My single mothering advice is gold, I am full of it. Don’t worry about buying expensive parenting books, for calm children administer nursery rhymes, they are cheaper than sedatives (for you and the kids).
If you see a little bunny and it’s nose is very runny
You think it’s very funny but it’s snot.
Lou Lou had a little girl, she had a bit of colic
She fed her vodka twice a day, now she’s alcoholic
If your children won’t stop crying, sing:
Roses are red, violets are blue, the smell of vomit reminds me of you.
Or what about?
My hair is alive with the bite of head lice
There were three in the bed and the little one said,
Roll over, roll over
So they all rolled over and my feet got cold
Roll over, rollover my super, walk the dog, defrost the freezer, feel guilty about the stuff you haven’t done. Roll over, play dead so you don’t have to change a nappy roll over.
Hey Diddle Diddle, my life’s in a puddle I can’t seem to get enough cash.
My kids need more food, but the rent is due so I can’t afford to splash.
I’ve spent all my dosh on school clothes and books and treated kids to some honey,
Luckily their father has a conscience, here comes my ex with lots of money
No stop me! That one is pure fantasy
Roses are red,
My teenage daughter’s bedroom smells
Not that I care,
But I could if I wanted to
My middle daughter has just started playing basketball, I’ve watched two games. She has never played a team sport before, and I have already turned into Sport Rage Single Mother. During the first game, I sat on my own and started muttering, “Bloody ref, what would she know? She is ripping off our team,” as I watched the other team get away with pushing and shoving, and my daughter’s team racking up the fouls. As I became more vocal my girl sat obediently on the bench, sneaking looks at me, wondering when I would stop embarrassing her. For the second game I decided to sit with the rational parents, hoping they’d be a good influence on me. Then my daughter was elbowed and fell over. Sport Rage Single Mother from Hell emerged. “Come on, that’s not on!” I yelled and my voice echoed around the gym. I slapped the bench and sat down as the calm parents from the other team pursed their lips and stared at me. My daughter told me she was fine, then the opposing team of giant almost-women proceeded to annihilate my girl and her mates. I slumped in my seat and said to any of the mothers who would listen, “Our girls need a bit more testosterone, they can have mine.” Game three is on today, anyone know where I put my chill pills?