The terrible twos… three months early.

The boy is entering a new phase. One that I hope will be over soon. Our once angelic, blue eyed, golden haired boy has changed to a blue eyed, golden haired tantrum machine. His brand new today thing is to shout ‘ow!’ When you try to move him/strap him into his car seat/ put his shoes on.

To the passer-by it looks as if this poor boy is being mistreated by his witch of a mother. To me (and others experiencing a similar phase) It’s the reason why we drink. Toddlers don’t care how loud they scream or how many people are around when they do it. To be perfectly honest I don’t care that much either but why do they insist on being at their worst with an audience? When I’m trying to get us home and he point blank refuses to get in the car:

‘Come on William, get in the car.’

‘We’re going home to see Daddy and the pussy cats.’

‘Come on in you get!’

*Resist urge to shout GET IN THE FUCKING CAR WILLIAM!!! Go to take his hand to lead him in*

He pulls away crouches in the street screaming. I pick him up to put him in the car, he arches his back screaming ‘No no no!’ Get him into car, try and get him in car seat he starts planking, try to bend child so I can get his seatbelt on. Child. Won’t. Bend. Wonder when my child was replaced by steel girder. Child become less plank like as occupied with hitting Mummy. Use window of flexibility to click in seatbelt. Say in calmest voice can muster ‘We don’t smack’, tighten seatbelt to ensure child safe. Child starts shouting ‘Ow! Ow! Owww!!’

Try and placate child with favourite toy.

Child throws favourite toy.

Clamber out and climb into drivers seat with toddler wailing in the back.

Ignore glares from passers by. Drive off with child still wailing.

Question life choices.

Every time we’ve got in the car today.

Every.

Time.

He’s also doing the fun thing of wanting something (food, toy, seat) then instantly changing his mind when he gets it. This causes a tantrum. We are at the mercy of the whim of a toddler. If you need me, I’ll be hiding in the summerhouse drinking wine.

In other news:

Writing this post was interrupted when the boy broke his ‘splat mat’ the one that only yesterday I insisted to friends was ‘very strong’. The boy thought pouring the water that was in it onto the carpet was lots of fun. I grabbed it off him, chucked it in the sink then started mopping up the puddle on the living room carpet. Whilst I was clearing up, the boy pulled the splat mat out of the sink and started pouring the water on the kitchen floor. Spinning round to ensure full cupboard coverage too. I got mad, he laughed at me.

Captain has been trying to catch bees in the garden. It’s obviously been a while since we’ve had an expensive vet bill.

My two year old niece (for reasons unknown) did a poo in her back garden today.

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Time to get fit(ish)

I’ve been rather alarmed by my growing waistline. The final straw came on Friday. The boy and I were changing the bedding. This is mostly arsing about, pretending the duvet is trying to eat him, putting the fitted sheet over him and exclaiming ‘where’s the baby?’, etc. Half way through the process we were rolling around on the bed doing our ‘Oh no I’ve fallen over and I can’t get up’ routine, when the boy clocked my belly. He was mesmerised by it. Pressing his hands into it and wiggling them about, slapping it and watching it ripple and finally (which nearly tipped me over the edge) grabbing handfuls of it. (Yes. HANDFULS) As much as I’m all for anything that keeps him amused I’m drawing the line at my belly.

I’ve not been taking care of myself recently. I’ve been leaving that up to the various pharmaceuticals I’m on. But I need to take responsibility for my own health, I need to help it along and as much as I enjoy sharing an Easter egg with hubs I’m certainly not blessed with a metabolism that lets me get away with that. And I’ve said it before my clothes size is closely linked with my self esteem.

Today I exercised. I’d downloaded an app that gives me a little routine to follow. William found this fascinating, which caused a problem. When I was planking he decided to lay on me and exclaim ‘ahhhh’, when I did a wall sit, he tried to climb on my lap with a book and when I did crunches, he straddled me, bounced up and down squealing and slapped my tum like it was his tambourine. Thankfully hubs removed him before I was winded.

Will this health kick last? Probably not, but I’ll make the most of the enthusiasm I currently feel.

In other news:

The boy has started going to Nursery half a day a week. He’s not too happy about this.

Cat/bald kitten relations are going very well. (If you ignore Marms) although Captain wasn’t too sure what to do when he had a sippy cup thrust in his face.

It seems I am the current favourite parent, and although I’m enjoying being flavour of the month I know how upsetting some of the rejection is for hubs. (Although he’s pretty stoked that I get the pleasure of reading the sodding alphabet book eleventy billion times a day.)

Is it bed time yet?

