that I had used. On telling her my story, her face visibly whitened before she shouted “oh shit” (yes quite apt really) “you did a poo in their bidet!”. I have never seen my Mum move so fast. She dashed back round on the pretence that I had left something in the bathroom. Again quite apt as indeed I had left something. On arriving, she was ushered in by the elderly gentleman who looked a little shaken. She went into the bathroom to find the lovely old lady wrestling my poo out of the bidet. Now that I am sharing this story, I realise that actually this is far less embarrassing for me and more embarrassing for my mum. We were never invited back round.

So important was this poo event in my life that I have never been allowed to forget it. It has obviously scarred me for life too because when I was in labour, I spent the whole time shouting at the midwife, “i haven’t done a poo have I??” I even kept sending Mr C down to that end to check. No, this story is the one I’ve not been allowed to forget, despite several more embarrassing things happening later in my life. Let’s not discuss the time I was queuing up in Primary school for my lunch and I was desperate for the loo. They were serving shepherds pie but I wasn’t going to lose my spot…… Only after I had finished every last morsel did I admit what I had done. Don’t worry it wasn’t a poo! Then there was my first date with Mr C when I had my tongue piercing (call it a late rebellion for not being allowed to have my ears pierced when I was a kid). I got my risotto stuck on my tongue piercing, then spent the whole meal pulling strange faces, (which was rather alarming for Mr C), as I tried to get the risotto off my piercing but instead I ended up flicking Mr C in the face with risotto. Then to top it off, I realised I had forgotten my purse so couldn’t pay for my half. Now you know why I keep banging on about us being married 10 years this summer…it’s a miracle!

No. despite lots of daily embarrassments, my parents still love to reel out the poo in the bidet story. So much so that as I was just about to walk down the aisle to get married to Mr C, my mum informed me that she had just seen my dad’s speech and it was all about my poo in the bidet. So when I was saying my vows, instead of being in the moment I was worrying about shit instead. Story of my life really. I really should spend less time worrying about random shit because it really does all work out in the end. We just need to roll with it, bidets and all!

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.

island-living-photo-of-emEmma says: “I’m mum to two girls and wife to Mr C. We used to live in wild and wonderful Yorkshire on the edge of the moors. We have now moved to the rather lovely and sunny Jersey, Channel Islands.  So basically, I’m an adopted Yorkshire lady now marooned in Jersey, blogging and ranting to keep sane!!”
Follow Emma on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and  Pinterest and the blog Island Living 365


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#OopsFiles 18: Guest Blogger Cuddle Fairy

baby shocked face title image When everyone’s favourite fairy, I mean blogger, Cuddle Fairy told me she had an #OopsFiles post for me specifically about #BML16, I was delighted.  Not only have I been wanting to feature her for the longest time, I also had quite a few Oops moments from my recent #BML16 weekend in London but can’t really ‘star’ in my own guest series!  However, I now have an excuse to summarise them!  A few of mine include: 1) wandering around the Hoxton Hotel lobby for some time trying to go up to my room only to realise I’d walked past the lifts three times 2) not realising the window blind was up when I came out of the shower and consequently flashing my entire birthday suit at a chap in the building opposite 3) being locked out of my room as they hadn’t updated the system with the extra hour of checkout time I’d requested the day I was leaving and 4) trying to get into Becky’s room at the Montcalm with my Hoxton card key (don’t ask).  And I didn’t even realise Becky and I were standing in front of the stairs (see below) in the first place when she came to fetch me the first day!  Hotel lifts and card keys…just keep me away from them.  Anyway I’m sooooo glad to be finally featuring Becky here on the #OopsFiles and she even kindly asked me to add a bit of my own commentary so I did (you’ll see it in italics)!


[Image courtesy of Life with Baby Kicks]

I have been wanting to take part in Prabs’ Oops Files since it started!  My fabulous & fun filled weekend in London for #BML16 provided me with plenty of oops moments to write about. And the hostess herself stars in a few of them too! 😉 So here we go!

I live in the West of Ireland so I flew over to London Friday morning so I’d be able to attend the Friday night fringe party & meet Prabs for dinner. I managed to get myself to Liverpool St Station & then with the help of Google Maps on my phone, I walked to the Montcalm where I stayed for the weekend. I got a really cheap rate on & as such I was given a closet that has been converted to a room. It was fine when it was just me but the shower was ridiculously small. I took a shower Friday afternoon and couldn’t extend my elbows out from my body. It was a bit ridiculous.
Having used Cuddles’ shower myself to freshen up during BML16 I can confirm she’s not exaggerating…it was a teeny shower in her bathroom. 

After managing to wash myself & relaxi in the room for a couple of hours, I took a taxi up to see Prabs at the Hoxton just up the road.There was a lot of of jumping up & down & hugging & then we headed off for Camden Town.
Ahem, Becky’s forgotten to mention how the next thing she did, after saying hi, was check out the shower I had in my room!

We left Prabs’ room & walked towards the elevator. We were meeting two friends for dinner so I was tweeting them that we’d be a few minutes late. When I looked up, I realized the two of us were stood at the door to the stairs. Not at the elevator. No one had hit a button – as there was no button for the stairs. I have no idea what we thought was going to happen standing there. Luckily there was no one else in the hall to witness the madness. So we moved to the elevator, pressed the down button & successful made it out of the hotel!
Not before trying to take a selfie in front of the cool illuminated Hoxton sign in the lobby…only to realise the words came out backwards in the picture. So then we went outside!

selfie of Prabs of Absolutely Prabulous and Becky of Cuddle Fairy

Prabs led the way to Camden Town & we had a fun dinner & evening at the fringe party. We got the tube back down to our hotels. Prabs got off at the station before mine. So at my stop, I got off the tube & went out an exit before I realized it was an exit. When I looked at the map, I was on the wrong side from where I wanted to be. I couldn’t get to the other side as I’d need a ticket to go through again, which I didn’t have. So I headed out the only exit I could take & tried to summon Google maps to get me to the Montcalm – which I knew was literally around the block.  My phone wouldn’t pick up any signal so Google Maps wouldn’t work. I walked aimlessly back & forth with my phone in the air but it did no good. It was after 10pm & I made the executive decision not to wander the streets of London by myself so I put my hand up for a taxi. I told the driver that I knew the hotel was right around the corner but I wasn’t sure which corner it was. He assumed I meant the other Montcalm when I was getting into a taxi right next to the one I wanted to stay in. So we both had a laugh then he drove me around the block.
This is the bit where I drop Becky in it and mention her lamenting how London streets are so confusing and New York’s grid system is way better 🙂

The next day was #BML16. I hopped back in the shower & discovered a trick I had missed the day before. If I stood at a certain angle I could extend my arms out further so that was great. I have no idea how I missed that the day before – I blame the jetlag? Lol.

For me, #BML16 was filled with talking mostly – to bloggers & to brands. The day flew by & soon it was time for the BiBs. I won’t lie, I was a nervous wreck. I tried to stay cool but I was nervous. I became more nervous after Emma accepted her award with a speech. How did I not realize the winner gave a speech!! I had nothing prepared. My category was called second, I thought I could vomit with the nerves I already had, coupled with the lack of speech if I did actually win.  I’m such an emotional person, I probably would have just cried & babbled incoherently had I won. My nerves were over quickly as the lovely Joy Chaser deservingly won most inspiring blog.

After the BiBs a group of us headed across the street to Cote Brasserie for dinner. I had a couple glasses of the sparkly sweet wine at #BML16 & was ready for something different so I asked our waiter who was French, if they had a cocktail menu. He said no. I said, do you have vodka? He said no but we have Orangina.

