An Open Letter to Mummy Pig: “Get bladdered and sing the Bing Bong song…”I adapted this from my Nine Open Mummy Letters to Some Famous People for The Mirror – read it here! http://www.mirror.co.uk/lifestyle/family/peppa-pigs-mummy-needs-kick-6404869
Dear Mummy Pig,
Having observed you now for a couple of years while my kids have lunged and chattered around the room like chimps with cabin fever, I felt compelled to write you a letter packed full of unsolicited advice and opinion. I’m a mum blogger you see, and an open letter is like oxygen to us – the slightest sniff of a celebrity, for instance, anywhere near the pregnancy tests and ovulation kits at Boots and I’m knocking out a mawkish missive to that foetus before its mum has even had a chance to pee on anything.
Anyway, back to the matter of you, Mummy Pig. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am in awe of your incredibly upbeat and positive style of parenting. However, when my toddler jumps up and down in muddy puddles (thanks for that by the way), I must confess I rarely say: “Never mind, it’s only mud.” I’m afraid I tend to swear under my breath and wonder where I’m going to get a clean outfit from given everything else is in the bastard laundry bag. Similarly, if my youngest kept repeatedly saying, ‘dinosaur grrr’, I most likely wouldn’t enlist the whole family to hunt for that pesky plastic toy when he went missing – I’d probably, in a bid to save my own selfish sanity, let Mr Dinosaur stay lost. And I’ll be completely honest with you, when my other half loses his glasses, I never chuckle and call him ‘silly’ – I call him a knob.
I’m not saying you’re long-suffering or anything (well, you are a bit), but I do feel you could benefit from being a lot more, you know, like me (again, true to the spirit of an open letter, us bloggers like to dish out direction which essentially, is just a means of being a bit bossy – you know, a little like your daughter?) So my uninvited counsel for you, Mummy Pig, is to kick up your trotters and let rip a bit. Give Suzy Sheep’s mum and Miss Rabbit a ring, and see if they fancy a night out? Get bladdered, stagger home at 2am singing the Bing Bong Song and stay in bed until noon the next day. Daddy Pig can bring you a bacon sandwich in the morning… Oh, I’m sorry. That was very insensitive of me.
I do hope my open letter has given you something to think about it. Now hit that wine, MP – and hit it hard…
Lots of love
Gizza needy like here please..? https://www.facebook.com/wordtothemothers
An Open Letter to Mummy Pig #2: “You need a mum-mate – a mate like me…”Dear Mummy Pig,
Now, don’t worry, this isn’t set to become a Sinead v Miley series of open letters. I am merely writing a second letter, as I was concerned my first, packed full of brilliant unsolicited advice and opinion, might have been misconstrued. Obviously as a big fat mummy-blogging bore it is my absolute right to condescend and judge in such a manner, but essentially, I just think you could do with a mate – a mate like me, Mummy Pig.
Don’t get me wrong – I think Mummy Zebra and Mrs Elephant are nice enough for duck-feeding play dates and school-gate small talk while you wait for Madame Gazelle to kick out playgroup. However, I don’t think they’re the types to tut and say ‘fuck her’ in all the right places when, say, some mum asks you if you’re worried at all that George’s vocabulary hasn’t expanded much beyond: “Dinosaur. Grr!” Similarly, when some beaky relative (let’s say Grandpa Pig, for example – he seems to have a lot to say for himself), is all up in your snout about child-proofing or potty-training, I can’t really see Mrs Cat slagging off one of her interfering feline family members too in an effort to make you feel better. Well, I am definitely that mum friend, MP…
Here’s some of the life-changing wisdom that a mum-friendship with me has to offer…
• The amount of sleep deprivation you endure is directly proportional to how good a mum you are – a bit like ‘Nam, the more you’ve suffered, the bigger the hero you are. This is a FACT
• A tube of Smarties can get you through some long car journeys – especially if you get some for the kids too
• And this useful bit of mum arithmetic I’ve uncovered will help you no end: Wine + a very bad rom com + a big fuck-off pizza = the edge taken off a rubbish day
It’s good shit, right? And there’s more where that came from. I don’t mean to brag (well I do a bit), but I’m so fucking wise I get an average of about 13 likes on me mummy Facebook posts. I am expecting a book deal any day now, Mummy Pig…
And despite my huge mum-blogging ego, I’m not so arrogant as to think of our friendship as a one-way street with me dishing out directives. OK, it’s true, I have pointed out in my first letter the ways in which you could better your life by being more like me (you’re welcome by the way), but I reckon there’s stuff I can learn from you too? I can make you less long-suffering and maybe you can help me be a more amenable mum? Well, we’ll see… I’ll be canvassing for tips in our next lot of correspondence anyway, MP…
So listen, you and me – we make a good team. Let’s seal this deal. Why don’t I pop round to yours some time and drink some of that lovely-looking red you and Daddy Pig occasionally enjoy a tipple of over a light supper, and you can also whip up a bit of that spaghetti you seem to enjoy so much as a family? Although, if you don’t mind me saying, that pasta looks a bit dry without a sauce? I’ll give you my recipe for a really amazing pork ragu… Oh, bugger. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? So sorry, Mummy Pig. I promise to work on my insensitivity as our friendship progresses.
