Nativity Tales

Last week was a double whammy of nativity action here. We had a dancing shepherd on Tuesday and a bewildered king on Wednesday. Both were very sweet and made me want to cry. Just as it should be.

These were my seventh and eighth nativities staring my little ones and each one has been memorable. Not always for the right reasons. In fact, our nativity journey got off to a very shaky start indeed.

 

1. The Reluctant Shepherd

img_1764Our H was 3 and he wasn’t the confident, bubbly 3-year old his younger siblings were to become. He was a creature of habit, totally thrown by change and new situations. He wasn’t yet remotely into dressing up and had no interest in performing.

Basically, it would have been hard to dream up a more alien and upsetting thing to do to him than dress him up as a shepherd, drop him off at a hall he didn’t know with nursery staff on a non-nursery day and expect him to walk past his Mum, up onto a brightly lit stage to sing carols.

He sobbed while I tried to extract myself from him at the drop off and didn’t even make it onto the stage before being handed over in floods. The entire nativity was spent with him curled up on my lap, burying his face in my jumper.

I relayed this story to H this week as I thought it might amuse him, 5 years down the line. He thought about it, looked a little sad and said in his wonderfullly old-fashioned way, “Well, I’m a bit disappointed in myself to be honest”. I explained that he was only 3, that his reaction was completely understandable.

But at the time, I have to admit, I was disappointed too. A few nativities in, I wouldn’t have minded at all. But this was my first time and it was sad and pretty traumatic. Not what I had hoped for at all.

 

2. The Weepy Sheep

img_1765H’s second nativity, in his first year at school, was a bit more successful. He made it onto the stage for a start, which was progress. He looked completely bewildered as one of a handful of sheep but he vaguely sang when he was supposed to and stood up and sat down at the right times. More to the point, he was utterly adorable and I got my nativity warm glow. A year later than hoped, but it was worth the wait. What is it about seeing your little one on stage doing a Christmas show that makes you weep like a baby?

It all went beautifully, until the very end when our dear little sheep realised that he was going to have to go back to the classroom, rather than come home with his Mum and grandparents. He left the hall with
his bottom lip well and truly quivering and me wanting to run after him, scoop him up and carry him off for a cuddle.

 

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3. Safety in Numbers

Third time round for H and I’ll admit I was a bit apprehensive. But I needn’t have worried. He had got the measure of this shit now and, whilst not exactly relishing it, he endured brilliantly. His entire class were cast as angels and I think he was glad to be lost in the chorus. He wore his tinsel trimmed t-shirt with style and looked utterly gorgeous.

The only thing that stopped me sobbing like a baby was having T, an actual baby, strapped to my front. I was a bit preoccupied trying to keep my little bundle quiet as he waved his arms and legs about and cooed at the lights.

 

 

4. Voice of an Angel

img_1763This is when shit got real, friends. M, my confident little performer, took to the stage in full angel garb for her first nativity, aged 3, and absolutely shone. All she had to do was stand on the stage and sing but she did it with such gusto that the lady running the nursery asked her if she would like to do an impromptu solo into the mic.

Well, you don’t have to ask M twice. She sang Away in a Manger, all on her own, in the most angelic voice you can imagine. Cried? I nearly flooded the bloody hall. I had other parents coming up to me to congratulate me on my adorable, talented daughter.

I feel this may be our nativity zenith. It’s gonna be hard to top.

 

img_17585. All Hail the King

Forth and final nativity for H and he bloody NAILED it! As one of the big kids in Year 2 he had a speaking part, a king, and not only was he great but he also kept the other two kings in line, telling them when to sit down and nudging them when they forgot their lines. I have never been more proud of my handsome little lad.

You see, it’s all very well to steal the show as a precocious angel when you are a natural on stage. But my H is most definitely not a natural. He doesn’t love the limelight. It’s just not his bag. Three nativities of sweat and tears led us up to this point. And man, it was beautiful.

Before you ask, yep, I cried. A lot.

 

img_17626. Heavenly Knickers

M’s second time around, an angel again, was very sweet but my overriding memory of this one will always be her sitting legs akimbo on stage, costume hooked up round her waist, flashing her angelic pink pants to the entire audience for the majority of the show.

 

img_17597. The Over-Enthusiastic Shepherd

As a lowly Year 1, M’s entire class took the junior parts this year. You should have heard her incredulously telling me that, not only was she not an angel this time but she had to be either an innkeeper or a shepherd and that she was only on stage for one measly song! Outraged.

