Ahh, the tantrum. A daily staple in the life of a mother of a two year old, much like dried Rice Krispies in your hair and a smear of bogey on your shoulder. Mind you, I find tantrums slightly less easy to deal with than crusty cereal or mucus.
But perhaps I should start at the beginning. Well, not quite at the beginning – not the beginning that begins with an egg, a sperm and an epic swim of Olympic proportions. Actually, not even the beginning that begins with thirteen and a half hours of labour and a delivery via the sun roof. This beginning is the beginning of the Age of Two. My son turned two, and I am turning greyer by the day. They are often refered to as the Terrible Twos, which to me seems a little like calling Hitler a bit of a meanie. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not all bad. There are some jolly nice bits, like when he is asleep, or when he is laughing his socks off at some unknown joke that only he is privy to (but often ends up being because I am unwittingly sporting one of his large bogeys on my cheek). But other bits of it are teeth-grittingly, I-want-to-poke-someone’s-eyes-out, what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this hard. And that’s not in any bloody manual I’ve ever read.
If you are a natural mum, who takes the behaviour of a two-year-old with patience, compassion and calm and never has the overwhelming urge to dangle them by the ankles into the dustbin, then read no further. For the rest of us, perhaps there is some solace knowing that there are other mothers who are experiencing a similar thing. Though don’t think that this thought will console you at three in the bloody morning when your little one decides it is a perfect time for an off-key rendition of The Wheels on the Bus.
Blog disclaimer: there is no advice contained herewith regarding being a mother, bringing up a two-year old or other familial-related matters. None whatsoever. If you come across anything resembling advice, you are mistaken. Avert your eyes and pretend you never saw it. A bit like when you see your darling off-spring shove their finger up their left nostril for the eighth time that morning and you just really can’t be arsed to tell them to take it out. Again. If it is advice you are after, I suggest Googling ‘how to avoid the terrible twos’ (answer: leave the sodding country).
And one last word in this introductory missive about the real talent here: the illustrations that pepper these words like a rousing sing-along of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ at a funeral are done by the uber-talented Laura Slinn. Penned with generousity and a slightly smug feeling that comes with not having to deal with a two-year old yourself.