Welcome to The Motherhood

I’ve never been cool enough to join a ‘hood. Unless, of course you count the fact that I have now moved to a Neighbourhood Watch area? Either way, it wasn’t until recently that I noticed I was part of a ‘hood. The biggest in the world – it isn’t picky about its members, its initiation by principle.

Welcome to The Motherhood my friends.

There’s no specific uniform, apart from a tired expression. Our cars aren’t souped-up vehicles with things like rims and suicide doors and the like. Instead they feature crumbs, car seats and bloody sun-shades that make reversing particularly awkward. We don’t blare out no choons about hos and bitches y’all (woah, woah, hang on there, for some reason I think I’m gangsta, let me revert back to normal speak), we instead play songs like The Wheels on the Bus, over and over again, until we go mad and drive past you with one ear trickling blood. Sometimes, if we’re lucky and get to have a grown-up trip, we’ll listen to Taylor Swift or that magical thing that keeps us in touch with the outside world – yes, the radio.

Our weapon of choice is the changing bag, full of wondrous things that enable us to survive a day in the ‘hood. We have the ability to restrain a child and wipe it’s nose/face/hands/bum with a wet wipe, using just the one hand.

Out in the hood, we don’t sleep. Not properly. We sleep with one eye open, or not at all, because we are hard and tough and basically our leaders, the kids, tell us to. We obey, because we’re all about our crew. Nuff respect, innit.

Our language is Baby Speak. We use words like “nap-nap”, “din-dins” and “bot-bot.” Sometimes we forget that public usage of these words is taboo, namely because it makes the ‘hood members look like dickheads.  

To the outside world, we appear slow, out-of-touch, a little corpse-like, but don’t be fooled. Inside our brains are a hub of activity, scheming our way towards our next sleep and our next glass of wine. We can seek out our crew members, just by a conspiratorial look. The “my child didn’t bloody sleep last night and it’s too early for wine yet” eye-roll is our most popular, along with the awkward smile when our gangsta trippas (I’m informed this means ‘baby gangsta’ – humour me) be misbehavin’ on da streets.

We are everywhere you go, we’ve got people in big places. We tend to prefer to spend our spare time in coffee shops, to top-up our caffeine reserves, or homes where we can remove our war-paint and chill with our respective homies.

We’re lovers, not fighters. We make peace, not war, unless it’s with our respective partners and they haven’t washed up or generally done as they’re told. There isn’t a problem that can’t be solved by cuddles and Calpol.

We run the world. We just let other people, namely our children, no matter what age, think that they do. Because we are experts in manipulation and bargaining. Our proof – how many carrots have you eaten, only to turn the lights off and still not be able to see in the dark?

Just because life can never be fun enough, and because my gangsta speak leaves somewhat to be desired, you NEED to visit gizoogle.net. Just do it, and see the most twee of websites turn gangsta on yo' ass. I find a Gizoogled Write Like No One's Watching to be PARTICULARLY amusing.