Despite her disappointment, M made a fantastic shepherd. Her role involved some hammy snoring and lots of dancing, which she was delighted by. I also finally got to put a tea towel on the head of one of my kids for a nativity too, which felt like a rite of passage.

 

8. The King of Confusion

So now we come to T. I have to admit that when I saw he had been cast as a king for his first nativity – a fairly pivotal role – my heart sank. I was convinced that my non-conformist would not play ball in the least and would leave me cringing in embarrassment at the back of the hall while he did his own thing.

To avoid this, I spent weeks explaining what a nativity was: that he would wear an outfit, go up on stage and sing songs. Not only did T never seem to take this in, no matter how often I said it, but he went out of his way to change the subject, as if he was in denial about the whole process. I wasn’t confident.

img_1761One of the kings was off sick so the 2 wise men headed down the aisle to applause. If one of the nursery staff hadn’t been holding his hand to guide him, T would have veered left and come to sit on my lap. But he reluctantly plodded on up the steps, sat down and even sang some of the songs, although he drew the line at doing the actions.

Then came his big moment: time to give his gift to Baby Jesus. Well, being a 3-year old kid from a non-religious family, he didn’t have a frickin clue who Baby Jesus was. He carried his little gold box across the stage, wandering aimlessly past the crib in confusion. When he finally understood what was being asked of him, he dropped the box on the baby’s head and legged it back to his seat.

Afterwards, T refused point blank to talk about it again. Although my funny little boy did seem quite pleased with all the praise.

 

Its been quite a ride so far. Who knew how much nativities can make you cry? But also so many smiles and memories made. We have another 4 nativities to go by my estimation. I can’t wait to see what next year brings.

Happy Christmas. X

The Winds of Change

imageBack to school is over. We are well into our first half term now. I’ve watched all the little Reception kids starting school over the last couple of weeks and I’ve felt a weird mixture of emotions.

Partly, I feel somewhat abandoned and a bit jealous as I’ve watched friends wave their last babies off and begin a life of relative freedom. I’ve also felt great anticipation. We’re next. So begins my final year with a pre-schooler at home. Before long we’ll receive our letter about application to school for our little Baby T. I’m yet to decide whether I feel jubilant and free at the light at the end of the tunnel or scared and nervous about the end of an era.

By the time T starts school – as the baby of the pack at the tender age of just four and one month – I will have had at least one small person at home with me for nine and a half years. In that time, my life has changed beyond measure. I’m not sure who that young, carefree person was. It can’t have been me, can it? Beyond a vague physical similarity (getting more vague by the day), I can find little to connect us. How did she fill her time? Where was her career heading? What were her goals and ambitions? All of that is long since buried under piles of kids.

OK, so I know the kids all being at school isn’t going to propel me back to those days of childless liberty. I’ll be tied to the school run, same as I am now. But something fundamental is changing and I can hear a strangely familiar but long forgotten voice calling me. It isn’t freedom exactly. It is a memory of life beyond small people.

So, this time next year, I’ll have all three at school. That sounds pretty exciting, right? I will have more time, more freedom to do something more productive with my life beyond childcare, perhaps revisit that dusty old career, which has been floating along quietly in second gear for years.

Exciting, perhaps, but also faintly terrifying. Kids may be a hinderance to achievement but they are also a convenient excuse for failing to reach your ambitions. That can be handy to hide behind when you feel entirely out of the loop with the world outside your own little bubble. When the kids have released you to a certain extent – for six hours a day at least – it is only your own apathy stopping you from doing all those things you always said you’d do if you didn’t have kids tying you down, right? The pressure to fulfil on those airy promises to yourself suddenly comes into play.

imagePlus, I’m turning forty next year, which doesn’t help with all this soul searching crap. I’m not particularly fussed about it, to be honest. It is only a number and a good excuse for a party but, it is also a time to reflect, whether you like it or not. This landmark coming along at the same time as my baby heads off to school feels like a bit of a double whammy for messing with my head.

I’m getting way ahead of myself, I do know that. I’ve still got a whole year at home with the Terrible T-Monster. Some days that feels like it is going to be a lifetime. Others, I can’t bear to imagine the end.

