The Potty Training Poem…

Before I start, a disclaimer.  Any similarities that are found in this poem to my life, or that of anyone else’s, is purely co-incidental.

Oh, who am I trying to kid, of course it’s about my sodding life!

Potty training.

Literally and metaphorically, a shit time in your parenting life…

The time has come my little one, for you to use the potty,

Life is so much better when there’s no poo upon your botty.

This part is where your wee comes out and this part lets you poo,

and when you’ve mastered the potty my child, you can sit upon the loo.


“Wee-wee coming” the cry rings out, the toddler needs to pee,

“Go-go-go” the mummy yells, as she whips him off her knee…

Down come the trousers, as quick as a flash, then onto the potty he goes,

“Wee-wee gone” says the little one, a false alarm I suppose.


“Uh-oh!” says the toddler, with a grin on his face, he’s stood in a puddle of piss,

“Oh sodding hell!” the mum says in her head, “how the chuff did my life become this?”

“Don’t worry darling!” she says out loud, forcing a smile from within.

“Fuck this shit”, she says to herself, “I’m off to crack open the Gin”.


“Poo-poo coming!” the toddler now yells and the mum runs as fast as she can,

she slides on the floor like a ninja and whisks him away to the pan.

“Uh-oh!” says the toddler, a smirk on his face, a distinct whiff of faeces appears,

a peek down his trousers reveals a huge stinky turd and sadly confirms her worst fears.


“Where do we poo my sweet little boy? On the potty or in your trousers?”

The mum tries her best not to shout, “What the fuck!” as she deals with this stinkiest of encounters.

Her nostrils offended, her stomach is churned, the stench will not sod the hell off,

How can a person so small, cause such a stench which makes you  gag and cough?


Weeks pass on by, and with each one that does, the training doesn’t get any better,

She begins to think her child’s pissing on things, merely to upset her.

The sofa is covered in stains and weird smells, “Is that stain on there chocolate or poo?”

She gives it a sniff to investigate more, “Ah, it’s definitely the latter. Ewwww!”


The mum decides that maybe her toddler just isn’t ready for potty training yet.

“I mean, to be honest this child of mine doesn’t care if his nappy is wet.”

She decides that it’s best to just call it quits before her patience is thinner than thin,

so she puts him in a nappy, heads out to the kitchen and pours a fecking massive Gin.

Wee on the sofa

Interior design addition by my todder. Piss on the sofa…

One of the most fun times in your parenting career isn’t it, potty training?

Intravenous Gin. It’s the only way forward…

The Struggle – Post Natal Depression…

The other day, I went on Facebook (like I do every day!) and checked my messages.

Normally I don’t have many and, if I do, they’re often from my lovely friends to say hello or from someone who wants to tell me I am a crap mum because I swear and drink Gin… (Yep, I’ve had a few of those).

But the other day, I was stopped in my tracks by one of my readers contacting me with a poem. A wonderful poem, and one that laid her soul bare on the page.

The reader in question would like to stay anonymous, but I checked with her and she was more than happy for me to share her writing with you all because I felt so strongly that it should be seen.

She contacted me because she has come to realise she has post natal depression – a condition that, for the sufferer and those around them, is often very hard to understand, come to terms with, accept and get help for. Thankfully, for this lovely lady, she noticed that the way she was feeling was more than just ‘the baby blues’ and has managed to seek help. The help is only just beginning, but it is, at least, in progress.

I just want to say directly to you my lovely, that you should be very proud of yourself. It takes real courage to seek help and tell people and it’s because of people like you, that others who are suffering from the same condition can maybe find the strength to admit they need assistance and begin their journey to recovery.

Post natal depression is all consuming. I have been lucky enough to not fall victim to its clutches, but I know many that sadly have, and it is an illness I wouldn’t wish on anybody. It’s a black cloud that lingers over every part of your life and, like a Dementor in Harry Potter, sucks the life and happiness from you at a time in your life when you should be feeling love and joy. A cruel condition, that robs its sufferers of the euphoria you should feel when living through the precious moments and milestones with a new baby, that many of us take for granted.

Dark clouds over london

Here is the poem.

Read it.

Share it.

And if it resonates with you, please don’t feel alone. Seek help, confide in someone and lessen the burden.

You are not alone…

“I struggle through the simple things, with no idea why, I can’t see through the dark, to watch the time fly by.

You are growing up so quickly, you are such a lovely child, and yet something is missing, the emotions I have filed…

I know you are my little girl, and that you love me so, but that piece of me is missing, I am not sure where to go,

To unlock the love I know I have, somewhere inside my mind, that makes me be happy, loving, laughing and so kind.

It’s not your fault my little one, trust it’s me not you, I try to sort my feelings out, so we can make it through.

