I’m not being a drama queen when I say the last few days have been intense. Incredibly, stressfully, sometimes tear-jerkingly intense.

In fact, if it wasn’t for my parents whisking Frog and I off to their house for the week, I’m not sure how I would have coped. I imagine the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine would have returned from work and found me rocking in a corner somewhere, my broken child crying even louder than her mother.

I expect no one would describe having a child in a cast as “fun”. Add being 25 weeks pregnant to the mix and you have a whole new level of physical challenge, carrying an almost-four year old around in a heavy leg cast while feeling particularly bulky yourself. And add the demands of work on top of that and you get a picture of where I’ve been at stress-wise the past few days.

I didn’t start this post to moan though. Well, kind of. But I mean, I know there are plenty more people far worse off than us and, ultimately, a broken leg will mend, so we are lucky. 

One of the trickiest things I’ve found about looking after a child in cast is putting aside my sympathy for my poorly child and maintaining some sense of normal. On the way home from the hospital, we stopped at a supermarket and the NLM came out with two carrier bags laden down with Frog’s favourite treats.

We wrote Sunday off as a day to endure and allowed chocolate buttons, teddy bear crisps and plenty of ice-cream. Ironically, even these delicacies weren’t enough to tempt our broken girl into eating and she survived on mainly Calpol, water and the odd bit of toast for the 48 hours after the accident.

But now we are four days in and I’m noticing shades of my former child starting to reappear. She is loud, feisty as ever and – as always – demanding. What she lacks in speed she now makes up for in volume, attempting to bend us all to her will. On the one hand I’m torn between feeling sorry for her and knowing she’s frustrated, often in pain and tired. But on the other, it’s never acceptable to hit out at people or to call your grandparents “stinky and rubbish”.

They tug on your heartstrings though, kids. Especially when they’re your own. I can’t help but feel constantly guilty for the fact I didn’t take Frog to A&E until five hours after she hurt her leg, refusing to believe she was really in that much pain (this is the girl who screams bloody murder if a fly so much as looks at her). I cried when the X-Rays came back showing two breaks in her leg, disgusted at myself and ashamed that I hadn’t taken her into hospital straight away.

And guilt isn’t a particularly helpful emotion when parenting, in my experience.

Of course things won’t stay like this for much longer. Hopefully Frog will begin to be more mobile with the cast (she’s already begun to tentatively scoot around on her backside) and soon her temporary plaster will be removed and replaced with a new, more comfortable one. And, even if she doesn’t get used to it, it’ll only be on for a few more weeks (we hope).

In the meantime though, any advice you have on managing the whole behaviour of a child in cast thing is much appreciated. I’d love to hear how you got through the few weeks without ending up a quivering wreck in the corner.

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“If you’ve finished your cereal, bring the empty bowl in here.”

“Come and brush your teeth.”

(5 minutes later)

“Come and brush your teeth please.”

(2 minutes later)

“Come and brush your teeth. NOW!”

And so begins my morning. Every morning. I used to laugh when I’d hear adults muttering sentences like, “I don’t know why I bother. I may as well just go and talk to myself.” But now I know. I am familiar with the constant talking to yourself. Over and over again.

The brick wall when you ask a question that a stubborn 3 year old can’t be bothered to answer. The deaf ear she throws when you ask her to do something she doesn’t fancy doing. And the continuous, repeated pleas for her to PUT HER BLOODY SHOES ON.

Amazingly, I find there are certain sentences I only need to utter once before I get an immediate response.

“Would you like some cake?”

“It’s ice-cream for pudding.”

“You can watch CBeebies for half an hour.”

I have come to the conclusion that there is only one way to move forward and win this ongoing battle: say “ice-cream” at the beginning of every sentence.

Either that, or chuck out all the shoes.

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My daughter has always had attitude. At seven hours old, she let the world know she’d arrived by waking all the other sleeping babies on the hospital ward with loud shouts. The nurses joked she’d be an opera singer. I winced.

Her spirit was apparant when she refused to take a bottle of expressed milk. Ever. Medicine on a spoon? No way. In fact, if she didn’t want to do it or she wasn’t 100% in control of it, she was not a fan. Not a fan at all.

I’ve since learned that the best way to persuade my two and a half year old to do something not involving chocolate or paint is to make her think it was her idea. This helps in certain situations, but not in ones involving a new personality trait she’s been displaying recently.

Sassitude.

It came from nowhere, much like Gangnam Style, and then firmly refused to budge. In fact, the first hint of sass was centred around said Korean pop tune. “I WANT DANDELION STYLE MUMMY!” wailed my toddler, as I refused to play it for the millionth time in a row.

When asked to get in the bath: “I NOT get in bath Mummy!”

When told it’s bed time: “It NOT bedtime Mummy!”

