Oh. My. God.
There isn't really enough wine in the world to help me recover from the last hour.
You see it all started like this. Boy across the road had the friend from school to play but didn't invite my son. This was a problem. I knew it would be. But he wasn't invited and that was that. As we can see into their garden, staying at home this afternoon wasn't an option. We had to go out. First we had to live through the sheer heartbreak of a child who wanted to play with his friend on the last day of school, but couldn't. Compounded by the taunts of the friend going to play with the neighbour who at school had said: 'I'm going to play at Xs house and you aren't' as is the way of children. So that was nice.
I knew it would be like that so I went into supermummy mode. I had pre-planned and prepared. I had the car packed with bikes, scooters, football, board games, picnic blanket and bucketloads of crisps/sweets/cocktail sausages/miscellaneous picnic snacks. I donned my 'Yay, we're going to have the best afternoon ever' voice and tried to gee up the troups as we headed for a nature reserve well away from the friends.
It was hard, hard work. Eventually once we were safely consuming our 15th fizzy sherbert sweetie, the sobbing stopped and we all managed to have a genuinely fun afternoon exploring the woods, riding bikes, playing football, making dens etc. All was well. I even managed to convince them that what we were doing was infinitely more fun than playing on a boring old Wii (which is what had been advertised as the activity over the road).
I patted myself on the back for being a good mummy and salvaging a good afternoon from the jaws of nightmareville.
We came home. The friends across the road were still there. So my son stood at the fence yelling across the way asking if he could come and play. I kept saying that he couldn't as it was after 6pm, and besides, it smacked of desperation and norman no mates-ness and I didn't want the poor child to be begging for a play, particularly as he still hadn't really been invited.
So I ushered them indoor and served them dinner, which only moments before they'd been nagging for. My son took one look at it and tried to throw it onto the floor. I caught it. Asked him if he was sure he didn't want it. He had a name calling session and was adamant that he didn't want it (I am toning this all down a LOT). So I said I'd eat it if he didn't want it as there wasn't any left for me. He took off outside again in a strop, slamming doors en route.
I gave him five minutes then recalled him. He came in like a small thunder cloud, and as if the last five minutes had magically been erased from his mind, demanded his dinner in a tone that didn't exactly make me want to rush into the kitchen and rustle something up. So I said that I'd eaten it. Which I had. At which point he grabbed the bowl out of my hands, flung the remains on the floor, hit me, called me stupid and slammed the door.
Now I know he's had an emotionally wrought day. And I know he was probably tired. I know that the correct thing to do was to sit with him, be understanding about the fact that he wants to be outside and more importantly with his friends. I should have been calm and rational.
But this type of behaviour happens a lot and I'd had enough of it. I'd also used up every ounce of my energy in trying to get through the afternoon without more emotional meltdowns. So I instructed him that he had just lost out on bathing and bed time story priviledges, that he may wash his face, hands and clean teeth and could go to bed.
Let's just say that didn't go down well. At. All. The end of my tether was reached and surpassed by a good mile or so. I won't go into the details but it wasn't my finest moment of parenting. I had as much of a tantrum as he did. And he ended up going to bed (eventually) sobbing and asking for his father who certainly wouldn't have taken a more favourable view of his behaviour. I now have an almighty headache and feel utterly deflated.
All of my good mummy hard work of the afternoon was wiped out in an hour in the face of fairly vile behaviour from a child who was never going to be in a great frame of mind today. Now I feel guilty and rubbish.
It's the mummy rollercoaster.
If only I'd read the sign before boarding: Step right up. Tickets cost you most of your life savings. Brace yourself for a white knuckle ride with unexpected twists, turns, highs and lows. May cause whiplash. And nausea. May make you scream hysterically or laugh uncontrollably. Once you're on it, there's no getting off it. Good luck.
Showing posts with label tantrums. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tantrums. Show all posts
Friday, 22 May 2009
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
The fat envelope has arrived
It came in today's post with a satisfying thunk through the door. It contained a letter saying that my application was successful and that I've been offered a berth on the race. It also had a long contract outlining just how much it's going to cost me, my commitments and many other scary things. So I promptly signed it, enclosed a cheque for £500 and posted it before I could change my mind.
The deed is done. GULP. There is no going back now.
I now wait to hear back from the training officer to tell me dates when I can go freeze my bits off in the seas surrounding the UK and the marketing team to give me guidelines about sponsorship and raising funds. This is why my new race dedicated blog is not yet created - I don't want make something only to find out I've violated ten different rules.
But there you go. It has taken just 20 days for me to see an ad in the paper to being a fully signed up crew member. I feel just a leeetle bit ill when I think about all the ramifications, workload, emotional turmoil this is going to cause. But you know what, 2009 just got very interesting.
And this afternoon was a case in point about why working my butt off on a boat for five weeks can sound appealing. I had to go into town to:
a) deposit cheques
b) see a bank manager
c) buy envelopes
d) put two letters into the envelopes and post them
e) return library books and get new ones
How hard could this be? Apparently, very. Both boys left school hating the world and me in particular. Going to town was boring, boring, boring. They didn't want to go, despite me promising hot chocolate at Costa Coffee. (To be honest, I didn't want them to go either but I didn't have too much choice in the matter.) They whinged all the way there. Then they wailed and shouted and stropped and stamped their way to the bank, so much so that people either stopped and stared at us or gave us a very wide berth.
Once in the bank, they proceeded to let everyone know just how much they hated stupid banks and quite how boring they are. They wailed their way across the street to WH Smiths, until they saw the sweets and crisps inside. They then switched to full volume nag culminating in son1 standing with his hands on his hips yelling: "UNLESS YOU GET ME THESE CRISPS I'M NOT LEAVING THE SHOP".
You could see everyone looking to see what I was going to do. Was I going to give in to this tantrum and prove just how spoilt these little beasts were OR was I going to do what the WH Smith staff certainly wanted which was to buy the crisps and get our noisy selves the hell out of their shop. I opted for the latter just to buy me mileage to get to the post office. We finally got to Costa Coffee and the boys got their hot chocolate. They sat their happily crunching their quavers until they noticed that there were no marshmallows with their hot chocolate. Cue the next outburst. Son1 then said that he really was still hungry - which is normally true as school apparently burns a billion calories a day.
