As in vogue, but with a b.
Yep, today I am one ofthose mothers, you know, the shouty/cranky/westie type. The situation is not helped by the fact that A herself has morphed into a feral cheryl since turning three, registering an 11 out of ten on the whining and tantrum richter scale.
A typical example:Push me on the swing
In a minute honey, mummy just has to put a load of washing on (this being the first sunny day in ages)Push me NOW
That's not very nice talking. Ask me nicely and I will be there in a momentPush me NOW PLEASE
(screamed in a whiny voice)
That's rude talking, A. Ask me nicely and I will be there once I have pressed the start buttonPUSH ME NOW NOW NOW PLEASE
I am going to count to to three. If you stop shouting and ask me nicely, I will come. If not you will go to timeout.NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!PUSH ME NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW...
For the first three minutes, I ignore this...
NOW PUSH ME NOW ARRRRGGGGHHHH NOW NOW NOW
....and then I react with my own finest:
NO I WILL NOT PUSH YOU. GET IN HERE, SIT DOWN YOU ARE IN TIMEOUT.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO (screamed directly in my face)
SIT DOWN NOW!!!!! I WILL NOT BE PUSHING YOU ON THIS SWING FOR THE REST OF TODAY!!
A is sobbing, I have to walk away to quell the rage within. When the tantrum has not abated after ten minutes even the neighbours give serious consideration to calling someone, anyone to shut that child up already.
Rinse and repeat at least five times a day over such outrageous transgressions on my part such as offering fruit as a snack.
I think she's tired (I know I am)...then again perhaps she has a mild UTI as she has started to regress in the toilet training department and is wetting her pants every now and then. Plus we're back to night time wake up calls. It doesn't help that she also has to readjust to just having mummy at home rather than grandparents at her beck and call.
It would be a relief to know that a temporary illness is causing the behaviour- but a huge source of guilt for my own. Surely my perfect angel child (ha!) isn't simply trying on some truly brattish means of getting her own way?
Either way I can't win. Nor can I muster up the energy to do anything else. Except for making A go to her room after lunch for a rest for the first time in what seems like forever.
I'm off to
smoke a packet of winnie blues
put little miss E to bed, she who has been patiently and exuberantly jolly jumping as i type.
This gig sucks even more than my writing of late.