I spoke to a friend today whose little one started school this month and she said how lonely she feels home alone without him. After three kids and over nine years, I don’t think I will feel that way, but I’m really not certain. And I feel the need to insure against it by lining up busy things to fill the void. I have become a mayhem addict. I thrive on it. I fill every gap. What happens when those gaps get too big to fill?

You see, much as I moan about them and much as they drive me insane, I have loved the hectic nature of life with pre-schoolers. And I know I will miss it. I will also rejoice that it has ended. It will be a painful, delightful, terrible and wonderful time. I will embrace it with open arms and I will cry buckets. I already want to cry at the thought of it, even as I wish it away.

We’re still potty training here (yes, still) and as I dealt with another pair of shit-filled pants in the park today, September 2017 couldn’t come soon enough. Even when each day feels like a lifetime, I know I will look back this time next year and wonder where the time went. It is a slippery little sucker, that Time.

imageBut enough of this navel gazing nonsense. Back to the reality of life. My eldest has taken to chewing his school shirts and has destroyed two in the three weeks since school started. M has turned into a screaming banshee as she adapts to the big step up from Reception to Year 1 and is utterly exhausted. And T? Well, T shits himself daily. So, there is plenty of reality to keep me busy and away from too much reflection about my final year with a pre-schooler.

So, as this era slowly draws to a close, I guess I should try to ‘enjoy every moment’ as people tend to say to Mum’s of young kids – generally people who have either never had their own kids or have conveniently forgotten how shit so much of parenting can be. All I can promise to do is enjoy as much as I can, do my best not to wish it away and then try not regret it passing when it has gone.

And to try to promise not to pressure myself with my own expectations. Maybe it will be time for a change soon, when the era finally does end and change blows in. But maybe that change should just be watching daytime TV and drinking tea in peace – at least in the short term.

Yep, the winds of change are beginning to blow but only as a whisper for now. Plenty of time to see which way they are blowing. Only Time, that slippery old bastard, will tell.

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The Measure of Success

imageToday we did something I’ve been wanting to be able do for years: we went to the cinema as a family. All five of us. It was T’s first time and I had no idea how well he would cope with the dark and the whole sitting still for a couple of hours thing. He rarely sits to watch more than a couple of Chuggington episodes at home. However, I do know how much he loves popcorn, so I was quietly optimistic.

T turns three at the end of the month, something I’ve been looking ahead to pretty much since the day he was born. It is a landmark age that I stuck a pin in and said to myself – and to my long-suffering husband, who I had to talk into having a third kid at all – that by this time, things would be very much easier. We would be able to do things like go bowling and on trips to the cinema. Dinner out would be a breeze and we could even leave the house without a buggy and a changing bag (still working on that last one). Oh, just think of the freedom and joy of it all!

“Just wait till he turns three! Think how easy our lives will be!” is something I often sang, somewhat manically, in a frantic attempt to convince the fella, and myself, that all would be fine and dandy just around the corner. This mantra was to be heard regularly during our darker times. I spouted it almost daily when we hit our lowest ebb, with three kids aged five and under and next to no sleep. I feel slightly wobbly thinking about that time actually. So, let’s move on.

Well, the corner has arrived and here we are, about to go around it. And is everything so much easier and carefree? Sort of, yes. I think I can safely say it is the easiest it has been since number three joined the gang. But still harder than two, without a doubt. There is definitely something in the old adage, usually said by annoying smart-arses, that we were supposed to only have two kids because we only have two hands to hold onto them with. With three, one is always a loose canon. I like to think this is character building for them, to build their independence. It can also be plain terrifying as a parent in a busy car park. But I digress.

I decided that we really ought to put this whole turning the corner thing to the test. So, I declared that we should go to the cinema, as a family, just to prove to ourselves that we now can. This suggestion was met with a raised eyebrow and a deep breath from my husband, but swiftly followed by wary agreement, so I think he did pretty well at hiding the fear.

imageWe picked one of those Sunday morning cheap tickets things which got all five of us in for under a tenner. Best not to spend much when we had no idea whether T would sit through it or not. We watched Zootropolis. If you’ve not seen it, I highly recommend it, for both kids and adults. It is great story and very funny. The references to Breaking Bad made me snort with laughter. And I found myself lusting after an animated fox. Is that wrong? Well, it isn’t the first time. I had the hots for Disney’s Robin Hood as a kid. But moving on….