Right – what? I was so confused. But mainly I was panicked at the thought of no vodka. Then my birthday twin Prabs starts to panic too – What – no vodka? Vodka was needed at this point in time; the both of us were nervous all evening & this was looking like a disaster. Then Helen spotted vodka on the menu & pointed out to the waiter that it says vodka on the menu. The waiter kept saying no but we have Orangina.
This had to be seen to be believed. How vodka sounds like orangina, no matter where you come from, I’ll never know!  But nervous? Me?  I was the picture of composure and poise (ba ha haa).

Then one of the girls, I think it was Laura, realized that he thought I was saying Fanta! That I went from looking for a cocktail to looking for Fanta!? So I said vvvvvvvvvodkkkkkaaaaaaaaaaaaaa please. He eventually realized what I was saying – with the help of my friends.  Prabs & I happily got our vodkas.

Next, it was time to order our dinners. I picked a very French chicken dish – le petite chicken or something like that only MUCH more complicated. So I turn to Prabs and ask her, how would you say this? Then she says it in a perfect French accent!!! Hello, I meant how would I say this, Poulet Breton, me with an American / West of Ireland accent that this waiter can’t understand. So in the end, Prabs ordered my dinner for me – thank you Prabsy.
De rien mon petit lapin.

It was delicious! Time for dessert & more drinks. Prabs ordered tea, I asked for another vvvvoooddddkkkkaaaaa. As to avoid any confusion. Out comes tea – and it’s put down at my place. I think oh, this is Prabs’ tea until I turn & see that Prabs already has her tea. Good Lord, he’s given me tea instead of vodka! So I said no sorry I ordered VVVVVVOOOOODDDKKKKAAAAA please. Eventually, the vodka came after another round of laughter from my blogger buddies.  I had no idea that I couldn’t pronounce vodka. Apparently, it sounds like Fanta or sometimes like tea!!

After a gorgeous meal, we hug & part ways – everyone heads back to their hotels or homes. The next morning I headed back into the shower & decided to turn on the rain shower button. I let the water get hot then switched it to the rain setting. It was FREEZING! Like arctic water was being dumped on me & because the shower was so small, the rain water took up the entire space – there was no space to step outside of the water. What a wake-up call that was as I screamed & danced around trying to find the switch to turn off the rain shower.

So that was my #BML16 weekend in a nutshell. It was such a laugh with such great friends. The shower & vodka pronunciation are things I’ll never forget!! Nor will I forget these amazing ladies I spent time with! I can’t wait to see them all again next year. x

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


Cuddle Fairy logoBecky blogs at the parenting & lifestyle blog, Cuddle Fairy, with the motto – there’s positivity around every corner. Find her on Twitter, Instagram & Facebook




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#OopsFiles 17: Guest Blogger Just Saying Mum

oopsfiles-17, just saying-mummy featured imageI am sooooo excited about my #OopsFiles guest this week, none other than the utterly hilarious Just Saying Mum.  I view Helen as sort of my blog twin as she is one of the few bloggers I’ve found who, like me, is way past the pregnancy/breastfeeding/potty training etc phase of life.  She is one of the funniest bloggers and there is such a great spirit in her posts about her teens.  Her #OopsFiles offering, however, has nothing to do with parenting teenagers and is more a series of various Oops that had me in utter stitches.  The passenger with the coat, the feng shui and the postbox.  Heaven help me; I almost had a hernia laughing.  As for the intro, what can I say?  I’m only human…clearly I love my ego being massaged as much as the next person, so when my OopsFilers start their guest posts with kind words about me, I don’t mind at all.  Er, what I mean is I blushed with embarassment at Helen’s compliment but couldn’t remove it as it’s part of what she’s written and who am I to start removing parts of my guests’ posts?! That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.  #JustSaying

oopsfiles-17, just saying-mummy featured image

Oh as much as I was so totally and utterly honoured to have been asked to write for the incredible @absolutelyprabulous because she is one of the most funniest and coolest people I have read and I am stupidly in LOVE with her posts, I was also a little wary … I have so many oops moments I really didn’t know where to start but then I thought … Oh to hell with it … lay it all out there and show the parenting bloggers out there just how ditzy you really are. So, lovely readers, I give you me – oops moment after oops moment … I’ll let you take your pick of which makes you smile the most …

So there was the time on the train after a very late drunken night out that I was chatting and laughing so much that one of the other passengers actually got up and put a coat over my head and politely told me to shut up.

There was the time at dinner with my in-laws when I’d only just started dating my husband where I announced that my lounge just didn’t have quite the right ‘Karma Sutra’ about it … their stoney silence and blank stares confirmed that ‘Karma Sutra’ obviously wasn’t quite the right phrase … rescued by my husband who whispered that I probably meant ‘Feng Shui’ … humiliated doesn’t cover it!

Then the time that I was on my own and ran for the tube (no mean feat in stilettos) and got my heel caught in the tube doors as they closed. Wedged with the doors on my leg and absolutely no way I could open them. It took three men on the platform to force the doors open then manhandle my leg to pull my foot free … all at the same time as the tube driver is announcing “Please stand clear from the doors, stand clear from the doors.” And you know that beeping noise the closing doors make – oh that was going the whole time too … and then as my leg became free, the doors shut, the men giggled to themselves on the platform and I had to turn and face the whole carriage as they sat there staring at me and tutting! I haven’t tried to jump on a train with closing doors since … lesson well and truly learnt.

Oh and then the time that I was out late with friends in a taxi in Piccadilly and on seeing a postbox as we stopped at some traffic lights … I jumped out of cab to post a letter and then jumped straight back in to a different car … very awkward!

And then the time I was convinced that the Robbie Williams tribute act was actually The Robbie Williams and I spent the entire evening  pole-dancing (because evidently I thought I could do that) around his microphone stand when in fact he was Kevin from Canvey!

Oh and then there was the time that I got the snow train down to Chamonix and thought it a great idea to consume every drop of our duty free gin in the party carriage … have you ever been ill out of a window of a very fast moving train? I advise you never to do so … trust me, it doesn’t work … the laws of physics do not allow! There’s a lot more to this story but I’m saving it for a blog!

There’s one more I want to share but the hubby must not read … believing a guy in a club that he was a premiership footballer … and we will say no more on that matter other than he wasn’t … and yes I was very naive!

So me in a nutshell … moment after moment!

just-saying-mumHi, I’m Helen and am mum to two gorgeous teenage girls and one son (who is gorgeous too of course!). I started my blog Just Saying Mum after one daughter was signed to a modelling agency and, being her chaperone, I sit for literally hour after hour at photo shoots just waiting and waiting. I’ve always loved to write so, one day, whilst watching daughter change into the 50th outfit of the day (yes seriously!), I grabbed my phone, opened the notes page and … well … couldn’t stop … mainly documenting the funnies … just saying!
Follow Helen on Facebook and Twitter and the blog Just Saying Mum

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The #OopsFiles 16: Guest Blogger Wry Mummy

oopsfiles-16, wry-mummy featured imageEvery year my kids have a birthday.  It’s dreadfully inconvenient.  There ought to be a law making it compulsory that birthdays are only celebrated every [insert number of kids] years.  Musical M turned 12 last weekend.  My stomach turned over at the thought of having to  actually do stuff for her birthday.  Yep, I’m no earth mother.  Well, most of the time I’m no mother, period.  But as #OopsFiles is a light-hearted affair, let’s come back to that topic some other time!  Anyway, I hate kids’ birthdays.  Not OTHER kids’ ones you understand.  No, THEY are fine because THEY require no involvement from yours truly.  Once I’ve paid the parent who’s organising the combined gift, my responsibility ends and I can get on with the far more pressing duty of enjoying the wine for the mums and dads.  Or even better still, just dropping my kid off and fetching them later.  I have a friend who loves them as it an opportunity to shine; the whole family even sits round the table, creative juices all a-flowing, brainstorming party ideas.  #KillMe.  I’m from the school of: make a mad dash to the shops last minute (as in day before) to buy birthday child some gifts (nightmare when you live in a country where retail goods are expensive and you could have got them cheaper on Amazon with a bit of foresight), embroil oneself in some sort of cake-related disaster (this year being no exception), at least four more panic trips to shops for forgotten items and so on.

