The 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.


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.


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 …

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