Tagged: toddlers

Cuddle

Me and Moo have this thing now, yeah. She started it. It was her idea. When I’m getting her ready for bed – pyjama’d, sleeping bagged, and In The fucking Night Gardened – she looks me straight in the eye and says, ‘Now we have a lovely cuddle’.

And it’s true, we do. We sit on the chair in her room and have a lovely cuddle.

Like I said, she started it. OBVS I would cuddle her anyway, and we’d maybe have a tickly smooch, or a giggly hug, but this – THIS – is a lovely cuddle. It’s our lovely cuddle. I lean back on the chair and she lies on her front and tucks her head under my chin, throws her arms round mine and occasionally, very occasionally, licks my neck. Yeah. A lovely cuddle.

I’m ALL about the cuddles. I’m a very tactile lady person. If I deem you awesome enough for my clammy grasp, you’ll get major huggage from me. It may take a while to suss you out so don’t be miffed if I’ve not cuddled you yet. I will. I have cuddly designs on lots of you. Lots of uber-cuddle. Mondo hugfest. Totes cuddlations, innit. I’m making words up now. But I reckon you get it. Me cuddle you = all’s well.

But a lovely cuddle from my baby Moo, THAT’S special. And she started it. It was HER idea. She says, ‘Now we have a lovely cuddle’, before she goes to sleep. And we do.

Can’t get enough cuddling, in my humble opinion. I’ve been fortunate enough to be in relationships with menfolk who Do the Cuddles. A man who withholds armclasp-loving is not the fella for me. You gotta HUG me. I wanna be HUGGED. I want to know that with that gesture, you love me, want to comfort me, support me, have affection for me, will protect me, keep me warm, keep me safe, and will, like, wrestle fuckin’ LIONBEARS for me, y’know? THAT’S hugging. That’s cuddles. Friendship cuddles are the same. Family cuddles. Virtual HUGZ with online pals, too. Love hugs. Love cuddles. And make it a good grip, as well. None of this limp grip, no way. You put your arms round me, you’d better make me worry for my ribcage. Understood? I like to be HUGGED. Dare you to do it properly. I’m telling you. Hug me good, you bastards.

With Moo, though. Our lovely cuddle. That’s a soft one. Gentle, like. She’s tired, fractious. I’m most likely eager for her to be abed and sleeping, it’s been a long day, y’know. Yet she looks at me and says, ‘Now we have a lovely cuddle’. And we do. I hold her to me and smell the shampoo on her hair and feel her eyelids flick against my chest and wince a bit when she digs her elbows in my sides and listen to her breathing calm beneath my hands and stroke her back and tell her I love her more than anything and this is our lovely cuddle, and this is when I know for sure that out of everything in this whole damn world, our lovely cuddles make all the shit stuff totally worth it.

Cuddles. Do you get enough?

Guilt

Parenting. Such a MAGICAL experience. Along with all the fear, desperation, exhaustion, irritation, frustration and total absolute dicking bollocks of parenting, comes guilt. GUILT. I feel it ALL THE COCKING TIME. I can’t escape it. I’m afraid to say, people, that when you spawn a tiny person you instantly and violently sign up for a LIFETIME of this emotional headfucking stuff. It’s overwhelming, and gives me heartburn. Yeesh.

I feel guilty…

that I don’t do enough ‘educational’ stuff with Moo

that I don’t spend enough time outdoors with Moo

that I let her watch too much TV

that I spend too much time on Twitter while she watches TV

that I don’t feed her enough food

that she eats too much junk food

that she doesn’t socialise with other children enough

that I don’t socialise with other parents enough

that sometimes I just want a break from the parenting stuff

that I should be looking for work even though it wouldn’t mean I was any better off right now

that I should be writing a novel/a screenplay/a play instead of blogging

that I should eat more healthily

that I should be a better sister/daughter/friend

that all this internal gibbering makes me a bad mother

that I’m not more proactive about a LOT of things

that I shout at Moo when I really don’t mean to

that sometimes I only really want some time on my own

that I’ve just spent fifteen quid in the supermarket on crap when I could budget properly and save cash

that I resent a lot of people who have what I don’t have even though I know that’s a horrid thing to do

that I know it could be a lot worse for me and I hate moaning

that I feel guilty about most of this stuff when I should just QUIT IT, FUCKSAKE –  and man up…

 

You see? It’s a convoluted nightmare of epic proportions. And I’m only being a tiny bit dramatic there. Which I feel guilty about. Obvs.

What do you feel guilty about?