Mostly, today has been a good day, I’ve been to work and met mum and Wills at the shops for a bit of retail therapy.
Will was not in the mood for retail therapy so opted for arching his back, fighting against the restraints of the push chair shouting ‘NO!’ at the top of his lungs. I got looks from the shop assistants, clearly appalled at my wayward child. Not that I care, one year olds can’t help being arseholes from time to time. Anyway after our noisy shopping trip we returned home and in the small amount of time we’ve been here he has wreaked havoc, willingly assisted by Captain.
He has thrown a box of cards all over the floor, Captain then sat on them to show them who’s boss. He pulled my knitting off the needles and unravelled it (it’s beyond popping back on the needles). Cat and boy then indulged in chasing (and getting tangled) balls off wool. Captain then decided my slipper was a threat and started batting it with his paw. Will decided to play ‘wingman’ and took over showing the slipper what for in a decidedly less elegant manner than the cat. Had to wrestle a knitting needle off Will after he started smacking the cat with it. The cat didn’t seem to mind this. Boy pulled apart a toy car, Captain ran round the living room with toy car parts poking out of his mouth. I ran round after the cat retrieving car parts from his mouth. Boy wandered in with the filter from the tumble dryer after depositing all the fluff on the clothes he’d pulled out of it and scattered on the kitchen floor.
‘Why not intervene?’ I hear you cry, well I just ain’t got it in me this afternoon. I made him a brew (don’t judge it’s caffeine free and  keeps him quiet AND means I can drink mine in peace providing I finish mine before he finishes his…) and some toast. Captain decided to drag a little round the room and lick the butter off it.
And now I’m sat surrounded by wool, cards and car parts with a toddler who’s thrusting his now empty sippy cup at me demanding ‘MORE!’ impatiently whilst I decide whether or not hubs is coming home to carnage or a clean room, (Probably carnage), and wonder what is the earliest socially acceptable bed time.
In other news;
The boy has a delightful new habit of pooing just before we get him out of his cot. He did a mega poop this morning and I believe is in the process of another as I type.
We brought a new pushchair, on seeing it Will pushed it round whilst screaming at it. We’re still not sure if this means he’s happy with it or not.
Captain has been getting hugs today! I asked for a cuddle earlier and got a smack in the face. Pretty sure that means ‘No thank you Mummy.’

Current stage of parenthood: The I need eyes in my arse stage.

Today began as a picture postcard of parenting. Hubs got the boy and settled him into our bed with his morning milk, Captain joined us wedging himself between me and the bald kitten, then snuggling up to Will whilst the boy gently stroked him. Beautiful, I felt all warm and fuzzy.

The boy got a little fidgety so hubs let him off the bed. We lay there, listening to the patter of his feet, his exclamations of ‘Marm’ at the cat. Then another sound, it was the scraping of bristles against the toilet brush holder. I don’t think hubs and I would have got out of bed quicker if it was on fire. The duvet seemed to be momentarily suspended in mid-air as we desperately scampered out of bed. After relieving the small boy of the loo brush we gave him his toothbrush, he loves brushing his teeth and it’s a most excellent distraction from his second favourite thing (brandishing the bog bush about). Whilst I put his toothbrush back in the pot he did his third favourite thing, unravelling the toilet roll. The speed at which he can reduce an entire roll of paper to a ribony pile on the floor is almost impressive if it wasn’t so frustrating. Today, as I tried to roll it back up he grabbed a big mound and started ‘blow his nose’ on it. As he doesn’t really know what this entails but he’s heard his Grandad do it lots of times he just bends over and blows raspberries with his face buried in the tissue.

Feeling breakfast would be an appropriate intervention to the carnage already reaped upstairs I took the little scamp into the kitchen.

‘Do you want banana pancakes?’

‘YEAH!’

I go to the fruit bowl to get a banana. I turn around to see the boy has pulled some utensils out of the kitchen drawer and is beating the floor with then. Wrestle utensils off the boy put back into the drawer and find he’s used the split second that took to make a good start on taking all the plates out the cupboard.

He has this very second tried to ‘blow his nose’ on my dressing gown.

On Thursday afternoon after ‘helping’ me to change the sheets, I heard a familiar sound and found him in the bathroom plunging the loo brush into the toilet, splashing water EVERYWHERE with a look of sheer delight on his face. Whilst I tried to clean up he emptied an entire pack of cotton buds (Q-tips) on the floor.

I know what you’re thinking, put things out of reach, close the bathroom door! But he doesn’t seem to have an out of reach. I suspect he has secret extendable arms and legs and can make himself at least six foot tall! As for closing the door he can open them now, it serves only to slow him down a bit.

So it sees that for the time being, vigilance is the key. Sitting and relaxing are not an option whilst he’s awake. And whilst not all the things he does pose a danger or risk of damage to property (he’s currently walking round hugging an empty milk carton) you can guarantee if you fall asleep on the sofa he’ll defrost the freezer whilst eating cat biscuits.

If you need me, I’ll be chasing after a toddler.

In other news:

I *think* one of the cats might have peed somewhere but I can’t find where.

Will is still calling both cats ‘Marm’.

I should be leaving the house in 20 minutes but I’m still in my pyjamas.

 

The first day of the first month of the new year. Time to get honest.

Call me cynical but I purposely refrained from any sort of ‘Have a happy new year’ post on Facebook this year. My refraining from any sort of post on Facebook is rare but I couldn’t face pretending to be optimistic about how fantastic this new year will be. That’s not so say I think it will be awful, but every year I get lured into the looking back over the year and planning on making the next one brilliant. It’s almost as if I’m setting myself up to feel like I’ve failed somehow when once again I don’t lose that excess weight, or stick to an exercise plan or remember to put money aside to pay my car tax…

When Big Ben chimed midnight, Will was tucked up in bed, I  had a glass of wine in my hand, shared a kiss with hubs and felt content.