When scolded by her father for her “sass”: “I sassy and I know it! I DRAMA queen!”

There is no hope.

Watching football, counting money, with sassitude

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My daughter has changed. Again.

It happens every few weeks or so. I notice a new knowing look in her eye, a new turn of phrase or a new talent in the drawing or jigsaw puzzle department. This current change has been all about the sass.

I’m living with a two year old who would give a 15 year old with a huge rebellious streak a run for her money. There have been moments during the past week where I’ve literally been left open mouthed at the way Frog has spoken to me or her dad. We’ve had to wander out of the room scratching our heads, asking each other, “Did she really just say that?”

Take tonight, for example. Already angry that her order for “MUMMY dry hair!!!” had been ignored, Frog was on a roll. As the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine tried to coax her into her Christmas pyjamas, our little dictator lay on the floor and banged her fists hard into the carpet.

“NOOOO Daddy! I want BUTTERFLY ones! I want butterfly ones NOW!!!” She screamed.

When she was given the chosen PJs (sometimes you have to pick your battles) she stopped shouting, calmly put on her trousers then stood up, raised her hand in the direction of her father and demanded, “Don’t look at me Daddy. DO NOT LOOK AT ME!!!”

This was nothing compared to the Tuesday drama though. The Tuesday drama involved a swimming lesson and a car seat, neither of which my little diva wanted to include in her planned afternoon.

As I opened the car door and attempted to lift Frog into her seat, she turned to me and calmly ordered me to “Put down Mummy. Put ME down!” I huffed something about, “Do it yourself then” and stood back.

It was then that my fiercely independent child swung round to face me and shouted – in the middle of a busy car park – “I NOT BABY ANYMORE MUMMY!”

Quite.

Can someone please tell me there’s a rule somewhere that states unruly, bossy toddlers turn into angelic teenagers? Please? Anyone?

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After having a tantrum about not being able to swim in a puddle and run amok in a busy car park, my two year old stopped. She stood very still. She waited until I picked her up. And then she hit me in the face.

It wasn’t an arms flailing, screaming, accidental, wrong-place-wrong-time hit. It was calculated. She thought about what she was going to do. And then she did it. A belting thwack! right across the cheek.

Stung, I wrestled her into her car seat, while she silently bit me, pulled my hair, slapped me across the other cheek and pulled a thread from my brand new coat.

This was not a tantrum.

There was no screaming (or, at least, not while she was unleashing the full force of her two year old strength on me). She looked at me quietly before she dealt each blow. She listened to me say, “No” and then she did it anyway.

She’s never done that before.

I’ve been hit, of course. By passing flying objects thrown in the heat of a temper storm. I’ve been in the way of flailing limbs as my daughter’s fury over forbidden chocolate or toys or impending bedtime have surfaced. But she’s never hurt me in such a calculated manner before.

Today, she was completely aware of what she was doing. There was thought behind each slap, pinch, scratch and hair pull.

Being in a public place, I wasn’t sure what to do. I was hot, angry – OH so angry – frustrated and (as ever) without the magic answer.

So I told her, “No” again, got in the driver’s seat and ignored her rising demands for her (bloody awful) CD to be put on.

I could have put the music on. It would have been better than listening to her angry shouts. But I didn’t want to reward the hitting behaviour. I was really cross.

Five minutes later, I had to pull into a garage on a busy main road. My irrate daughter had, by this time, managed to manoeuvre her way out of the straps on her car seat (her hypermobility means she’s oddly flexible, which is often a problem) and was leaning forward attempting to pull my hair again.

While she shouted “Like you Mummy! Like you Mummy!” (this means DON’T like you, obviously) I tried to shut my ears and get on with the task of strapping her into the car seat.

For the rest of the journey home the shouts turned into tears, which turned into a tantrum, which eventually subsided into a quiet, “Sorry Mummy” as we pulled up at our house.

I didn’t speak for the entire journey. I didn’t put her CD on. I didn’t shout at her or try to placate her or chide her for pulling my hair. I shut my ears and I concentrated on driving safely while my anger levels rose to a high pitched scream inside my head.

Once home I got her inside the house and I sat down calmly beside her. I told her she’d made me sad, that hitting was wrong and that she should never do it again.

I’m not sure how much she understood, but I know she was very quiet. Quieter than I’ve seen her for a long time. It looked like she was taking it in. I think she was aware that she pushed the boundary as far as it would go and then jumped right across a line she had only just found.

I think that’s the case, but I don’t know.

What would you have done?

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I had it all planned. I was going to write about how emotion is in the genes; we’re born with our tendencies to cry, laugh or brood. It’s written in our DNA.