I am very good at pretending, to know which way to act, but the truth is I am struggling, to accept how to react,

to all these different negatives, that keep me feeling down, that keep me feeling guilty, that make me only frown.

One day my love will come, that day I hope is soon, I’m trying really hard my darling, to make myself immune,

To the spiral of self hatred, of the anxiety incline, the daily struggle to keep smiling, and saying I’m always fine.

But sometimes it is exhausting, being inside my mind, trying to organise my thoughts, of which it will take time.

Sometimes I need to remind myself, I love you and you’re mine, and one day soon I promise, I really will be fine…”

 If you feel any of the following symptoms, please do seek help from your GP or Health Visitor…

Symptoms of postnatal depression

(from NHS website)

Many women feel a bit down, tearful or anxious in the first week after giving birth. This is often called the “baby blues” and is so common that it’s considered normal. The “baby blues” don’t last for more than two weeks after giving birth. 

If your symptoms last longer, or start later, you could have postnatal depression. Postnatal depression can start any time in the first year after giving birth.

Signs that you or someone you know might be depressed include:

a persistent feeling of sadness and low mood

lack of enjoyment and loss of interest in the wider world

lack of energy and feeling tired all the time

trouble sleeping at night and feeling sleepy during the day

difficulty bonding with your baby

withdrawing from contact with other people

problems concentrating and making decisions

frightening thoughts – for example, about hurting your baby

Many women don’t realise they have postnatal depression, because it can develop gradually.

If you recognise any of these symptoms, please seek help from your GP, Health Visitor or contact a support group such as PANDAS.

 Thank you to my wonderful reader for sharing this. I wish you all the very best on your road to recovery, you’re already a superstar, and if you ever need a listening ear, I am always here…and on Facebook 😉

And the same goes for the rest of you wonderful Knutters.

Happy 60th Birthday Mum!

I can’t let today pass by without giving the creator of me a mention.

My wonderful Mum is 60 years young today.

How time has flown by quite this fast I’ve got no idea. Seriously, I don’t know how these kids can be driving around and drinking in in pubs when they were only born last week in 1998?! It’s utter madness I tell you!!

To me, my mum doesn’t seem to have have aged one jot. In fact, she was the proud owner of a very special perm for many years and she looks older in some of those photos (yeah, you know, the ones from a few weeks ago in 1992?) than she does now. Sorry mum 😉👍🏻

I’m also in complete denial about her, and anyone else I know for that matter, getting older.

What does age mean really?!

It’s just a number.

60 is the new 40 so they say!

But if I listen to my mum, she tells me about the odd ache here, the odd niggle there, I do come crashing back down to reality and remember that the years are ticking by. We are often so swept up in watching our kids grow and change that it’s very easy to forget that as they grow older before our very eyes, our parents are doing the same.

Unrelenting time.

I almost punched someone square on the nose the other day when I heard them say Toy Story was 21 years old.

“Are they having a chuffing laugh?! 21 years old?! Computers were only invented 10 years ago!!!”

I will never take my mum, or any of my family for granted. I know full well how lucky I am to have her/them and I am thankful every day that I came to be a part of this very special little family…though they may not say the same about me 😉😂


So, for you mum on your 60th birthday, here’s a poem…obviously.



When I grow up…

When I grow up, I’d like to be,

a nurse or a doctor or maybe a tree!!!

That’s what I would say when I was 4,

when I was ignorant of what life could have in store.

When I grow up, I’d like to be,

a dancer on stage for people to see!

That’s what I would say when I was 13,

when I was carefree, young and ever so keen.

When I grow up, I’d like to be,

a teacher so children can dance and feel free.

That’s what I would say when I was 20,

when ambition was high and I had opportunities aplenty.

When I grow up, I’d like to be,

a mum to my own little family.

That’s what I would say, when I was 25,

when life gained much more meaning and you’re trying to strive.

When I grow up, I’d like to be,

just like my mum, she’s my idol you see.

That’s what I say now, each and every single day, thank you for bringing me up this way. You’re the most wonderful mum I could’ve wished there to be, and I’m thankful you’re the one that belongs to me.

Love you Mum

(even when you had that bloody perm 😉😘)



A photo from the other day, you know, 2006… 😉😘

Ode to the Sick Bug (for World Poetry Day)

Dear sick bug that’s made all of the boys, in my family puke over floors and toys, please can you sod off and leave us alone, I’m at point break and I’m needing a moan.
I’ve scrubbed all the toilets ’til my hands are red raw, and I’ve cleaned up the sick that covered over the floor, I’ve jousted the toilet with the toilet brush, my moral and my joy you decided to crush,

The spew and the splatter was too much to bear, it was hard staying composed when trying to care, for 3 boys and 1 man who were as sick as can be (cleaning up poo is more far more hideous than wee)

You have taken over for almost an entire week, I cried and I sobbed and I began to freak, but I dealt with it all, said “don’t worry” with a grin, then I ran to the kitchen to pour a huge Gin,

I’ve no idea how I’ve avoided you, bug, you’re an arsehole and have made me look like a mug, but for now it appears that we’ve defeated you, the bug that has caused all this sickness and poo,

Until the next time that you get through our door, and you leave me begging and pleading “no more!!!”, so long for now you complete and utter git, now I’m off for the last time to finish cleaning up the sh*t.