So Jess from Wry Mummy a) cracked me up and b) made me feel a bit better at my birthday failures (although at least she gives her kids a party…we haven’t done one in years preferring the easier sleepover route).  Oh and c) I love anyone who uses the word innards.  Mental note to self: must use that more…

oopsfiles-16, wry-mummy title image



Kids’ parties: love ’em or loathe ’em, you’ve got to do ’em. Here’s how.

You’d think I’d be a dab hand by now, having organised 16 children’s parties. But it turns out you can still surprise yourself with your own ineptitude. Whether it’s your first or your 50th, here’s a handy checklist to stop you pooping the party.

Decide on a date: If you have it on your child’s actual birthday, make sure you don’t spend the whole time meeting and greeting so you fail to actually interact with your little angel on his big day. Whenever you decide, give plenty of notice (6 weeks or more), or you find yourself up against rival parties.

Decide on a venue: Soft play, football parties, Frozen in the church hall, at home…so much choice. Personally I go for the one that will run the whole party with no other intervention from me than turning up. Having tried to run Grandmother’s Footsteps for twelve toddlers, I’ve had to admit I’m not a natural leader of children.  Go by what you think your child will enjoy the most; if that’s too expensive try and find a nearby birthday in their class and split it.

Don’t tell your child. Too soon, anyway. “How many days is it till my party, mummy?” “61.” “How many hours is that?” [Pause.] “1464.” “How many seconds is that?” “Um.” Start your countdown a more manageable distance from the party to save your brain and your patience.

Use Paperless Post, or similar. Paper invites are cute and all, but I find it a nightmare to track who is coming to what. I used Paperless Post for the first time this year and it was much easier to keep track of who was coming – and it’s free! Of course, I managed to send it out without the RSVP request the first time. So I guess what I should say, is use an online invite company – correctly.

Don’t rest on your laurels. I was so chuffed with myself for booking the boys’ parties two months in advance, I relaxed too soon. Then this happened:

Don’t forget the party bags. I mentioned that I like to just turn up to parties these days, but my casual approach went awry this year when I forgot that neither of the venues I’d booked for my sons’ parties (on consecutive Sundays) offered a party bag service. This I did not realise till the morning of the party. You’d think having done the crazy whirl of whatever shops were open at 10.30am on a Sunday once, that I’d prepare ahead for the next party. Not so! There I was again, a bit quicker this time having memorised the sub-£1 offering of the local proprietors, but still a little more fraught than is ideal pre-party.

Don’t forget the food. Whatever you do, don’t, at 12.30pm on the day of a party starting at 2pm, suddenly remember, with prickling armpits of fear, that you never did quite send the food request form to your venue of choice. Bearing in mind you’ve only just recovered from the forgotten party bags blow, this is quite a double whammy. If this does happen to you, and God forfend it should, there’s always Domino’s pizza. Cheap(ish), popular and a lot less faffy than sandwiches and cucumber sticks.

Don’t forget the cake. The birthday cake IS the birthday, as far as my children are concerned anyway. In my defence, I didn’t forget to make the cake. I just left icing it to the last minute. By which I mean, 1.15pm on the day of the party. I don’t know if you’ve ever triple iced a cake, but if that’s what it takes to stick mini R2D2s to a sponge, then you just do it, don’t you?

Don’t make your children cry just before the party. You’d think this would be so obvious I wouldn’t need to mention it. But I feel I should do public penance for the fact I made both the birthday boy and his big brother cry just as we were leaving the house for the party. All I did was turn off the TV in the middle of their programme and ask them quite loudly to get their shoes on. But I felt like I’d shot the dog.

Don’t forget to tell your husband where the party is. “Hello? Where are you?” “Where are YOU? Have you got the drinks?” (You’ll recall I hadn’t ordered any party tea so he’d gone to Tesco on the way for Fruit Shoots to dilute the salt-attack pizzas). “What do you mean you’re at the other place?” I’ll leave you to imagine the rest of that particular phone call.

Don’t be cripplingly hungover. When all of the above is going wrong, and even if it’s not, being hungover for your child’s party is a recipe for pain. (You might think it a large explanation for many of the mistakes, especially the last one; but in my case, all this could easily have happened even if I’d not touched a drop.) All those shrill voices screaming with joy, for a start. Then all their parents you may never have met, standing round awkwardly looking to you to maintain the social flow, when all you want to do is gibber quietly on the sofa with a family pack of pickled onion Monster Munch. Last time we did it, we swore we’d never go out the night before one of their parties again, yet here we were, responsible for everyone’s fun and barely in control of our innards. 

The moral of the story? It is not give up booze or don’t do children’s parties – just don’t combine the two. But most of all:


Disclaimer: This post is not sponsored by Paperless Post, Domino’s, Tesco or anything but my own stupidity.


#OopsFiles 16 Wry Mummy logoJess writes about the merry mayhem of life with three young boys. She is a mum of three, master of none who started her blog in the middle of the night as no-one was awake to laugh at her take on sluicing baby sick off sheets.  Her posts are a witty, ever so slightly despairing but always warm slice of family life, with occasional pieces on style and pretty stuff to take her mind off the chaos.
Follow Jess on TwitterFacebook, Instagram, PinterestGoogle+  and her blog Wry Mummy

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


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The #OopsFiles 15: Guest Blogger Rhyming with Wine

rhyming-with-wine-featuredI must admit compiling this week’s post, from the über clever Dawn of Rhyming with Wine, was a bit of an Oops Files story in itself.  I can’t even begin to describe the palaver I had to go through with the formatting and other wordpress headaches  #LifeOfABlogger  Anyway, it was all worth it in the end as Dawn has produced yet another feat of rhyming for your enjoyment.  Honestly, I’ve published three poems myself (one of which is over on Dawn’s site this week!) that I loved writing but that was partly because I knew they were one-offs (well three-offs but you know what I mean).  How on earth Dawn writes only in rhyme and does so week after week, I have no idea.  It is truly impressive and I’m honoured that she has come up with one for the Oops Files.  And erm, you know what I keep saying about my OopsFilers having a bit of difficulty in…let’s call it…the wardrobe department.  Oh boy…

rhyming-with-wine-oops-files-title image

To those that remember this fella,

I’m sending a virtual high five!

As it means we have something in common,

Re: the number of years spent alive.

And to those who are not so familiar,

He’s a hero, and mostly his plan,

Was to solve supernatural mysteries,


So now that you’re duly enlightened,

I’d like to share with you a tale,

Of a cringingly awkward “Oops” moment,

And spectacular drunk epic fail!


So I’m taking you back to my twenties,

Before I became “Mum” and “Wife”,

To a time laced with mad drunken mischief,

And a rather more “Oops” phase of life,

I lived with a friend and her family,

In truth she’s more sister than chum,

And I love all the family to pieces,

Especially her wonderful Mum.


Now, for our first girly adventure,

The choice was of course Shagascruff Magaluf.

And when The Mom wanted to join us,

We figured “Why not?” “Fair enough!”


Our holiday plan went like clockwork,

We’d take The Mom out for her tea,

Then head back to get ourselves ready,

And she’d read in her bed happily.

The sis and I’d wait until midnight,

Making cocktails of weird toxic sh*te stuff

Then we’d launch our assault on The Strip, and

We’d dance ourselves silly all night.

We would stagger back home in the morning,

To collapse in some hideous state,

And the Mom would wake up for a cuppa,

Then ever so patiently wait.

And if we were still in a coma,

She’d leave us both there in our beds,

And struggle with three massive lilos,

To find us three perfect sunbeds.


