Aimee Horton

When you visit the Supermarket


I LOVE supermarket shopping.  No. Really.  I’m not being sarcastic at all.  I love it.  While everyone else was flapping about doing the Christmas food shop I couldn’t believe my luck when Mr Aimee ducked out and offered me the chance to go to The ‘Trose ON MY OWN in the EVENING.  I snapped his hand off, picked the kids up from school, threw them at him through the front door and was off, my printed off excel document print out in hand.

I grabbed my trolley and walked through the automatic doors pausing to sweep up recpie cards and take in the smell of the cafe (our Waitrose is the only supermarket on earth I know that doesn’t pump fresh bread into the foyer), and I was off.  Whilst everyone seemed to be in a rush and a panic, I sailed down the aisles pausing to look at everything that there was to offer.  I returned home two hours later with a significant dint in the Christmas budget and slightly ruffled, mumbling something about the twinkling light up Kleenex tissue boxes being on a BOGOF.

And this is why I’m not usually allowed to venture into the supermarket on my own very often.

Sadly, it really doesn’t happen very often these days.  I am usually escorted by my entourage, all with their special stop-spending-super-powers.  I have Super Scrimper – with his “HOW MUCH?” and “What do we need this for?” whilst looking stressed, anxious to get the the alcohol aisle (thanks for that, local Morrisons btw – having the booze at the beginning means I rarely make it past the salad and crisps before I’m ushered to the tills).  Every item I pick up is frowned at, before he nips off to the shelf to check if there’s an equivalent product for 20p.

Following closely behind is Super-Wanter.  The four year old who is unable to walk around the supermarket, but hates being sat in the trolley next to his brother. Grudgingly he takes up position in the trolley, his super sonic eyes flicking around, taking in everything whilst he inhales a packet of raisins.  “I want that” is repeated frequently.  Whether he’s motioning to a Spider-Man toy, a giant bar of Dairy Milk, a book, or randomly a solar light hedgehog.  He also makes tactful remarks such as “Look at the massive wheels on his wheel chair, do you think he’s in that because he crossed the road without looking left and right?”“Gosh. That man is very fat – perhaps he should buy some bigger high-up sleeve tops”. “I’m BOREEEDDD mummy, this is BORRINGGG…OI GET OFFF MEEEE…MUMMYYYYYY HE’S LOOKING AT ME…MAKE HIM STOP LOOKING AT ME”.  The first few comments I can cope with, the embarrassment of the innocent insults to the general public..well…perhaps SHE should have bought some bigger t.shirts (that’s right. She).  But I know that I’m on a clock when he’s having an issue with his brother LOOKING at him.

Then we have Super-Loud.  Nothing is quiet, from the second we enter the shop he can be heard.  If we’ve managed to find a trolley outside he’s wailing because he wants to walk, and if we’ve just found one, he is screaming “NOOO MUMMYYY NOOOOOO” In that way that causes people to turn around and witness you karate chop the back of his knees so he buckles and falls into the seat.  They consider calling the Social Services, but realise that sadly, while they wait for them to appear on a Saturday afternoon, they will probably have to look after the child in question, and nobody wants to deal with the trail of snot that’s worked its way down his face and is slowly dripping from his chin onto his mucky jeans knees (do they not clean supermarket floors? My children end up being filthy, gathering black muck on their clothes, while they’re lying there kicking and screaming).  After removing the packet of raisins he’s thrown in my hair he slowly calms down and is pacified with some Mini Cheddars.

This is when he usually spots the numbers.

