5 Reasons Your Baby is a Bigger Dick Than Your Ex

By Anna Hook

The human experience is vast. People take such different paths in life, and even if outwardly it seems similar, I can guarantee emotions and personalities make even the simple things vary wildly from person to person. There are very few things you can be absolutely certain of. You just can’t understand other people and the lives they lead. Even the line ‘only two things are certain,  death and taxes’, isn’t accurate…..*cough* google *cough*.

That said, there are three things that I can say without a doubt. These three things are universal and I speak for all women. 1) you have (at least) one boyfriend/girlfriend that ruined your life for a period of time. For ease we shall refer to this cockwomble as ‘Steve’. 2)  if you have a baby, you will love that tiny thing unconditionally and nothing will make you more content than their squishy face. 3) your baby, your little bundle, the light of your life, is a far bigger dickhead than your ex. You might query my number three, but it’s true. Here is why.

  1. Your baby takes all your food. That last cake you wanted. The crispy corner bit of the lasagne. Not yours. That’s for your kid now. Yup. And they won’t even appreciate it. They’ll chew it and spit it out and cry for whatever you’ve got. At least Steve always ordered good food you could eat from his plate. And calories from other people food doesn’t count (well known fact) so his chocolate was fat free. The guy might’ve been a twat, but you always got the last slice of pizza.
  2. Your child is brutal. Expect a lot of “mummy, why are you so hairy” and “mummy, your bum is MASSIVE.” At least your ex whispered those sweet lies, “of course you don’t look fat in that”.
  3. Your baby doesn’t care how much they upset you and there is nothing you can do about it. You had the option to kick Steve to the curb after you found out he was sending dick pics to the slag from his office AGAIN. Ignore his apologies, eat Ben and Jerry’s, and after 6 months and maybe keying his car, you’re over him. There is no getting over your baby. Your baby will leave you in a crumbling heap on the floor because they have told you again that they don’t love you. They won’t care if they break the vase that was a family heirloom or lose the first thing hubby ever got you. Your baby considers you less than Steve ever did. That includes when he was chasing skirt at the work Christmas do.
  4. The scars are visible. Sure Steve left you with crippling trust issues and a jealousy problem that means your other half has to sleep on the sofa every time the PPI sales call is made by a woman, but all that is bottled up under the surface just like it should be. The scars from your baby are right on the surface. Sure most people won’t see the episiotomy scar, but the one on your head that you got after a twatting with the unreasonably heavy batman figure……everyone can see it. No amount of drinking will cover it up like Steve’s wounds, and your eyebrow will never grow the same again. Sorry love.
  5. Your baby is ultimate bad penny. Steve showed up once a year, sent the odd I Miss You text but eventually he fucked off. Your baby won’t do that. He will never leave. Right now baby ruins date night with a shitty nappy. In 30 years date night will be ruined by a plea for money or unexpected grandchild babysitting. It will never end.
Img source: yourdost.com

How I Became a Judgemental Mum

By Anna Hook

My name is Anna and I’m a alcoholic judgemental mum.

Every woman has an idea of what sort of mother she will make. From the moment those two little lines appear you build up the ‘mum you’ in your head. It might be a broad idea (I’ll be nothing like my parents) or it might be a little more rigid (I can’t wait for little Hermoine to finish pre-prep and start violin). When I found out I was expecting I had a few very definite ideas: I was going to get so much freelance work done (I have done exactly zero), my husband would come home to gourmet meals every night (M&S ready meals are nicer than my cooking anyway), and I would be joining a gym when my bundle was 6 weeks (*hysterical laughter*).

My biggest and probably boldest statement was that I would never be a judgemental mum. I saw mums struggling daily, and was full of sympathy; I did not know their situation, and so would never glance daggers or mutter under my breath. We would exchange knowing smiles as we squeeze our prams through the aisles of Tesco and all would be right with  the world. Super mums, we be. Girl power.

“Well from where I was sat they were all tiny blobs of human that aren’t too bothered about laying in their own shit.”


Fast forward 6 months, and my perfect bundle arrives. The stitches heal and I actually wash my hair. My baby is spotless in designer clothes. I have managed to pull on a Primark tracksuit AND I’m wearing a bra. I am ready for my first Mother and Baby class. It is going to be amazing. We will all have so much fun. We will laugh and high five over the fact we have kept the little blighters alive for another week. Maybe there will be wine.

Ladies, let me tell you.  The room is full of false smiles and catty comments. “Did you KNOW that Bethany doesn’t breast feed?!”; “Lisa is sleep training far too early”; “Oh little Hugo rolls over now, he is so advanced”.

judgemental mum 1

Well from where I was sat they were all tiny blobs of human that aren’t too bothered about laying in their own shit. Do whatever works for you and your blob. Passive aggressive articles were plastered on Facebook highlighting ‘baby stress levels’, always backing up the poster’s views, never containing any actual facts. I lasted two sessions before retreating to the safety of my cave…ahem, I mean house. I will NOT tolerate that judgement. I am not like that. Plus, there wasn’t any wine.

Fast forward again. I am sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. Another mother comes in; her daughter is maybe 18 months old. The woman hands her baby chocolate buttons. CHOCOLATE BUTTONS. Practically child abuse.

My child will never have that crap. My face contorts into a sneer which the mum clearly sees. Good. I rush home and tell my husband of the neglect I had witnessed. He laughs. Points out to me it isn’t as bad as the mum I told him about whose toddler was out without socks. This was the moment I realised – I was a judgemental mum. Never mind that MAYBE Chocolate Mum had used treats to bribe her child to a tricky doctors appointment, and MAYBE Cold Toes mum had already been through a 4-pack of socks that her child had ripped off and discarded in the street while she ran her errands.

The woman hands her baby chocolate buttons. CHOCOLATE BUTTONS. Practically child abuse.


I am telling you. The way I do it is right. The way you do it is wrong. I don’t know your circumstances, but I can assess your situation with no background information and be entirely correct in my assumptions of you.

So ladies, let’s all hold hands. Let us judge each other, but for a change let’s do it in silence. Let us smile and keep our eyes kind. Let’s just not  talk about all  the ways  in which everyone is fucking up their kids…and drink some wine.

Image Source: Yourdost.com