Content.

That has not been an easy feeling for me recently. I’ve not discussed the reason for my extended absence from writing because quite simply, I felt ashamed. Last year (I can say that now) my anxiety returned. Slowly at first, the odd fleeting feeling that something terrible was about to happen. An occasional night of broken sleep. I ignored it. Pushed it back, telling myself ‘I’ve dealt with this, I’m just being paranoid.’ But it got worse. If you’re curious as to what it’s like, I can only offer you my experience of it. Imagine believing that every day when you go into work, you’re going to get fired. How that would make you feel and behave. I am convinced that every day I am at work, my boss is going to pop into my office, tell me I’m terrible at my job and ask me to leave. I think I am terrible at my job, and I’ve told myself I’m terrible at my job so many times that often, I am actually terrible at my job. I’ve hidden under my desk several times, called my husband ‘just talk to me please babe’, he knows the drill, talk about anything and keep talking, until I say ‘Thank you I’m okay now’, then creep out from under my desk hoping no one is walking past, but ready with an excuse of ‘Dropped my sodding pen, it rolled under the desk, what am I like ay?’ Deception seems to be a big part of it.

I am nervous around family, because I feel they have meetings to discuss what an awful mother I am. How my husband would be so much better off without me and how they would do a much better job at raising my son. I’ve wanted to leave my house but found the prospect of getting myself and the boy in a fit state to go out so utterly daunting that I’ve sat and cried. And when my little boy stops in his tracks and gives me a worried look, furrowing his tiny brow unsure of what  to do next, I stop the tears and smile. Make my voice as jolly as I can and try to distract him with a game or a book. He knows my joviality is a lie, and I wonder if that’s why he’s changed towards me. I’ve pushed him away with my lies.

Now I have seen a doctor, I am seeking the appropriate help. I’ve overcome this once before and I will do it again. My social media accounts will still portray the version of me I want everyone to see and I will not mention this again after this post. But if you’re struggling;

Get help.

You’re not weak. We all know someone who doesn’t believe anxiety is a thing, who will air quote ‘anxiety’ when they say and make you shift uncomfortably, but not correct them because god forbid anyone discover you’re having mental health issues.

Fuck ’em. Do right by you, fragile, imperfect, wonderful you.

Will 2018 be ‘my year’? Probably not, due in no small part to the fact that I have no clue what has to happen to make it ‘my year’.  On the plus side, with a estimated world population of 7.6 billion* people, it’s bound to ‘the year’ for someone.

In other news:

Hubs and I thought a nice family walk would be a lovely new year activity. Turns out William did not share this opinion and every time he was put down to walk he wailed and refused to move an inch (unless it involved throwing himself on the floor).

Captain has decided his new favourite place to sleep is my pillow. Even if I’m using it. Unperturbed he just curls up on my face.

At 31 years and 11 months and two weeks old, (and after one large glass of wine and three cocktails)  I finally got my nosed pierced.

 

*Thanks Google!

 

Feeling redundant.

The boy is becoming more of a ‘character’ every day. He’s beginning to really communicate what he does and doesn’t want.

Which would be great if 9 times out of 10 it’s me and hubs that he doesn’t want. 

It’s a wonderful feeling when you pick your child up and they scream and squirm because they don’t want you. He’ll happily snog the cat, but heaven forbid mummy and daddy get a kiss. 

Daddy is also firm favourite this week, if he goes upstairs Wills will stand at the baby gate wailing, then smack at me if I try and comfort him. This smarts, I ruined my vagina and got a daddy’s boy. ‘Triffic. 

Luckily the Captain is extremely needy.

In other news:

The path leading from our front door to our drive has turned into ‘massive spiderweb land’, i just love starting the day sticky.

Marms seems to have rememberd that she is, in actual fact, our cat and  is home a lot more. There are now daily cat squabbles. If a cat squabble causes me or hubs to shout, Wills will start to cry. Hysterically. 

No the boy is picking up language at an alarming rate I really must stop swearing. (But that’s hard when your cats are arseholes.)

It takes a village to raise a child.

Now I’m not sure if the saying is ‘a’ village or ‘the’ village but what I do know is I don’t agree. 

You see support is a wonderful thing, no question. Offers to babysit/look after the little one are great. Advice, when it’s asked for delivered in a non-judgemental way in truely invaluable, but the village…. no thank you. 

You see raising a baby is hard enough but it’s even harder when everyone has slightly different ideas on the right way to do things. It’s even harder when people take you ignoring their advice and doing your own thing personally. What do you do if that happens? Let ’em be upset, don’t try and justify how you’re choosing to raise your child or you’ll spend the next 18 years apologising!

It’s also worth bearing in mind that all of these villagers were once exactly where you are now, no matter how authoritative their advice no-one is born knowing exactly what to do with a tiny human in all situations. 

In other news:

The boy has a cold. So. Much. Snot.

The cats appear to have called a truce.

The winter wardrobe is out the loft.