Suddenly Super-Loud is in his element, causing a competitive number shout off between him and Super-Wanter.  “FOUR” “ELEBEN” “SEBEN” “LOOOK MUMMYYYY NINBTEEN”.  That’s not the snot causing him to talk with a B, he pronounces all the numbers with a “B” in the middle rather than a “V”.  As I’m hurrying through the shop the aisle numbers are pointed out to me in glee, both seeing who can spot the next number first.  My thoughts are becoming muddled – have you ever tried trying to work out which spice you need whilst having various things barked at you continuously until you respond.  It’s not just the aisles aisles, every price is spotted “LOOK MUMMYY EIGHT EIGHT…” Yes, that’s right, you’re reaching to grab an £8 bottle of wine to cuddle.  For a child so against fruit you sure as hell don’t mind carrying a delicate bottle of wine about whenever you get to the supermarket.  By the wine aisle Super-Wanter is sitting in silence. Sulking because he’s spotted a spiderman gob stopper which I refuse to let him have.  Sullen he glares in disgust at the snotty brother still enjoying the game.

Then I make the mistake of having to double back.  I’ve forgotten something.  Usually cherry tomatoes.  Aisle number four at Saisbogs. Just so you know.  Which means I am treated to backwards counting, I feel as if the clock is ticking “MUMMY TEN-NINE-EIGHT-SEBEN-SIX…”

I shove the trolley in Super-Scimpers direction and order him to a till, “I’ll meet you there” I say, grabbing additional bottles of tonic water and wine that’s at the end of the aisle, stopping for an extra lime.  

We don’t need to discuss where to meet, the foghorn in place ensures we never lose each other (dammit).

The tills is the really tricky bit.  There’s no room to spin the trolley ’round.  There are no distractions.  Super-Loud is hugging Super-Wanter.  Big Mistake. Neither children make small talk with the checkout girl, who starts to coo then takes one look at them and decides better of it, firing the contents of the trolley down the conveyer belt at double the speed packing some bits of me to get us out of her face as quickly as possible.

We tumble out of the shop and into the car, vowing to do online shopping and have it delivered to the house from now on.  During school hours.

Pass the gin.


When you feel a bit of empathy.


This week has not been my favourite.  I’ve had a headache since Sunday, my brain is fuzzy, and in general it’s been a bit rubbish, then this morning I woke up, and the only way to describe it was that I felt “blergh”.

We all know the monsters feed off your personality, if you’re happy they’re (usually), happy, and if you’re frustrated, so are they, and this morning was no exception.  After an incident with a table cloth and a vase of Daffs the older children appeared to be suitably crestfallen, and The Chunky Monkey was in a good mood, happily skipping into the car. Yay! I thought, the day is looking up, YAY there was no argument about shoes, and coats, and no tears about who got into the car in what order.

Then it all went horribly wrong.  The Chunky Monkey didn’t want to go into his pushchair to drop the kids off.  To be fair….I can see his reasoning.  It’s 10 minutes of sitting in a playground watching everyone else have fun, and I faltered, feeling sorry for him, thinking how good he’d been so far this morning. Big Mistake. I won’t even go into details, it just wasn’t a very relaxing wait for the classroom door to open, especially as I had to grab The Chunky Monkey by the wrist as he tried to leg it into next doors room, while I explained to the teacher that YES I did wash The Beasts clothes, and YES I did wipe his face, but apparently, whilst I was disciplining The Chunky Monkey, he’d thought it would be an excellent idea to roll down the muddy hill and skid his way through the tunnel. Marvellous.

Finally kicking ushering The Beast through the classroom door I dragged the Chunky Monkey back to the car, only for him to attempt to collapse in the middle of the road “NOOOO MUMMMEEE NO NO NONOOOOOO” he wailed, luckily, in the words of Daddy Pig, I’m quite an expert when it comes to forcing a child into the car, and pushing him into the seat, I swiftly clicked him in, (and I must admit I also did a slightly petty “HAAA LOSERRRR” taunt at him as I slammed the door).

Normally, given that I was feeling weak, and tired, and all I really wanted was to drown myself in cups of tea and brownies, I’d have headed home, but for once I was arrogant, I was going to persevere, I was not going to be controlled by a 2 year old hunk of fat. So I drove on to the shops, where I needed a few things so that I achieved something today.  In the car, I may have been on the edge of tears, not body shuddering sobs, just a few of frustration and embarrassment tears in the eyes, but I shook it out, turned the music up loud (sadly Lincs FM was not on my side).