We got there and collected tickets, popcorn and booster seats for the little two. You know what I said about having one loose canon kid when you have three of them? Well, at the cinema, when you have to carry a changing bag, booster seats and three bags of popcorn between two of you, all kids become loose canons. They were marauding about at high speed in their excitement, running under people’s legs and disappearing behind the popcorn counter. As if we weren’t making enough to of a spectacle of ourselves at this point, a little yelling from me in a vain attempt to bring them to heel pretty much guaranteed that I grabbed the attention of the entire foyer.

Then we had the escalator to negotiate. This is where their small town upbringing shows. An escalator is big news for country kids. The older two seemed to need to psych themselves up before attempting it, in the style of competitors in Gladiators running up the travelator. They both gripped the handrail for dear life but managed it without assistant. But the bub was entirely thrown by it. I managed to wedge one of the booster seats under my chin so that I could hold his hand while he lept on like a frightened gazelle. He then stuffed his little frowning face into my leg for the duration, only emerging again when prompted to leap off the other end.

We made it into Screen 14, found our seats and H promptly threw half a bag of popcorn all over himself and the floor. Standard. The contents of the remaining two bags were divvied up and we all settled down to watch. T loved the ads and trailers but had a bit of a wobble when the surround sound boom went off and the lights went dark. He rallied quickly though and stuffed his little face with popcorn throughout the film. He laughed at the funny bits and jumped at the (mildly) scary bits without losing his shit. He did develop ants in his pants for the last half hour and ended up squirming about on my lap but, as a first effort for a not-quite-three-year-old, it was pretty impressive.

We bundled out, the older two high on sugar and buzzing, chattering away about the film. T was pretty happy too but mostly talked about not wanting to use the wobbly stairs (escalator) again on the way out. We took the regular stairs down, which he approved of.

imageBack in the car, everyone was sharing their best bits of the film but T was unusually quiet. “Did you have fun at the cinema T?” we asked. He furrowed his little brow, thought about it and said a firm “No”. When quizzed, he insisted he didn’t like the film. He didn’t like the big television. He didn’t like the animals on screen. He did, however, concede to liking the popcorn.

So, just as I was thinking what a success the morning had been, T quite firmly disagreed with me. Despite looking perfectly happy throughout, he insists he didn’t enjoy it at all. Perhaps my measure of success is slightly out of whack with his. Or perhaps he just knows we want him to say he enjoyed it, so is being a bloody-minded little git. I suspect the latter.

Regardless of how well T thinks it went, we did it. And four out of five of us at least had a good time. That said, I don’t think I’ll be attempting it without another adult yet. That might be a bridge too far just now. And bowling may be more of a four-year-old thing, after all.

Bring on the little changes though, I say. Our world is changing, one tiny step at a time, as we leave the baby days behind. And I for one am more than ready for that.

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When to Admit Defeat

imageKids really are gross. As I may have mentioned once or twice, I really, really hate potty training. It is, in my eyes, quite possibly the worst, most disgusting parenting experience to date. Which is saying something.

Let’s be honest, kids are pretty foul from day one. They wipe their snot all over your clothes, do explosive poos, even throw up in your hair. But there is something so gross and soul destroying about dealing with poo-filled pants on a daily basis. I think it trumps all the other things hands down. It is the pure, shitty relentlessness of it.

We embarked on our third and final potty training journey about two months ago. It started well and T nailed getting wee on target immediately. OK, so he was still pooing in his pants but it was early days. I even proudly announced that he was the best so far and was sure that my clever boy would work out number twos soon enough.

Days and then weeks passed with daily turds in kecks. We had a couple of memorable craps to deal with: one down the trouser leg and one he tried to clean up himself, mostly by rubbing his arse on the wall.

Still I persevered. After all, my eldest did poos in his pants for about three months before he finally worked it out. T would get it soon, surely. And I didn’t have a little baby to manage as well this time round, so how hard could it be? I just had to endure it for a bit longer and he would hit a turning point and work it out. So, I bought more cheap pants and braced myself for yet more shit.

imageOne thing I didn’t want to do was go backwards. I have always believed that mixing up nappies and pants during potty training just leads to confusion, so the best option seemed like sticking with it.  Besides, I really wanted him out of nappies in time for our holiday at the end of August and time was ticking.

