Archive for tantrums
The Evening Run
Posted by: | CommentsGah!
I managed to book myself a leg wax, last minute, much needed and this afternoon. Grumpy Pants was also running slightly late home from work, so we had a few minutes of 11 year old and 3 year old at home alone.
Meh. My legs took precedence.
I arrive home to a somewhat cranky Grumpy Pants, who was exasperated by behaviour of three year old, and then delivered some not overly good news. “Bad” but not horrific would be a more apt description. I was angry and sad and frustrated and angry all at the same time. Also, we were out of milk, bread and coffee.
Grumpy offered to hunt down the required provisions, and Chippie wanted to go with him. Chippie is also being three, which means when you say “go and get your shoes” he has a screaming fit, so you say “Ok, hurry up, don’t worry about your shoes” and he has a screaming fit.
Grumpy says “Fine, don’t come then,” and stomps out. Chippie has a screaming fit and chases him, crying and yelling “Come back, Daddy, I wan’ come!” and Grumpy waits and the process is repeated something like three times, but it feels like 27.
Chippie grabs his shoes and races to the front door, where Grumpy is waiting for him, after having said “I’m going without you.” I wave for Grumpy Pants to move on, because I’m more than over this contrary behaviour of littlest one.
Seriously, fuck him. If he’s going to fuck around like this in an attempt for control and power, he can miss out.
I grab him for a cuddle and to calm him down. He is beside himself.
He kicks and hits and yells about going with Daddy, so I place him on the floor. He runs to the front door, unlocks it and lets himself out. This is fine, because I know he can’t get out the front gate.
“Ah …. FUCK!” I yell as I run up the hall, up the stairs, up the rest of the hall, out the front door, and out the front gate, just in time to see Chippie take the corner at the end of the street.
I run faster, and manage to catch him about halfway down the next street.
I have seriously been thinking about my lack of exercise routine, and regularly entertain the idea of working the odd run into it. If we can manage this most nights, then we’re good.
I’m also rather glad I didn’t get around to putting my jarmies on. Thankfully, I still had my good sports bra on.
Keep Calm? And Carry On?
Posted by: | CommentsWe’ve all seen the avatars and images and what not of the cutesy little poster, which also did the rounds during the most recent world war that depict the profound Keep Calm and Carry On message.
The aim of the message was to remind people to … well, keep calm and just get on with what needed to be got on with.
A lovely sentiment really. And makes fabulous sense. In theory.
In reality however … well ….
I had a session with my psych this morning. Lots of tears and lots and lots of hating myself. Essentially, my brain kind of broke. It’s not working as intended, nor is it doing what I’d like it to do.
It’s not very helpful.
And in all of it I’m attempting to Keep Calm and Carry On.
Therein lies the problem.
Me being me, I can be incredibly reasonable at the best of times, take things in my stride, accept things are the way they are, taking responsibility for my actions and the role I played in shit happening, and the old “it’s not what happens to you, it’s how you deal with it” adage … etc …
There is nothing wrong with all of this, per se. It’s WAY more effective than trying to fight something you have no way of changing, or blaming everyone and everything else for your life, and … I could go on , but it is boring and far too profound and could be easily misconstrued as wanky and philosophical.
Anyhoo, what I’ve been doing is Keeping Calm and Carrying On. Like being totally fucked over by someone who completely screwed up a job, knows it, is refusing to take responsibility for it and is passing the buck to me (am far too trusting and nice ), the process and subsequent diagnosis of ASD, a rogue teacher (whom I’m sure would have some sort of clinical, psychological diagnosis), considerable business issues, Grumpy’s work (which reached an even higher level of stress) and now the process in selling the house … and each time I’ve said “it is what it is” and accepted what’s happening and put whatever needs to be put in place to deal with it, manage it and/or work with it.
Again, not terribly bad traits in themselves.
Except, at times, I really believe it is essential to not Keep being so frigging Calm and have a full on, screaming tanty.
THAT is what I’ve been depriving myself of.
I’ve been reasonable, accepting and “oh well” and NOT said what it is that I’ve wanted to; to get it off my chest, free up some brain space and release some stress.
It also has the effect – the benefit – of letting me in on what the real issue might be, or opening up some other, alternative options for dealing with it. Or just letting off some steam.
Keeping Calm is a farce. It causes you to repress a heap of shit that’s really bothering you, and clutters up the brain, disabling its thought processes and causing inability to think straight and make decisions.
It can also lead to depression.
Sure, a tantrum is not going to solve the problem, or get you what you want or make someone buy your house, or behave like the responsible adult they are supposed to be when managing a classroom full of children, etc.
Man, I tell my kids that all the time, when they’re lying on the floor kicking and screaming, or yelling “you hate me, you never get me what I want” … “So,” I enquire of them. “Are you getting what you want while you’re carrying on like that?”
A tantrum won’t make any of that happen. But it will – for me anyway – clear the mind and provide a source of relief.
After your screaming, kicking and crying, you are then free to Carry On.
Personally, I think the adage needs to read:
Keep Calm and … fuck that, Carry On like a pork chop until you feel better.
