Chippie is now 3. Three years that is.
Three years of age is a horrible age. “They” will fool you into thinking the twos are terrible. But they’re not. Relatively, anyhoo. Two year olds can be right little fuckers. But compared to a three year old … meh.
One of the common disorders inflicted on parents by three year olds is the I Don’t Want That Bowl disorder, whereby, whatever bowl you serve them shit in (by which I mean “dinner’ or “breakfast”) is the “wrong” bowl. You may even relent (although this is not recommeded by … someone who wrote a book about raising kids once) and give them the bowl they are demanding via screaming kicking fit and it will still be the Wrong Bowl!
Chippie tried this on tonight at dinner. My fault entirely. I accidentally put my bowl in a random spot on the table whislt attempting to save my tipping wine glass. This, apparently, meant it was his bowl. I tried to show him it wasn’t by putting hot sausage in his mouth, but this didn’t work.
He fails to appreciate that I have experienced this on two previous occasions. I am immune to such illnesses as this. Not only do they not affect me, but I am known to laugh in the face of such a meek tantrums, for that is what they are to me now. Meek. Insipid. Uninspiring. So laugh I shall!
His bowl was placed fair and square in front of him, but it was the wrong bowl. So whilst he was having a screaming, arm flapping fit about it, I ate all the good bits out of MY bowl.
Then I gave it to him. And took his. And ate all the good bits out of his bowl.
I was unaware that pre-schoolers could affect a look that screamed incredulity, but they can. It is amazing to watch.
Also, he was seriously pissed off, demanded his bowl back, and pushed my one towards me.
I must admit, I did get a bit cocky at this stage, and sat back to ensure he could fully appreciate my eating from his bowl.
As a result, the exuberance with which he was attempting to pass me my bowl resulted in the bowl being upended, rice strewn from one end of the dining area to the other. And, remarkably but no longer surprisingly, all the way up to the other end of the house.
I’m just hoping he apprecaites that my Can’t Be Fucked will win out over his It’s The Wrong Bowl every time.
At least … I hope it does …