The Fight Against Toddlerism

Greetings blog followers!

I hope you’re well! Firstly, I really must thank you all for the totally unexpected but wonderful response to my first post. I was pretty touched and overwhelmed by all the love and support I received and it’s great to know that we’re all in the same boat when it comes to bodily fluids and sleep deprivation! Misery does love company after all 😉

Unfortunately, ever since my ‘rise to fame’ Mini Marley has been decidedly enraged for reasons unbeknownst! So I thought this would be an appropriate time to talk more about The Fight Against Toddlerism.

Now that I am responsible for a toddler, I look back on those comparably relaxed newborn days through rose tinted spectacles. Hindsight is indeed a wonderful thing! At the time, I was genuinely HORRIFIED to have been catapaulted into motherhood. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Its not like I didn’t know I was having a baby. She didn’t just unexpectedly shoot out of my vagina one evening while I was watching TOWIE. But it really doesn’t matter how many books you read or netmums threads you peruse in an effort to be ‘prepared’, it will always be a total, fucking, shock.

As a self-confessed control-freak, I found myself angsting over the tiniest of details and wanting everything to be perfect. I remember one occasion when Mini was just a few weeks old – we decided to cut her nails with a pair of those tiny little nail clippers in an effort to prevent her from gauging out her own eyes. I realise now that this is a bit like trying to wipe your arse with a cotton bud and is a a totally ludicrous idea but at the time it seemed completely necessary. Prince Cock Face was attempting to do the honours, his hands trembling under the sheer magnitude of the task, and then, of course, disaster struck! He managed to cut a teeny tiny piece of her skin off and there was BLOOD (yes, I admit it was probably a miniscule amount of blood but it was still BLOOD)!! Well, ALL HELL broke loose let me tell you. Mini was shrieking her tiny little face off, we were screaming at each other, I was crying, it was pandemonium! I phoned my mum and blubbed something vaguely comprehensible about how we’d dismembered her finger and there was FUCKING BLOOD EVERYWHERE!! Approximately 30 seconds later she was attending the scene of the massacre (she lives next door, btw, she doesn’t have a teleportation device) with a first aid kit and a panic stricken look on her face. She then surveyed the ‘injury’, looked at me and PCF with complete contempt and said.. “Oh for fucks sake. Is that it?!”.

Luckily you do start to gain a bit of perspective as time goes on. Anyway…. I digress (I do that a lot).

Today is one of those days whereby I feel a bit like I am engaging in a constant stream of bizarre negotiations with a very angry and irrational midget. It’s days like this that I find myself saying things like “Ok. You can have the tampon back if you get off the windowsill!”. Tampons being her current weapon of choice. And you’d think having a tampon-wielding toddler charging through Sainsburys would embarrass me wouldn’t you? But no. I no longer possess the ability to be embarrassed. When your child has a weekly meltdown on aisle 3 clutching some sort of poultry that she insists you ‘open’ you kind of have to get over yourself, sharpish. And whilst I usually endeavour to choose the path of least resistance, I do feel I must draw the line at gnawing on the flesh of a raw chicken in the middle of Sainsbos.

NOTHING is pleasing Mini Marley at this present time. When asked what she wanted for breakfast, she replied ‘eggy’. When eggy was produced, she screamed blue murder, threw herself at my feet and beat her chubby little fists against the floor. Apparently ‘eggy’ actually meant ‘porridge’. Porridge was then presented in the pre-approved bowl, but her majesty appeared dissatisfied with it’s consistency and rejected it after 3 spoonfuls. So in the end she had a lump of cheese and appeared to be very pleased with herself.

When it comes to your average Toddlerist, God help you if you ever produce a food item in an unfamiliar form! PCF often attempts to ‘help’ with food prep only to find me hovering an inch behind him, breathing angrily down his neck and constantly reprimanding him for doing it wrong.