And after 12 months of being cool, calm and collected, being accepting of others, being completely and totally responsible for my actions and my part in all that has gone on, being reasonable, understanding and forgiving (and, sadly, sometimes letting people get away with being arseheads) I’m off to carry on for a bit.
In fact, I think I will Carry On (in the kicking, screaming, tantrum, like-a-pork-chop sense) and then I shall be in the best position to Keep Calm.
You?
I’d like a nice family with that, please
Posted by: | CommentsWith the chaos of the last few weeks, failed auction and just too much on, the Family Day has fallen very much by the wayside.
As a result, I find myself in the house seven days a week, and my one day of Something Different and Relaxing (as much as one can on a Family Day) has been kept from me.
My house not being particularly homey at the moment, and not being much of a fun place to be in, I was desperate to get out. Today was Local Craft Market Day and my usual Market Accomplice was unavailable. Sad.
She did, however, want to purchase my Christmas present, so requested I go along and order it. I decided the Family could also come along and help me (for once) purchase the presents of various other family members whilst we were there. The mere mention of the word “market” sent them into writhing I-don’t-wanna spasms. Had I added the term “Lego” or “Star Wars” or “Beer” or “Plants vs Zombies” or “Trains” to the word “market” their heads my very well have exploded through being in total conflict with itself.
As with all Family Days, it kicked off with the I Don’t Wanna Gos. It does anyway. Just ‘cos. Grumpy slept in and joined in the expressions of dislike about going.
“Look!” I said. “I know where everything is, I know what we can get, and who for, we can be in and out in under an hour. I would just really like some help and input this year.”
I’m unsure if it was what I said that convinced them, or the tone of voice that accompanied my rant that did the job. Reluctantly, they followed.
Grumpy commenced the “Can we go home yet?” as soon as we got there. All three children worked their way around all the food stores, sampling everything. I mean “sampling” – loosely used, as I spent much of my time explaining the difference between “Sampling” and “teensy bits of biscuit as a meal” … yes, my children managed to eat a meal sized portion of biscuit pieces.
We obtained some relevant gifts, was sadly disappointed I was unable to order mine and heard, again “Can we go yet?”
Not ready to go home, I suggested we go somewhere else. In hindsight, I believe it was my aversion to be in a confined space with the obstructiveness and negativity I had endured all morning.
We bypassed home to drop off some goods, make sandwiches and collect drink bottles. That done, we head out the front door, and loaded ourselves into the car. Except Chippie, who proceeded to run up the street, then stand at our front gate and scream. Loudly. Very, very loudly.
We closed the doors and started the car. He screamed again, “Daddy! I wanna come wif you!”
I hopped out to assist him, which only caused more screaming and the near-annihilation of two joggers who happened to be passing at precisely the moment Chippie threw himself backwards across the footpath. Screaming. And kicking. Dead ant-like.
He flipped, still screaming, between “I don’t wanna go!” every time I attempted to put him in the car, and “Wait for me, I wanna go!” when I said “Fine, stay here then.”
Tempted – oh, so tempted – as I was to leave him behind the front gate, which he is yet incapable of opening, I knew, again, this would ultimately label me as a “bad mother” and cause all manner of judgement. The fact he is totally fucking with my head and causing much stress is irrelevant. We all know it is all about the kids and I have absolutely no ability to feel, as it is forbidden for mothers to have feelings and/or react in any manner other than with a smile and a calming voice when they are being fucking screamed at in the middle of the street.
How dare I feel mildly exasperated!
I returned to the car, grabbed my bag and keys, told Chippie to wave goodbye to Daddy and Bruvvers, and pushed him into the house. It was the only time I would attribute the term “Super Mum”, a term I loathe with such passion, to myself; as it required super human strength not to pick him up and toss him in the wardrobe on the other side of the room. I let loose a “You happy now, you little fucker? You got your way.”
He stood at the front door, screaming and banging on it and yelling “I wanna go wif you!” whilst I sat on the kitchen floor and cried.
I can’t help but wonder how much of my anger and frustration is at being tired, stressed and having this thrown at me, and how much is my inadequacies as a parent coming to the fore?
Grumpy comes in the back door, attempts to calm Chippie, but only manages to increase his furorr. In Grumpy’s defence, nothing he did would have placated him. He says “we going or not?” at which point I try not to cry more and take several deep breaths.
Chippie comes and climbs onto his lap, reinforcing just how crap I am, and falls asleep as the older two come in and say “What’s happening?”
Godzilla has made it very clear he dislikes Family Day, except that he always has a brilliant time and it is more habit saying it than an actuality. Monkey Boy has been overheard saying it to a friend, but that was so he could go for a sleepover or play at said friend’s house. He, too, has never had a bad Family Day.
What’s happening? Well, I’m desperate for a break from the house, the stress, my own mind and I have family on which to participate in a Family Day with that I don’t like very much.
The idea of Family Day sounds brilliant, it’s just a shame that the Family I have to spend the Day with today are all Fuckers. I don’t like this Family today. I want to go on a Family Day with a nice Family.