I was going to use my father as a perfect example of the genetics of emotion. I was going to say that he’s emotional to the point of hilarity. The words were going to flow onto the blank page, describing how his tears will fall freely at something tiny – a birthday card, a story on the news, a kiss from his granddaughter.

I was going to share this picture of my wedding day almost a year ago, pointing you to look at my dad’s face as he revels in the emotion of the day…

I was going to tell you that I’m just like him. And then I was going to write something beautiful and meaningful and slightly funny, about my toddler and her own father, making comparisons between us, before coming back to my own dad at the end of the post.

That’s what I was going to do.

But then this afternoon happened.

A tantrum at supper time is always going to end in tears. An exhausted two year old – who’s been up in the night vomiting and crying – is not a recipe for a contented evening meal. I get that.

But I wasn’t prepared for what we experienced this evening. It was a tantrum off the richter scale of tantrums. It was tears and shouts and a little ball of frustrated anger and screaming – the likes of which I’ve never witnessed before.

As I attempt to ignore the impending tidal wave of emotion about to crash across the table, I can feel my heart rate beginning to speed up. I start to sweat, as I become keenly aware that the piercing angry screams and shouts of “NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY NO WAY” are going to explode into something much worse.

Instinct tells me to keep calm and try and distract my husband from our raging toddler, all the while continuing some form of quiet talking. Instinct tells me not to lose my cool.

But the cool is quickly evaporating. Frog’s dad snaps. Swiftly lifting her from her highchair he shouts, “BE QUIET NOW!” before saying he has to leave the room.

As my toddler weeps in the corner and the food goes cold on our plates my shoulders slump. I know this is just the beginning.

And so it is. The crying and tears and angry shouts continue right through bathtime. Frog hits her dad, screaming, “HIT DADDY HIT DADDY HIT DADDY” before he once more has to leave the room in anger.

As I try to get our two year old dressed and calm her with her “magic blanket” I’m met with a flurry of bites, kicks, hitting, screams and “STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT”.

It’s now two hours since the emotional tidal wave first surfaced. I’m yet to shout. But every feeling inside of me is desperate to get out and find release, ease the pressure inside the kettle about to start whistling on my metaphorical hob.

I’m angry, exhausted, upset, stressed, confused and… and… rapidly searching my stockpile of tried and tested tantrum techniques for the best way to deal with this, before a full blown argument breaks out between my husband and I.

Too late.

The final blow comes when I lean to kiss Frog goodnight, placing her in her bed as she thrashes and kicks, utterly exhausted but still consumed with that unreasonable toddler rage that appears to physically hurt her. As she enters a more calm state I take my chances and lean down to brush her hair from her face and tell her I love her.

And she scratches me. Not just a little scratch but a big, tearing, nail-out-in-a-talon-like scratch. She draws blood and I gasp. Never before has she properly hurt me, physically, like this. My own tears are now flowing freely.

The NLM tells me to leave the room, he sternly tells her she’s ruined her chances of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star tonight. And then he closes her door and warns me not to go in her room, saying it will only prolong the tantrum and she won’t learn that her actions have consequences.

But I can’t. I can’t leave her sobbing like that. I can’t let her fall to sleep with the last words between us cross ones. I can’t get up at 3.30am and drive to work before she’s even woken, knowing that I won’t see her until tomorrow afternoon, with no goodnight kiss. I can’t do that.

So, inevitably, there are cross words between my husband and I, as we both disagree on the right course of action. In the end, I do go into Frog’s room. I kiss her and she cries when I leave, but is quiet within seconds of me closing the door.

And I sit and meditate on the last two hours, wondering how we could have dealt with that tantrum differently. Wondering what to do next time.

Wondering if my dad ever felt like this when I was tiny.

It goes full circle. Emotions are in the genes.

***

This post was written for this week’s Gallery, where the theme is Emotion. Head over to Sticky Fingers to see the rest.

The post Meltdown: I don’t know what to do appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

But now… now I’m not so sure.

She looks at me so innocently. Occasionally I’ll even get a kiss or a rushed cuddle. But underneath that sweet exterior, lies a dark secret.

My daughter is thrilled by dishing out violence.

The final proof came last week. As my two year old played merrily next to me, reading stories and talking to herself, I started to recognise a word amongst her toddler babble. A word she was repeating, over and over again.

“Blah blah blah, babble babble babble…HIT! Blah blah blah, babble babble babble….HIT!”

As I leaned closer, unable to believe my ears as my beautifully curly-headed, angelic child softly muttered under her breath, I began to pick up clear sentences.

And these clear sentences caused a sharp intake of breath.

She was reading that childhood favourite Dear Zoo. For those of you unfamiliar with this lovely tale, it’s about someone (a boy or a girl, we never find out) who, “Wrote to the zoo to send me a pet”. Rather generously (if you ask me) the zoo obliges.

