“No, dinner is nearly ready!”
“Look, look at what I’m doing … does this look like dinner is nearly ready to you? Well it is. So NO!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
“No you cannot have any fucking chocolate!”
Dinner would be ready so much sooner if I wasn’t having my pants pulled down every 23 seconds and being told to open a bar of chocolate that I have told him 897 gajillion times he cannot have.
Also, how come he can happily climb up onto the bench and into the up high cupboard, with a high risk of hurting when falling, but refuses to climb the ladder at gymnastics, where the risk of falling is minimal, and risk of pain due to falling is even less, due to padded floor and other safety measures …? Hmmm?
I am particularly impressed, at this stage, and after a glass of wine, at my restraint, in that he hasn’t had the fucking chocolate shoved down his fucking throat.
Oh, wait! That would be a waste of chocolate. Also, I have told him he is not having it, so he’s not getting it, willingly or otherwise (a la shoved down throat by stressed mother).
I am then even more impressed that I haven’t ripped chocolate from his grasp and eaten it in front of him, which would make the point that he is pissing me off, and so that I could legitimately say “there’s not chocolate left, so ner!”
After completing the 20-minutes-to-prepare-cook-and-serve dinner in 57 minutes due to Constant Interruption, I am able to deter attention away from the chocolate with his evening meal, which he happily eats.
I am in awe at a three-year-old’s ability to switch moods at the drop of some partially cooked pasta onto the floor. Even extreme moods, where he may be hysterical, sobbing and seemingly unable to calm can turn in an instant to great delight as he pounces on the dropped penne.
Am guessing he was hungry, and wish my stress levels could be subdued as easily with a good meal. Still, it’s one thing I love about this age; just how easily you can distract them.
All is now calm, the meal is completed and the three little cherubs, whom only seven minutes earlier (pre dinner) were verging on Satanism are happily watching the box. I wander up to the bedroom to clear the bed of folded clothes and be as far away from children as my house will let me.
Hrm, that did not sound good. What was even more distressing was the scream that ensued and I raced, hands firmly holding my braless and pyjamaed breasts in place so as not to cause myself serious damange, to the loungeroom, where Chippie is lying flat on his back, screaming, behind the couch.
Monkey Boy is on the floor beside him, being all distressed and upset and trying to calm him.
Godzilla is aimlessly watching TV and eating