Pulling into the car park, I may have used the F word towards the one way sign and rebelled by turning right instead of left and making my way to a space, before opening up the pushchair and bracing myself.  As I lifted him out of the car the yells “NOOO MUMMEEE NOOO NOO PEESSS MUMMEEEE NOOO” rebounded off the empty spaces, planting themselves squarely infront of the old couple getting out of their car where they then turned to look at me as I was attempting to bend him in the middle before strapping him into his pushchair.  Tutting they shook their head and wandered towards the shop.  I have to say, it’s a good job Larry wasn’t in the pushchair or I may have been forced to run after them and take their zimmer frame out.

In the end, after much finger wagging, threats of moving rockets down, and no Peppa Pig (who am I kidding), I ran out of options, and for anybody who has owned a Maclaren Buggy will know, brute force isn’t as easy as it is with a securely fastened car seat.  So I’m not very proud of what I did next, I lay him in the pushchair, and then I may have tipped it backwards, so the handles were nearly on the floor and shook it, this caused The Chunky Monkey to slide easily into his seat, then quick as a flash I flattened him in and clicked the straps. HAHAHHAHAHAHAAAAA. LOSER! I WIN YOU LOSE!

Some of you, mainly those who don’t have a twenty stone child, may wonder why I didn’t just let him walk into the shop holding my hand.  Because I wanted to achieve something. I wanted to go to the parts of the shop I needed to be in, pick up the various bits, go to the tills and pay for them, not have to drag an additional load along with me.  Plus. Pushchairs are good for carrying bags.

Anyway, after I’d calmed down, and he’d apologised (I’d just sent M the following message “Whatever the boys are getting me for Mother’s Day…double it”), we were downstairs looking for some plastic wallets, when I bumped into a Mum from The Beasts school.  She’s nice, we’ve spoken a few times, we got chatting, and she mentioned she’d seen me in the car park.  We laughed, and for the first time this morning, I didn’t want the ground to open up and swallow me in my entirety, smudged eye-make up, Nutella marked jumper and all.

We chatted some more, and then carried on with our day.

After that I was quite pleased I’d braved it.  After all, if I’d come home, we’d have no doubt fallen out over something else, tantrums would still have been had, and I wouldn’t have any contact with anybody other then my own grumpy self.  It was nice to feel a bit of empathy, there was no judgement in her eyes as she talked to Larry about his chocolate buttons I’d given him, and she relayed similar stories from her youngest.  Plus. She likes Gin.

Today isn’t going to be as awful as I thought, after all, I bought storage boxes, which, although some of you might not agree, is pretty bloody fantastic.

Have a good weekend x


When you turn the television on.


When I fell pregnant everybody told me that I’d have no time for myself.  That my leg hair would grow long and wiry  that my face would be make up free, and dirty laundry would be piled up around my house unable to be dealt with.

Their suggestions at my lack of life were then enhanced by these bloody stupid Facebook shares that keep doing the rounds about how by trading the hairdressers, or nice handbags that you loved being a mum, that you were being a good mum.  They make me stabby.

I prepared myself for the worst, I ensured my nails were devoid of varnish (no time to paint them you see), and cut my hair into a style that didn’t require any effort (no time for a shower), and got ready.





Well. That was an anti-climax.

You see, I’m not saying time isn’t tight, in fact, it does tend to slip away at an alarming rate, however, it’s nothing that good organisation, timetables and most importantly…kids tv, can’t help with.

That’s right, Kids TV.  Against the odds, three very important channels have become an invaluable asset to my day to day life.   Thanks to Mr Tumble I’ve been able to apply fake tan.  Thanks to Chris and Poi I’ve been able to use the toilet in peace, and thanks to Peppa Pig I’ve been able to stick a load of washing in without anybody attempting to commit suicide over the stair-gate.

