Monthly Archives: April 2014

Living with a two-foot mutant hybrid of Kim Jong II, Vlad the Impaler and Naomi Campbell

“Oh dear,” says a friend as she looks down at my son, who is lying prostrate on the floor, chewing the carpet and screaming hysterically, “it’s the Terrible Twos.”


Damn right it’s the Terrible Twos. We are the grand total of 21 days into the Terrible Twos. That’s 504 hours, approximately 273 of which he has been awake and thus, if I were to attempt a bit more mental arithmetic (no, that is not the sound of calculator buttons being pressed, honest) I would calculate that given an average of 32% of his day is spent throwing a strop, that’s over 87 hours worth of hell. I have just tried to work out how many more hours we have left to endure before the Terrible Twos are over, but I inexplicably found myself lying prostrate on the floor, chewing the carpet and screaming hysterically.

Living with my son is like living with a two-foot mutant hybrid of Kim Jong II, Vlad the Impaler and Naomi Campbell. Now there’s a petri dish of genetic material that should be embalmed in twenty foot of concrete and tossed into the ocean.

His tantrums are on a hair trigger. Slice that apple too thickly, pack away that puzzle before he has finished ignoring it for another three hours, or ask him to do all manner of outrageous things like clean his teeth, and off he goes. Boom. I have to say though, he styles his tantrums with a certain flair. He flings his arms skywards as his face screws up in unadulterated fury, a quite fetching puce colour rising to the surface, momentarily resembling a diver poised on the edge of the high board (albeit with significantly more clothes and decibels). At this point, he starts his descent. Slowly, his knees buckle. He lists slightly to one side, arms still aloft. It is the best impression I have ever seen of a seventies tower block being demolished with strategically-placed explosives, ever. Finally, he crumples to the floor and we enter the swimming-on-the-spot phase of the display, before the final act involving the wail of the banshee, a noise so loud my ear drums have been known to tremble in fear and I involuntarily salivate.

Apparently, when babies are born they can only see in black and white. They soon develop the ability to view the world in all its glorious Technicolor, but by the age of two, it seems that for the second time, they can only see the world in black or white. B is resolute. Adamant about everything. In the world of the two year old, there is no room for uncertainty, ergo, he is certain about absolutely sodding everything.

We are in the car, going to nursery. “That way,” he says emphatically, pointing out of his window. “No darling,” I reply, already tightening my grip on the steering wheel, bracing myself. “Nursery is this way, straight ahead.”

“THAT WAY!” he yells, and as we drive past the narrow gap between two buildings that he is convinced is the right way to go, he starts to cry. “THAAAAT WAAAAAY…” he ululates. He cries all the way to nursery, then cries afresh when I have the audacity to park in a car parking space rather than in the small pram store that he would prefer.

My other recent parental indiscretions that have led to tantrums have included:

  • Not agreeing to let him eat chocolate coins for breakfast
  • Not letting him drive the car to nursery
  • Asking him to put a coat on
  • Telling him off for throwing a plastic bowl at me (see, I told you he was one third Naomi Campbell)
  • Breaking his flapjack into pieces.

Well, when you see it written down in a list like that, it’s no wonder he spends most of his time wearing grumpy pants: I am obviously an utterly unreasonable bitch.

I find the term Terrible Twos a little on the benign side, quite frankly. It’s a bit like describing a severed leg as ‘moderate chafing’. I looked up synonyms of the word terrible: the first was dreadful. Well, I suppose that’ll do. Then appalling, horrific. Ahh, that’s more like it. A bit further on, we get abominable, shocking, hideous. Oh, now we’re getting somewhere. And finally: unspeakable, monstrous, vile. That’s it. They’ve bloody nailed it. So, on reflection, I guess Terrible Twos is the perfect way to describe it. But I’ve been here before. The Terrible Twos can be grim, for sure, but there is something so much more heinous, atrocious and repellent over the horizon. Ladies and gentlemen, tighten your sphincters. Batten down your pelvic hatches. Advance in fear with only a torch and a foreboding sense of doom for company. Because lurking round the corner, licking its lips with an evil glint in its eye is… The Fucked Up Fours.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I’m still tidying…

You know King Cnut? (Boy, do I have to be careful typing that name). He was the one trying to hold back the tide. I feel a bit like him, but with the toys, the odd dirty socks and discarded outerwear that washes like a tsunami through my house…



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The novel sound of tiger hitting window

Birthdays. Everyone loves a birthday. Well, at least everyone did love a birthday, but I am not so sure now. My son turned two last weekend and I thought I would push the metaphorical boat out and celebrate it with something special. You see, I am not a huge party-thrower, cake baker or celebrator. (It’ s just one more thing that my kids can throw back in my face when they are stroppy teenagers and are regaling me with the long list of parenting misdemeanours for which I am responsible). To illustrate the point, let me tell you about the cake that I created for both my sons’ first birthdays. It was a slice of banana on a square of tin foil. Ta-da! Look, it had a candle stuck in it – I am not a total bastard, for chrissakes. But that was pretty much it. Well, neither of them had actually asked for a cake and it was a particuarly tasty banana…banana_slice

Anyway, as my son had made it all the way to two without escaping, I thought we could take a trip to the local wildlife park. So off we all went. It wasn’t long before we came to the tiger enclosure. The last time I had been to any kind of a zoo, we were lucky to see anything even vaguely resembling wildlife. There was much “look, you can just see the tip of his ear over that rock…” and “well, it is difficult to explain just how big they are when they are that far away, and asleep…” whilst my son squinted dubiously in that general direction and gave a quiet ‘mm’ to appease me. But not that day.