So I went and bought a bag of mini muffins in my bid to encourage healthy eating. Son 1 ate three in quick succession. Son 2 finally tried one, spat it out and yelled: "This is disgusting! I WANT SOMETHING ELSE!" I said no. Our difference of opinion ended with me trying to carry a small beast dripping hot chocolate, kicking and screaming all the way out.
We finally got to the library and every book I chose was "stupid". I gave up the fight, let them choose an assortment of crappy books and left. Supper has been ignored despite wails that they were so starving they might die within minutes. And I am having to type this to the background strains of Wall.E, another demand in the libary that I was too tired to fight (tantrums in WH Smith are one thing, in a library with everyone saying Sssh is quite another stress level). I can't possibly go to my study as the film is too scary, but they won't let me turn it off.
So this is why facing gales and high seas seems a breeze in comparison to my normal life.
The deed is done. GULP. There is no going back now.
I now wait to hear back from the training officer to tell me dates when I can go freeze my bits off in the seas surrounding the UK and the marketing team to give me guidelines about sponsorship and raising funds. This is why my new race dedicated blog is not yet created - I don't want make something only to find out I've violated ten different rules.
But there you go. It has taken just 20 days for me to see an ad in the paper to being a fully signed up crew member. I feel just a leeetle bit ill when I think about all the ramifications, workload, emotional turmoil this is going to cause. But you know what, 2009 just got very interesting.
And this afternoon was a case in point about why working my butt off on a boat for five weeks can sound appealing. I had to go into town to:
a) deposit cheques
b) see a bank manager
c) buy envelopes
d) put two letters into the envelopes and post them
e) return library books and get new ones
How hard could this be? Apparently, very. Both boys left school hating the world and me in particular. Going to town was boring, boring, boring. They didn't want to go, despite me promising hot chocolate at Costa Coffee. (To be honest, I didn't want them to go either but I didn't have too much choice in the matter.) They whinged all the way there. Then they wailed and shouted and stropped and stamped their way to the bank, so much so that people either stopped and stared at us or gave us a very wide berth.
Once in the bank, they proceeded to let everyone know just how much they hated stupid banks and quite how boring they are. They wailed their way across the street to WH Smiths, until they saw the sweets and crisps inside. They then switched to full volume nag culminating in son1 standing with his hands on his hips yelling: "UNLESS YOU GET ME THESE CRISPS I'M NOT LEAVING THE SHOP".
You could see everyone looking to see what I was going to do. Was I going to give in to this tantrum and prove just how spoilt these little beasts were OR was I going to do what the WH Smith staff certainly wanted which was to buy the crisps and get our noisy selves the hell out of their shop. I opted for the latter just to buy me mileage to get to the post office. We finally got to Costa Coffee and the boys got their hot chocolate. They sat their happily crunching their quavers until they noticed that there were no marshmallows with their hot chocolate. Cue the next outburst. Son1 then said that he really was still hungry - which is normally true as school apparently burns a billion calories a day.
So I went and bought a bag of mini muffins in my bid to encourage healthy eating. Son 1 ate three in quick succession. Son 2 finally tried one, spat it out and yelled: "This is disgusting! I WANT SOMETHING ELSE!" I said no. Our difference of opinion ended with me trying to carry a small beast dripping hot chocolate, kicking and screaming all the way out.
We finally got to the library and every book I chose was "stupid". I gave up the fight, let them choose an assortment of crappy books and left. Supper has been ignored despite wails that they were so starving they might die within minutes. And I am having to type this to the background strains of Wall.E, another demand in the libary that I was too tired to fight (tantrums in WH Smith are one thing, in a library with everyone saying Sssh is quite another stress level). I can't possibly go to my study as the film is too scary, but they won't let me turn it off.
So this is why facing gales and high seas seems a breeze in comparison to my normal life.
Thursday, 9 October 2008
Another smashing swimming lesson. Wine please.
So it's Thursday. Thursday = swimming lessons, which ultimately = wine for mummy. After last week's nightmare I was prepared. For a start, I called the swimming school earlier in the week and explained that my son really, really, really doesn't seem to want to go and what do they advise. Given that they're getting wads of cash out of me, they obviously insisted that I keep bringing him. And not to worry, they were used to screaming children. Comforting.
I suggested that maybe letting my 3 year old (who loves swimming) join the class would help his older brother settle down. Either older brother could act as the big know it all, OR he could have someone to compete against OR he could have friendly hand to hold onto. They agreed despite little brother not really being the right age.
I broke the news to both boys. Son 2 whooped with delight. Son 1 sobbed, wailed and yelled and insisted that I call back and cancel. I relayed what the swimming teacher had said to say, which is that swimming, like school, is not optional. I think its safe to say that that didn't go down well.
Anyway, fast forward to this afternoon. I had planned it all. When they left school (presented with a smoothie) we'd come home, put on a video and eat popcorn. This would feed their starving stomachs with something out of the ordinary and they'd get to wind down and rest, before throwing themselves in a pool.
It worked. All was calm and quiet. They even got in the car without a fuss. Son 2 practically galloped into the car. Once at the pool, son 2 got out of his clothes and into his swimming costume in record time. His older brother sobbed. Son 2 very sweetly said: 'I'll hold your hand Joshy'. That didn't go down well either. Son 1 decided that he was going to use the 'I won't get dressed and therefore can't go swimming' tactic. It backfired. I told him he would go swimming if it meant swimming with his willy on display. He wasn't keen on that option either. In the end it took a friend and I to hold him down and get his costume on.
I got them to the side of the pool. Son 2 was delighted with hiw new swimming cap and readily put on arm bands. Son 1 was less jolly but seemed slightly calmer as his brother was so cheery. I smugly thought what a clever mummy I was for overcoming the swimming problem. Then the teacher came to lead them to the side of the pool, and at that moment, it dawned on son 2 that mummy wasn't going to be in the pool with him.
The wheels came off. Son 1 knows how to throw a good tantrum, but no-one beats Son 2 in the stubborness stakes. He yelled. And yelled. And yelled. And yelled. This caused Son 1 to yell and yell and yell. So now instead of having one yelling child, I had two. Their yells echoed off the ceiling and reverberated through the vast space, so that small children sitting in the watching gallery covered their ears and cried.
It's at times like these that you tutt loudly with the other parents and pretend you have no idea whose children they are. I was mortified - mainly because it had been my great plan to have Son 2 come along and I had assured the teachers that he LOVED swimming. He usually does. I could only imagine what they were thinking.