But the strain of dealing with the accidents has really been getting me down. It is one thing coping with it at home but out and about is something else altogether. I no longer carry nappies everywhere, as I have done for over eight years now. Instead I have the Shit Kit, a bag full of numerous pairs of pants and trousers, poo bags and wipes. If anything, it is more cumbersome than the changing bag used to be.

Plus there is the feeling of dread when away from home. A trip to soft play is positively terrifying. What if he has a crap in the ball pit? Wherever you go, you invariably end up trolling about with a bag of poo-smeared trousers stuffed into your bag. And dealing with the fall out in a park or a grubby public loo is just foul. Half a bag of wipes to clean legs, bum and hands later and you still feel like you are both grubby.

I can’t help but get annoyed with T after the third accident of the day and he is now refusing to even try to do it on target, opting for hiding behind the sofa instead and not telling me he has done a poo, leading to dried on disasters to deal with.

I keep beating myself up for not knowing the solution to this. I mean, third time round, I should be able to work this out, right? And I feel really annoyed with T for not even trying to figure it out. I have gone from being really proud of him to really pissed off. He must be confused and he is clearly worried by failing. So I am being horribly unfair but it is just impossible to smile through it sometimes. I do my best to hide my frustration but sometimes it shows.

imageWe are both getting more and more stressed about crap. So I decided to forget my own rule about not going backwards. After all, I made the rule up and, as I have clearly demonstrated three times now, I am in no way an expert on potty training. So the rule is no more.

Yesterday morning T crapped himself and I made the decision that it would be the last pair of binned underpants for a while. The pull ups are back. And do you know what? We both had a lovely day. There was no pressure on T and he behaved like a dream, which for my naughty little lad is a very rare thing indeed. I didn’t even pester him to wee on the loo and he absolutely loved it. He happily reverted to babydom without a backward glance.

So, have we just wasted the last two months of misery by going backwards? Am I just giving up when the going gets tough? Possibly. But I hope not. I hope he remembers what he has learnt and can pick it all up again when we are both in a better place for dealing with it.

imageI do feel a bit annoyed with myself for not allowing T as long as I gave H when he was struggling to poo on target, for running out of patience with it. But my boys are very different creatures and what is right for one isn’t necessarily right for the other. Besides, I only had H and his baby sister to worry about back then. I was on maternity leave and yes, dealing with it when there was a three month old baby in the house was no kind of fun but, on reflection, it was probably easier than it is this time round, with three kids, work, school and various other commitments to juggle.

Even if we are back to square one when we restart in a couple of months, at least we will both have had a break. And boy, do we need a break. Two months is a long time in the life of a not-quite-three year old. Who knows how my funny boy will have developed and changed by then? So I am hopeful. There is no point in being any other way.

For now though, we are both going to chill out and relax about it all. T can merrily crap himself without guilt and I can stop feeling like I am banging my head against a wall of turds. If he is still in nappies by our holiday, so be it. Shit happens. He can happily crap while the sun shines as I drink cocktails without having to run back and forth to the loo with him every five minutes. And we won’t have to worry about a poo in pants on the aeroplane either. Every cloud, and all that.

I dare say I’ll let you know how we get on next time, if you can stand reading any more about shit, that is.

As I said, kids are gross.

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Dropping the Ball

imageThe last couple of weeks have been a bit of a rollercoaster. But not the fun kind. The kind you have bad dreams about not being able to get off while it veers dangerously on two wheels round tight bends. It has all felt rather stressful and incredibly busy. Life with three kids is never quiet, I know, and I don’t think it has actually been any more hectic than usual of late, but I’ve been struggling to keep up more than I normally do because things have been a bit full on and emotional just outside of my little family unit.

As a result, I have been always just behind the curve. Like I’m running to keep up with my life, with my kids, and never quite making it. I’m not on top of things and I breathe a sign of relief when by some small miracle I manage to get everyone where they are supposed to be, on time, with everything they are supposed to have.

This is what happens when your mind isn’t fully on the job – the job being parenthood. It is only when other stuff gets in the way and makes you drop some of the balls you are juggling that you realise how many sodding balls there are.

imageWhen things are running well, when I am in the flow, getting things done throughout the week feels almost like a ballet, moving swiftly and precisely from one thing to the next in a pleasing and smooth motion, just about hitting the right timings. Work, school, clubs – they all slot together. It can be exhausting but I can do it and do it well. The flow of washing from basket to machine to cupboard is a satisfying cycle, with clothes flitting around almost by themselves, it is so swiftly slotted into the gaps of the day. The kids are shepherded from one place to another, from one meal to another, and it all feels natural and right at the very best of times. Not always, mind, but when I am on top of things, it works. It is multitasking at its best and I am bloody good at it.