Sucks

Moo sucks. Quite literally. Remember when I wrote this post? About her addiction to dummies? Yeah? Well, surprise sur-fucking-prise, time goes forward inexorably and all that, and it’s getting to the stage where Moo sucking on a dummy now is just a little bit, well, erm, how can I say this politely… a bit FUCKING WRONG. It sucks. She’s two and a half. She sucks. She’s got to stop.

Today I bought two new dummies. This does not aid the whole ‘stopping sucking’ thing, I agree. But her previous dummies were kind of grey. And droopy. One of them had a hair caught round it, and fluff caught in the hair, and tiny spiders caught in the fluff (I’m guessing). It’s gross. She loves it. She sucks on those bastards like a bastard. It’s scary how much she loves it. She goes all giggly and far-eyed when she sucks on those things. Like I do when I’m inhaling cheese. Addicted, fucksake. So I tried cleaning the old ones but they were still grey, and droopy. So I bought new ones. Because when I broached the subject of maybe taking the dummies away and Moo going to bed without them now, I got what I like to think of as A Top Level Death Stare.

‘Moo, you don’t need dummies any more.’

Death Stare.

‘Moo, let’s put the dummies away and see how you get on.’

DEATH STARE.

‘Moo – please don’t kill me, but – soon you’ll have to get rid of your dummies, because it’s gross now, OK?’

DEEEEEEEEATH STARE OF DEATH AND DOOM.

She’s two and a half, and still uses a dummy to settle herself at night. In my head, I’ve given her till she’s three to drop it. Realistically, it has to be sooner, because otherwise, I’ll wimp out and she’ll still be using them when she’s 26. I’m not generally a wimp in my parenting tactics. But, you see, I like that Moo sleeps at night. She’s GREAT at it. Aside from a few wobbles in the past, she’s in bed by 7 and FREQUENTLY does not wake till 8 the next morning. THAT IS UBER SLEEPING SKILLZ, bruv. I don’t want to jinx that. I don’t want to RUIN what is a perfectly awesome sleeping advantage for me. I have a direful notion that if I remove the dummies, it’s all going to go tits up. Or teats up. See what I did there. Har.

When she had The Pox recently, I indulged her. She was poorly and needed comfort. So the dummies came out during the day. This is not the usual routine. Dummies are for bye-byes. Apart from when struck down with Pox, obvs. Unfortunately, Moo now thinks she’s entitled to the dummies AT WHATEVER POINT OF THE DAY SHE SO DESIRES THEM. Man alive. And now she’s, like, a proper tiny person, she’ll just fetch them herself from upstairs and look totally aghast and calls her lawyer to report a breach of her basic human rights if I take them off her.

I know, I know. I’VE CREATED A MONSTER. In the post I’ve linked to above, I’m all ‘Yeah look at me not giving a shit about my baby having a dummy, I’ll just take it off her when she’s older, piece of piss bruv, bring it on, woop woop’ and now I’ve reached that point, I’m fucking bricking it. Moo is obstinate, defiant and bloody stubborn (no idea where she gets that from, ahem) so the thought of BATTLING her on this TERRIFIES me.

HEEEELP. People who have wrestled dummies from their children’s puckered mouths, HOW? Or am I fretting too soon about this stuff, and should just wait till she’s older and can be reasoned with (bribed)?

DO I JUST BURN ALL THE DUMMIES?

Tantrums

Help. Oh, help. I seem to have bred a tiny, tornado-fuelled, proper little madam.

Y’know how I told you Moo had dropped her nap? Yeah? And it’s been a challenging time for us recently? Mmhmm? Well, I was downplaying it a bit. IT’S MUCH WORSE THAN THAT. Lately, Moo has changed. Once a sweet dainty baby, now a pocket toddler with attitude. She’s sometimes – frequently – horrible. I am literally actually admitting that on occasion, I don’t even LIKE her very much, cos she’s mean to me and has nasty tantrums and I’m just tired of it all. Innit.

I can’t be the only one to notice this. Toddlers DO this, right? This is them changing from baby-lovely to toddler-mare, unless I’m mistaken – what the initiated refer to as ‘the Terrible Twos’? For the love of Jeezus. MOO IS NOT EVEN TWO YET. Not for another 2 months. This is so unfair. She had to be all ADVANCED and get the demonic behaviour in there early, didn’t she. Obvs she has inherited my hatred of being late for anything. Much to my detriment, it seems. Bah.

So the tantrums. She strops when she doesn’t want to sit in the buggy, when she doesn’t want to walk, when I can’t carry her AND push the buggy, when we get to the park and the swings are already in use, when there are no available spades and/or buckets in the sandpit, when I don’t buy her a biscuit from the park café, when we don’t go to Co-op, when we do go to Co-op, when I change her nappy, when I say it’s bath time, when it’s bed time, when she wakes up, when I go to have a shower and have to leave her alone for TWO FARKING MINUTES, etc etc I could go on.