But on this particular morning,

I woke with The Headache of Doom.

I tried to peel open my eyelids,

And focus my eyes on the room.

I couldn’t recall many memories,

Of staggering in through the door,

My mouth tasted like an old flip flop,



Why was The Sister sat laughing?

And why did The Mom have that grin?

I had a quick look in my duvet,

To check that no-one had sneaked in!?


But soon it would all become vivid,

As they regaled my story of shame,

My Oops which had shared such amusement,

And earned me a brand new nickname…


Apparently when it was home time,

We’d staggered back just like before,

But forgetting The Mom was still sleeping,

I’d giddily burst through the door.


Then desperate to get in my night things,

I had ripped off my dress without care,

Off came my pants with abandon,

And I waved them up high in the air….




And then collapsing into a naked coma.



I’d just like to say a huge thank you to the wonderful Prabs for inviting me to take part in her fabulous #Oopsfiles series. It’s an absolute honour to be able to share my utter humiliation drunken misadventure with you all!  Thanks for having me Prabs!

Dawn x

(AKA Captain Pantsman)

rhyming with wineI am the proud mum of two very busy children, Miss Tot 3 and Mstr Tot, 1.  We live in Yorkshire with their Dad, my lovely hubby, fondly known as “Daddy Pig”, as he is of course “rather an expert at everything”.  The last three years have been mind blowing, if a little mental.  Rhyming with Wine is an ongoing collection of rhymes about the general silliness of our family life.  Most of them are intended to share a giggle, though I can’t promise that the odd one won’t bring about a little tear too, (hopefully in a good way of course).  Rhyming with wineBecause “whine” rhymes with “wine”, in much the same way as “tantrum” rhymes with “vodka” and generally most things rhyme with “cake!”  Dawn x
Follow Rhyming with Wine on Twitter, Facebook and email Dawn at

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


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The #OopsFiles 14 Guest Blogger: Single Mum Speaks

Single Mum Speaks OopsFiles guest bloggerDid I laugh when this landed in my inbox?  Yep.  The whole thing is great and probably the most unusual  submission I’ve received so far.  The #OopsFiles series just gets weirder each week and I mean that in the best possible way!  The erm ‘Danish bit’ really made me laugh, although I realised afterwards that Single Mum Speaks didn’t quite mean the line “after the first wave of Viking raids, they are coming again” in the way I took it!  I loved her description of my blog but let’s just say my understanding of this line was NOT PG-rated.  Ahem. And in answer to your question at the end Min, Oh yes I am…


Single Mum Speaks OopsFiles guest blogger

For some people, getting pregnant is an oops.  An unplanned, unexpected and entirely unintentional surprise, for better or worse.

For me, getting pregnant was not an oops.

Getting pregnant was a meticulously planned, hi-tech military operation.

You see, I didn’t do things the normal way.  I had to be different.  So different that rather than doing things the old-fashioned way, I went the way of modern technology, modern families and Things That The Daily Mail Would Disapprove of.

I used a sperm donor.

This was not without its dramas.  Whilst I appreciate that even natural conceptions probably have their moments (let’s not dwell on these here…this is a PG-rated blog), few people can say that their route to parenthood involves a large, bright yellow tank of liquid nitrogen marked “TISSUES AND CELLS. DO NOT IRRADIATE.”

Yes this, my friends, is what happens when you hit your thirties and decide to give up on internet dating.  You end up making a date with a nitrogen tank of frozen sperm.

I didn’t want to admit to anyone that I was ordering sperm over the internet.  It just didn’t seem to be polite dinner party conversation:

“What are you doing tonight?”
“I’m just going to stay in with a glass of wine and some sperm.”
“Let’s get the party started.  The sperm is on ice.”

The tank came with a large and unromantic warning about the dangers of liquid nitrogen.  It came with a syringe, and it came with the hope that it had not been irradiated during the journey from Denmark.  Denmark is the Home of Sperm, you see.  Over a thousand years after the first wave of Viking raids, they are coming again, and they are infiltrating the local population with their sperm.  Or, more accurately, they are impregnating them.

The problem with all this, of course, if that someone has to deliver these tanks of frozen sperm, and that someone is UPS delivery service.

It was not at all embarrassing.  NOT AT ALL.

For a start, the two concierges at the reception desk downstairs didn’t notice anything remotely amiss as the delivery arrived.  They were not engaging in any kind of conversation with the courier from UPS about “ooh look at this, ooh it needs to be kept cold apparently!” which I could not overhear down the intercom.  Then the courier did not even bat an eyelid whilst handing the package to me, let alone chortle heartily “HERE’S YOUR BODY PARTS!”

Then, while I signed the delivery note, he did not ask any questions at all which might have suggested that this particular delivery was in any way a little bit out of the ordinary and perhaps not your average book or DVD from Amazon, such as; “IS IT ACTUALLY HUMAN THEN?  WHAT IS IT?”

Thanks, Danish sperm bank, for adding that lovely sticker with the words “TISSUES AND CELLS” and that tantalising little footnote about the case containing “human tissue.”

I had images of the police turning up on my doorstep, demanding to know why I was importing human body parts and was I in fact a cannibal/mass murderer/both, so in order to avoid this, I ended up blurting out what it was.

“I don’t want to say!” I protested, before realising that this made the whole enterprise sound even more dodgy.  “OK it’s sperm!”  then added “from a sperm bank” just to clarify in case he thought I had got it through some dodgy means rather than through a recognised commercial enterprise that presumably conforms to international laws.  “For insemination” I then added, in case he wondered what I could possibly be doing with a load of human sperm and did I in fact have a laboratory set up in my flat, where I was running my own secret government cloning laboratory, manufacturing cloned soldiers for some future war when I am going to be a Blofeld-style Bond villain with ambitions to be Queen of the World.

“Oh right,” said the courier with interest.  “So do guys come round and do that here then?”

What, doctors?  Does he imagine I’m having some sort of weird home fertility treatment?  


“Er, something like that.”

I vowed I would never, ever, do this again.  Luckily, it didn’t work, and I conceived my son via IVF two months later, breathing a sigh of relief that this debacle wasn’t the actual story of his conception.

I’m sure the concierge must have wondered though, after I started getting noticeably bigger. I have since moved house and denied all knowledge. Nobody saw it, it wasn’t me, you can’t prove anything, right?

Oh hang on, you’re not going to publish this are you Prabs?

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


BLOG-LOGO-web-sizeMin is 35, single and after a life spent travelling the world, building a career and amassing a substantial collection of vintage dresses, decided it was time to settle down, get married and have kids.  The only problem was, no one would marry her, so she had to have a baby on her own.  Her son was born in 2014 by donor conception and she now lives with her mother in the house she grew up in like an overgrown teenager.  Single Mum Speaks is all about the journey to single motherhood by choice, and what happened next.


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The #OopsFiles 13: Guest Blogger Pink Noam

pink-noam-featuredWelcome back for another edition of the #OopsFiles, the guest blog series that’s earning a reputation as a place where willing bloggers – yes they’re actually WILLING – come to  confess their sins/embarrassing life stories!  Now, two themes have come up a few times since the series began: nakedness and public transport indiscretions.  Blimey.  This week’s guest post by Pink Noam includes the latter plus a bar story.  I did think of regaling you with a few of my own public transport stories, you know, like the time I nearly broke my own hand grabbing the hand of the twunt who molested me on a packed Parisian metro train.  Or the time I was in my Saturday night glad rags and got up when the train stopped, only to be stuck to the seat because the PVC of my tights pants had ‘welded’ itself to that plasticky non-leather material on Paris metro seats…and then entertained the passengers with the sound of me literally peeling myself off the seat (I can still hear it some 20 years later).  And let’s not even go there with my bar stories.  Instead we’ll go there with Pink Noam’s…



The past few weeks have been an endless source of material that I could submit to the #Oopsfiles, some people, myself included, have even sustained some bruising from it…

My journey home from work involves a carefully timed train ride and then a tram ride. I get off the train and then I have two minutes before the tram arrives on the next platform. In theory.  Because I use public transport, the amount of times this works out can be counted on one hand though.