I was eventually asked by the staff to leave the building as the children were apparently yelling for my benefit. So I did. I spent the swimming lesson playing solitaire on my mobile phone, wondering if my children were still alive. One kind man did come and say that the yelling had stopped, but that they still weren't smiling. Well, it's a step in the right direction isn't it?
Finally the 30 minutes were up and I went to collect them. They both stood there, heaving huge juddering sobs with Son 2 saying: You left me, You left me. That's right son, twist the old guilt dagger a bit deeper.
They have vowed never to return. I've resorted to bribery. I have ordered Gogos off Amazon (I have no idea what Gogos are but apparently they are all the rage at primary school and Son 1 would readly gnaw off his right arm to get some). I've told them that if they go to swimming next week and don't cry, they'll get a gogo each. I know this is going to back fire. I know they will go to swimming and yell, but do it and then demand a gogo. They will forget the fine print about not crying. I will regret ever coming up with the stupid idea, but sometimes you've got to buy results. And £10 for 30 gogos and the half chance that they swim quietly without bringing the roof down sounds like a bargain to me.
I suggested that maybe letting my 3 year old (who loves swimming) join the class would help his older brother settle down. Either older brother could act as the big know it all, OR he could have someone to compete against OR he could have friendly hand to hold onto. They agreed despite little brother not really being the right age.
I broke the news to both boys. Son 2 whooped with delight. Son 1 sobbed, wailed and yelled and insisted that I call back and cancel. I relayed what the swimming teacher had said to say, which is that swimming, like school, is not optional. I think its safe to say that that didn't go down well.
Anyway, fast forward to this afternoon. I had planned it all. When they left school (presented with a smoothie) we'd come home, put on a video and eat popcorn. This would feed their starving stomachs with something out of the ordinary and they'd get to wind down and rest, before throwing themselves in a pool.
It worked. All was calm and quiet. They even got in the car without a fuss. Son 2 practically galloped into the car. Once at the pool, son 2 got out of his clothes and into his swimming costume in record time. His older brother sobbed. Son 2 very sweetly said: 'I'll hold your hand Joshy'. That didn't go down well either. Son 1 decided that he was going to use the 'I won't get dressed and therefore can't go swimming' tactic. It backfired. I told him he would go swimming if it meant swimming with his willy on display. He wasn't keen on that option either. In the end it took a friend and I to hold him down and get his costume on.
I got them to the side of the pool. Son 2 was delighted with hiw new swimming cap and readily put on arm bands. Son 1 was less jolly but seemed slightly calmer as his brother was so cheery. I smugly thought what a clever mummy I was for overcoming the swimming problem. Then the teacher came to lead them to the side of the pool, and at that moment, it dawned on son 2 that mummy wasn't going to be in the pool with him.
The wheels came off. Son 1 knows how to throw a good tantrum, but no-one beats Son 2 in the stubborness stakes. He yelled. And yelled. And yelled. And yelled. This caused Son 1 to yell and yell and yell. So now instead of having one yelling child, I had two. Their yells echoed off the ceiling and reverberated through the vast space, so that small children sitting in the watching gallery covered their ears and cried.
It's at times like these that you tutt loudly with the other parents and pretend you have no idea whose children they are. I was mortified - mainly because it had been my great plan to have Son 2 come along and I had assured the teachers that he LOVED swimming. He usually does. I could only imagine what they were thinking.
I was eventually asked by the staff to leave the building as the children were apparently yelling for my benefit. So I did. I spent the swimming lesson playing solitaire on my mobile phone, wondering if my children were still alive. One kind man did come and say that the yelling had stopped, but that they still weren't smiling. Well, it's a step in the right direction isn't it?
Finally the 30 minutes were up and I went to collect them. They both stood there, heaving huge juddering sobs with Son 2 saying: You left me, You left me. That's right son, twist the old guilt dagger a bit deeper.
They have vowed never to return. I've resorted to bribery. I have ordered Gogos off Amazon (I have no idea what Gogos are but apparently they are all the rage at primary school and Son 1 would readly gnaw off his right arm to get some). I've told them that if they go to swimming next week and don't cry, they'll get a gogo each. I know this is going to back fire. I know they will go to swimming and yell, but do it and then demand a gogo. They will forget the fine print about not crying. I will regret ever coming up with the stupid idea, but sometimes you've got to buy results. And £10 for 30 gogos and the half chance that they swim quietly without bringing the roof down sounds like a bargain to me.
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Drinking before the watershed. Because sometimes it's called for.
Well it finally happened. I knew the day would come and it has. At exactly 17.27 today I became one of those mothers. The type that opens a bottle of wine and gulps back a glass before the children have gone to bed. It wasn't intentional and I don't think I need to sign up for the AA just yet. But I was standing next to the cooker making the millioneth meal of the week that would no doubt be rejected anyway, and I saw a bottle of red wine that had been opened at some point and was standing idly on the counter top with a stopper in it. I have no idea how long it has been there. But it spoke to me. And I listened, grabbed a glass, poured and gulped.
Before you think I'm a complete lush, I must explain. It's not been a good day. The morning was a disaster thanks to son 1 trying to finish a homework project that he decided involved using a camera who's batteries kept dying. It's a long, arduous story but in the end, we got to school late with me very flustered. That said, it was the first day this week that I managed to remember not to leave the house keys in the door. And at least today there wasn't the half chewed remnants of a mouse's head on the doormat which there had been earlier in the week.
I then had a lovely neighbour take son 2 to pre-school so that I could head off for my mammogram. I was late for that too and the NHS decided to pay me back by making me wait a good long time before they'd see me. The term 'hurry up and wait' springs to mind. I then had the pleasure of having my breasts yanked across hard pieces of machinery with the radiographer telling me to relax my shoulder, but stretch my arm and lean forward but twist my head to the side and bend in and relax the shoulder again and keep still. It was like being in a yoga class. Only in the yoga classes I've been to they don't clamp your breast in a piece of machinery with a deathlike grip.
So after that pleasant interlude I got my breasts ultrasounded. The last time I had an ultrasound I was looking at a teeny tiny baby bopping about in my belly, blissfully unaware that it would reject every meal I made for it in the future. Looking at breast tissue is far less interesting. It turns out that I have nothing wrong with me, except for a lump of tissue that even the doctor seemed quite surprised by the size of. But it's just a ball of fat, for lack of a better description. So that's better than the alternative although still not something you want to brag about at a dinner party.