Bless her. I know why she’s doing it. It’s not cos she’s testing boundaries, or going through a clingy phase, or asserting her independence, or any of that shite. It’s cos she’s a farking drama queen and wants to cause a scene. She’s actually doing it ON PURPOSE cos she knows it pisses me off. That’s how VINDICTIVE she is. Saves it all up for somewhere nice and public, then lets rip with unearthly screeches and wails, and contorts her body into supernatural positions so that it looks like I’m tying her in knots whereas I am in fact attempting to ferry her home safely so that she can explode in the confines of our own home. I have begun to watch her when we’re out, like one would watch a ticking bomb, just counting down the seconds until the tantrumic blast rips through the soft play centre and I have to lever Moo’s writhing form out of a circle of shocked, open-mouthed mothers, while their own perfectly behaved offspring play peacefully in the background.

My current method of tantrum management involves sitting it out if we’re at home, and removing her from the present location if we’re out. Is this correct? Is that what I should be doing? I’m BLIND on this one, folks, especially as when Moo kicks off, my instinct is to scream wordlessly back at her, tear off my blouse to reveal the words ‘WHY? WHY, MOO, WHY?’ inked onto my chest in red marker pen, and sob relentlessly into a ditch, until she goes away. I have a feeling that’s frowned upon, though.

Yeah, I know it’s a phase, and it will pass, and she’ll be a really pleasant person when she’s like, 38, or whatever, but I am hoping for some good times between then and now. Please share some wisdom, or at least let me know I’m not alone, by telling me about your devilish toddlers?

Or, I’ll set Moo on you. *readies the catapult*

 

All Change

I’ve not been around much lately. This is not because – as some of you may suspect – I have been holed up in my lair with only a dildo for company. It’s good, but it’s not THAT good. Nope.

Not been around cos of Moo, innit. The little minx has dropped her afternoon nap, and decided that bedtime is for losers. I’ve been battling on an epic scale to get her into her cot each evening, and despite me throwing everything in my arsenal at her, it has been a proper clash of wills and a few times, it felt like she was winning. Moo – WINNING. And I hate losing. Hate it. I don’t lose, if I can help it. But to be bested by my 22 month old daughter feels particularly galling. I think, sometimes, just the fact that she was utterly exhausted meant that I triumphed. It is a bittersweet victory though, cos I’m farking knackered too, all the bloody time, innit.

So it’s all change here, I’m afraid. My current strategy of Do A Lot Of Physical Activity During The Day So That The Rambunctious Toddler Is Farking Shattered By Dinnertime seems to be working so far. Sadly it leaves me very little room for blogging and other online shenanigans, especially as my evenings will be taken up with play rehearsals as well, the further into September/October we go. Previous to this evening, I had not checked my emails since Saturday. SATURDAY! FFS. This is alien to me. And I’d barely surfaced on Twitter. My stats for motherventing are abysmal. Which irks me. A bit. Sigh.

But, y’know. Life is life, as someone wise once said. Maybe this is a wake up call and I need to accept that I can’t commit to an online existence of such scale (and really, if I’m honest, compared to some bloggers, I hardly scratch the surface) while my daughter is this young and needs my attention. Maybe I’ve immersed myself within this medium to such an extent that I’m losing sight of what matters. What is this blog, anyway? It’s not a job, it’s not furthering a career – it’s a hobby, an online diary, that I use for myself, and yeah, I get great page views if I blog on a daily basis, but now I no longer have the opportunity to do that, is it worth it me castigating myself about this? Nah. Not so much.

I love blogging. I do. It’s a form of expression which suits me greatly. I may not be everyone’s cup of hot chocolate and to be honest, I don’t really care what the haters think of me, they can suck on it and fark off while they’re there. And then fark off a little bit further. Yet as much as I love blogging, I’m backing off a bit. Just a smidge. I have a toddler to tame and she’s feisty. Once I’ve worked out what makes her tick, and I can deal with her, I’ll be back on it like a car bonnet. You wait and see.

All change, then. Change is good. Change is healthy. *sweats a bit* So I don’t blog every day, yeah? *twitches*

Oh fark.

How often is enough for you? Can blogging get stale if done every day?

Mine

I try to be a good mother. I really do. It’s at the top of the list of things I’d like to be able to do properly, like ride a horse and sword fight at the same time, and knitting. I keep The Moo warm and dry, and make sure she has nice clothes to wear so that she can look fly when them fashion bloggers snap her street style, innit. I also endeavour to keep her fed and watered, and to change the straw in her cardboard box every now and again. See? Good mothering, for the win. Go me! Yay me!