As long as I don’t stop. Don’t ever bloody stop. Not to reconsider a small parenting choice.  Not to ponder a possible alternative agenda for the day. Not to be distracted by things going on elsewhere that suck your attention and emotion. If you stop, if you drop just one ball, the chain reaction it sets off is a total disaster. Once you drop the first ball, you realise how precarious the others are. Your flow is fucked. Your natural smooth progress through the week falls apart the moment you look at it and realise just how many bloody things are involved. And once you start analysing it, seeing that each of those tiny things you have to achieve and maintain add up into one massive and never-ending  list, you are doomed.

And then, when you are looking at all the balls on the floor, bouncing off in all directions and rolling under the sofa, you suddenly find you have absolutely no idea which one to pick up first.  The kids, sensing that your mind is in turmoil, go nuts and draw on the walls or climb the curtains while you are distracted. They step up the naughty behaviour because they know you won’t notice. Because they are a bunch of chancers and arseholes. The little one has ramped things up to such a level this week that he seems to think climbing on tables and creating chaos is actually expected of him these days.

imageSo, for some reason, I chose this time, when my brain is addled mush and the balls are all goners, to start potty training the toddler. Possible not my greatest decision but, in for a penny and all that, so we are now full speed ahead. How bad can it be? I’ve always done it with a small baby latched onto my boob in the past so this time should be a piece of piss by comparison, right? Well, there is certainly a good deal of piss involved anyway.

After a couple of days of mixing it up with pants and pull-ups, we’ve gone cold turkey and it is pants all the way. I figured that, since I am in a mess anyway, I may as well throw myself in deeper. Besides, after 8 years, the nirvana of a nappy-free world is calling me and I simply couldn’t resist. Plus the pressing need to wash small, wee-soaked pants has at least put me back on track with the washing mountain.

I won’t say I’d forgotten how hideous potty training is. I really haven’t. It will be etched on my memory forever. But I had forgotten how boring it is. All those endless trips to the loo, all that wee mopping. And worse. What I had hoped is that, third time round, I would know exactly what I was doing and T would nail it in 24 hours.  He is doing pretty well, at least on the wee front, but it is still wearing. And messy.

As with all things, T is doing it his own way, not following the same pattern as his older siblings. I really must learn to remember that T is so much his own man, that when presented with two options, he will always surprise me by taking a third path that I didn’t even know was there.

I’m hopeful that by this time next week I’ll have my mojo back, that the juggle will be back at full, seamless speed. And that my clever little T will have sussed out the whole pants things and be happily toddling to and from the loo. We are bypassing the evil potty. It is too gross for words and neither of us is keen.

So, until things are back to full throttle round here, T and I will both have to roll about in our own mess for a while. But I’m hoping neither of us is going to let it get us down too much.

After all, shit happens, right?

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A Trip to the Dentist

imageI’m not a great believer in the Terribe Twos. I mean, I know they can be awful but I’m not sure they are much worse than the Ones or Threes for the most part. Also, when you have one nicknamed Terrible T, I think you would be wise to expect trouble at every age.

Well, two-year old Terrible T has been well and truly living up to both his name and age this week. It has been meltdown central around these parts. He is at nursery today and I have had a blessed and very rare day off from both kids and work, but between him waking up and me handing him over at the nursery door he managed to have scream ups about all of the following:

  • having his nose wiped
  • having his nappy changed
  • having lost Luigi in bed (a little plastic figure that is his current toy obsession)
  • getting milk on his PJs
  • not being allowed more Shreddies – whilst sitting in front of a bowl full of Shreddies
  • not having Marmite on his toast – having just requested honey
  • not being allowed to use his sister’s toothbrush
  • having his teeth brushed at all – I ended up sitting on him
  • putting his jumper on to leave
  • not being allowed to wear Crocs to nursery
  • not being allowed to sit in his sister’s seat in the car.

And this was all in just one hour. On the occasions when he has been with me all day this week, I’ve been in bits by about 2pm and counting down til Wine o’Clock. I know he has a bit of a cold, which probably isn’t helping his mood, but I really don’t think that is an excuse to be evil personified. Almost everywhere we have been this week, we have eventually had to leave with him bundled under my arm,  screaming his bright red little face off.