I then raced home and tried to squeeze a full day's work into 3 hours. It didn't fit.
Then I galloped off to fetch boy children 2 and 1 and brought them home amid wails of how they wanted to go to a friends house. But we had things to do. A) Laundy B) General tidy of house C) Go to swimming.
I wouldn't ordinarily subject my children to household chores directly after school, but the house was in a complete state. The curtains hadn't even been opened since last night, beds were unmade, at least 5 loads of laundry were scattered around the house and the cupboards looked as though they were vomiting out their contents.
But the children were hungry and wanted snacks. I gave them snacks. Then I gave them extra snacks and after that we had one more snack. At which point I said I really needed to do the laundry. Son 1 (you might be starting to realise that he's the - shall we say - more temperamental of the two) starting screaming that he wanted something else to eat because he was hungry. I offered him a sandwich with his choice of a filling, an apple or a yogurt. None of these would fill him up apparently. He told me this a LOT and LOUDLY - for a full 45 minutes until he was beside himself yet again. None of this bode well for the forthcoming swimming which he's always so enthusiastic about.
And so it came time for us to go to swimming. This heralded a new, more joyous and even louder tantrum than the last. Now I've been here before when it comes to swimming. I have to just go, get him there under whatever means necessary, let him get to the side of the pool still screaming and wailing like he's being murdered and let the staff take over. He then sobs for the first pool width and by the end of it is beaming ear to ear.
Today wasn't going to work that way. Today I couldn't get him into clothes to leave the house. Having tried every tactic on the planet I resorted to his competitive edge and offered his swimming place to his younger brother who is dead keen but too young for the class. This was a gamble. Son 2 might have said no and the swimming school could easily say a bigger no. But to hell with it, desperate times call for desperate measures. Son 2 jumped at the chance and so with more screaming from son 1, we finally got to the swimming pool with minutes to spare. I then gave son 1 his last chance to go swimming. He refused but when he saw son 2 getting into his swimming things, the wheels came off and he literally clawed the swimming costume off his brother. Which funnily enough put son 2 right off swimming too.
I won't even go into all the twists and turns in this saga suffice to say that I ended up sitting watching other people's children swim for 30 minutes while my two sat at my feet. Money well spent I feel.
And so we got home and instantly the 'I'm hungry' chant started up, while the telephone rang incessantly with work calls which I tried to take but gave up as I couldn't hear a thing over the yelling. So I tried to create a nutritious meal out of nothing in under a minute and it was while doing this that I spotted the bottle of wine. And thought: Sod it.
Now I know how it happens. And I have empathy - vats of it - for all the mothers who are forced to guzzle wine before the 7pm watershed out of sheer desperation. May tomorrow be a better day.
Before you think I'm a complete lush, I must explain. It's not been a good day. The morning was a disaster thanks to son 1 trying to finish a homework project that he decided involved using a camera who's batteries kept dying. It's a long, arduous story but in the end, we got to school late with me very flustered. That said, it was the first day this week that I managed to remember not to leave the house keys in the door. And at least today there wasn't the half chewed remnants of a mouse's head on the doormat which there had been earlier in the week.
I then had a lovely neighbour take son 2 to pre-school so that I could head off for my mammogram. I was late for that too and the NHS decided to pay me back by making me wait a good long time before they'd see me. The term 'hurry up and wait' springs to mind. I then had the pleasure of having my breasts yanked across hard pieces of machinery with the radiographer telling me to relax my shoulder, but stretch my arm and lean forward but twist my head to the side and bend in and relax the shoulder again and keep still. It was like being in a yoga class. Only in the yoga classes I've been to they don't clamp your breast in a piece of machinery with a deathlike grip.
So after that pleasant interlude I got my breasts ultrasounded. The last time I had an ultrasound I was looking at a teeny tiny baby bopping about in my belly, blissfully unaware that it would reject every meal I made for it in the future. Looking at breast tissue is far less interesting. It turns out that I have nothing wrong with me, except for a lump of tissue that even the doctor seemed quite surprised by the size of. But it's just a ball of fat, for lack of a better description. So that's better than the alternative although still not something you want to brag about at a dinner party.
I then raced home and tried to squeeze a full day's work into 3 hours. It didn't fit.
Then I galloped off to fetch boy children 2 and 1 and brought them home amid wails of how they wanted to go to a friends house. But we had things to do. A) Laundy B) General tidy of house C) Go to swimming.
I wouldn't ordinarily subject my children to household chores directly after school, but the house was in a complete state. The curtains hadn't even been opened since last night, beds were unmade, at least 5 loads of laundry were scattered around the house and the cupboards looked as though they were vomiting out their contents.
But the children were hungry and wanted snacks. I gave them snacks. Then I gave them extra snacks and after that we had one more snack. At which point I said I really needed to do the laundry. Son 1 (you might be starting to realise that he's the - shall we say - more temperamental of the two) starting screaming that he wanted something else to eat because he was hungry. I offered him a sandwich with his choice of a filling, an apple or a yogurt. None of these would fill him up apparently. He told me this a LOT and LOUDLY - for a full 45 minutes until he was beside himself yet again. None of this bode well for the forthcoming swimming which he's always so enthusiastic about.
And so it came time for us to go to swimming. This heralded a new, more joyous and even louder tantrum than the last. Now I've been here before when it comes to swimming. I have to just go, get him there under whatever means necessary, let him get to the side of the pool still screaming and wailing like he's being murdered and let the staff take over. He then sobs for the first pool width and by the end of it is beaming ear to ear.
Today wasn't going to work that way. Today I couldn't get him into clothes to leave the house. Having tried every tactic on the planet I resorted to his competitive edge and offered his swimming place to his younger brother who is dead keen but too young for the class. This was a gamble. Son 2 might have said no and the swimming school could easily say a bigger no. But to hell with it, desperate times call for desperate measures. Son 2 jumped at the chance and so with more screaming from son 1, we finally got to the swimming pool with minutes to spare. I then gave son 1 his last chance to go swimming. He refused but when he saw son 2 getting into his swimming things, the wheels came off and he literally clawed the swimming costume off his brother. Which funnily enough put son 2 right off swimming too.
I won't even go into all the twists and turns in this saga suffice to say that I ended up sitting watching other people's children swim for 30 minutes while my two sat at my feet. Money well spent I feel.