Before you judge, don’t worry, I don’t stick my children in front of the television all day every day they never bloody sit still for that long however, I don’t see what’s wrong with them sitting infront of a few programmes, after all, they all have some educational element included (WHAT! I’ve learnt A LOT about Italy from Peppa Pig, and Mummy Pig is all about body confidence).

They’ve become my babysitter, some have been known to quote “free” babysitter.  However, sadly, nothing in life is free, and this is no exception, so as I sit on my sofa sharing a plate of rich tea biscuits with my children, I am paying the price for wanting my cup of tea while it’s still hot.  After all, all three channels have their flaws.

Sometimes it’s the presenters.  For example Jen from Milkshake, I want to like her. I really really do, (and Mr. Aimee has a huge crush on her), but she’s just so happy.  YES, I do appreciate that that makes me sound old and cynical but it’s true.  WHO THE HELL is that excited at stupid o’clock in the morning? SOMEBODY WHO DOESN’T HAVE CHILDREN THAT’S WHO!

We recently took the children to see Milkshake Live.  It was actually very good, and Mr Aimee was hugely excited when bursting onto the stage in an orange vest top and floral tapered trousers came Jen.

Matthew’s Crush

Happy to be there with you RIGHT THEN, perky, perhaps having drunk too many Red Bull’s Jen.  Jen who after her two performances can go home, and go to bed AND HAVE SOME PEACE AND QUIET.

Larry wasn’t as pleased to see her as he normally is…I think she was a little TOO excited.



Then there is Mr Bloom from CBeebies.  Now, I’m aware that apparently he’s considered “a bit of alright” in the mummy brigade?  Is that right? HOW?! I mean, apart from obviously needing a wash, you just get the impression that he’s rolled into work stinking of booze and kebabs after a night on the town with Katie.

Another Pint Guv?

“Katie?!” I hear you exclaim.

Yes. Katie.  Who has (in my opinion) given the hint on many occasions, that she doesn’t actually like children or cooking that much, so perhaps the night out with Mr. Bloom (OH MY GOD – are they together do you think?!), leaves enough alcohol in her system to allow her to fake her way through the enthusiasm of preparing “Falafel Footballs” (note the gutted look on the kids face when they realise that yet again they aren’t making a pudding) before picking up that god awful guitar and faking her way through the tuneless yet catchy songs.  Which now, as I type this paragraph are circulating my head, so even on my child free days, I’m humming about rolling up my sleeves and giving my hands a wash.


Over on Nick Jnr – home to back to back Peppa Pig and Ben and Holly,  no presenter registers as anything other then pretty vacant and not really there.  But that’s not the issue.  Neither are the toy adverts which are often followed by a small voice from the sofa saying “I need that” It’s their bedtime hour song.  Sickly sweet, with slightly scary children, and don’t even get me started  on the lyrics.  A TINKLE?! A TINKLE???!!!!!

At least the CBeebies version fills a parent with joy, it’s wholesome enough to sing along and sound like you’re being loving and nobody notices that the parent is actually doing an air punch and counting down the minutes until they can open the bar (sadly still just over 58 minutes after the song is complete).

But before you can get to bed, you have to watch the same Peppa Pig episode that has been playing day and night for the last week.  There have been approximately 209 episodes of Peppa Pig made.  WHY THE HELL DO WE HAVE TO HAVE THE SAME ONES ON TIME AND TIME AGAIN.

Cup of tea anyone?

I know I could change the channel, but the child has stopped attempting to wipe it’s nose in my hair, it’s moved away from the book shelves where it’s been systematically emptying it book by book, and is gravitating towards the TV.


I know I should be expressing rage at the show, dissecting it and discussing about how it betrays feminism, that certain characters such as the Bin Men have “working class accent’s”, yet the Doctor doesn’t, that apparently it encourages naughty behaviour…

…But you know what, pass me the gin because actually I’m enjoying five minutes of relative peace.