The end of my tether

I wouldn't say I'm at the end of my tether with my 4.5 year old son. However, the tether in question is coming up fast in my rearview mirror and is about to hit my butt.

He's never been an easy child. How fondly I recall my 31st birthday in which my 3 week old baby cried and cried and cried. All day. Non-stop. And of course there were all those days when we tried to go out like normal people who had babies - say to a pub for lunch - and while the other people's babies the same age as ours would merrily fall asleep in their buggies, ours would cry and cry and cry, so that one of us was always pacing and patting, patting and pacing.

Then there were the twos. Never a particularly relaxing time at best. But add a new baby to son number 1's already volatile temper and the result was tantrums of gargantuan proportions. I clearly recall a trip to the park in Henley in which son 1 wanted to go on a carousel and then didn't want to and then did want to and then didn't want to. And eventually, having driven the carousel operator completely mad, we left. This did not please son 1. And he produced the mother of all tantrums. People in powerboats on the river could hear his screaming over the roar of their engines. I had to push a buggy, carry a bag, a picnic blanket and a kicking, screaming, scratching, roaring demon-possessed beastie the full length of the park back to the car with everyone else watching in awe. I was dripping in sweat by the time I got there. My friends had managed to catch up with me at this point and it took three of us - THREE FULLY GROWN ADULTS - to get one small devil into his carseat.

He mellowed slightly in his 3s, eager to please but still prone to violent mood swings. But since turning 4 he has apparently left childhood behind and headed straight into puberty. The attitude and back chat is something to behold. He's taken to spitting, hitting and kicking. He sulks. If you attempt to explain why you want him to do something, he covers his ears and yells: 'I'm not talking to you.' In fact, I'm not even sure why he bothers covering up his ears because I don't believe they work anyway. I think when I talk, all he hears is a low level hum - like an annoying bee - so he simply walks away from it. This has meant that I talk louder until I shout.

I have become that loud, shouty mother who constantly threatens with counting to 3, warnings of sitting on the step and most recently plenty of talk about certain bottoms becoming acquainted with my hand. I know that all of it is completely and utterly ineffectual.

I know what I need to do. I need to pick my battles. I need to follow through. I need to praise the positives. I need to distract and turn things into games. And I need to give him plenty of one-on-one attention. I've read the books. I know what you're supposed to do.

However, those books are obviously written by people who don't also have 1 besqillion other things that they have to get done in any given day. They're also written by people who have all won nobel peace prizes and are saints in waiting. They're written by people who don't mind picking up the same puzzle pieces seventy times a day or having their ear buds used by their child and thrust back into the box so that you can stick a waxy ear bud in your own ear at a later date. They're written by people who have an infinite amount of patience and a super human ability to not get riled by doors being slammed in their face or felt tip pen artwork on their brand new kitchen cupboards. They're written by people who don't mind spending 15 minutes to reinforce the point that cushions live on the chairs and not the floor. They're written by people who don't mind having to eat another slice of toast with peanut butter because their child has insisted on having it only to say: 'But I don't want more toast. You're stupid. You shouldn't have made it. You eat it.'

These books are obviously written by people who can laugh in the face of adversity. They're probably war correspondents in their spare time, keeping calm in the face of life threatening danger. They probably negotiate world peace on their spare afternoons and give 'anger management' counselling to Sadam Hussein and Slobodan Milosovic (obviously they're no longer clients), Robert Mugabe and Osama Bin Laden. And if that isn't enough, they probably knit their own lentils and make lampshades out of recycled newspapers.

I applaud the authors of those books and I wholeheartedly invite them into my house to take over for a while. Because I need a time out and I'm going to go sit on the naughty step.

(And if my parents are reading this: yes, I know exactly who he sounds like and yes I know it's karma and that I thoroughly deserve this, having been a beastie child myself. I would like to formally apologise now for being the revolting little creature I was. To be fair, I couldn't help it, just like he can't. But now I fully understand why you always had a drink in the evening.)

Well it was Friday the 13th. I should have expected it.

Late afternoon yesterday, I was bringing my two extremely overtired children home from nursery. It was about to pour and I really needed to get them, all their kit and me into the house before it did so. I hitched the sobbing two year old onto my already dicky hip, slung their two incredibly heavy nursery bags (filled with peed in pants) over my shoulder and attempted to carry the two new recycling boxes that had been left in our drive, all while chivvying along the 4 year old.

One minute I was upright. The next I had collapsed in a small heap with the two year old firmly planted in a bush, and moving swiftly from sobbing to hysteria. I had gone over my ankle. The pain was so bad, I couldn't even whisper the numerous four letter words that were trying to escape from my mouth.

Initially finding it quite amusing, the 4 year old quickly started to realise something wasn't quite right when mummy had tears streaming down her face. So he started to cry too. So that was the three of us blubbing. If only the neighbours could have seen us.

'Get up mummy, get up,' he pleaded. So trying to be a good mother, I attempted to stand up but immediately realised that it was a thoroughly stupid idea so sat right back down again. Cue even more crying from the now bewildered and very frightened little boys. And even more crying from a bewildered and frightened mummy who couldn't quite see how this situation was going to work itself out.

What a bloody nightmare. So I attempted to scooch along on my arse toward the front door. Not an insignificant length journey that also includes three steps down and one up. I begged son number one to bring the bags in so that they wouldn't get wet in the rain. But bless his sweet soul, he didn't want to put down the presents he'd made for his daddy for Father's Day in case they got dirty. So he passed them to me, which I clenched in my teeth while doing my bum scooch leaving him free to drag the bags along, all with tears streaming down his little face. A contender for top place in the list of 'thoroughly crap parenting moments'.

I finally got inside and tried to cajole the 4 year old to go fetch his hysterical younger brother, who at this stage had completely peed his pants and was refusing to move from the top step despite the rain. At long last we were all in doors. I then had to instruct a very distraught 4 year old to find the phone (could have been anywhere) and bring it to me so that I could call for help. Husband was well over an hour a way in London. Luckily I managed to reach a friend and our childminder who both raced over. Before they got there though, my little star 4 year old had even managed to get a bag of frozen peas out of the freezer, wrapped it in a towel and helped me apply it to my ankle. Bless.

We then had an interesting hop around the local minor injuries unit where I was exposed to a woman who was patently in the wrong career. The delightful woman - who I assume was a nurse - told me to follow her. She disappeared leaving me to lean on my friend while I hopped, each hop jarring my now hugely swollen ankle. Not an especially pleasant trip. When we finally got to the nurse, she had the gall to say: 'Take your time why don't you'. It was a good thing they hadn't offered me crutches or else she might have been walloped round the head with them.

Turns out, after the most cursory of examinations, that I had a serious ankle sprain. At least it wasn't a break although that sounds more dramatic and would give me a cast that my children could colour in. My instructions were to keep the foot elevated, put some ice on it and rest.

So that I what I am now attempting to do. Only, I have two small bored boys who think mummy hopping about is a great lark and keep nagging for me to do more of it. They also seem to find the gap beneath my raised leg and the sofa a great place to build a den, fully equipped with noisy plastic toys. Meanwhile, it being Father's Day weekend should have seen my husband sitting on his bum doing nothing. Instead he's quickly coming to terms with what it means to be a mother. And I don't think he'll be applying for a full time position any time soon.

Must go. Apparently son number 2 had emptied the contents of a kitchen drawer on the floor, son number 1 'CAN'T FIND A PUDDING YOGURT!!!' and husband is cursing both of them. Happy father's day dear.