And so we got home and instantly the 'I'm hungry' chant started up, while the telephone rang incessantly with work calls which I tried to take but gave up as I couldn't hear a thing over the yelling. So I tried to create a nutritious meal out of nothing in under a minute and it was while doing this that I spotted the bottle of wine. And thought: Sod it.
Now I know how it happens. And I have empathy - vats of it - for all the mothers who are forced to guzzle wine before the 7pm watershed out of sheer desperation. May tomorrow be a better day.
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
Holidays with children. How not to relax.
'A change is as good as a holiday' they say. And in theory, my holiday was a change. I was in France, rather than England (although it still rained). I ate ten times the amount of bread and cheese I normally consume. I had fabulous adult company every evening. And I had no access to TV or the internet. But really, that's where the differences end (and I'm not convinced that last point is a good thing).
You see, a holiday with children is something of an oxymoron. Holiday = relaxing. Children = not.
Think back to the BC years (Before Children). Holidays meant flinging a bikini in a bag with a couple of sarongs and a pair of flip flops. You'd jet off somewhere hot and exotic that inevitably had palm trees, sunloungers and frozen strawberry daiquiris. You'd roll out of bed at some point before lunch, spend the rest of the day horizontal reading chicklit while working on a tan, possibly doing the occasional bit of exercise or sightseeing, with lots of eating, drinking and generally RELAXING.
Fast forward to the AC years. As mentioned in my last blog post, the packing alone is enough to make you want to cancel the trip and stay home. But then there's the journey. Gone are the days of lovely gins and tonics on board a flight while you listen to your iPod in peace. Instead you're in a car so that you can cart half of Britain with you. As the mother (and this inevitably means you're not the driver) you spend most of the journey swivelled in your chair facing the backseat so that you can:
You see, a holiday with children is something of an oxymoron. Holiday = relaxing. Children = not.
Think back to the BC years (Before Children). Holidays meant flinging a bikini in a bag with a couple of sarongs and a pair of flip flops. You'd jet off somewhere hot and exotic that inevitably had palm trees, sunloungers and frozen strawberry daiquiris. You'd roll out of bed at some point before lunch, spend the rest of the day horizontal reading chicklit while working on a tan, possibly doing the occasional bit of exercise or sightseeing, with lots of eating, drinking and generally RELAXING.
Fast forward to the AC years. As mentioned in my last blog post, the packing alone is enough to make you want to cancel the trip and stay home. But then there's the journey. Gone are the days of lovely gins and tonics on board a flight while you listen to your iPod in peace. Instead you're in a car so that you can cart half of Britain with you. As the mother (and this inevitably means you're not the driver) you spend most of the journey swivelled in your chair facing the backseat so that you can:
- catch vomit in carsick bags
- wipe up vomit
- break up fights because someone has put their hand on someone else's side of the seat
- pick up toys that have been dropped into the most inconvenient place that require elastigirl arms to reach them
- hand out snacks on an ongoing basis
- receive the half chewed remants of snacks, wrappers, banana skins, apple cores and find a place to stow them all
- play eye spy ad nauseum with children who don't actually spy the item in question and tell you that it starts with a letter which it doesn't and isn't the correct colour they claim it to be. And then get cross when you can't guess what it is.
You arrive at your destination with a crick in your neck, a good dose of car sickness yourself thanks to constantly facing backwards, and a vile mood.
Your destination is self catering. It has to be with kids. You need the washing machine, dishwashing and snack making facilities on call 24/7 - something no hotel can supply, not without having to remortgage your house. For about five minutes you embrace your inner little girl as you get to 'play house house', unpacking your supplies and figuring out who is going to sleep where. But that novelty wears off pretty fast.
And thus commences the holiday, filled with the promise of exciting thing to do - like canoeing, go-karting, seeing caves, fishing, sightseeing, going for walks, visiting markets and attempting to speak French - badly. I'm not such a killjoy as to claim that none of this was enjoyable - and indeed it was a change from the normal cycle of life.
However (and you just know that there had to be an however coming up) it never once felt like a holiday. Each outing required the same mini packing nightmare of spare clothes, nappies, snacks, cameras etc, etc, etc. If we stayed at home, the theory was that our children would gaily entertain themselves while we lay in the sun reading books. As I said, that was the theory. But as any parent knows, lying down, reading books and actually relaxing simply doesn't happen when there are small children remotely close by. In fact, children seem to have a built in homing device that alerts them to a parent who is approaching a state of rest. It immediately triggers an activation switch which propels them towards the said resting parent to annoy them, like a swarm of wasps buzzing around your head.
Just as you finish applying your sun cream in comes the first request. 'I need to poo.' Shortly followed by 'I'm hungry.' 'I'm bored.' 'Come play with me.' 'Watch this.' 'Can I sit on you?' 'Yowl!' 'He hit me.' 'He hit me first.' 'I had it first......'. So you give up lying down and attempt to play cricket with children who are incapable of hitting a ball so stand there swinging a bat at the air repeatedly. Or you push them on a swing. Or watch them paddle in the ice cold paddling pool. None of which is awful. But it's not quite the same as lying on your big fat bum doing nothing in peace, is it?
Then there's the merry go round of thinking about food, buying food, making food, serving food, washing after eating the food - and repeat. There's laundy and tidying up. And when you holiday with other people, there's an unwritten rule that you all need to pull your weight, so you end up doing more than you might ordinarily do at home (our laundry pile at home for example can sit unwashed for weeks on end) because you want everyone to be happy.
And then there's the fighting. As a holiday wears on and the novelty of having new friends to play with wears off, the children look for any opportunity to have an argument (for that read: beat the bejesus out of each other). Breaking up fights is never a deeply joyous affair, but it gradually starts to affect the parents and the thorny issue of parenting techniques starts to peep over the parapet. Thanks to a change in routine, later bedtimes and more sugar than usual, the children's behaviour dissolves into Lord of the Flies badness with tantrums the order of the day, putting your parentings techniques even more firmly in the spotlight.
And so your relaxing holiday turns into a merry go round of chores, fun activities that the kids will enjoy but probably don't top your list of things you must do before you die, and parenting battles.
Of course in my case it wasn't helped by having my husband leave after the first week so that he could return to work, leaving me to cope with the beastie boys on my own. The return trip alone wiped out any de-stressing that might have taken place in the odd stolen moment.