Only there’s one thing I’ve noticed happening which is starting to piss me off a bit, and it kind of gets in the way of this good mothering business, cos it makes me not be a good mother very much at all.

Moo keeps nicking my food. MY FOOD. Mine. She STEALS it. Right in front of my face. Just HELPS HERSELF like she has higher authority over me, or summink. I mean, hello? It’s not like I eat a lot anyway, but when a baby-faced criminal is swiping the good stuff from my very plate without even so much as a ‘please may I taste your hummus, oh darling mother of mine?’ then BAM I find myself lying in bed at 3am with a growling stomach and a simmering resentment to my only child. Egad.

Apples. Biscuits. Crisps. Sandwiches. Alphabetti spaghetti. Yoghurt. Chicken goujons. Toast. Lettuce. Cucumber. Chips. Broccoli. ALL FOOD WHICH HAS BEEN STOLEN FROM ME IN THE LAST FEW DAYS. That’s not a bizarro shopping list. That’s a farking CRIME SCENE, mate. She is having a laugh. I give her exactly the same food as me, on one of her special plates, and still she half-inches my grub. Even if we’re having a cuddle on the sofa and I’m sipping a cup of tea, she’ll be like, ‘Tea! Tea! Tea? Tea! TEA!’ until my head explodes. But I ain’t that stupid – she ain’t nabbing my cuppa. No way, no how.

This is just a precursor to when she’ll be nicking my clothes and make-up and giant lasers, isn’t it? I’ve tried firmly discouraging her from grabbing my food, but I usually end up saying, ‘No, Moo, that’s mummy’s cake. That’s your [much smaller] piece there, on your plate. Eat yours. Not mine. No, not mine. No, Moo, NO FOR THE LOVE OF JEEZUS JUST EAT – oh, you’ve eaten mine. Oh great’ ad infinitum.

Am I being a tad over-sensitive with this? It’s OK to NOT share your food with your kid, isn’t it? Or should I just accept that what’s mine is hers from now until the end of days?

Jinx

Yeah I totally jinxed it. Like I knew I would. I am such a dumbass.

Just over a month ago, I blogged about how Moo was such a great sleeper. Boasted – if you will – that she’d win medals for her Olympic-quality sleepage. Rubbed it in yo’faces about even if she was in a mega-bouncy destructive mood, I could shove her in the cot and guarantee myself a snoring baby by the time I would get downstairs and pour myself a cheeky rum’n'coke.

Well, fark me sideways. I said I’d jinx it. And I did. I completely voodooed myself, without even realising it, and that is some SERIOUS VOODOO.

Y’see, I am sitting here, typing this, and listening to Moo on the monitor, chatting away to herself in her cot upstairs. Not asleep. Awake. The very-much-awake form of not sleeping. She’s usually conked out by now. But for the last week or so, she’s taken, on average, OVER AN HOUR to get to sleep after I’ve put her down for the night. This is not good. This means a change to the routine is needed. And I have a natural suspicion and fear of change.

I tweeted about it a few nights ago. The responses were various. I was told to try shortening her nap, or eradicating it altogether, which I’m not ashamed to say, I shrieked out loud at. GET RID OF HER NAP?? No. NOOOO. I need that nap time as much as she does. I’m not ready to let that go. That is valuable blogging housework time.

Somebody else said that as long as she wasn’t upset/in danger/setting the place on fire, then just leave her to it. I like this. This I can do. My trouble is, I can just see what will happen: soon enough, she’ll figure out that I’m downstairs eating all the cake and want a piece of that action. Then she’ll be upset/start climbing the walls/practice her fire-breathing skillz without the necessary due care and precaution. And there go my precious evenings.

I need my evenings. I can’t keep her up later, it’s fine if I’m around but when I start rehearsals for my next play, I can’t expect a babysitter to put her to bed, especially if it’s my younger brother, who thinks she’s like a giant guinea pig and is a bit scared of her. I have tried physically wearing her out in that hinterland between dinner and bath time – previously known as leave-mummy-alone-it’s-time-for-Neighbours-time – but that just seems to get her EVEN MORE excited.

It’s dark in her room, and a comfortable temperature, she’s been fed and watered and cleaned, so there’s nothing I need to do in that respect. She just doesn’t seem to be as tired as she used to be.

My only explanation is the powerful voodoo I magicked when writing that post. I should have realised and stopped myself. Now I am paying the price. The status quo has been well and truly rocked. I am DOOMED.

You’d have thought with me writing about how farking poor I am, my voodoo might have beshizzled up some extra cash by now. Bastard.

Is afternoon nap time over? Moo is 20 months, almost 21. When do they drop the nappage? Or is there something else I can do to get her sleeping at a sensible hour again?