As a special birthday treat for B, the tiger was pacing up and down a path right next to the fence. Well, fences. You know you are dealing with something that has the capacity to get really pissed off when there is more than one man-made obstacle between it and you. And as we watched the sodding great tiger stomp back and forth, it did cross my mind that he was looking a little peeved. I don’t know why I was so shocked to note this. Perhaps it was too many readings of When the Tiger Came to Tea. I mean, I do think that creature was a tad rude, rocking up unannounced and eating all the buns, but he seemed a genial kind of chap overall. Unlike this tiger, who it seemed would be more inclined to slam doors and throw something, if only he had opposable thumbs. And doors.

M wandered ahead with B, and sat at the end of the enclosure behind a glazed area to get a close-up view of the tiger as he walked directly towards them. I watched as the hulking great fur ball stalked down the path in their direction. Then, he quickened his pace. I raised an eyebrow. Then the tiger broke into a run. I peered down the path at the window, seeing the outline of my husband with B on his lap, who was pointing at the tiger, which  was probably seeming quite large and perhaps a little too near all of a sudden. Then, the tiger pounced. He launched into the air, paws outstretched, jaws agape. On retelling this tale, I have spoken of a loud roar. To be fair, I am not sure he did roar, but he might as bloody well have done, so I am going to stick with my story and say he let out a loud roar.

The next thing I heard was the quite novel sound of tiger hitting window. Now, whilst I take an inordinate amount of glee from the unmistakable ‘donk’ of a bumble bee flying into glazing, this was a sound that provoked a little less mirth. I saw my husband leap backwards in fright, before the ear-piercing screams of my son filled the air. To say he was inconsolable was a little like saying that the tiger appeared to be mildly irritated that he hadn’t been able to grab that plump, juicy morsel of small boy to have for his elevenses. Tears repeatedly plopped down my son’s puce-coloured face as he pointed at the tiger enclosure, and perhaps more specifically at the tiger saliva that was dripping down the window, and howled.

Many, many sob-filled minutes later, calm was almost restored, and we decided a snack was just the thing, and found a picnic table. As soon as we sat down, two black chickens strutted out of nowhere on the lookout for a nibble or two. I say two black chickens. Through my recently-traumatised son’s eyes, they were ninja chicken assassins, hell bent on plucking out his eyes. It was interesting to watch my son physically scale his dad so that he was perched almost atop his shoulders, glancing over at the evil fowl lurking below, eyes filled with terror. To divert him, I held out a grape, but much like the British relay team, we had not practised our hand-over well enough and the grape fell to the floor, to be plucked up and devoured. Cue more crying. And his fear eventually got the better of his older brother too. So there we were, trying to have a nice relaxing snack on my son’s birthday, one child clinging to his dad’s neck and demanding through tears to be moved, whilst the other was on all fours on the top of the table shouting at the chickens to go away. Well, as birthday outings go, this was going swimmingly.

Perhaps we should abort any more close encounters with the wildlife, they all seemed a little too… well, wild. Let’s go on the train, instead, we decided. M stayed on the platform with the pram whilst I dislocated both kneecaps fitting me, my five year old and my two year old into a tiny carriage. Actually, carriage is a little optimistic as a description. Two miniature benches on wheels would probably suffice. We slowly pulled out of the platform, giving daddy a cheery wave. “Daddeeeeeee…” wailed B, as we trundled into the woods. “Dadddeeee…..” And he started crying. Again. Surely, he’d run out of bloody tears by now?¬† If he cries much more I will be carrying home a large pale raisin once formerly known as my son. We rounded a corner to be confronted by a twenty foot fibre glass dinosaur, provoking yet more howls. Well, this whole train idea is turning out to be a stunner. The couple in the carriage in front of us turned to look at him, smiling thinly in that ‘oh dear, he’s not happy…now please bloody shut him up’ kind of way. I smiled back. Or I could have snarled, I am not sure. Let’s just go with smile, shall we? So there I sat, knees pounding with pain as we jolted and bumped our way round the track, clinging on to my wriggling, distraught son as if my life depended on it. Which it probably did, as if I had pulled into the station one son down, explaining that he had made a dive for freedom just after the fifteen foot high Kung Fu Panda (just don’t bloody ask) my husband may have throttled me. Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity (although still a rip off at a pound a head and long term patella damage) we arrived back in the station. I glanced at my watch, wondering just how long it was to go before wine ‘o’ clock and whether the zebra-striped Snack Hut sold Jack Daniels.

We were all pretty relieved when we arrived home. I knew the whole celebratory day-trip thing was not for me. Nor, it turns out, for my son, either. Next year, I am reverting back to a slice of banana and a quick scoot to Tesco. That’s much more my style.

