Lord of the Strop
Typing my blog, sat at my kitchen table overlooking my lawnless garden, with a cup of tea and homemade flapjack, it couldn’t be a greater contrast to the scene of utter mayhem that occurred in this very spot just twenty minutes ago.
There are moments of motherhood that I wish I could pickle, locking them in a jar for safekeeping knowing that, one day, when I’m old and my memories are all I have left, how wonderful it would be to open the lid and feel the perfect softness of my baby's cheek squished against mine, his slobbery raspberry kisses only ever issued before bedtime and how he strokes my hair as he falls asleep in my arms, the scent of his freshly ‘Sudacremed’ bottom wafting up my nose.
Then there are moments when pickling the baby itself seems the more appealing option. Watching my father struggling to move a screaming pushchair that was rocking fiercely from side to side whilst two alternating kicking legs thrashed in and out of view, it wouldn’t have been inconceivable that Godzilla had somehow found his way into my child’s buggy and didn’t much fancy a trip to the park.
Personally, I felt Chickie had over-reacted to my changing the angle of his yoghurt pot from pour to eat mode. It is clear to me now that previous tantrums weren’t tantrums at all. Merely, strops. I know this because the previous didn’t incorporate stamping so fierce and fast, to a soundtrack of Irish folk music, he could be Lord of the Dance. Secondly, the screaming of yestermonth wasn’t so forceful that you could spare yourself the trouble of blowdrying your hair in the morning and just wait for Chickie’s breakfast meltdown and thirdly, yoghurt pot correction wasn’t cause for hyperventilation.
Now living in an environment of tyranny and fear, Chickie’s new temperament has found Accountant and I tiptoeing around him warily, frightened that, should we look at him in the wrong way or upset him by offering to read him a story or give him a bath, we could inadvertently unleash the beast. Communication has been reduced to a minimum whisper, adopting a ,”if he’s quiet, leave him” policy.
Public outings have become perilous minefields, fraught with the potential for hideous humiliation. Sat in the café on Monday, all was going swimmingly until Chickie’s frustration levels escalated out of all control when he couldn’t do the buckle up on his highchair. At the first whiff of an outburst, I declared a “Code Red”. Accountant, taking his cue, swooped him out of the highchair, bundled him inside his coat and made a run for the exit.
Admittedly, it has come as a shock that “my child won’t be like that” philosophy was a pile of plop. My ignorance in assuming that I would always be able to control his behaviour using logical reasoning or chocolate now obvious. However, I do still hold out some hope that, when he’s old enough to understand, “get on that naughty step and stay there for three days!”, that might just do the trick.
There are moments of motherhood that I wish I could pickle, locking them in a jar for safekeeping knowing that, one day, when I’m old and my memories are all I have left, how wonderful it would be to open the lid and feel the perfect softness of my baby's cheek squished against mine, his slobbery raspberry kisses only ever issued before bedtime and how he strokes my hair as he falls asleep in my arms, the scent of his freshly ‘Sudacremed’ bottom wafting up my nose.
Then there are moments when pickling the baby itself seems the more appealing option. Watching my father struggling to move a screaming pushchair that was rocking fiercely from side to side whilst two alternating kicking legs thrashed in and out of view, it wouldn’t have been inconceivable that Godzilla had somehow found his way into my child’s buggy and didn’t much fancy a trip to the park.
Personally, I felt Chickie had over-reacted to my changing the angle of his yoghurt pot from pour to eat mode. It is clear to me now that previous tantrums weren’t tantrums at all. Merely, strops. I know this because the previous didn’t incorporate stamping so fierce and fast, to a soundtrack of Irish folk music, he could be Lord of the Dance. Secondly, the screaming of yestermonth wasn’t so forceful that you could spare yourself the trouble of blowdrying your hair in the morning and just wait for Chickie’s breakfast meltdown and thirdly, yoghurt pot correction wasn’t cause for hyperventilation.
Now living in an environment of tyranny and fear, Chickie’s new temperament has found Accountant and I tiptoeing around him warily, frightened that, should we look at him in the wrong way or upset him by offering to read him a story or give him a bath, we could inadvertently unleash the beast. Communication has been reduced to a minimum whisper, adopting a ,”if he’s quiet, leave him” policy.
Public outings have become perilous minefields, fraught with the potential for hideous humiliation. Sat in the café on Monday, all was going swimmingly until Chickie’s frustration levels escalated out of all control when he couldn’t do the buckle up on his highchair. At the first whiff of an outburst, I declared a “Code Red”. Accountant, taking his cue, swooped him out of the highchair, bundled him inside his coat and made a run for the exit.
Admittedly, it has come as a shock that “my child won’t be like that” philosophy was a pile of plop. My ignorance in assuming that I would always be able to control his behaviour using logical reasoning or chocolate now obvious. However, I do still hold out some hope that, when he’s old enough to understand, “get on that naughty step and stay there for three days!”, that might just do the trick.
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