Thank God they’re back, honestly, by the last week I was on a bottle of prosecco a day, aren’t I dreadful – you were on two? – well I haven’t even mentioned the intravenous gin, that Bad Moms film does not even come close, right? The idea that bunking off for spa days is slack, how else will they learn to exfoliate?
Alice? Thanks, 13 A*s – God, nothing to do with me, I even forgot results day, aren’t I dreadful. Yes, we had the tutor, but only for physics, you know what a swot she is, some nights I’d be literally pleading with her to stop reading and stay up sexting, or at least forget her piano practice, but she’d never have it – grade eight!
Hilarious, God knows where she gets it from and it’s not as if we’ve ever pushed them. When she was little, I was always like, forget your times tables, let’s all grab some down time, write our novels, make a motte-and-bailey castle from old Majestic boxes, life’s all about expressing yourself, but Freddie is just as bad – yes, off to Cambridge, goodness knows how that happened, we only fed him takeaways once he was on solids, must have been the years of monosodium glutamate!
Mind you, it helps that my four love raw veg – I’ll say, I dare you to fill up on Haribos tonight, Martha will go, thank you, Mummy, I don’t want to spoil my lovely broccoli – yes, at four!
The way some of these perfect mother types carry on, but most children are fine if you just leave them alone. Look at Sam, straight into the first team again, and I never so much as threw a ball at him, aren’t I dreadful?
Don’t tell the perfect mothers, seriously, their faces when I bring a shitload of Mr Kiplings, oops, my awful language, to the bake sale – oh, you’ve done that, too, well, you can’t call yourself a bad mother unless you also told them to fuck off and get a life, which, I’m sorry to have to tell you, technically makes me a worse mother than you. Aren’t I dreadful?