I tell them all so.
Load on the guilt, Mamma. But I don’t care. I’m just being honest.
And I ask them, “Why would I went to spend my Family Day with you lot?”
Grumpy manages to talk me around, and we head off for a long walk in a national park, where we all have a great time, even though we’re not really adequately prepared for it. It’s relaxing, its quiet (except for Monkey Boy’s inability to shut up and his intense need to fill every moment of silence with inane chatter) and it’s nice.
We conclude the day with iced coffees and ice creams and smiles all around, the kids fall asleep in the car on the way home and I get time to lie on the couch and read my book whilst dinner is in the oven and the kids are involved in a variety of activities from watching Star Wars to having baths.
It was a good afternoon. I’d like to tell them “I told you so!”
But I do that every time we set off on a Family Day and again when we return.
They have the memory of goldfish, and managed to forget by the time they’ve had their Post Family Day baths …
Birthday FUN! and Insanity as an option
Posted by: | CommentsGodzilla’s birthday today.
He’s now 8.
My evil plan and fucking with his head on Thursday worked. On Wednesday we finally got around to organising his present. My “we”, I mean “me”. It’s not like I/we didn’t try two weeks ago, just the shop we went to was closed on the day we went, then we went away and then it was Easter. So Wednesday it was, and they so very awesomely organised it to be couriered so it would arrive Thursday. They’re closed on Friday.
So off I went to collect it, Grumpys credit card details in hand, paid for it and stuffed it in the boot of the car. Arrived home and said “Daddy didn’t pay for it, so I couldn’t bring it home.” His awesome logic merely suggested to me that I collect it Friday, but the shop is closed. So when he head a bath, I snuck it into the house and into the wardrobe. I could, perhaps, have lay it in the middle of the bed and he still woulnd’t have noticed, but its fun for me.
I heard him wake and readied myself with the video camera (well, a crappy version of that only lets me record for a minute at a time) and waited whilst he went for a wee. Then returned to his bed! What is wrong with him – he’s eight and it’s his birthday!?
Eventually he emerged and said “did you get me any birthday presents at all?” and found the awesome wrapping job I did and almost smiled.
For the record, electric guitars and inadequately practiced children do not fare well for mum. Just saying.
And, of course, some of yesterday’s phone calls had impacted on today’s proceedings. Which is how my mind nearly broke. Again.
We needed to shop: for tonight, for tomorrow and for sustaining the life and convenience of the family in general. The Overdue Grocery Shop, coupled with the Birthday Party Grocery Shop. With a window of possibly two hours in which to do it and approximately a bazillion other things.
Replan.
Phone rings five minutes before Leave Now time, Monkey Boy insists on answering it despite being clad only in undies and his gymanstics gear having vanished off the face of the earth. He determines, on behalf of his brother, that Godzilla is unable to accept birthday wishes phone calls, due to his current performing of toilet based ablutions. Personally, I was quite happy for whomever it was to chat to him whilst he was pooing, as I needed Monkey Boy to find his stuff. This phone call took ten minutes. Of course.
Gear located in a swimming bag (?????) on the back of the laundry door, where it has remained for the last three weeks. Uniform crushed to buggery. Drop Monkey Boy at gymnastics, and head to Coles with Godzilla and Chippie; because I just know that eight year olds love to spend their birthday grocery shopping with their Mum and little brother. Fact.
We now have a little over an hour. Chippie, obviously acutely aware of this, decides to add to the merest hint of stress and determine that he would only ride in the trolley if he could sit in the big basket bit. He indicated this desire not by using his words, but by kicking and screaming when I lifted him up to put him in the toddler seat. He ensure it was a smooth process by kicking the trolley out of the way, sending it across the open area in front of the supermarket, then throwing his head back and screaming, loudly, at the ceiling to ensure the best possible reverberation and increase in volume and pitch of said scream.
This drew the attention he desire, and as I’m holding the trolley with one foot to prevent it ricocheting into the glass-fronted cake cabinet of the nearest cafe, hold my bag on my shoulder and stop myself screaming at Godzilla to “stop fucking around and hold the fucking trolley still” (he was off practicing some new Zubo moves, endangering the faces of all those game enough to wander into a 1 kilometre radius of us), a woman from the nearby John’s Nuts wandered over and tried to placate Chippie by offering him a balloon.
Chippie does not take well to anyone he doesn’t know and was intrinsically torn between cuddling into me and continuing his reign of terror on me and the shopping trolly.
Eventually, he relented slightly, grabbing the balloon, and sitting on the floor, screaming. And, inevitably, letting go of the balloon, which merrily drifted towards the exceedingly high ceiling. At which point, I came close to collapsing in a despressed heap on the floor.
Instead, I wandered off muttering some “well, if you’re gonna carry on like a pork chop” kind of words, iindicating to Godzilla he needed to follow and, finally – finally! – entered the store. Chippie relented and followed, alternating screaming very loudly with flopping on the floor. Screaming.