So I got home not feeling well rested. In fact feeling fairly shattered and in need of another holiday of the BC variety. But that isn't going to happen for at least another 16 years at the earliest, at which point we'll be booking ourselves onto a SAGA cruise and I'll have traded in my bikini for a one of those fetching granny swimsuits with low cut legs, built in tummy constrainer and a matching floral swiming cap to stop my blue rinse running. Now there's something to look forward to.
Thursday, 24 July 2008
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Sports day
Sigh. I should have taken it as a sign that sports day wasn't going to go well when I picked up my lemon drizzle cake intended for the sports day cake sale, and dropped it on the floor. Luckily I applied the 5 second rule and managed to scoop it up before it could get cooties. But it didn't survive unscathed. It wasn't going to win any beauty awards, but trying to get two boys, their spare clothes, bags, lunchboxes and the cake out of the house all in one go, I didn't really care.
So a somewhat shaky start, but at least the boys seemed happy to be going to sports day.
Now, before I continue, I need to give a bit of history. Child 1 doesn't like being looked at. He hates being the centre of attention. He will not participate in group activities. Or rather, he will not participate in group activities if he thinks he's being watched by his mother.
When he was a toddler, I attempted a music group type class with him, one where all the mums feel like idiots singing the wheels on the bus while the children play with their navels. Let's just say we only went once. I don't think they would have let us back in again if we'd tried. When he was roughly 2, I took him off to Little Kickers, mini football, because he loved kicking balls around. I had to spend every session running around the pitch with him looking like a right twit simply to avoid a tantrum, while all the other mums sat and watched while their children gamely joined in. After one tantrum under my chair too many (him, not me although I was close), we decided not to return. £80 well spent.
I then gave up on group activities. But sports day is one of those things that isn't really optional. Last year he sat on my lap and cried his way through it. I was told by many well meaning people: 'It's an age thing. He'll be fine next year.'
So this year, armed with that sage advice and feedback from teachers that he had been doing very well and winning races in all the practice sessions, I felt confident that he might actually take part.
So you can imagine my deep, deep joy as I saw said child emerge onto the sports field with all his classmates, howling and holding out his arms for mummy. I pretended I had no idea who his mummy was for a while in the hope that by not getting any attention from me, he'd settle down. I was wrong. It simply escalated. I sighed deeply and went over to cuddle him. Between his teacher and I, we talked him off the ledge and got him to sit on the mat with his mates. But he refused to take part. Again.
How I do enjoy missing a full morning's work to watch other people's children charge up and down a field. At this point I pegged my hopes on child number 2 who's normally game for anything. He had a good start, taking part in race 1, but was definitely completely bemused by the experience and forgot that he's learned how to run with his arms bent at the elbows, and reverted to his penguin run, arms flapping wildly behind his back. But he tried. At least he tried...
Thereafter he refused to take part again. Instead, mummy had to sit on the mat with him. At least by this point, son 1 had decided to pluck up his courage and have a go. For a kid who normally appears to have a nest of ants residing in his pants, he moved at snail's pace. I think it was his attempt at making a statement, saying: 'Yes, I'll do it, but no it's not cool and in no way am I going to put myself out for you lot.' Still, he tried. Which is more than he did last year.
And miracle of miracles, he even got up to collect his leaver's certificate without any kind of meltdown. So leaps and heaps of progress really. Maybe by the time he's 18 and wrapping up his high school career, he'll be the school egg and spoon champion. I'll be sure to have my camera at the ready.
So a somewhat shaky start, but at least the boys seemed happy to be going to sports day.
Now, before I continue, I need to give a bit of history. Child 1 doesn't like being looked at. He hates being the centre of attention. He will not participate in group activities. Or rather, he will not participate in group activities if he thinks he's being watched by his mother.
When he was a toddler, I attempted a music group type class with him, one where all the mums feel like idiots singing the wheels on the bus while the children play with their navels. Let's just say we only went once. I don't think they would have let us back in again if we'd tried. When he was roughly 2, I took him off to Little Kickers, mini football, because he loved kicking balls around. I had to spend every session running around the pitch with him looking like a right twit simply to avoid a tantrum, while all the other mums sat and watched while their children gamely joined in. After one tantrum under my chair too many (him, not me although I was close), we decided not to return. £80 well spent.
I then gave up on group activities. But sports day is one of those things that isn't really optional. Last year he sat on my lap and cried his way through it. I was told by many well meaning people: 'It's an age thing. He'll be fine next year.'
So this year, armed with that sage advice and feedback from teachers that he had been doing very well and winning races in all the practice sessions, I felt confident that he might actually take part.
So you can imagine my deep, deep joy as I saw said child emerge onto the sports field with all his classmates, howling and holding out his arms for mummy. I pretended I had no idea who his mummy was for a while in the hope that by not getting any attention from me, he'd settle down. I was wrong. It simply escalated. I sighed deeply and went over to cuddle him. Between his teacher and I, we talked him off the ledge and got him to sit on the mat with his mates. But he refused to take part. Again.
How I do enjoy missing a full morning's work to watch other people's children charge up and down a field. At this point I pegged my hopes on child number 2 who's normally game for anything. He had a good start, taking part in race 1, but was definitely completely bemused by the experience and forgot that he's learned how to run with his arms bent at the elbows, and reverted to his penguin run, arms flapping wildly behind his back. But he tried. At least he tried...
Thereafter he refused to take part again. Instead, mummy had to sit on the mat with him. At least by this point, son 1 had decided to pluck up his courage and have a go. For a kid who normally appears to have a nest of ants residing in his pants, he moved at snail's pace. I think it was his attempt at making a statement, saying: 'Yes, I'll do it, but no it's not cool and in no way am I going to put myself out for you lot.' Still, he tried. Which is more than he did last year.
And miracle of miracles, he even got up to collect his leaver's certificate without any kind of meltdown. So leaps and heaps of progress really. Maybe by the time he's 18 and wrapping up his high school career, he'll be the school egg and spoon champion. I'll be sure to have my camera at the ready.
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
Big school - part 2
Sigh.
It all started so well. He left pre-school without complaint. He spoke confidently about going to big school. He remained calm the whole way home. He took the clever decision to have a wee before we set off. He marched assuredly up the road. I was filled with pride as my little star seemed to be taking this big school visit in his stride. I mentally scolded myself for thinking the worst of him. It was going to be a breeze.
