Today’s blog entry is an overview of my week to record for posterity. When I’m old and grey and look back on the kids’ younger years with rose-tinted glasses, I want to remind myself of how it really was.
Yesterday I wasn’t woken up by an alarm clock, I was simply jolted out of sleep as D raced up the attic stairs shouting ‘Mum, he’s been throwing poo at me!’ I groaned, rolled out of bed and crawled downstairs with D listing a huge catalogue of terrible things S had done, toothpaste on teddies, chucking her toys on the floor etc etc.
I think S knew he was in trouble because I couldn’t find him at first, and then I noticed the duvet on D’s floor heaving about a bit and a foot sticking out. He got a severe telling off and I had to change all D’s sheets and get the Dettol out. Luckily it wasn’t quite as bad as I imagined, but it was bad enough!
Poor D is putting up with a hell of a lot at the moment. Today I left the room and returned to find S threatening D with the pepperpot – and I’m talking arm raised aggressively, with her holding her hand over her face in case he went for her. Not funny at all to be honest. Just downright worrying.
I told him off and put him on the naughty step for a while, while he raged at me and tried to slap me. I love being a mum, I really do. But today I had enough! Terrible twos! Terrible, terrifying, torturous, twos more like. I long for the ‘Threes’ to arrive. I’m hoping they’ll be easier, and if you’re a parent and know otherwise – just don’t tell me! I’d rather just hope in ignorance thank you very much.
What really tipped me over the edge earlier this week was something really stupid. I was late, I wanted to put some washing in, but couldn’t. The washing machine couldn’t be opened because of a pile of washing just in front of it; I couldn’t move the washing without moving the chair that had been put on top of it, and S was stood on it refusing to get down and was happily shouting aggressive gibberish at me. I just wanted to cry. It just gets so frustrating not being able to do the simplest of tasks.
Our cat has had enough of our son this week too. S seems to have a thing for moisturiser cream. I suffer from excema so constantly have the stuff next to my computer desk or generally lying around (should keep it out the way really) as I need to remember to apply it as often as possible. Anyway…S keeps getting hold of it and oozing the stuff all over the place – including the cat. So we’ve had the green kitty episode and now we have the moisturised kitty episode. Kitty was not amused – I was, against my will of course.
The problem is that this fascination with moisturiser cream is combined with a love of the expresso coffee in the fridge. Recently we’ve really struggled to stop him from raiding the fridge and have resorted to putting bolts on the kitchen door to keep him out of the kitchen when I have to leave the room. The other day I forgot and returned to the front room where thought he’d be happily still watching Pingu, instead I found piles of espresso coffee scattered around the living room like mole hills – including a particularly large pile on OH’s computer chair, where S had previously plastered moisturiser. Coffee sticks to moisturiser pretty effectively I’ve found. OH has to now sit on a chair that looks like, well…. like someone’s had a terrible accident on it.
I’ve just had enough this week. Tonight I decided to bath S before bed, S did not want to be bathed! He screamed and struggled while I undressed him – cried hysterically and tried to clamber out of the bath whilst I washed him – then he yelled and screamed and tried to climb back in the bath while I tried to dry him. I eventually got him back in his room and tried to get him into his pyjamas – whereupon he fought me and undressed himself as fast as I could dress him. Then he proceeded to slap me whilst I was putting his pyjamas on so I said he was not going to have his usual breast feed (only has one feed a day now, trying to wean him off it). Cue absolute hysteria! He threw books, he refused to climb into bed, he went mad. Eventually I calmed him down, and we both ended up sat in bed sobbing – him curled up in my arms saying ‘Sorry mummy’ over and over again. He is so incredibly frustrated at not being able to do what he wants, and I can so understand how he feels sometimes.
On a more postitive note, I found out this week that my daughter is to be put in the year above to study maths, because she is so good at it. I may be boasting, but frankly, I don’t care! I am so unbelievably proud of my little love. She certainly doesn’t get her talents from me. Having failed GCSE maths three times, even with private tuition, I’m now beginnng to wonder if the fairies secretly swapped her when she was a baby. How can any child of mine be good at maths? I can’t add anything over ten without having to take my shoes and socks off and count my toes. If she’s doing so well, maybe I’m doing something right after all. I certainly hope so. Fingers and toes crossed.