The man who does the trolley’s either took pity or couldn’t cope with the screams and approached the seated toddler with another balloon and made the fatal mistake of attempting to tie it to his wrist just as his screams had decreased to a wail, setting him off again.
And causing yet another balloon to bop around the ceiling.
I wandered off again, after first attempting to calm him and offer him a cuddle. He almost relented, but decided debilitating me further would be more fun and he flopped on the floor again, screaming. He waited until I had got to the isle furthest from the entrance before standing up and running off, still screaming. Out the entrance (via the self-serve checkouts) whilst several people – by which I mean about 30 – watched his noisy progress and let him go. Was treated to several (scary) moments of explaining to Godzilla why he needed to wait right there and do not move, with the trolley, before finding him sitting in front of John’s Nuts, screaming and unable to decide if he should shut the fuck up and be nice to these people, which would also involve him getting over whatever issue it is he has with people he doesn’t know and just be willing to acknowledge them, or keep up his tirade.
They give him another balloon, which I tie to my wrist, as it seemed the path of least resistance. Not “no resistance” mind, just he seemed most accepting of this long list of unacceptable things with this. It also had the benefit of enabling me to place him in the toddler seat.
It had the added bonus of the hot pink curling ribbon being just long enough to ensure the balloon smacked me in the side of the head with Every. Step. I. Took.
… then we were out of there, with everything I had written on the list. I know because I checked when I was able to pry it from Chippie’s hands, where it also appeared to have been subject to a good dosing of toddler saliva.
We even had plenty of time left over to retreive Monkey Boy without rushing.
Where I decided I didn’t want to have to get them out of the car and sit around and deal with them in yet another, potentially Traumatic For All environment, so I ignored all rapidly increassing feelings of guilt to avoid going to gymnastics pickup and droppped the shopping off home – and well out of the way – before I headed there.
Precision timing is also required, as you dont’ want to get there too early, but you also need to get there early enough to get a nearby car park and avoid Gymnastics Parent Car Park Rage – which is not pretty. My timing was shot to shit – surprised? – and I had to park a street over, forcing me, a birthday boy and a toddler to walk along a lane, cross a dodgy road and avoid being mowed down during Pickup Car Park Rage Peak Hour becasue people are worried you are going to take their car park, even when you are on foot!
Eldest child collected, arrive home, he insists on a shower and that his uniform is washed before we head to the competition he has this afternoon,which I only found out about yesterday.
Visitor arrives to wish Godilla best wishes. And ends up coming to gymanstics comp with us, some 45 minutes away.
Charlie manages his sixth and seventh poo for the day whilst we’re there.
Arrive home early evening with just enough time to turn the oven on before the two guests we’d invited for a “birthday sleepover” arrive. The “plan” had been that they be here at 4.00pm so they could run off whatever needed running off before we sat down to home made pizza and crap party food in front of a DVD where they would then sleep.
Sadly, and obviously, this plan was screwed and they arrived mid-evening, after having eaten and needed to run whatever it was they needed to run off, off just as I was gearing up for a wine and a nice sit down.
Rather than persist an unwinnable battle, I sent them oustide to run around till late. Grumpy arrrived home earlier than anticipated – and very tired and Grumpy, so was not much help in terms of taking over and, in the process, preventing my rapid decline into a world of insanity. Although, in hindsight, at this point in time, Insanity was looking like a fabulous alternative.
Eventually got them settled on a mattress on the floor in front of a DVD, climbed into my own bed and tried to stay awake so I could yell at them to “shut up and go to sleep” as necessary.
Grumpy eventually had his say and all was quiet …
Happy birthday, Godzilla!
Damned if you do…? Lesser of two Evils …?? What …?
Posted by: | CommentsAwoke this morning, of my own accord, complete forgetting that Godzilla had been left alone, outside, all night in the tent in the back yard.
They I realised it was actually he that awoke me, when he ventured indoors for a moment … I listed for the wee sounds from the bathroom, and heard none. But I’d definitely heard the back door open, then close, then open and close again in quick succession.
Hmmm.
I venture out and hear happy, chatty, play noises eminating from the tent. Monkey Boy is sitll in bed, so I have quick peak and discover Godzilla happily playing by himself, complete with dialogue that best remains left unsaid.
I commence my scheduled Wii Fit program, Chippie awakes, Grumpy tends to him, and I finish up what I’m doing. Remember he has childcare today – Yay, I remembered! – and we set about the morning routine. Which is already our of whack as Chippie is screaming, for no apparent reason.
Then the reason becomes apparent. He wants a lolly. Which is not going to happen. Also, they have been sitting there for nearly two weeks now and haven’t been an issue until now.
Then the next issue hits. We are out of porridge. Ok, we’ve been out of porridge for three weeks now. We will get around to getting it soon. It wasn’t on The List, therefore, the person who does the shopping didn’t know, as she has little, if anything, to do with porridge. Also, she is supposed to know these things through some form of telekinetic osmosis or something.
Let it be know that, although she is incredibly awesome, she does not work like this. She works off a List. Put it on the list and it shall be purchased, without question. Unless, of course, it is “poo poo wee bum” and then she will ignore it entirely.