This. Is. War….



‘If’ by Life Is Knutts (and Rudyard Kipling)

A Mum’s version of, ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling…
If you can keep your head when all about you
    Your children are losing theirs and blaming it on you
(“The baby did a poo in the bath Mummy! That’s your fault! Argh! Evacuate!”),
If you can trust yourself when all your children doubt you
(“Of course Mummy and Daddy aren’t Santa! You silly billies! You’ll be telling me the tooth Fairy isn’t real next!”),
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
(“I’m still not convinced Mummy and Daddy aren’t Santa. Explain how Santa can get in our house when we don’t have a chimney and why do they keep saying everything is ‘too expensive?’…”)
If you can wait (for them to decide what they want for breakfast) and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about (“I didn’t eat all the Christmas Tree Chocolates, it was Mummy! I saw her!”), don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated (“You’re the worst Mummy, EVER!!!” – Because I said no to them selecting a Terrys Chocolate Orange as one of their 5 a day choices), don’t give way to hating,
    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
(Don’t look too good?! Don’t talk too wise?! Blimey. No fear of that anymore Mr Kipling! Where’s my bloody Gin gone…??)
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
(Ah, wow! I just had a whole nights sleep…i feel so refreshed!)
    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
(Where did I put my sodding house keys…??)
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
(“Yes! He’s done a poo on the potty!!! Oh god, no, he’s just put the potty on his head…”)


“Look at me Mummy! Aren’t I clever?!” Erm, no. No you’re not.

    And treat those impostors just the same;
(“Imposter? Who? Him?! No, that’s just my husband who is home for a change rather than at work, asleep on the sofa or out on his Bike…”)
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
(“Yes, ok, it was me that ate the majority of the Chocolates off the Christmas Tree…”)
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
(“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do to your brother was it?! Unlock the cupboard door and let him out…”)
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
(“Not my Wedding Ring! Please don’t throw that down the toilet just so you can push the magic button and make it disappear!!!!”)
    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
(Who needs a screwdriver to open a toy when you can use a kitchen knife?! Us mums are industrious)
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
(I’ve only ever won £9.36 on the EuroMillions. That’s not going to go far is it…)
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
(Oh, what the hell, lets spend my £9.36 winnings on 3 more goes at the EuroMillions this week…you’ve got to be in it to win it!)
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
(Oh, bloody hell! I knew I should’ve cut my losses! Not 1 sodding number on any of my 3 tickets!!!)
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
(I won’t tell my husband I even won £9.36 in the first place. Ignorance is bliss and all that…)
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
(“I promise I’m not going to shout at the children today…”)


Best laid plans and all that…

  To serve your turn long after they are gone,
(“I dont’t care that you’re 22 years old, you will phone me if you’re going to be home after 11:30pm…”)
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
(“I’m so bloody exhausted I could sleep standing up next to an amplifier at a Rock Gig…”)
    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
(Nope, come on body, you have to stay up until at least 9pm. You’ve only seen your husband for 30 minutes today…”)
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
(“Really, I’m truly very sorry my toddler screamed for the duration of the Nativity play and you felt the need to gesture towards the exit whilst mouthing, “Go on, go!” to me…”)
    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
(I’ve been invited for a playdate by the friendly, succesful, popular mum from school today. Don’t stuff this up, don’t stuff this up… LATER… “Why did you have to punch her little one in the face and poo on her carpet Ben?! Just why?!”)
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
(Really, I don’t give a sh*t anymore. Whatever. Where’s my Gin?)
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
(“How many of those Gin’s do you think she’s actually had? Bless her…”)
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
(The unforgiving minute?! It’s the unforgiving 2 hours between 5pm and 7pm I think you’ll find!)
    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
(That’s a little optimistic, maybe 20 seconds if I was late meeting my friends at the pub…)
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
(Really…?! Does that mean that I actually own Hugh Jackman and Robert Downey Jnr?! #Winner)
    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
(Well, I do think that would’ve made my life slightly less complicated and stressful had I been born with a Penis. Maybe next time…)


After exhausting himself by laying the picnic blanket out on the sand, Daddy stopped for a well earned rest whilst Mummy watched 3 children on a vast expanse of Beach. “Mummy loves being on holiday boys, she gets to run around after you in a different location. A change is as good as a rest they say!” – Daddy, August 2015.