A couple of weeks ago, I arrived at the platform for my train and saw that the train had been delayed by ten minutes. Faced with the prospect of missing my connecting tram and having to stand in the pouring rain and cold for 20 minutes, I got a little grumpy. I then had to stand sardine-like on the train for 27 minutes before having to battle my way out of the train at the stop.  Bereft of hope, I climbed the stairs to the tram platform. As I reached the top of the stairs, there was my tram, miraculously waiting for me to board.  Now these trams don’t hang about, they’re there for all of 30 seconds before they move off. It was pissing with rain and it was bl**dy freezing so I did what any sensible person would do. I started sprinting for the tram. The person in front of me did the same.  Unfortunately, he then decided that he wasn’t going to make it and gave up.  He came to a sudden dead-stop two feet in front of me.

Before I go on, it’s important to note that I currently weigh about 230 pounds, and that I was running at full sprint speed to get on that tram.  Also, I was running about a foot from the edge of the platform.

So he stopped and desperately, I tried swerving to avoid crashing into him.  I probably yelled ‘F*** at the top of my lungs too but sadly my efforts were to no avail.  I went into the guy like a high-speed train into a brick wall, which is to say that I kept moving at the same speed and he got smashed out of the way.


Onto the track.

I don’t think ‘oops’ quite covers that.

Lucky for him, I knocked him over onto the track behind the tram so there was never really any danger of him getting his head squished by the tram as it departed.  For some reason this didn’t appease him judging by the stream of very English-sounding expletives that poured from him as I continued sprinting for the tram.

What?  No of course I didn’t stop to make sure he was OK, I’d have missed the tram!

As it was, I didn’t miss the tram and I sat down, risking a look out of the back window.  I saw him climbing back onto the platform with a couple of concerned passers-by helping him out. I’m sure that he got a bruise or two from the fall but as yet, I haven’t had a call from the police so I think I’m in the clear…

Of course, this sort of behaviour often comes back to bite you in the bum, and so Karma got its revenge not long afterL

The weekend after, my partner Ant and I decided to go out for a few drinks, to a local gay bar.  We had a warm up drink at home (3 spiced rum and cokes and a couple of tequilas – oops) and then headed to the bar.  We were fairly squiffy before we went out, but we continued to have a great night, listening to cheesy Dutch music, and singing loudly.

There came the inevitable point in the night where I had to break the seal and go for a pee and this is where the universe got its own back for me throwing a guy onto a train track.  As I attempted to dismount from the bar stool, I failed to realise that my feet were stuck behind the footrest and so, as my torso moved forward, the rest of me didn’t.  This resulted in me tipping spectacularly, face first onto the floor.

smartly dressed man falling off bar stool

Wasn’t nearly this fabulous [Image courtesy of Vogue]


I also hadn’t yet put my drink down so, while falling forward and putting my hands out to stop some involuntary facial re-arrangement, I flung my drink forward and completely soaked the pristine white shirt of a man in front of me.  Soaked it in spiced rum and coke.  Which is brown.  Very dark brown.  When I’d disentangled my legs from the stool and staggered to my feet, I apologised to him profusely. For his part, he seemed placid enough and I was about to offer to buy him a drink when his boyfriend decided to take some revenge and simply threw his drink all over Ant’s back.

Silly boy.

Ant immediately turned around and shouted at him, at length, in a stream of words heavily laden with some pretty spectacular profanity.  The guy burst into tears and then flounced out of the bar. It was ****ing glorius.  The guy that I’d soaked, looked like he was about to say something but Ant, still full of wrath, simply raised an eyebrow at him and then he left too.

No doubt the universe will be looking to balance that one soon, too.

PinkNoamLogoHeaderThe Pink Noam is a UK-born blogger now living in The Netherlands. He works (using the term loosely) in IT, where he tries not to get too upset at people who have no business being anywhere near a computer.

Follow Pink Noam on Facebook, Twitter and Google Plus and the blog Pink Noam

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.

Linked to:


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The #OopsFiles 12: Guest Blogger My Random Musings

random-musings-featuredA few months ago, I had my first job interview in erm 13 years.  I should have been totally terrified after years as a stay at home mum where the only questions I had to answer were from little people mainly asking what’s for dinner over and over as opposed to an intimidating interviewer.  But I was so excited to ditch my ‘mummy uniform’ and put on an actual blouse, skirt and heels that I really enjoyed it!  Until the moment came where I blew it; and I knew exactly which moment it was.  I simply said the wrong thing and knew I wasn’t going to get the job.  But I have to admit Debs of My Random Musings is in a league of her own with her “blew it moment”.  Honestly, I cringed at the ending of this week’s #OopsFiles post in sympathy.  I would have just died and crawled out of there on my hands and knees if that were me.  Well alright crawling on hands and knees is a bit hard if you’re dead but you get me.  And now it’s time to get Debs.  Poor girl lol.

job interview cartoon comedy sketch


I’m one of those people who seem to go through life by jumping from one embarrassing situation to the next. I embarrass myself so much, I’ve grown kind of used to it, and it takes a lot to actually embarrass me these days.

I’m that girl who can use several sexual innuendos per sentence without meaning to and wonder why everyone is laughing. I can quite easily do the reverse and burst into uncontrollable laughter at the worst possible times when someone else is talking about something serious and my dirty mind kicks in.

I fall, trip, or whack limbs off furniture more often than I care to admit.

So what could happen that’s worse than all of that?

About 10 years ago, I was working in a job I hated. I knew I had to get out so I began looking for other jobs. I applied for about six different jobs in the admin sector.

About two weeks later, I got a call to go for an informal interview in a local cafe.

I was really excited as it was one of the companies I really wanted to work for. Determined to impress them, I began researching the company. I learned so many facts and figures I felt like I had already worked there for about ten years. Informal or not, I wanted to be prepared!

So I arrived for my interview feeling quietly confident. I talked about my past experience in the sector and what I could offer. It seemed to be going well. No awkward pauses or anything.

Then came the question I’d been dreading – “Why do you want to work for us?” I was terrified my mind would go blank!

Luckily it didn’t and I rambled on about how they were leading the market, and how their profits had increased by such and such % and why I wanted to work for such a company.

And then it happened. The interviewer said “You’ve really done your research haven’t you.’

Followed by “Shame that’s not the right company.”

Yes, I had managed to get two of the companies I applied to mixed up. There was no way of blagging my way out of it, so, beaming red and wanting the ground to swallow me up, I went with honesty. “I’m so sorry, I’ve applied for several jobs.”

The interview came to an abrupt close after that, and needless to say I wasn’t contacted again.

The story does have a happy ending though. At that time, I had my full time job (the one I hated) and a part time job I loved. I told my part time job manager what had happened. When he found out I wanted to leave my other job, he offered me full time hours there.

MRR-blog-badgeDebbie works full time in a club and somehow manages to blog prolifically! Her blog is her little place to write her random musings as the title implies; thoughts, feelings, ideas, opinions, rants, raves, discussions, debates, pretty much the works. A place to write about anything from her deepest thoughts to light hearted stories from her daily life, anything goes.

Follow Debs on Facebook,  Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest and her blog My Random Musings

If you’d like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.