So, until next time, MP… Bell me if you need me, yeah? I’ll be up that hill to your lovely detached home before you have time to whistle that hugely irritating theme tune…
Lots of love
An Open Letter to Mummy Pig #3: “Did you get off with Dave? And could you save the NHS please..?”Dear Mummy Pig,
First off, let me apologise for my terrible tardiness. I have been meaning to write again for some time, but you know how it is – days zip by thanks to naptime battles, endless rows over Lego, multiple failed attempts at presenting the correct colour of toddler spoon at mealtimes… It’s a wonder I find the time to be such a sage and self-indulgent mum blogger.
I began thinking about you again Mummy Pig, as I was watching you the other day with both my kids, one slumped either side of me, following an afternoon at soft play. As I waited for the mac and cheese to ding, it occurred to me what a lovely world you inhabit, MP. It’s true I started our correspondence listing everything I’d like to change in your life, but I’ve come to realise just how cooshty your world is. You live in a big, detached house on a hill amid what must be at least an acre of lush land. Your kids can race around outside on their bikes free of potential crime and speeding juggernauts. And I’ve yet to see Peppa kick off in Co Op because you won’t buy her a crappy kid’s comic that costs about £27 (plastered in Peppa Pig plastic tat, come to think of it). But what prompted me to write to you in particular MP, was observing Dr Brown Bear darting immediately from his surgery to your home to tend to George’s cold following a concerned phone call. Obviously, the mum blogger in me initially wanted to passive-aggressively judge you via the means of a patronising post for being a neurotic mother and wasting valuable, over-stretched NHS resources (I mean, Dr Brown Bear doesn’t even have a receptionist – and maybe with some fierce dragon filtering his calls, you might have been directed to your nearest Boots instead of receiving a blue-lit house call). But then, once my mum-blogging judginess had subsided, I was struck by a little sadness…
When my one-year-old daughter was poorly a few months ago, with what thankfully transpired to be an easily-treated bacterial infection, we were sent to the children’s hospital twice with her. I shat my pants, MP. Well, not literally – the NHS has enough to deal with – but I don’t mind admitting I felt quite stricken sitting there amid sick kids, elbow-to-elbow, waiting long, uncomfortable hours to be seen by an exhausted-looking nurse or bleary-eyed doctor. There was no smiling Miss Rabbit dishing out spaghetti and sponge pudding, or Dr Brown Bear making everyone better with his multi-purpose pink medicine. It was shit.
So why I am telling you this, Mummy Pig? Well, in our previous communication I have politely veered away from making reference to Pig-gate – you know, Prime Minister David Cameron’s alleged ‘relations’ with your species. And well, as jokes subsequently spiralled in the press and all over social media about other potential pig-related relationships he may have had, Porky Pig stuttered angry denials and Miss Piggy’s lawyers threatened to sue – but I noticed you remained pretty quiet when your name was thrown into the ring? Look, I’m not judging. We’ve all been there – a few too many in the student union bar, followed by a fumble to the backdrop of a Che Guevara poster and the lull of a Tracy Chapman cassette… We all have a past and a (very) misjudged shag is really no concern of mine. What I was hoping for MP, was that perhaps you could use your connections to look up Dave? Drop by Number Ten saying that you were just wondering how he was? And then maybe ask him if he could perhaps value the NHS more, and the talented, hardworking people we have working within it. Advise he have word with Jeremy Hunt and tell him to stop dicking about with the NHS. Suggest he insist Jezzer reconsider plans to exhaust junior doctors to ridiculous, dangerous levels. And if need be, mention that the details of your encounter with Dave will otherwise make their way to a salacious, salivating reporter at The Sun.
I do hate to ask for such a big favour so early on in our friendship, but I really believe that most people in the UK feel quite strongly about the National Health Service. It’s like the BBC or our drizzly, pissy weather – not without fault, but we’d be lost if we didn’t have it. But, in the case of the NHS, let’s be honest, it’s literally a matter of life or death.
I’ll leave it with you.
Good health, Mummy Pig!