Left:
2007
In Helsinki having a mini-break

Right: 
2015
In Lounge having a mini-babybel

Helen writes:

Non-parents can be so cruel, can't they? Specifically, me. Pre-kids, I remember promising myself that when I became a mother, I wouldn't be one of those women who 'let herself go.' (What a bloody awful phrase.) There was no way I would give up my skinny jeans, or stop cutting my hair asymmetrically, or waxing everything.

Back then, though, things were different. I studied History of Art, worked in galleries, wore too much black and smoked fancy cigarettes. Basically I thought I was in a wanky French film. What a dork I was... But that dork got to read books, learn languages, visit confusing exhibitions, pierce things, flirt badly, wear dangly earrings and uncomfortable underwear, and daydream.

Then I became a mum, and my watchwords switched from "cool and interesting" to "sensible and achievable". And why not? I was exhausted and my boobs were dripping with milk. I happily swapped those jeans for M&S chinos. I realised it doesn't matter what length your hair is when you're tying it back anyway. And I decided a bit of hair in other places never hurt anyone. In short, I became the polar opposite of the pre-mum me.

And that's how it's been for the last seven years. It's not that I haven't tried - I have dabbled in rediscovering myself (no, that isn't a euphemism for wanking.) But I find myself spending those odd afternoons off wandering round the shops in a daze, not knowing where to go or what I should be wearing, and end up buying a pair of Clarks shoes. Or I stay at home, determined to put my feet up and relax, just as soon as I've put a wash on, defrosted some mince, and cleared out the spare room.

Don't get me wrong - I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to be at home with my kids and I love it, most of the time. But recently I've been missing the part of me that existed before I became the bum-wiping, tantrum-soothing ninja I am today. Maybe it's because I'm finally getting some sleep, or because I'm approaching 40, but I feel like I'm emerging from the mum fog. I want more than pizza crusts for dinner; I want reading material that's more intellectually stimulating than the Toys-R-Us catalogue. I know, I'm so needy.

It's good timing. My youngest child is about to start school, and I will have some time to myself at last. It's a bit scary, to be honest. What will I do? Who the hell am I these days, anyway?

I don't have any more excuses. I am going to get a bit of the pre-mum me back. My plan is to set myself achievable weekly challenges.  Nothing too extreme - I won't be spending mornings at the Tate before heading home to practice the cello. But I am going to try to do things that are nothing to do with the kids, and get back into the practice of putting me first. Instead of playdates, I will have grown-up dates with friends. We will talk about politics, fashion, art, and music, and NOT ABOUT FUCKING HOUSE PRICES.

So that's where you'll find me in about a month's time - in Soho, having intelligent conversations over proper coffee, with not a babycino in sight. You will, I promise. Just as soon as I've put a wash on. 

Helen writes:

It’s August. The month when we are all expected to enjoy the sunshine and frolic on the beach. Facebook is awash with pictures of kids eating ice-cream, women drinking Chardonnay and families just ‘loving life’. Isn’t August just THE BEST, our selfies say.

The definition of a ‘holiday’ has drastically changed since my hedonistic 20s. Back then it was all about exotic travel, henna tattoos, 'new experiences’ (drugs), hanging out with friends (drugs), and falling asleep on deck chairs (after taking drugs.)

Now I have small children, a ‘holiday’ rarely involves two minutes of peace.  Although it does seem involve the same amount of alcohol - just with less bikinis on a boat and more PJs on plastic furniture. So here’s what summer holidays mean, now that I am a Scummy Mummy.  

Ice Cream Rage

Ice cream has become the most important thing in my children’s life. It makes them smile it, cools them down and it tastes yummy. What’s wrong with that? Well… It’s when they don’t get their fix things start to go wrong. They get the dreaded ice cream rage. This is entirely my own fault - we talk about ice cream like it’s sacred jewel you win at the end of a quest. The reality of course is it's a sugar-packed snack that buys me five minutes of peace. 

Everything is Covered in Sand

Hair, shoes, sofas, cars, showers, toys, towels, brushes, dogs and my last ounce of sanity are covered in sand. Last night I crawled into bed only to discover it was full of sand, FUCKING SAND. On the upside I think I achieved a full-body exfoliation.  

Wine O’Clock Changes to 12.01pm

The best thing about holidays is enjoying a glass or three or rosé at lunch time. And after a while you get pretty used to it, and let’s just say get you start getting twitchy at 11.59am. Cheers!

Surprise Bonking 

August is the month me and hubby will have at least one daytime nudie session. It takes us both by surprise that we will suddenly have enough time (and love) for each in the afternoon to actually DO IT. Whilst years ago this would be to core focus of our holiday activity, the surprise bonk is a rare and joyous thing. JUST LOCK THE DOOR!

Home Looks Better Again

After the sand-filled shoes have walked their last trip to the ice cream shop, it’s time to pack up the smelly car, with the smelly washing and smelly children and head home. And it is a relief. The kids will have toys they like, me and the husband will get wifi that works, and happiness will be achieved. Home always looks so much more appealing after being away from it for a week, and this can only be a good thing.

Ellie writes: 

Is it just me, or does the internet now consist entirely of lists of things to do during the summer holidays? My eldest son starts school next month, so naturally we're spending August doing elaborate scavenger hunts, baking rainbow cakes, and making dreamcatchers out of foraged driftwood. We're definitely not whiling away the days watching telly and hanging out in 
Pets At Home. 