As usual, I am on the scrounge… for your vote. I would be ridiculously grateful if you could pop a little vote my way in the Brilliance in Blogging awards. Just click on the coloured image in the right hand menu on this page and there you have it. An inordinate sense of wellbeing. That, or a sore mouse finger…

A tsunami of toys and discarded drinks cartons

They say that you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family. I don’t know who these fabled ‘they’ are. I have a sneaking suspicion that they are a group of renegade fairies, chucked out of Fairy Forest for repeated dope smoking and flashing their tits at the hedgehogs, who now spend their days hanging out in the air vents of fast food outlets, making up crap adages that dissolve like fairy wings over a naked flame as soon as they are held up to even the most fleeting scrutiny.

Anyway, probably enough fairy chat (now there’s a phrase surely deserving of a wide audience). I used to think I could choose my friends. And then I had children. And, it turns out, they get to choose them for you. Because no matter how much you really like Mum A, because she is funny, and down to earth, and doesn’t seem to notice that you have turned up in the playground with the same top on all week, your child does not want to play with her child. No, your child wants to play with the child of Mum B, who seems to have a team of stylists coiffe her to perfection every bloody morning and whose child would not be seen dead with a dried snail’s trail of snot on their coat arm. Unlike mine.

And nowhere does this become more apparent than on play dates. As my son is in reception year, we are getting right into the swing of play dates. And there is a lot to be said for a play date. Let’s make a list, shall we?

1. It is a great way to fill that yawning chasm of time between the end of the school day (which, let’s face it, is pretty much a half day anyway) and bed time. Or to put it another way, it lets me off the entertainment hook.

2. It is a grand old excuse for sitting on your arse with a generous supply of tea and nattering, an activity which otherwise is far too indulgent given how much work I have to do and the size of my washing mountain which is directly inversely proportionate to how full the food cupboards are.

3. Occasionally, you get to meet another mum who is also prepared to admit that they can be a little bit crap when it comes to parenting and it is a pleasure to be in their company and to be honest about being a mum. “…and then, we turned round, and he had fallen in the sea…oh, how we laughed…” (Yes, this did happen, but no, it wasn’t that amusing at the time. However, we laugh about it now, mainly to keep the panic that still gnaws at our insides at bay).

4. I will admit, I do love a good nose round other people’s houses. I mainly marvel at how tidy they are, to be fair.

5. Oh, and I suppose there should be something here about how nice it is for my son to play with his friends, blah blah blah. Blimey, anyone would think play dates were for his benefit.

But there is a dark side to a play date. It’s not all bloody harmonious laughter wafting down the stairs as you sip your delicious tea.

1. The unaccompanied play date. Now, in theory, packing your kids off to someone else’s house without you is genius. However, I do feel, given that my son is only five, that I would probably want to go with him for the first one. A mum asked my son round for play date once, and her chin nearly hit the hop scotch when I asked to come with him. How do I know she doesn’t have a rabid Rottweiler who likes nothing more than to chew on strangers’ legs? How can I be sure there is not a pentagram chalked on the kitchen floor and a faint smell of goat’s blood lingering in the hallway? I don’t think I am overprotective as a parent (cf. Point 3 above, my son’s unscheduled dip into the sea) but perhaps I am.

2. The Play Date Ninja Mum, who prepares a number of activities in advance of you and your child turning up – you know, she has actually given some thought to what the kids might want to do. And then serves up a nutritious, homemade meal. And not bloody fish fingers and waffles. Note to self: up your bloody game on the food front, you lazy bitch. You are letting yourself down. Well, and your son. And his friend. And his friend’s mum. In fact, you’re letting pretty much everyone down with you ‘meal on a grill pan’ approach to life. You disgust me.

3. But despite my self-confessed crapitude on the meal front, things can get a little tricky when there is a clash of snack cultures. We rocked up on a play date where my son was given a chocolate bar, followed by the offer of a whole plate of biscuits for himself. Not just one. A whole plate. Call me a snack snob, and each to their own, ya-dee-ya, but I am just not convinced about consuming half the biscuit aisle an hour before tea. Luckily, he said no the biscuits, so I loved him a little bit more after that.

4. When play dates turn sour. Sometimes, after a long day at school building misshapen space ships from Lego and painting your shirt cuffs and shoes, the kids are a little tired and irritable. So rather than spending an hour playing nicely with your friend, it turns into the Shitbag Olympics where both children try very hard to win a gold medal in Stropping, Shouting or Pretend Crying that is all Noise and No Tears. This is a lose-lose scenario for all concerned. If you are round someone else’s house, you feel your kid, as the guest, should behave. If you are at home, you feel your kid, as the host, should behave. Either way, I am shit out of luck.

5. Play dates at your house are just a little bit rubbish, because you run around in a flat panic trying to tidy up a week’s worth of mess in ten minutes, shoving things in cupboards that have no right to be there whilst scrubbing a dubious stain off the table with a wet wipe, just so the visiting mum doesn’t volunteer you for the next series of a Life of Grime. Then after the play date, you wade through a tsunami of toys and discarded drinks cartons and wonder why you ever sodding bothered.


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