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#OopsFiles 11: Guest Blogger The Madhouse of Cats and Babies

shocked baby's faceWhen I read Karen’s #OopsFiles post, amazingly I couldn’t for the life of me remember if any of my kids ever did a poonami in public.  At home, yes. My eldest, Musical M is now almost 12 years old.  Yet I can still remember that when she was just 8 months old, she inflicted a ten day long poonami fest on me (whoops, I mean the poor thing suffered for ten days) the likes of which will stay imprinted on my brain forever. Heck, if I still remember it some 11 years later – when I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast yesterday – you KNOW it was bad.  To this day, I have no idea what caused it.  The doctor had no idea what it was.  I got to the point where I was so sick of bathing her after every explosion not to mention the laundry that I started dressing her in double layers of clothing.  It still didn’t help control the blowout consequences of her explosions.  I’ll stop right there or you’ll be too sick to read this week’s post by The Madhouse of Cats and Babies!

title image with nappy and words Poonami


This blog post’s alternative title is “if you have a baby, don’t ever leave the house without a spare nappy.”

Like, me you might live to regret that…

One of the basic rules of parenting a baby or toddler still in nappies, is that if you are leaving the house, for a trip out, you MUST pack spare nappies. I made the very basic rookie error of not packing a nappy one day, and paid the consequences for it!

Emily was was about 8 weeks old, and I was planning to meet a friend of a friend. We had arranged to meet locally. I was quite looking forward to it, and had everything packed and ready to go, but realised I had used our last nappy on Big Girl at her last change. I made a mental note to buy nappies after our coffee date. This, you would think, was all ok and sounded reasonable? But, really, it was a stupid move, on my part. Emily was one of those breastfed babies that could go 10 days between poos and often did. The first time she did this, I was alarmed, but was soon reassured by various sources that it was normal, and she would happily go on until about day 10, then a poo to rival all poos would appear, and then back to normal. I counted on my fingers and thought she was on day 9 of no poo, and stupidly figured we had at least one more day before the mega poo would appear so thought I would be safe to get nappies after my coffee meetup.

Oh how foolish I was…

So,  I am sitting in the cafe, with baby on my lap, then she  starts to squirm, (she is dressed in a beautiful two peiece outfit, trousers and a top, with a onsie underneath) So I stand her up on my lap, as I thought she had wind, and might be uncomfortable! The next thing I see is the look of horror on my friends face, as she says to me “there is something coming out of the bottom of the baby’s trousers!”

Yup, you guessed it! Emily had decided day 9 of her poop “cycle” was the time to let it all out, and when I use the word “poonami”, you will maybe get a picture of exactly how much poo was produced… It came out of the bottom of her trousers, and out of the top of her top. It literally went everywhere. Waves of the stuff, and I of course sat there like an idiot, holding this baby, with poo pouring from what seemed to be every angle, all over me, and my trousers. Fortunately, a very kind, Italian woman at the table next to us, leapt up, grabbed a heap of paper towels, and started to mop up. Of course, the whole café is looking at us by now, and one of the barista came over to help, and got a bin bag, more cloths and wipes and helped me to clear up too. It is hard to believe, that one small being, can excrete so much poo, in one go, but Big Girl, it seems was at volcanic capacity that day. At this point, I realised I had no nappies and burst into tears…

The Italian woman, bless her heart, spoke pretty good English, and immediately ran off to the nearest store (thankfully there were shops nearby) and came back brandishing a pack of nappies, wipes, and a change of clothes for Emily. She helped me pack all my stuff into the pushchair, and she carted me off to the nearest shop with a changing table and helped me to clean up and sort out the baby, who was as happy as a clam, with very empty bowels. The very kind Italian woman refused all offers from me to repay her for the clothes and nappies she had bought, and insisted on staying to help me. Unfortunately, I had poo all down my trousers, and shoes, and didn’t feel I could cope with shopping to buy news ones, so decided to get a taxi home. She walked me to the taxi, and waved me off. I never saw her again, but will never forget being rescued from what was a very messy situation.

I will never leave the house without nappies again.

madcats2Karen is a former nurse, now mum of two, blogging about parenting and family life, with honesty and humour. Mostly making it up as she goes…
Follow her on FacebookTwitterInstagram
and visit her blog Madhouse of Cats and Babies

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The #OopsFiles 10: Guest Blogger Daddy Mind Tricks

shocked baby face for OopsFiles 10

I’m so pleased Daddy Mind Tricks is joining the other dad bloggers featured on the #OopsFiles so far (Baby Pink and the Boys and Papa Does Preach).  Let’s face it, women are not the only sex guilty of many an Oops moment.  For some reason, this week’s guest post puts me in mind of an incident from a few years ago.  I had turned up at someone’s house for a birthday party, thoughtful beautifully-wrapped gift in hand with my three kids smartly dressed, sporting sparkly shoes and clean faces and ON TIME (praise be…take a bow Mama Prabulous!) at 4pm, as stated on the invite.  The slight drawback was that I hadn’t paid attention to other minor details on the invite…such as the date…we were 24 hours too late.  If my poor kids could have fired me and hired a new mother, they would have.  I think the only reason they didn’t is because they needed someone to drive them home.

There is no party in this guest post…just a fortunate little boy (eventually!) and an even more fortunate father!  Step this way, Daddy Mind Tricks, step this way…

Son of #OopsFiles 10 guest blogger Daddy Mind Tricks


Being a father has unfortunately given me too many “oops” moments than I can count but if I have to choose one that I can at least look back on and laugh about (now) it’s the time when my wife asked me to drop our son Edger off at our friend Sarah’s house for the morning. This was a bit of an unusual request since Sarah, who lives just down the street from us, was never available to help watch him during the day because she had a nine-to-five job, however, she had recently quit and taken a much needed hiatus from the workforce.

Excited about the prospective of some new found convenience, I had an extra skip in my step as I got my son dressed, packed, and ran us out the door in a hurry so I wouldn’t run late to a very crucial appointment my wife and I were going to meet up at. As I pulled up I noticed that there were a lot of cars in, and blocking, the driveway. I hadn’t given much thought to why that would be but it made me jokingly wonder if she had started a daycare or something. I knocked on Sarah’s door and when she opened it, Edger looked inside the house and froze.

Before I knew it he started to cry, which is very unlike him, but it was clearly because he didn’t know some of the people who were in his line of sight and since he had never been left there alone before he was apprehensive. It was clear this was more of a family reunion than a daycare startup. I couldn’t blame him for his confusion, he wasn’t alone, I didn’t know she was going to have family over while she watched him but I guess it made sense that with her new found extra time she was taking advantage of it to the fullest.

I was a bit confused because to me it was common sense that maybe you don’t have a bunch of people over, who I don’t know, when you’re going to watch my son but Sarah is a close friend to our family and we trust her more than most people so I figured either she told my wife about them being there, who didn’t tell me, or that the family was probably leaving soon. Either way, I still had a confused look on my face I’m sure.

Sarah too had a confused look on her face. This is probably one of the last faces you want to see on the person who’s about to watch your kid because at least one of us needs to know what’s going on here but due to limited time I had to assume it was because of his crying and freezing up and how completely out of character that is for him, as he loves everyone and is never, ever, afraid of anyone. Since I was in a hurry I didn’t have time to completely bring resolution to the situation so I suggested that Sarah take him to see their dog in the kitchen (as a distraction) and that while she did that I would leave his bag on the table and duck out (knowing full well that not only would he warm up to everyone but that in no time they’d all be his best friends). She agreed with the plan and everything went without a hitch.

That is until I called my wife to let her know Edger was dropped off safe and sound at Sarah’s and that I was just pulling into a gas station near her house. Before I could even finish my sentence she interrupted with, “Why would you have backtracked to go to that particular gas station?

“What are you talking about? It’s on the way,” I replied. And that’s when it hit me. I dropped him off at the wrong Sarah’s. All I could think about, as I drove Fast and Furious style back to her house, was why did she just take my son and not ask what the hell was going on? Who just goes along with something like this? Either the most amazing person, who would do anything for you at the drop of a hat, or the most creepy and insane person who would take a child and sell them on the black market. I hung on to the hope, as I sped and swerved, that she was the former in this case.