Just thinking about his first day of school makes me wobbly. I'm going to miss him so much. But sometimes - on the days when it's too hot, and we're too tired, and there have been three tantrums by 10am, and that's only counting mine - I do idly fantasise about what I'll do with all that free time. So here's a bucket list of things I plan to do once my child starts school. 

1. Have a poo in peace. 

I will enter the bathroom. I will close the door. I may or may not lock it. And I will enjoy the thrill of having a poo without being asked what I'm doing, or how long I will be, or where the pirate cutlass is, or whether we've got any Dairylea Dunkers, or how to put Spider-Man's legs back on. It will feel more luxurious than a weekend at Claridges. 

2. Save millions on the weekly shop. 

I look forward to leaving the supermarket with only the healthy, essential foods we need to live, like bread, eggs and Sauvignon blanc. I won't have to bribe and argue my way around the shop, which means I won't end up with a trolley full of half-eaten Cheestrings and packets of Haribo. Not to mention those weird new yoghurt lollies that look like feet, which he absolutely loves and which cost £17 each. 

3. Have lunch. 

As in a proper lunch, not a packet of crisps and some out of date hummus. I may even eat it in a restaurant, without having to choose between dirty looks because my son is making a racket or dirty looks because I'm letting my son have an iPad in a restaurant so he doesn't make a racket. There will be wine. 

4. Read a book.

An actual grown-up book. It will feature no Gruffalos, hungry caterpillars or pirate dinosaurs. No flaps to lift or songs to sing. No narratives based around the tediously implausible idea that a zoo would post a series of exotic and dangerous animals to a small child on request. I will read a novel, perhaps that new Harper Lee one, or that obscure Nabokov I never got round to. I definitely won't finish the 50 Shades of Grey series or re-read Twilight. 

5. Have a cry. 

Because lovely though these things are, none of them are as good as spending time with my son. I know that when I come home from that first drop off, I'll close the front door and weep for the absence of my little one. I'll cry for four years of love and laughs and companionship, and yes, the tantrums too. (Although I might not shed too many tears for the days when the potty training went wrong.)

I will count the hours till I can go and collect him and ask about his day. I won't mind when he won't tell me anything. I will hold him close and sniff his hair, and breathe in the strange new smell of school. I will kiss his tired, beautiful face and tell him I've got some of those weird feet lollies in the fridge, if he fancies it. Then we'll do it all again the next day, and I know it will 
get easier.

In the meantime, here's my summer holiday bucket list: to store up as many memories as possible. Not of elaborate crafts or exotic adventures, but of my son as he is now - the endless questions, the daft jokes, the feeling of his arms around my neck, the way his hair curls over his ears when it rains. The only item on my list is to remember my son as best I can in all his funny, gorgeous, four year-old glory. 

Well, that, and to actually buy something from Pets At Home. I'm pretty sure the security guard is on the point of throwing us out. 

Helen Writes:

Last weekend, Ellie and I packed up our husbands and kids and headed down to Dorset to go camping. We took all the essentials: tents, torches, sleeping bags, 400 packets of wet wipes, and a pair of gold lamé catsuits. For this was no ordinary camping trip - we were off to perform at Camp Bestival, our favourite family festival. 


Since forming Scummy Mummies, we have performed in some weird and wonderful places. A shipping container under a flyover in Deptford; the basement of a Thai restaurant in Manchester; a Stop Smoking roadshow in an empty park in Croydon, in the pouring rain. All great times, obviously, but you can see why Camp Bestival feels like a real treat.

I did have reservations. Yes, I am Australian, and a walking cliché in many respects - I love cricket, barbecues, being loud, putting ketchup on everything and wearing flip flops at inappropriate occasions. But I am not a natural camper. Peeing in buckets and not washing for days at a time is not usually my idea of fun. 

But then I discovered Camp Bestival. It turns out camping is really quite enjoyable if you throw in live music and comedy, kids' entertainment and a three litre box of wine. It's like adding gin to tonic - previously bitter pisswater becomes a sophisticated and delightful aperitif. 

This was our second year performing at the festival. We do our show in the Guardian Literary Institute tent, which is less formal than it sounds - in fact it's filled with cosy old couches and jolly bunting. It's host to a wide range of authors, journalists, poets, and middle-aged women doing jokes about vaginas. 

Our slot for this year was 2pm on the Friday afternoon - after the brilliant Guardian games expert Keith Stuart, and before reknowned feminist columnist Suzanne Moore. We felt like the fish fingers in an artisanal sour dough sandwich.

We had a brilliant time and I could bang on forever about our adventures - but here are my highlights.  

1. The audience at the Scummy Mummies Show. 

We performed to a packed tent of fellow scummy mummies, scabby daddies and their kids, all willing to laugh at our boob jokes and share their hilarious confessions. The winning story was from a mum who once weed in her baby's nappy in a service station car park. Congratulations Queen Julie, the scummiest mummy at Camp Bestival! 

 2. Suzanne Moore in a yurt with lager. 

We sat in a yurt and recorded a podcast about feminism with the legendary Suzanne Moore, while drinking cans of lager. Career highlight does not even cover it.