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ENTERING
THE TODDLER ZONE!
When
I gave birth to my son, I thought that I got the hang of things
rather well. I didn't leave him on a bus (phew), I didn't drop him
on his head (double phew) and I dealt with the double traumas of
sleep deprivation and never eating a meal without jumping up at
least 16 times by sleeping at work and cutting down on food!
So
much for little babies! I have now entered, correction, my family
and many other innocent bystanders in Watford have now entered
.
the Toddler Zone.
I like
to call it this because I am terrified by the imminent tantrum horrors
I know are around every corner. I am exhausted because I know I
should be asleep in bed, and convinced that what is happening to
my angelic baby is more paranormal than the AGM of the national
telekinesis society.
To
be blunt, the Toddler Zone is not just about cute sayings, singing
nursery rhymes, squidgy coloured dough and 'learning through play'.
No, that's just the junk that people who are post Toddler Zone and
pre-teenage zone like you to believe in their helpful books.
Don't
get me wrong, Charlie amazes and humbles me everyday with his awe
and excitement about things I find so humdrum I could snooze through
doing them. Putting milk bottles out is something he almost jumps
up and down about. I can't remember the last time I jumped up and
down about anything, except perhaps when I was at the height of
my fitness fad.
Charlie
was late walking, and as other kids careered around us as if they
had been born running marathons, I used to wonder if he would ever
toddle at all.
I was
wrong. He positively polka'd into toddlerhood with the confidence
and attitude of a gangsta rapper and has embraced the concept of
the terrible twos with such gusto that I am longing for teenage
hood when (I am reliably informed) he will sleep 23 hours per day.
If
he decides to, he will argue about anything, and I mean anything,
and I have found myself agreeing with him that the sky is indeed
made of bananas rather than prolong the conflict.
The Toddler Zone is not just about cute sayings, singing nursery
rhymes, squidgy coloured dough and 'learning through play'.
That's just the junk that people who are post Toddler Zone and
pre-teenage zone like you to believe in their helpful books.
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Julia
Hames
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He
will say 'What Mummy' repeatedly, increasing the volume each time
until my ears are bleeding and then when I respond at similar decibels
he will whisper that I should stop shouting. Aggh! Yes! He's right!
I should! I have 33 years on Charlie, how can he outsmart me all
the time?
I think
my local supermarket has probably come off worse in his battle for
independence. He refuses to sit in the trolley, he delights in calling
every female in spectacles 'Grandma' and most recently has developed
a slightly worrying obsession with binbags, freezerbags and bubblegum.
One
of the most memorable moments was when I thought that taking his
favourite teddy bear as a pal might help alleviate his misery at
shopping. It did, for about two aisles.
But
then I watched in horror, along with other shoppers, as Charlie
hurled teddy into the air, with some spin I might add, and gaped
as the bear curled round beautifully in mid-air before lodging itself
behind the plastic butchers counter and slap bang in the silverside
beef display.
It's
difficult to extricate a soft toy from such a position, and as I
stammered my apologies I heard everything from 'Tut tut he's a right
handful' to 'Well she shouldn't bring him to the shops' to the decidedly
paranoid 'Oh my God the meat's contaminated'. Actually that was
fair enough, if they had known what that teddy has been subjected
to, Health and Safety would have closed the store.
Charlie
has recently encountered the full flush of jealousy. His first deadly
sin - unless, of course, you count gluttony where smarties are concerned.
It's
not his fault, someone new has entered his world at the childminders
and guess what? All of the adults who are meant to know what they're
doing, me included, failed to see that this might unsettle him a
bit.
And
it did. It really upset him. And in his way, he let us know. So
now we are dealing with it and things are improving. He can be quite
physical, and his way of dealing with something that displeases
him is to remove it by thumping or throwing it - animal, mineral
or vegetable.
We
remove him quickly from the scene of the crime and rather than press
charges, we caution him. He doesn't bite (yet!) but he does take
a rather practical approach to things that irritate him. At least
you know where you stand with him, even if it is at five paces away.
My
mother, who adores him because it's illegal not to, has told me
on many occasions to get 'topside' of him! Topside? Silverside?
it's like parenting in an abattoir sometimes!
Anyway
topside, I presume, means being the boss. And I do try. But the
thing about toddlers, or my toddler at least, is that in many ways
he knows he's the boss. He knows if he cries at night I'll be there
like a rocket, albeit a bleary-eyed rocket.
He
knows if he wants a cuddle I'll be there with arms outstretched,
and perhaps I'm missing something here but as a 'boss' at work I
don't respond in quite the same way to distressed colleagues. Can't
hug them, it's harassment, and if they rang me at 2am in tears I
think I'd be reaching for the disciplinary policy.
Apart
from our shopping trips, Charlie's other main pressure point seems
to be wearing jumpers. And trousers.
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If he decides to, he will argue about anything, and I mean anything,
and I have found myself agreeing with him that the sky is indeed
made of bananas rather than prolong the conflict. |
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Julia
Hames
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He
will happily strip naked in sub zero temperatures and protest vehemently
as you try to dress him before hypothermia sets in. On many occasions
I have chased him round the local park like a demented female Benny
Hill while he swivels his hips and stands like a cowboy with his
thumbs in the holster of his nappy.
Other
kids are wrapped up in their funky knitwear and their mothers look
at me with borderline pity. Dressing him in the mornings is a job
for two adults with steely determination and the negotiating skills
of a UN diplomat. I think Charlie is at his happiest wearing just
wellies, a scary thought for future girlfriends.
Charlie
is a normal, boisterous child. He likes the moon but doesn't like
my neighbour, and has learnt all the words to a Will Young song
I still can't quite remember myself.
He
lives for his little torch, and 'Pink' (a small ball he carries
everywhere) and if I sneeze he is very quick with a 'bleshu mommy'.
He tells me 'I lub you mommy' and OK he spoils it slightly by assisting
the cat through the cat flap with his foot, but I think he means
well.
I often
wonder what he will do as an adult, and while I have reasonably
modest ambitions, I have in dark moments seriously pondered the
career and educational prospects for a naked wellie- wearing shot
putter.
But
on good days, like when my childminder reports that he has only
been to the naughty stair once or twice, I decide that in our haste
to have kids walking and talking and appreciating fine art, we adults
forget that little people deal with life's little challenges by
lashing out sometimes.
They
say 'LOOK AT ME! I AM REALLY, REALLY CROSS! AND TO PROVE IT I AM
GOING TO DO EVERYTHING IN MY POWER TO FORCE YOU TO HELP ME. I CAN'T
GET DRUNK, SMOKE A FAG OR DRIVE AGGRESSIVELY, SO HERE I AM AND YOU
ARE GOING TO LISTEN! AND SO IS EVERYONE ELSE!!!'
Now,
be honest
.aren't you just the teensiest bit envious of him?!
| Amber
Keynes, Welwyn |
Tuesday,
13-Apr-2004 00:42:03 BST |
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| Julia
Hames - absolutely hilarious and also completley accurate. As
a mother myself, of a child going through the same stage, I
can completley sympathise! Why is it that a small child's voice
can carry above anyone else's? Especially when they are saying
something particualarly embarassing! Oh dear, I've had my fair
share of that, believe me! |
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