Why mummy doesn't give a ****!

Family begins with a capital eff. How many more f*cking 'phases' must I endure before my children become civilized members of society? For the last fifteen years, I've been told, "it's just a phase!" Not sleeping through the night, potty training accidents, and the tantrums of the terrible twos are all 'just phases.' The picky eating, back chat, and obsessions, along with the teenage refusal to leave their beds before 1 p.m., are also dismissed as phases. The endless singing of Frozen songs, the dabbing, and the battles over pants are all part of this ongoing saga. When do these 'phases' end? Mummy dreams of a quirky rural cottage with roses and chatty chickens, but life isn’t going as planned. Paxo, Oxo, and Bisto are rambunctious rather than chatty, and the roses have jaggy thorns. Her precious moppets are now giant teenagers, more interested in Snapchat than in whimsical debates about mythical creatures. They stomp around the tiny cottage, communicating mainly in grunts, except when demanding late-night taxi services. And, of course, there’s never any milk in the house. The one thing they all agree on is that Barry the Wolfdog, the ugliest dog in the world, is also the loveliest.