At first, an elephant is offered. But the fussy pet seeker rejects it, ungratefully commenting, “It was too big, so I sent it back.”

The story continues in this vein, with all manner of wonderful animals being scoffed at – including a monkey (too naughty), a frog (too jumpy) and a lion (too fierce) – before finally the zoo gives up and sends a puppy, which is “just perfect”.

My daughter knows this story off by heart. As I smiled, listening to her list each animal, “Eeefant – too big! Sent back!” before turning the page, I noticed the story was taking a sinister turn.

“Monkey! Naughty! Hit monkey!” *whack*

“Camel! Too grumpy! Hit camel!” *whack*

“Lion! Bad lion! Hit lion!” *whack*

The poor animals. As well as being rejected as gifts, each one had to put up with the announcement it was to be “hit” by my terrifying child.

I looked on, aghast, as my daughter became more and more involved in her game of Hit The Camel, wildly recounting in louder and louder tones the physical punishment she was going to hand out to each animal.

And then she stopped. Turning her face with a knowing look in her eye, she locked me in her gaze. Gulping, I pasted on a weak smile as my thug of a daughter got up and toddled towards me.

Grinning, she leaned her head down towards me, hand raised and ready to strike. I winced, readying myself for the blow and the inevitable, “Hit Mummy!” that I knew was to come.

And she puckered up her lips, planting a big kiss on my head, before whispering, “Love YOU Mummy!” and toddling off again.

Looks like I’m safe. For now.

The post A dark secret appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

During the last hour I’ve already become victim to at least four violent, stormy tantrums. The Terrible Twos are taking their toll.

Having sought some cool in the kitchen I move myself and my angry 23 month old into the garden. She is hot and bothered. Grumpy.

But she spies her second favourite thing in the world. Her hat. And I bask in the radiance of her smile, snapping the moment on my phone to remind myself of this happiness when the next tantrum arrives.

The storm clouds gather yet again. A wave of darkness passes across my daughter’s face. She angrily bats away suggestion of playing in the sandpit.

The day is narrowly saved by paint, grass and sunshine.

Tantrum averted. Phew.

***

This is my offering to this week’s Gallery, where the theme is “Sunshine”. Head over to Sticky Fingers to see the rest.

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I will never be perfect mother material. And when I say perfect, I mean perfect.

I’m not on about the obvious stuff, like regularly forgetting to make Frog brush her teeth, or occasionally letting her smear ketchup over her vegetables.

No, I’m on about something altogether different.

It’s a quality that starts for many women during pregnancy. These women are natural mothers. They are good at motherhood before their offspring are even born. The calm descends and they sit, zen-like, in a beautiful state of blooming fertility.

And as their child grows within them, they metamorphose into a Butlins Red Coat.

By the time the baby is born, these natural mothers are worthy of winning the X Factor. They ooze charm, charisma, fun. They can sing and smile and dance at the same time.

They are just so… happy.

Everywhere I go I am surrounded by just such mothers. Their voices are at a perfect pitch for toddlers. They don’t speak their words, they sing. Even a simple, “It’s time to put your shoes on” could elicit a little wiggle of the hips and a clap.

And I try to be like them. I do. But I fall short of the mark every time.

In the playground, I will use my best Butlins Red Coat Mother Voice to encourage Frog away from the swing and back into her buggy. I’ll even laugh a little as the warning signs of a tantrum start to flash.

But five minutes of demanding shouts from my 20 month old and all earlier pledges to retain my rosy jazz-hands exterior fly out of the window. Initial attempts at soothing with, “Now, stop being a silly billy” are quickly offset with, “Now STOP IT! Come ON! NO. I will NOT have that!”

I’m rubbish at being a Butlins Red Coat Mother. I wouldn’t even get through the first half of the audition.

So please tell me they don’t exist in real life. Surely no mother can be that happy, all the time? Really?

"I'm sorry, but it's going to have to be a No from me."

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It was so easy when she was this small.

But somehow, this tiny little bundle has magically transformed into an 18 month old. An 18 month old who knows what she wants. An 18 month old who knows how to push all her mother’s buttons.

It’s a cliche, the whole “they don’t come with an instruction manual” thing. But that’s all I’ve thought about today.

I’ve been dreaming of a secret book, revealing the inner workings of a non-toddling toddler’s mind.

This book would, obviously, chastise me for losing my temper and raising my voice in the direction of my child this afternoon, as she had yet another tantrum at the sound of that so hated word “No”. And, clearly, this book would instruct myself and the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine to never EVER disagree about how to handle a situation – especially in front of our child.

But that bloody book doesn’t exist. So while I scrabble around in search of the magic answers, I’ll just have to continue getting it all wrong.

And if you know where the secret book resides, feel free to let me know. I need all the help I can get.

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