I digress.
We are also out of milk. And bread. Peanut butter on a playing card is looking like a good option.
Chippie is still screaming. I convinced myself it is because he is out of routine, due to lack of all breakfast-like paraphernalia, and his usual porridge and yogurt (which we are also out of) breakfast, but we know this is complete shit. He just wants a lolly.
He’s not getting one.
But he has to go to childcare and we can’t send him without breakfast. Even though they feed them again at 9.00, it just doesn’t seem right. Does it?
Also, we probably have to mention it to them, so they know why he is devouring 13 what they call “morning teas”. Trying to work out what to tell them is the tricky bit – if you say you’re out of breakfasts, you’re a bad mum, if you say you gave him a lolly just to give him something, bad mum, if you tell him you didn’t eat … that could go one of many ways …
Hmm, it’s getting close and his screaming is getting louder, so we opt to take him, unbreakfasted, as we figure he’ll be eating there sooner rather than eating here later the way things are going. Also, we’d like to be devoid of the screaming. It’s getting a bit annoying.
Ok, a lot annoying. And he’s still not getting a lolly. I don’t care how much screaming he does.
Walk him to childcare, drop him off, advise them he didn’t have breakfast because he wanted a lolly instead and neglected to mention anything pertaining to our lack of breakfast options in the house. They understood.
We weren’t totally devoid of breakfast options, just the screaming and demanding of lollies was getting in the way of our creative thinking.
We could, in hindsight, have done Vegemite on a Weet Bix, for example.
We just couldn’t think beyond “You’re not having a bloody lolly for breakfast!”
He clung to me when we dropped him off. He stopped crying the second we walked out the door.
He ate, according to the Girls In His Room, quite a bit of morning tea ten minutes later.
I followed my instincts? Sure, we’ll go with that …
Posted by: | CommentsChippie’s tantrums have been going on for quite some time, seemingly unmanageable, over the top, inconsoble (him, not me, although many a time of late it’s been both of us) so I made a deal with a friend, confidente and mentor-of-sorts that I’d go get him checked out to make sure there was nothing underlying anything.
Course, a week of inexplicable, inconsistent vomiting also had me on edge. And loads of meaningful, meaningless, solicited and unsolicted advice had me a smidge worried as well.
Grumpy had an appointment for this afternoon and I just hadn’t got around to organising Chippie’s. Grumpy decided we’d “just take him along to my appointment”, leading into discussion about nazi-inclined medical receptionists and the consequences of partaking in such behaviour. As it turns out, the specialist Grumpy was had forgotten to write the relevant letter to our GP and we were able to work it so Chippie could have that time slot.
During which time, I had embarked on the “nothing wrong with him” and “paranoid mother” and all that self talk that serves only to reinforce you that you have no clue as to what you are doing and your kids would be best served to be sent off to someone; perhaps a childless parenting expert, or one whose children are now easily in their 20′s, as these people have a much better idea than you do. They have even written books about it.
Anyhoo, each time I contemplated cancelling, I forgot. Or the other voice in my head would start up, and say “just go” and Grumpy would add to this line of reasoning. So off we go, collecting Chippie from childcare where he is in a deep sleep and looking extremely adorable and I really didn’t want to wake him. Possibly due to potential, unappealing ramifications of the waking.
Off we toddle, I relucantly and embarrassedly commence imparting my concerns to our valued family doctor who advises me that Chippie does have an ear infection. Oh, and whilst we’re here, his eye appears to have flared up and an eye infection is also diagnosed. Doc gives him a bit more of a checkover, and locates a sore, red throat in the process and I think we’ve had quite enough diagnosis now, thank you very much, and leave with our prescriptions and a very bad dose of Mother Guilt.
Still haven’t determined if any of these are contributing to his tantrum-ablities, but at least we have something to work with in the meantime.
Now we get to spend three days administering eye drops in a two year old.
Hmm, that’ll certainly help with the screaming.
(And I’m gonna go with “not making the call to cancel the appointment” as my Mother’s Intuition kicking in 
Works for me!)
Wind, rain, tantrums and chocolate – all make for a perfect day
Posted by: | CommentsWe decided – by which I mean, I was getting edgy and needed to get out otherwise I’d it on my arse in my office all day, working on a Sunday and getting more edgy – to go on a Day Trip.
We felt a trip to Phillip Island, on this cold, windy and rainy day, might be a bit of fun.
It started with Godzilla doing his Naked Bed Dance, and Monkey Boy wanting to invite a friend, and me not being able to think of one I liked today. Or just think, in general.
We all pile into the car, grabbing spare clothes and some snacks for the journey, which Grumpy throws into the back of the car, well out of easy reach. You know, just to make the trip more fun.
Off we go, Monkey Boy still sulking, me driving because it allows me to switch off and make Grumpy deal with Chippie who has decided to scream for no apparent reason. Although, possibly because Monkey Boy is bored and sticking his face into Chippie’s when all Chippie wants to do is go to sleep.
Several seconds in and Monkey Boy is demanding his magnifying glass that Godzilla is playing with and was essential for the nealry two hour trip.