Example 1

‘Why are you frying her egg in butter?!? Noooooo!!! It has to be in olive oil!! Oh god, look, the fucking edges are getting crispy!! She doesn’t like it crispy! And no she doesn’t eat the bloody yolk! Just the whites. Fuck sake *clutches head dramatically*. Now the yokes and the whites have become intertwined! Just piss off and let me do it’

Example 2

‘What is that? You cut her toast into fingers?! She only eats triangular toast!! And look! The butter isn’t melted INTO the actual bread. She’s not going to eat this shit! What is wrong with you?’

Example 3

‘HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU THE CHEESE NEEDS TO BE CUBED AND THE CUCUMBER NEEDS TO BE CUT INTO SKINLESS HALF MOONS!! STICKS!?! You give her STICKS?!? Are we barbarians?!’

Poor bloke. He’s probably going to kill me in my sleep.

Of all the utterly pointless baby classes that are currently in existence, it has occurred to me that there may well be a gap in the market for Toddler Anger Management. Perhaps they could lie down on little cushions and talk to a nice lady about the inexplicable rage that inanimate objects frequently appear to induce.

“Well donkey… can I call you donkey? Sometimes mummy just REFUSES to give me a lump of cheese for breakfast and tries to fob me off with eggs or a bowl of that lumpy shit. Honestly. If she would just cooperate I wouldn’t have to kick her in the tit so often”.

Fair play, Mini. Fair play.

During these ridiculous negotiations, somewhere in the back of my mind I am shaking my head at myself for being so incredibly pussy-whipped by such a small human child. I was never going to be one of those parents you see. The saying, ‘people without children know everything about parenting’ makes a lot of sense to me now. Once upon a time, I too knew everything.

Before I actually dealt with the realities of motherhood, I would look at my harassed mummy-friends with something probably bordering pity accompanied by an ongoing inner monologue that went something along the lines of:

Oh, that poor cow. She’s been playing Hide the Banana in the Same Fucking Place with her 2 year old for 45 minutes! Honestly, I’ll never be so indulgent if I ever have a child. And my kid will totally sleep through the night because I just won’t tolerate all of this night-waking shit. I’ll whip them into shape in no time. I’m no-nonsense, me. My child will be fully cooperative and disciplined by about 6 months of age I should think. I certainly won’t BRIBE them with crisps or cakes or juice as they will probably adhere to a very strict, organic, vegan diet. Though I will consider the possibility of a singular chocolate button on a quarterly basis. And they certainly won’t be allowed to watch Cbeebies for 17 hours a day. Parents these days just have no back-bone. Bless her. She’s got a raisin stuck to her face too. I wonder if I should say something?

 

Well, former-childless-self. I’d just like to inform you that you do all of the above and then some, you monumental dickweasel.

I’m sure you have probably gathered by now from the overall tone of my blog that I don’t support a particular type of parenting. And by that I simply mean that I support you doing whatever it is that works for you and your family. If that means allowing your 3 year old to sleep on your face from 2am onwards each night, you crack on (though I do recommend you allow for at least one airway to remain unblocked). If you breastfeed your 6 year old, that’s entirely your choice and I’m totally on board. If you did sleep-training and it worked out for you, congratulations. If you allow your child to run shrieking through the garden naked every morning at sunrise, that’s awesome. If bedtime is at 5pm, or 10pm or doesn’t exist at all, I giveth not one a fuck. As long as everyone is healthy, happy (or at least not suicidal) and loved, I’m a fan. I am honestly too busy being tired and covered in snot to expend any of my precious little energy on being judgmental. So perhaps it’s not entirely true to say I don’t support a particular style of parenting and would be more accurate to say I support them all. With the exception of being a Judgmental Twat.

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And that brings entry numero dos to a close, as Mini is currently running around chanting ‘Pisps! Podge! Cake!’ which must mean it’s dinner time, so I am about venture fearfully into the kitchen and attempt to concoct a dinner that will fulfill a vast array of unpredictable and ever-changing requirements……..

I wonder if there’s any cheese left?

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