And then he saw the school building, the children playing outside, the gate we had to walk through. In an instant, the facade crumbled and the banshee boy we all know and love emerged. I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL. I'M NOT GOING IN. I'M NOT. I WANT TO GO HOME. SCHOOL IS STUPID.
Sigh. At the exact same time an angelic looking little girl with long blond ringlets walked calmly past us, holding her mother's hand. I gave the mum a friendly smile, hoping to get a 'hang in there' type of smile in return. I didn't. It was more of a grimmace. She was either one of those been-there-done-that-put-five-kids-through-school-so-far type of mums who quite frankly wasn't interested in making friends or dealing with tantruming children. Or she was a first timer too and was just as anxious to create a good impression and didn't want my son scaring the bejesus out of her child. Or she was just a cow.
Reinforcements arrived in the form of a mum and child we knew. It didn't help sway the screamer though. Then another child arrived and calmly walked in. Meanwhile, my child was still clinging to the fence outside, getting his hands covered in rust as he wailed: I'M NOT GOING IN!
After a huge amount of coaxing and physical manhandling - including two bouts of the headmistress trying to say hello and then promptly saying: 'I'll leave you for a while shall I', I managed to get him indoors. It took the head teacher and I playing with a plastic pirate ship and ringing the doorbell on a toy house before he'd dain to enter the classroom. Meanwhile, the other children were all sitting perfectly still on the carpet on their chalked on names, looking at books. How proud their mums must have been.
The other parents left. Still my child clung. I tried to wear my 'ultra calm, fully in control' expression while cajoling him into sitting with the others. Not a chance. The head teacher, obviously bored of playing pirates by this stage, decided to leave. When I tried to follow suit, more wailing ensued and she instructed me to stay until he settled.
What she doesn't know is that as long as I stay, he will not settle. Ever. I have learnt that the only approach is to be brutal. Dump and go.
So I sat on a tiny chair way too small for my arse and listened to the Ten Tiny Tadpoles. I watched as the children were divided into groups with a range of exciting activities for them to do like trains, waterplay, drawing and traffic management (I assume this was with a pretend car and stop sign rather than directing the actual traffic on the street). It really was time for me to leave as my name wasn't on the board, I hadn't been assigned a group or a fun activity.
I attempted to leave. Cue screaming. I promptly told the teacher that he would continue to do this until he turned 18 and left for uni so we might as well just get cracking and cut the apron strings. It took two teachers to peel him off me and as I strode out of the room, he was being restrained by both of them while he held his arms out saying: 'I WANT A LAST CUDDLE WITH MY MUMMY.'
I ignored and left. Am sure they think I'm a cold bitch. But it's a choice between being that or a soft touch and am never sure which teachers appreciate more.
And in 30 minutes time, I have to go back there and reclaim him. And then we get to repeat this process again next week and the week after that. Then we'll have a nice long summer holiday for him to forget all about it so that come September, he'll be ready to start the screamfest from scratch.
Sigh. I think I shall have a whiskey tonight. On the bright side, at least I won my bet and I get to keep the chocolate cake.
It all started so well. He left pre-school without complaint. He spoke confidently about going to big school. He remained calm the whole way home. He took the clever decision to have a wee before we set off. He marched assuredly up the road. I was filled with pride as my little star seemed to be taking this big school visit in his stride. I mentally scolded myself for thinking the worst of him. It was going to be a breeze.
And then he saw the school building, the children playing outside, the gate we had to walk through. In an instant, the facade crumbled and the banshee boy we all know and love emerged. I DON'T WANT TO GO TO SCHOOL. I'M NOT GOING IN. I'M NOT. I WANT TO GO HOME. SCHOOL IS STUPID.
Sigh. At the exact same time an angelic looking little girl with long blond ringlets walked calmly past us, holding her mother's hand. I gave the mum a friendly smile, hoping to get a 'hang in there' type of smile in return. I didn't. It was more of a grimmace. She was either one of those been-there-done-that-put-five-kids-through-school-so-far type of mums who quite frankly wasn't interested in making friends or dealing with tantruming children. Or she was a first timer too and was just as anxious to create a good impression and didn't want my son scaring the bejesus out of her child. Or she was just a cow.
Reinforcements arrived in the form of a mum and child we knew. It didn't help sway the screamer though. Then another child arrived and calmly walked in. Meanwhile, my child was still clinging to the fence outside, getting his hands covered in rust as he wailed: I'M NOT GOING IN!
After a huge amount of coaxing and physical manhandling - including two bouts of the headmistress trying to say hello and then promptly saying: 'I'll leave you for a while shall I', I managed to get him indoors. It took the head teacher and I playing with a plastic pirate ship and ringing the doorbell on a toy house before he'd dain to enter the classroom. Meanwhile, the other children were all sitting perfectly still on the carpet on their chalked on names, looking at books. How proud their mums must have been.
The other parents left. Still my child clung. I tried to wear my 'ultra calm, fully in control' expression while cajoling him into sitting with the others. Not a chance. The head teacher, obviously bored of playing pirates by this stage, decided to leave. When I tried to follow suit, more wailing ensued and she instructed me to stay until he settled.
What she doesn't know is that as long as I stay, he will not settle. Ever. I have learnt that the only approach is to be brutal. Dump and go.
So I sat on a tiny chair way too small for my arse and listened to the Ten Tiny Tadpoles. I watched as the children were divided into groups with a range of exciting activities for them to do like trains, waterplay, drawing and traffic management (I assume this was with a pretend car and stop sign rather than directing the actual traffic on the street). It really was time for me to leave as my name wasn't on the board, I hadn't been assigned a group or a fun activity.
I attempted to leave. Cue screaming. I promptly told the teacher that he would continue to do this until he turned 18 and left for uni so we might as well just get cracking and cut the apron strings. It took two teachers to peel him off me and as I strode out of the room, he was being restrained by both of them while he held his arms out saying: 'I WANT A LAST CUDDLE WITH MY MUMMY.'
I ignored and left. Am sure they think I'm a cold bitch. But it's a choice between being that or a soft touch and am never sure which teachers appreciate more.
And in 30 minutes time, I have to go back there and reclaim him. And then we get to repeat this process again next week and the week after that. Then we'll have a nice long summer holiday for him to forget all about it so that come September, he'll be ready to start the screamfest from scratch.