As I pulled up to the house, all the cars that had filled her driveway were gone. Either I was right and the family really was about to leave or I was right and they stole my kid. I ran up to the house and knocked on the door but no one answered. I knocked several times more only much harder and included ringing the bell but still no answer. I took out my phone as my heart raced and called Sarah only for it to go straight to voicemail. I had only been gone a little over five minutes but somehow my life seemed to have been flipped on its head in that small amount of time.

The diaper bag! I needed to see if the diaper bag was still on the table or not because in it was a GPS traceable iPad that might help me find his exact location. The only way I’d be able to see it though was looking through the back window. So I ran to the backyard to get a better view but before I knew it, I saw what was going on. In the world of Ohio it’s not uncommon to share your backyard with egg-laying chickens so Sarah had taken him out there to see them, knowing it would help get his mind off being left there, and in her quick thinking she had left her phone in the house.

I ran over, picked him up and hugged him like something out of a Lifetime movie. When I explained that I dropped him off at the wrong “Sarah’s” house I pointed out that I couldn’t believe she would just take him without asking what the hell was going on. She explained that she really did have no idea what was going on but before she could even get an intelligible word out, I was out the door and she was showing Edger the dog.  When her family asked her what the hell that was about she just assumed her husband must have told me I could drop my son off and that he must have forgotten to inform her of the plans (she obviously wouldn’t put that past him which cracks me up but then again concerns me).

The lesson here is don’t have more than one Sarah on your babysitter list but in all seriousness, all really is well that ends well and as parents we need to give ourselves a break when we find ourselves in that not-so-proud or “oops” moment.

Daddy Mind Tricks logo is dedicated to the real dads that do their absolute best and strive to earn Level 42 Paladin status so they can slay dragons with one hand while triumphantly braiding their daughter’s hair to perfection in the other.  Follow Daddy Mind Tricks on FacebookTwitterPinterestGoogle +

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The #OopsFiles 9: Guest Blogger Pink Pear Bear


Pssssst! Come closer, no a bit closer. Okay, that’s good.  Right, I’m really erm not sure how to say this.  So here goes [deep breath]: IT SEEMS SOME OF MY OOPSFILERS ARE HAVING IMMENSE DIFFICULTY KEEPING THEIR CLOTHES ON.  There. I’ve said it. From the tear-inducing tale by Mess, Stress and Fancy Dress about accidental knicker-flashing to Baby Pink and the Boys’ hilarious bum bearing shenanigans to this week’s jaw-drop confession from Pink Pear Bear…I’m seriously worried about this lot!  I mean, next to them, I actually look like I’ve got my act together and my clothes firmly on.  No accidental-nakedness stories at my end.  Nope, all my nudity is intentional. Ha Haaaa!

Incidentally, if you’ve not read the other #OopFiles posts, here you go. Right, over to Louise (FYI that compliment in the first line was unprompted by me and frankly, who am I to remove the word ‘gorgeous’? #DontShootTheMessenger.)

PS I lied about no nudity on my part, ahem.


Pink Pear Bear guest post shower image

So the gorgeous Prabbers asked me if I had anything to contribute to her #OopsFiles series. I initially thought immediately about the time we crashed a wedding but having already written about it, albeit briefly, I decided to try and come up with another story from the dark and dusty recesses of my mind: you know, the very very back, far distant corners where I shove all the memories that I would really rather forget about…  I think I’m actually pretty good at burying embarrassing things, as it was very difficult to find one.  Finally something surfaced. Something good.  Something I’d really rather forget and am not quite sure why I’m telling you. I’m going to tell you about The Time I Flashed The Accountant.

Ok, I’ll set the scene a little, this story needs some background! I grew up in an old farmhouse and there were A LOT of spiders.  I’m not talking about those see through spindly things, (although we had a few thousand of them too!).  These were giant, fat, thick legged and hairy.   We called them ‘bath spiders’, as that’s where they were most often found, but I’m not sure of their technical name.

Combine this with a crippling phobia of spiders, the kind that turns me from a normal, functioning, confident, brave adult in a gibbering wreck, often tearful, usually shrieking for help, and it was a stressful childhood!! I think the phobia stemmed from a birthday party as a child, where, unbeknownst to my parents, the entertainment was the film Arachnophobia. I was never the same again! 😀

So, onto the day in question.  I was around fourteen, home from boarding school for the holidays and I decided to take a shower.  All was going well, all normal, so far so good, shampoo, conditioner etc. Then came the time to get out. And this point in the story is where the Oops moment comes in.  I’m kind of cringing just thinking about it, but also I have goosebumps reliving this part.  The towels were kept on hooks on the wall at the end of the bath and I reached for one.

I could hear my dad talking to the accountant in his office.  The door of which was directly opposite the bathroom door, and so being shy, and also fourteen, peak of awkwardness, I decided to stay in the bathroom until he had gone.  This was until I wrapped the towel around myself.  The towel was light brown.  I glanced down aaaannnnndddd, yep, you guessed it, a giant spider was running up it.  I absolutely freaked, brushed it off screaming and making sure I knew exactly where in the bathroom the spider was.  I had finally calmed my breathing and gathered up the courage to step out of the bath when I felt something.  I spun round to look in the mirror and saw a massive spider, bigger then the first running up my back.  I’m not ashamed to say that I completely and utterly flipped, I spun round, trying frantically to brush it off, and in the process, dropped the towel.  By this point I was in a complete and utter panic, (I know I know, it sounds ridiculous, I know that myself but I genuinely have no control over it).  All I knew was that I had to get out of that bathroom.

So I did. Totally starkers. And screaming blue murder.  I streaked out the door, ran past the open office door and into my bedroom.  From which I didn’t emerge until I was 100% certain the accountant (and both spiders!!) had definitely gone.

Not my finest moment. 😀 I would love to say that as I grew up, I grew out of the phobia and learnt to control it. This is absolutely not the case, and if two spiders were ever trying to get it on, on a towel I had just wrapped myself in, there is absolutely no doubt I would react in the exact same way as my 14 year old self did!

N.B. I thought it might amuse you to know, that while writing this, I was sat with my legs crossed and my laptop on my lap.  As I got to the bit where I spot the first spider, I saw something out of the corner of my eye and jumped a mile.  It was not a spider as I imagined. On closer inspection, it turned out to be my own foot moving! Idiot!!


Since this incident, Louise has in fact overcome her spider phobia AND THEN SOME!  Read about that here! logoMy name is Louise and I am Mama to two gorgeous kiddies aged 5 and 3. I can be mostly found making cakes, eating cakes and doing the crafts at playgroup when the small boy has wandered off. I also love tea, castles, nights out, (although it takes me far too long to recover now!), laughing with my friends, running, chocolate, crochet, drawing and tattoos. When I get the chance, I love being outdoors, camping, travelling, reading, oh, and writing of course!!

You can follow Louise on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, YouTube and her blog Pink Pear Bear

If you’d you like to take part in the #OopsFiles Guest Post series click here for details.


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The #OopsFiles 8: Guest Blogger Mum Revised

#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised featured imageSo amongst the fabulous #OopsFiles guest posts so far, we’ve had dubious commuter behaviour, hilarious vocabulary misuse, bare bums, yelling at the wrong person and key disasters galore to name a few.  You know what we haven’t had?  Evacuations.  You know of the body variety.  Comprende?  Now I’d love to be a team player and say that I totally relate to this week’s post by the unique fearless and downright funny Kristine Laco.  (If you’ve not yet visited Kristine’s blog, Mum Revised, you’re in for a wonderfully forthright irreverent but clever style of writing which is a breath of fresh air – ok, ‘breath of fresh air’ probably doesn’t apply to her guest post but hey ho.)  Seriously her arts and crafts spoof…oh my days!  Anyway, I would relate to this week’s #OopsFiles post but my bottom doesn’t ‘cough’. Ever.  My nether regions are well-behaved.  Cleaner than the Queen’s.  Practically perfect in ev- okay I’ll stop now.  Mental note to self: this post is not about me.