So, you can imagine my joy when I got a text on Monday reminding me that we had a dentist appointment for all the kids on Wednesday, which I had entirely forgotten to add to the calendar. Going to the dentist is often quite an experience with my mob even without devil-child T’s foul temper so I admit I had a wave of weakness and contemplated postponing it. But I have been a bit worried about one of H’s teeth for a while so I thought I’d better bite the bullet and face up to it.

The appointment was early, so getting out the house on time was a trial in itself, but we made it. I then had to quickly fill in loads of forms stating that none of my children were heavy drinkers, pregnant or smokers (why do they make you do that every time?) So I was nicely distracted for a few minutes, allowing the mob to run amok, climbing all over chairs at high-speed, around a poor fellow patient who looked less than delighted to have T’s snotty, grinning face thrust at him from standing on the next chair. H, being the oldest and vaguely responsible one, was very loudly shhhhh-ing the other two and saying “We have to be quiet! There is a MAN!”, which was somehow more embarrassing than the climbing and giggling.

imageLuckily our lovely dentist took pity and called us all in before anything got broken. When asked who wants to go first, T shouted “Me me me!” and was full of smiles as he climbed onto the chair and took a slow ride backwards. I literally couldn’t believe my luck, having been fully expecting him to kick off over it. He was good as gold in the chair and, apart from thinking the little mirror was a spoon and trying to eat it – which the other two roared with laughter over – he was a model patient.

Next was H, who is an old hand at these things and was very good. However, T now realised that his role had switched from ‘centre of attention’ to ‘waiting patiently’ and was, as a result, getting rather stroppy. He started asking for Luigi, who had been left at home, and the moaning was gradually ramping up, with a full-blown meltdown on the not-so-distant horizon. I was trying to keep him calm with whatever I could find in my bag, whilst also listening to the dentist telling me about H’s problem tooth and a not unexpected orthodontist referral coming our way soon, complete with possible tooth extraction. Ugh.

I hit on the idea of giving T some paper and the pen and clipboard I’d used to fill in the forms, which miraculously worked for a short while and kept him distracted while I dealt with M. My girl has white coat syndrome, after a couple of very traumatic A&E trips, so she is always tricky at the doctor or dentist.

imageWell, having been happily giggling while the boys were in the chair, she decided to kick off when it came to her turn. I finally persuaded her onto the chair by sitting down on it myself and lying her on top of me, which has worked in the past. But she is now a leggy five-year old who was kicking and squirming to get away. I can tell you, lying on your back with a bright light in your eyes, trying to hold a kid of that size who doesn’t want to be there, whilst conversing with a toddler about his picture of an octopus and attempting to listen to instructions about how to deal with weak enamel teeth is not any kind of easy.

The thing that really did M in was having some protective paint put on her weak teeth. She started screaming that it was disgusting, thrusting both hands into her mouth attempting to scrape it out and biting her cardigan sleeves, which came out covered in white goo.

Whilst M yelled and made dramatic fake retching noises, I said thanks to the dentist (who was beyond lovely and understanding, thank God) and attempted to get T to return the clipboard and pen to the receptionist. Well, I expect you can imagine how well that went down. Suffice to say, we left with T under my arm, beetroot faced and so angry his screams had gone super-sonic, and M crying and shouting “I am going to be sick!” whilst clawing at her tongue. Poor H had his hands locked over his ears and a look of dread on his face about the potential tooth extraction.

So, a jolly morning was had by all! I know all toddlers can be awful but, when he gets into one of these phases, T has the power to make the challenging almost impossible. A trip to the shop to buy milk becomes a mountain to climb and a trauma to be endured.

Hopefully cute, cuddly, happy T will be back soon. Sure, the cute version is naughty and far from pliable but he is also fun and funny. Terrible Tantrum T is no fun at all. Even if he does still manage to look cute from time to time, when he pauses for breath between screams.

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Raising a Rule-Breaker

imageThere is something about third children. Most of the thirds I know are somewhat rebellious, to put it politely. You could also call them ‘little shits’ if you were feeling less generous. Opinionated, strong-willed and challenging. Thirds don’t take any crap but they give plenty.

