Magazine Crack Apologies

 

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This Lurid Overpriced Pokemon Magazine represents the highs and lows of my parenting week…

One of my worst #mummyfails, committed during an over-load of multi-tasking and aiming to kill too many birds with one car journey; involving sodding playgroup census forms, recovered overdue library books (I’d even convinced the librarian she hadn’t scanned it in til I found it with mutant dust bunnies under the sofa!) and much anticipated highlight-of-a-three-year-olds-week swimming lessons. A mix up of times, the wrong feckin form and frantic use of Aberdeenshire Library Wifi to email the correct spreadsheet that should have been in “like, yesterday” seasoned with a few withering looks from coordinated outfitted ladies, reduced me to a quivering lipped, self-raging bag of useless emotions, only to then to bang the final nail in the “Good Mummy” coffin when it turned out I had got meeting times muddled and entirely missed Wee Girlie’s nirvana swimming slot.  I broke her dream. 

Cue howling child, and huge mamma guilt over spinning too many plates, and nae focusing on the most important ones.

So, instant retraction of previous magazine veto, after ab.so.lute refusal to buy another £3.99 glossy trumped up toy wrapper, until a completed magazine was presented to me, the placating magazine crack was offered. Bribery accepted we whisked off to the local Coopie to allow Wee Girlie to snort amongst the literary version of E-numbers like a truffle boar until the winner was selected.

Sodding Pokemon.

Now, I missed this phenomenon, both times, so I can find very little good to say about Pikachu and chums… even less after trying to figure out the storyline of one episode, but, it did make me a little proud when she shunned all the beauty enticing Princess mags (despite my best efforts to lure her away from such nonsensical shite as Pokemon) in favour of an adventuring lad and his clever watch. 

After some mindful checkout breathing we were back on track. The bouncy pokemon ball of power was back in her back seat, and I was now a £10er down (I needed to buy wine to wash the week away) and snivelling “yes, sweetie” to every whimsical request.

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