Onto the freeway and the “I don’t want to go” starts. I like, that started before breakfast when I said “who wants to go somewhere today” and only let up so they could fight about magnifying glasses, then go back to whinging and complaining.
I flicked over to the CD and turned it up. We seem to have the Shrek soundtrack permanently in the car’s CD player, and it is the CD Godzilla inevitably demands we play. It is good driving music, and has, I have decided, become the theme or anthem to our family day trips.
Mostly due to the first song on the CD, which is, because I say so, no longer an official Shrek soundtrack song, but the official Family Day Trip song, particularly the line that goes:
I wanna stay home today, don’t wanna go out
Also, let it be known that that is what my face looks like on Family Day Trips. The ENTIRE time. Just sayin’
Arrive at Phillip Island, with only once having to confiscate magnifying glass and threaten to throw it out window. Sadly, as I was driving, I delegated that task to Grumpy who only pretended to throw it out, thus causing them not to believe anything I said. Was also sadly robbed of opportunity to say “See that, that’s where we’re not gong for lunch!” as we passed what used to be the scene of a train restaurant, but is no longer there.
We head for lunch, then head off to The Nobby’s because it has an hilarious name and I wanted to wear the kids out.
Chippie was asleep, of course, by the time we got there, but woke happy and had a ball running around.
Until I took him off the fence he was standing on, he had a tantrum, then, in an attempt to show me he wanted to climb back up, smacked his forhead into a paling and cried some more. With a lovely big red mark on his forehead.
Monkey Boy and Godzilla made the most of their dad’s binoculars and the amazing scenery.
Mild frowning from other tourists as Monkey Boy and I had a race to see who could make it back first, choosing a different path each; yes, please excuse me for having a bit of a laugh (and making my kids run off some energy so they can’t annoy me so much).
Into the centre where they have large viewing cameras and screens that prevent you actually seeing out the windows to the view, and where we checked out some of the educational and interactive displays and Chippie smacked his mouth on the stairs and cut his lip. Again.
(I believe he has had more cut lips in his lifetime than his older brother’s have had in theirs. Combined.)
Because they had been so well behaved, we were obliged to take them to the chocolate factory that we’d been holding over them since arriving on Phillip Island.
The kids were kept entertained, as were a majority of the other customers, by watching the train running through the display at the entrance, and Chippie made great attempts to climb through the perspex window and the teensy tunnel through which the train went, whilst we checked out the tour.
Which we couldn’t pass up, as there was the opportunity to do interactive chocolatey thingies; Monkey Boy licked the wall that said “do not lick walls”, we found out much about the cocoa been and discovered just how clever Chippie is when he discovered the chocolate button selecting robot and had a veritable chocolate feast.
The chocolate waterfall attracted my attention, as I feel the need to mention this to Coke Dude and remind him I have yet to see a Coca-Cola fountain and require visits to various countries where Coca-Cola is located in order to view such a fountain.
Finally, it was into the room where we could watch chocolate molding and packing and wrapping and the like. We also had the opportunity to create our own chocolate swirly thing and watch it set and travel v e r y s l o w l y along a conveyor belt. Amidst the excitement, we lost Chippie and had a moment of panic.
We discovered the thoughtful owners had created an area, at toddler height, designed to keep them occupied and safe and easily found. Or, at least, highly unlikely to wander off once they had found it.
Once he’d eaten ten times the cost of the factory tour entrance fee in chocolate, we left, had a much needed after the blustery-windy walk we’d embarked on earlier and set off home.
Where we would have slept on the way, had we not eaten so much chocolate!
You get what you need, WHEN you need it
Posted by: | CommentsThe Universe shall provide when the time is right.
Or maybe not the Universe, but Mrs Woog and Vodka-O had their timing perfect!
Yes, after a week of the most revolting tantrums I have experienced, let alone witnessed, and my resolve slowing fading away, much like the colours in the cheap-o Target t-shirts on a hot Summer’s day, I endured the “oh, he loves swimming, he’s so great at it and a pleasure to have in my class” toddler choosing my day for swimming to prove he’s quite the opposite, dropped him at childcare and passed the post office box on the way home.
There I found my saviour. My as-promised bottle of Vodka-O I’d won over at Woogsworld. It looked much like this, only I swear it had a halo when I picked it up:
Arrive home, my friend / office partner arrived and we had a most productive day of working. Then, it was time to collect children from school and toddler from childcare. It was raining. So I missed my walk, again, and collected various children, taking a phone call on the way requesting I colllect another child, maybe, possibly, if his other “ride” wasn’t there, and realising when I got there that I actually had no idea exactly how many children I was to collect and bring home.
Hmmm.
Collect and return home with what I think was correct children (I didn’t receive any phone calls advising otherwise, but that may also be because some parents are no longer speaking to me as result of leaving their child, alone and cold in rainy playground) friend leaves with her lot, my thoughts turn to dinner, which is, despite my not saying it aloud or making any sudden moves, the signal for toddler to commence Tantrum Screamage.