Sigh. I think I shall have a whiskey tonight. On the bright side, at least I won my bet and I get to keep the chocolate cake.
Big school
In a bit of a mad rush today as I have to compact all my work into a few short hours before fetching eldest son early from pre-school. Today he has his first trial session at big school. I am terrified. There's something about going back to school that instantly makes me feel as though I'm doing something wrong. Maybe it's the way all the teachers insist on being called Mrs X or Miss Y, rather than say Ruth or Emily.
And they have so many rules. Good grief. Even for the short one hour and fifteen minute session he'll be having today, we've been instructed to ensure that the children have a drink and a hat. Further on in the letter they specifically say NOT TO BRING ANY DRINKS OTHER THAN WATER. So I guess that applies to today as well. I have a sippy cup or a spiderman cup that I can put the water in. Are there rules about what the water is allowed to be in? Will my son be ostracised if I get it wrong? Will he immediately labelled as uncool?
And then there's the what they should wear bit. My son is in shorts and his pre-school t-shirt. And he'll have a hat (please, please let me not forget that). But is that what they're supposed to wear? Am I supposed to have already bought a uniform? Will my child be the only one that doesn't fit in?
Then there's the small issue of my son himself. He doesn't 'do' new situations well. He doesn't like being looked at. He doesn't like to let go of my leg (he still clings to me like a hermit crab everytime I drop him at pre-school and he's been going there for years). And when he doesn't like something, he's not particularly good at keeping his emotions in check. In fact, if they had Tantrum Olympics, he would be the proud owner of several gold medals.
This morning before we headed off for pre-school we'd already had: 'Yay, I'm going to big school. And you're not.' (said tauntingly to younger brother). This was swiftly followed by: 'I don't want to go to big school. It's stupid. And boring. And I already know how to read.' (he doesn't). This then promptly changed to: 'Because I'm going to big school mummy, does that mean I can sit in the front seat of the car?' (no you can't). So then we had: 'Well if I don't want to go to school I don't have to.' (er, actually you do).
So I am expecting that when I fetch him in 45 minutes time we will have excitement, followed by tears, then more excitement, then more tears etc until we get there (and that will just be me). Upon arrival he will have a complete and utter meltdown due to the complete flood of emotions. I will be the mother that the others all look at sympathetically (meanwhile smirking inside) while their darling children jauntily wave goodbye without a care in the world.
What my son doesn't realise is that this isn't just about the first impression he has to make, it's about the impression I have to make. All of my pareting skills, all of the time I've invested in the last 4 and a bit years, all of the time outs, teaching of manners, sitting on naughty steps, praising, rule-making, reward boarding, it all comes to a head this afternoon. Today my child leaves the safe confines of home, and his behaviour - and by proxy my parenting skills - will be on display for all to see. And I'm willing to bet a large slice of chocolate cake that we're not going to come away with top marks.
But he might prove me wrong. He might be an angel. He and I might be eminently cool. I might be the mum that all the other mums think: Gosh, she's got it in control and what a well-behaved young man.
Chances are slim.
I really think that someone needs to set up 'Going to big school preparation classes' - not for the children you understand, for the adults. They could cover things like what to pack in a lunch box, what types of cakes are appropriate for a bake sale, what is appropriate school gate behaviour, how to help your child to fit in and what are parent/teacher evenings.
Because they give ante-natal classses and personally, I'm finding this going to school lark far more intimidating than giving birth.
Must dash. Will report back.
And they have so many rules. Good grief. Even for the short one hour and fifteen minute session he'll be having today, we've been instructed to ensure that the children have a drink and a hat. Further on in the letter they specifically say NOT TO BRING ANY DRINKS OTHER THAN WATER. So I guess that applies to today as well. I have a sippy cup or a spiderman cup that I can put the water in. Are there rules about what the water is allowed to be in? Will my son be ostracised if I get it wrong? Will he immediately labelled as uncool?
And then there's the what they should wear bit. My son is in shorts and his pre-school t-shirt. And he'll have a hat (please, please let me not forget that). But is that what they're supposed to wear? Am I supposed to have already bought a uniform? Will my child be the only one that doesn't fit in?
Then there's the small issue of my son himself. He doesn't 'do' new situations well. He doesn't like being looked at. He doesn't like to let go of my leg (he still clings to me like a hermit crab everytime I drop him at pre-school and he's been going there for years). And when he doesn't like something, he's not particularly good at keeping his emotions in check. In fact, if they had Tantrum Olympics, he would be the proud owner of several gold medals.
This morning before we headed off for pre-school we'd already had: 'Yay, I'm going to big school. And you're not.' (said tauntingly to younger brother). This was swiftly followed by: 'I don't want to go to big school. It's stupid. And boring. And I already know how to read.' (he doesn't). This then promptly changed to: 'Because I'm going to big school mummy, does that mean I can sit in the front seat of the car?' (no you can't). So then we had: 'Well if I don't want to go to school I don't have to.' (er, actually you do).
So I am expecting that when I fetch him in 45 minutes time we will have excitement, followed by tears, then more excitement, then more tears etc until we get there (and that will just be me). Upon arrival he will have a complete and utter meltdown due to the complete flood of emotions. I will be the mother that the others all look at sympathetically (meanwhile smirking inside) while their darling children jauntily wave goodbye without a care in the world.
What my son doesn't realise is that this isn't just about the first impression he has to make, it's about the impression I have to make. All of my pareting skills, all of the time I've invested in the last 4 and a bit years, all of the time outs, teaching of manners, sitting on naughty steps, praising, rule-making, reward boarding, it all comes to a head this afternoon. Today my child leaves the safe confines of home, and his behaviour - and by proxy my parenting skills - will be on display for all to see. And I'm willing to bet a large slice of chocolate cake that we're not going to come away with top marks.
But he might prove me wrong. He might be an angel. He and I might be eminently cool. I might be the mum that all the other mums think: Gosh, she's got it in control and what a well-behaved young man.
Chances are slim.
I really think that someone needs to set up 'Going to big school preparation classes' - not for the children you understand, for the adults. They could cover things like what to pack in a lunch box, what types of cakes are appropriate for a bake sale, what is appropriate school gate behaviour, how to help your child to fit in and what are parent/teacher evenings.
Because they give ante-natal classses and personally, I'm finding this going to school lark far more intimidating than giving birth.
Must dash. Will report back.
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