He is speaking three and four word sentences now, such as:
“Mummy drink please”
“Toast please mummy”
“Daddy’s bum stinks”.
I *may* have taught him that last one.
Today he decided to learn a new song and proceeded to sing it all day.
Unfortunately that new song happened to be R Kelly.
Walking around the supermarket with a small person
singing shouting “my minds telling me NOOOOOOO… but my BODAYYYYY” was hilarious as well as slightly inappropriate. Mum of the year contender right here.
Childhood just seems to be one long cycle of phases and leaps and regressions and it’s bloody exhausting. The mancub had a sleep regression that involved him waking every hour through the night, that one lasted six months. Ouch.
There has been a biting phase. A hitting phase. A pulling his pants down phase.
Then there was the daily dirty protest phase followed by the constant willy grabbing phase.
And we all know how men love to scratch and rearrange their man parts so that’s a phase that never goes away. More a life habit I guess.
I always think life would be so different if women just scratched and adjusted their lady parts while walking down the road, standing in a queue, having a good take around. Anarchy I tell you.
And now we are in the demanding phase.
So it seems patience is something you learn and you are not born with. When the small one wants a drink/toast/help/anything IT HAS TO BE RIGHT THERE AND THEN.
If he has to wait more than five seconds then it’s a complete shitstorm.
Friends and family have always told me I’m quite strict, personally I like that fact that I am.
Don’t get me wrong, when I need five minutes to have a poo or he refuses to put his shoes on, I have done that thing that non-parents always say they will never do. That unmentionable thing that is frowned upon and must never be done.
Yes, we have all done it. It’s impossible to take the moral high ground all the time. Sometimes it’s a case of either bribe the kid with a biscuit or completely lose your shit.
Especially when you are an hour late for a coffee date with a friend, you have a wonky drawn on eyebrow, greasy hair, a rather dodgy looking stain on your leggings and the kid refuses his shoes and decides to do the rigor-mortis thing.
You know what I mean… Where every limb is locked totally straight and you feel you have no choice but to break knees and elbows to manoeuvre the child into the car seat or pushchair (please note: no children were hurt in this process, no need to call social services).
The power of bribing with a rich tea biscuit, sometimes it has to be done.
And every bloody question gets the same reply. “Naaaw”.
“Come here please” NAWWWW
“Put your shoes on please” NAWWWW
“Can you say yes?” NAWWW.
Kill. Me. Now.
We are at that awkward stage where every bloody person in the world is telling me he is ready for potty training.
The mancub can control his wee, he knows what he is doing, but refuses to sit on the toilet or the potty.
“Wee mummy” *points at willy*
“Ahhh good boy, have you done a wee-wee?”
My method of dealing with this is very simple.
I’m winging it.
I’m ignoring every person who tells me he should be dry by now. I’m trusting my instinct and my gut and I will let him tell me when he is ready. This has worked so far in most things so I’m hoping this is the case.
I really don’t want to frighten him away and make it a whole big thing when he clearly isn’t ready.
I also can’t deal with the trying to encourage the potty when he wee’s on the carpet and lays little logs in the corner. Gross.
So, demanding phase, you challenging little arsehole you, I’ve got your number… I’m riding it out like a queen.