PS after recently writing here and here about the many problems I’ve had with my name, I’ve got to love this woman for managing possibly the most unique name mistake of them all…

Over to Kristine.

#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised guest post title image


When Prabs, or Erica* as I sometimes like to call her, asked me to submit a post for #TheOopsFiles I had to really take stock.

I am generally the person making everyone else uncomfortable. I say things that are controversial, off-colour and probably not very politically correct on more occasions than most. My husband is known to cower at my dancing joie de vivre. My children disown me when I bust out the lungs in rousing karaoke. I don’t much care what others think because I am a confident woman with lasting friendships and I am not in the market to be besties with anyone else.

Then I farted.

It wasn’t a small break of air with nary-a-butt lift required. It was an egg-rotting, dead-mammal, decaying and fermented masterpiece of bowel pre-shart air juice. It was so wonderfully disgusting that I no longer thought my foulness smelled like ripening peaches.  I thought I stank. So bad, in fact, I had to leave my office to cleanse my lungs.

As I was gasping for oxygen I heard her.  My housekeeper had come up the stairs and was proceeding to make her way to her first stop on the main floor—the powder room.

I had but 10 minutes to somehow air out the only room in the house without a working window.  I poured a coffee while I planned a strategy including loudly blaming the dog and a great deal of scented candles and Lysol.

I turned the corner to grab supplies when I saw her.  She had taken the opportunity to tidy up my office while I was not seated. The dog had long since escaped and was no use at all.

I backed away gently from the scene of the crime.  I did not tell her to wait.  I did not apologize. I did what any good person would do, I avoided eye contact for the remainder of her time in my house.

She has been with me for 6 years. She will be missed.


*OK, full disclosure, the other time I was red-faced, I called Prabs Erica all over the internet because, brain fart. That is a full circle folks.

#oopsfiles 8 guest blogger Mum Revised logoKristine Laco shares her stories at with a splash of sarcasm and a pinch of bitch. She lives in the Toronto area and is a stay-at-home mother of two kids aged 14 and 12 and a fur-baby. Her middle finger is her favourite.
Follow Kristine on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram.

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The #OopsFiles 7: Guest Blogger Life Love and Dirty Dishes

shocked face pic for #OopsFiles postI nearly fist-pumped the air when this week’s OopsFile post landed in my inbox.   [Taps mic and clears throat before announcing:] Not only is it by a member of blogging aristocracy – Claire of Life Love and Dirty Dishes no less – but I’ve also finally found someone who’s as hopeless with keys as I am!  Seriously, I thought my key disasters were legendary but I’ve found my equal. (Oh alright then, Claire has grown out of this habit whilst I’ve carried on and actually become worse in adulthood.)  Anyway, this post took me back to memories of my first car.  It was a beloved old baked bean can of an automobile that gave me hypothermia  in Winter and then overheated so badly during the Summer that I spent weeks driving it with the heating on full blast and the windows down just to relieve the radiator and keep the whole thing from blowing up (as I couldn’t afford the repairs), which resulted in me turning up at work with sweat dripping down my face looking like I’d run a marathon by 9am already. I will forever feel guilty for not saying goodbye to her properly when she went to the scrap heap. You can stop giggling at me assigning her an agenda, thanks.  The cheek…

Anyway, I’m chuffing delighted that Claire is this week’s OopsFiler.  She is such a talent (producing one of the Huff’s most read posts of last year!) and has a way with words that pulls me in and never fails to make its mark on me.  So without any further ado…

Austin Metro
When I first passed my driving test I raced drove around in a light blue Austin Metro.  It was technically my Mum’s car, but possession is only nine tenths and all that.  It was an old car.  It had a manual choke and everything!

The car it had its problems.  When it rained, the passenger foot well would fill with water, and there was a weed growing by the brake pedal.  The brake cable snapped, then the accelerator cable.  The suspension also snapped.  It didn’t like to start in the rain.  I was on first name terms with the AA man.  But it went like @#$* off a shovel and I loved it.

As an 18 year old girl it was my independence, my gateway to the rest of the world, well the UK anyway.  I have many happy memories bombing about in my little metro with Alanis Morrisette blaring out from the cassette stereo.  I know what you’re thinking, I can’t possibly be old enough 😉

My Dad had booked the Metro in for an MOT.  I still lived at home and my Dad did stuff like that for me.  He told me the time and the place that I had to take the car.  Now I totally believe in equality, but when it comes to cars, I am a typical ‘girl’.  I couldn’t tell you what car any of my friends drive, but I could tell you what colour it was.  When people start talking about engine sizes and spark plugs, my mind wonders to Orla Kiely handbags and Gerard Butler.  And car garages?  It doesn’t matter how grown up, strong and independent I am, those places make me nervous.  It must be all the testosterone in the air.  It temporarily shuts down my brain cells and renders me useless.

I left the car at the garage and went for a browse around the shops whilst the MOT was being done.  When I returned to the garage to collect my car one of the mechanics informed me they hadn’t done the MOT.  The other mechanics were laughing and I had the distinct feeling it was at me.  I became a little indignant, and demanded to know why they hadn’t completed the MOT in the two hours I had been gone.  I was busy, I had places to go, people to see, I couldn’t possibly be without my car, and this kind of service was unacceptable.  It wasn’t a bad spiel for a wet behind the ears 18 year old, who was well and truly out of her comfort zone.   After allowing me to finish my rant and climb right to the top of my high horse, the mechanic told me the reason they hadn’t done the MOT was because I had locked the keys in the car.

Remember I said it was an old car?  I always used to lift the handle and push the lock down, then close the door.  Only the keys were still in the ignition.  On the inside.  I can still feel myself blushing crimson with embarrassment when I think about standing in that garage.

I had to use their phone (yes, we didn’t all have mobiles then) to call my Dad to bring the spare set of keys.  The independent woman look was failing badly.

man handing keys to woman

My Dad is a very easy going guy.  He would do anything for his little girl.  I rarely remember him ever being cross with me.  However, he was fuming.  I know it’s a simple mistake, right?  It could happen to anyone.  It’s just that it wasn’t the first time it had happened to me.  Or the second.

Three days prior to the garage incident my Dad had an appointment and needed to borrow the Metro as my mum was out in his car.  He couldn’t get in the car because it was locked and the keys were once again in the ignition.  To make matters worse my mum had the spare keys with her.

Two days prior to making my Dad miss his appointment because I had locked the keys in the car, he had to come and rescue me from 35 miles away, because guess what?  Yep, I had locked the keys in the car again!

Three times in one week.  (It also happened the week before, but a kind, if not slightly dodgy man broke into the car for me, but shhh, my Dad doesn’t need to know about that one.

Thank god for remote locking nowadays!

And yes, my family have never let me live it down.

life love ddI’m Claire. I’m in my  mid thirties (37 still counts as mid, right?).  My claim to fame is that I once spoke to Phillip Schoefield on a Going Live phone in.  I know, awesome.  I’m married with two boys, The big one is six and believes he is a ninja.  The little one is almost two and never ever stops running.  We live in a Lego house.  We don’t really, but we have so much off the stuff I could probably build one.  My blog is mainly about the amusing side of parenting and the situations we find ourselves in, like getting wedged in the rollers at soft play.  Occasionally I am known to have soppy moments too and it all gets a bit sentimental.  Then there’s the odd rant.  After all, what’s life, without love and a few dirty dishes?
Follow Claire on FacebookTwitter and her blog: Life Love and Dirty Dishes

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