And there, in the corner of the kitchen bench, is my new, unopened bottle of vodka, pulsating in a warm and welcoming glow. I remove it’s lid and take in it’s delicious scent. Toddler lays on the floor, bangs his head on the dishwasher in a bid to … I dunno, get my attention? You kinda would’ve thought he’d worked out quite some days ago that this doesn’t work with me.
I pour myself a glass, take a sip and, I’m not sure if it was the vodka itself, or the fact that it had allowed me the time to take a deep breath, but I was able to grasp the toddler, take him to his room and explain the “mummy’s super pissed off with you right now, so I suggset you stay here for your own safety until you can come out and not piss her off further” discussion.
I’m not sure if it was the vodka or just coincidence, but he seemed to get the message. He did escape from his room, still crying, but he came to me for a cuddle instead of throwing cars at me and smacking me in the face. So it was a good start.
I do believe this tough loving is having an effect.
Now … what to do with 500g of minced beef that isn’t spaghetti bolognaise?
Oh, I know … spaghetti bolognaise pasta bake! Hurrah!
Tantrums: Behind the Facade
Posted by: | CommentsChippie has, obviously, reached that Age Of Tantrums.
Some call it the Terrible Twos. He started this a few months back. He’s not two for another few weeks.
I think “Terrible Twos” lulls you into a false sense of security.
They’re not “terrible” when they are two. I guess there’s just no other word that adequately describes just how horrible this “phase” can be. And let’s not mention three.
His tantrums are bad. They can go for hours, literally hours. He bangs his head on floors and walls. He smacks. He throws things. He won’t use his words. He is indecisive, demanding something, screaming about it, then screaming because he gets it. He can’t/won’t be cuddled and any attempts to calm him with hugs, caresses, stroking his back are futile. And result in pain.
I have no idea what he wants, so I can’t either give it to him, or stand my ground on why he’s not having it.
The pain I get isn’t just physical from the smack in the head with a train, either. The pain is much deeper.
How can I fulfill my maternal obligations when I have no idea what he wants?
It feel so completely frustrating and I feel completely useless, unable to comfort him when he’s so distressed, to watch him hurt himself (is he really hurting himself?), that I “should” know what to do and feeling so out of control.
I find myself cringing at around 2pm, around the time he wakes from his afternoon sleep. In cycles:
- calmly working
- glance at clock
- shoulders creep up around ears and I physically- and emotionally – cringe
- listen for sounds from his room
- wish, wish for just another 5, 10, 30 minutes, an hour …
- remember he as at childcare today
- relax, physically
- repeat every five minutes
How can I call myself any kind of mother when the thought of him waking sends me to tears?
How can I call myself any kind of mother when I don’t want to get him from childcare?
And when I get there and he throws himself in the middle of the carpark entrance and cries and I want to just leave him there? Beside a busy road? Or just take him back in, because I don’t want to do this again?
He cries all the way home and I wish I’d put in that request for an iPod for Christmas, my birthday, Mother’s Day, just because …
Because I need it just to stop feeling so useless and worthless and incapable.
I take a deep breath when I enter the house, and he cranks it up a notch.
Time for some tough lovin’ and I quietly, calmly explain to him that he needs to stop and I am here for him when he needs.
What the books/experts don’t tell you is that explaining things to a nearly two year old is not for their benefit, but for yours; to help you get a grasp on the situation, to calm your nerves and to calm you by forcing you to speak in a calm voice.
I wasn’t going to, but I turned on my computer and grabbed a friend on MSN.
I could hear the screaming and banging from his room, the opening then slamming of the door, the banging of his head on … something.
I hear a bang then quiet.
I don’t know if I am concerned, or relieved. Mostly relieved I think.
I don’t feel bad for feeling relieved. It crosses my mind that I “should” at least be feeling concerned that I’m feeling relieved.
I’m not. I’m just relieved.
Short lived, though it is, as he starts up again. And I wish I had left him at childcare.
I don’t feel bad or guilty for thinking that either.
I check in, return to his level again and speak calmly.
The other thing the experts/books don’t tell you is that by getting down to their level, you have further to fall when you collapse into the foetal position.
Eventually, he realises its not going to work. We have a cuddle. A smack-in-the-face-with-a-train free cuddle.
I’m so sad, frustrated, feeling like crap that I get no enjoyment out of the cuddle, or see anything cute in the faces he’s pulling and the games he is now playing
The rest of the family return home in time for dinner to be served. I snap at them as the “I don’t …” comes out of their mouth.
I warn them I’ve had enough and don’t/won’t/can’t take any more.
I serve up dinner to avoid any issues; raw carrots for Godzilla, the larger piece of steak for Monkey Boy, no pumpkin for Godzilla.
Half way through, I’m putting my foot down about the whinging. Then I look up and realise in the stress of it all, I’ve mucked it all up and put the wrong thing on the wrong plates.
It doesn’t do much for the self esteem, reinforces my failings in this role.
He starts up again over dinner. He is returned to his room, Mummy-calming mumblings along the way. I feel slightly better.