My third, my Terrible T, is just so wilfully naughty. He is challenging us in ways the the older two never did and just recently he seems to be really ramping it up. It might be because I’ve been ill this week with a monster of a cold that it has been getting to me more than usual, but I don’t think it is just that. T is starting to push really hard against the boundaries to see what he can get away with. And, my goodness, it is exhausting.

You see, T is over two-and-a-half now and he is a bright little button so he is fully aware of what is considered to be acceptable behaviour. He totally knows the rules. He just chooses to believe that the rules do not apply to him. The older two were little monkeys as toddlers and very naughty at times but they are, deep down, rather law abiding citizens. They like the stability of rules. I think it makes they feel safe and happy to know what the boundaries are and, for the most part, they have stayed within those boundaries.

The same cannot be said for T. He is first of our children to draw on the walls. Repeatedly. He is the first to have eaten soap. The first to have wedged magnets into the radiator grill, to have broken the door off the dolls house and to have rubbed Vicks all over the carpet. After having two kids, you feel pretty well prepared to deal with whatever a third one can throw at you. Well, T seems to have come into the world determined to shake that sense of security that we once had to it’s very core.

imageNothing is safe with T around. I found him in our bedroom earlier this week, squirting decongestant nasal spray all over his head. He was soaked with the stuff. And just yesterday morning I got back from taking the older two to their swimming lessons to find that T had taken advantage of Daddy being busy with the noisy vacuum clearer to squeeze an entire tube of very thick hand cream all over the Happyland house. I had started to clean it up – which was no mean feat as the cream was so gloopy and had been smeared into every little crevice – when I heard a cry of horror from upstairs. T had found the only non-washable pens in the house, in M’s Tinkerbell pencil case (which had been hidden in the bedroom, apparently away from her marauding little brother). He then decided to customise the kid’s bedroom carpet with them. He has basically ruined it.

imageThe most infuriating thing about our smart little lad is that not only does he know he has done wrong but when you tell him off he doesn’t seem to give a damn. He looks at you, sometimes even smiles sweetly and says “oh dear” or “sorry”, and then goes off on his merry way to cause yet more mayhem. The biggest indication that he is fully aware of how naughty he is being is that he has started shutting doors to hide his misdeeds. He takes himself off in search of something to fuck up, closes the door and gets to it, causing as much trouble as he possibly can before he is discovered. He has also started hiding when he knows he has done something terrible. Like all 2-year olds, he is pretty crap at hiding.

T demonstrates a level of mischief making and destruction that we simply haven’t encountered with the older two and I have to say it makes us a tad nervous about the future. He can be so incredibly naughty, doing things he knows are wrong just because he wants to, and it is very hard to control his naughty whims. So what the hell will he be like as a teenager? I foresee a total rebel, trying out anything banned just because you have told him not to. That kind of kid could easily come a cropper. Hell, he is already pushing the limits of our control and he is just a tiny tot. Who knows what a 15-year-old T will be getting up? It gives me the fear.

imageT has been playing with the Happyland house again today (he has also been drawing on the bedroom wall, which I’ve just finished attempting to clean off, turning it into a blurry, grey mess in the process – but we won’t talk about that). As he played, he was chattering away with the little people, putting them to bed, giving them a bath, and every now pointing at the little house and saying “no cream on it, cream naughty”. You would almost think he has learnt his lesson, listening to him. However, I know for certain that if he had access to another tube of hand cream right now, he would be happily dousing the house in it all over again. Just because he can. And, I suspect, mostly because he knows he shouldn’t.

So, what should we do? I don’t think there is a lot we can do, other than keep rewarding the good and chastising the bad. The boy appears to be a natural born rebel so all we can do is encourage him to behave well, to not always opt for the forbidden option. And we can give him approved outlets for his messy experiments and boundless energy that don’t involve wrecking our house. Beyond that, I’m stumped.

T is nothing like his rule-following siblings, but then why should he be? He has to be loud and to stand his ground with two older ones to compete with. So he is fierce and strong willed, wonderful and infuriating. He has charisma by the bucket-load and people tend to love him on first contact because he is charming and confident, both great qualities to have in life. He is already an expert at winning people over and uses his charm to deflect from whatever terrible deed he is involved in at the time.

But he has a look in his eye that worries me because he just gets such an obvious kick out of acting the rebel, out of choosing to break the rules. He is going to be one we need to keep a very, very close eye on.

Yep, third kids are seriously tricky. And none more so than my little firebrand. My rebel. My terrible Terrible T.

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