He escapes, throws himself on the floor in the hallway, screams and bangs his head.
I grab Grumpy by his shirtfront as he passes me in the direction of Chippie. “Do not fucking go near him!” I say through gritted teeth.
“I just want to change my pants,” he informs me. Scared.
He (Chippie) is returned to his room. I hold the door closed while I take deep breaths. I entertain the thought of locking the door. I don’t know where the key is. I take more breaths before walking away.
What the experts/books don’t tell you is that locking the door on a tantrumming toddler is not to keep them in, but so that you are forced to snap out of your acute psychosis. It takes time to fumble with a key in a lock when you are stressed. Time enough to come to your senses and calm down just enough.
I muck up the Vegemite sandwiches this morning.
Is it stress? My mind on other things – like what the fuck am I doing?
Or am I really not suited to being a mum?
I force myself to do what I always do when I’m on the edge. and try to find the humour in the sitaution.
Am mildly impressed that I’ve managed to muck the Vegemite sandwiches up.
Typical
Posted by: | CommentsThe tantrum started at 5.40am. Well, possibly a little later. But only seconds. Mere seconds.
It’s becuase he cried, as he does every morning when he wakes, and Grumpy went in to get him. He lifted him out of the cot.
This was a mistake. We were meant to know this, because every day for the last 23 months and 5 days, we have done this very thing.
He screamed to be put back in. And then, the next half hour is a blur of screaminess.
So confusing and stressful was it that Grumpy and I lay in bed. We didn’t even do the “no, you go deal with it now” thing. We just lay there, pleading for it to be over soon.
Grumpy had his shower, organised Chippie’s breakky, sat Chippie in his chair and listened to some more screaming. I heard the crash when the tray was knocked from the chair.
Grumpy left for work.
I could still hear the screaming. Chippie, when I eventually summoned up the strength to go look, was sitting in his chair, screaming and holding his hand toward the tray, now lying under the table.
I attempted to restore tray to its rightful place.
Apparently, despite all visual clues, this was the wrong thing to do. The tray was slapped out of my hands, the screaming increased somewhat and the hand was reached out towards the tray again.
The screaming did not stop.
I thought his grabbing his clothes may mean he’d like to get dressed, particularly as he was waving his pants in my face, screaming, and then placing them near his legs. Still screaming.
Ok then, I shall put his pants on and he shall stop screaming.
Wrong. Or, at least, I think so. The kicking to the boobs made me think maybe he didn’t want them on. But then he did the Wavey Pants Screaming Thing again and then I got confused.
Despite all of this, I still managed to make the kids school lunches, in shifts, sit and eat my breakfast, and have a shower; something I never manage to do.
Perhaps it was due to the tantrum that I managed it all.
He stopped for school pickup, and shopping for my niece’s birthday present, which was not actually acheived and is a job I am still required to do.
He started up again as soon as we walked in the door. On and off. During the “on” phase, I understood his grabbing my leg and trying to climb up my body to his desire for a cuddle. Apparently, I misunderstood, as he smacked me in the face, pushed himself away and slid to the floor, banging his head.
Back for the cuddles, and to ensure he was ok.
The “off” bit was when he decided that he would repeat the aforementioned Slip Of Couch and Bang Head On Floor, although more dramatically. And much more carefully so as not to actually hurt himself.
We walked to school. Mostly so I was outside and amongst other people, thus decreasing my chances of stuffing his body into the compost or cat food bucket.
Grumpy met us at school. We were standing around chatting, and as Chippie was getting restless and pointing at the playground and saying “urgh” a lot, I mistakenly assumed he wanted out and to go an play. On the playground. Which he does most days after school.
Mistake!
Screaming in abundance.
He was momentarily distracted by the big kids playing football on the oval, and ventured away from us. He got all of 5 steps when a small, not yet at school child, came running past and almost – almost – ran into him. He quite skilfully pulled himself up short and maybe, just possibly, barely brushed Chippie in the process, who stopped short.
And stood still until the other kid was over the other side of the playground, approximately 17 seconds away, before he “fell” to the ground, and started crying. Grumpy and I rolled eyes at each other and went back to our conversation with another school mum, as we deterred anyone from speaking to Chippie.
Much glaring in our direction whilst we proceeded to ignore dramatics.
Said dramatics, obviously not having the desired reaction, whatever the hell that was, Chippie then “fell” further, carefully “falling” onto his back and “banging” his head on the concrete. Oh, and adding another scream for effect.
Grumpy, being Grumpy, comes out with “Let me throw a blanket over the body,” and then carries out his “joke” by throwing a blanket from under the pram over Chippie.
Who settled down immediately and went about happily playing.
Or not. He screamed a bit more, sat up, sitting on the blanket in the process and screaming some more.
He grabbed the bit of blanket that had fallen over his face, pulled at it quite hard and smacked his forehead on the concrete as his hand slipped.
*sigh*
Rushed to his aid – at least the screaming had stopped – momentarily – and examined the spot on his forehead that was now embossed with a clear impression of the blanket weave, and a nice graze.
Oh, and blood.
Typical …
