Looking up, I experienced the same feeling of dread suffered by any parent who has attempted to do a spot of shopping with a child in tow. It started in my stomach and rose, leaving a metallic taste of bile in my mouth.

Grabbing the last bargain dress in my size, I ran across the shop, heart sinking at the size of the queue ahead of me. The voices behind the men’s T’shirt section were getting louder. There may even have been a shriek.

The cashier was in no rush. Despite my best attempts at willing her to go faster, she languidly passed her scanner over each bar-code in a daze. There were five people ahead of me. The voices had moved from the men’s T’shirt section to the pants. They were turning to shouts. 

Reasoning that I’d be two more minutes, tops, I told myself my three year old’s dad was more than capable of dealing with a public tantrum. Even though it was very public. Even though it was getting louder.

My legs jiggled as the nervous energy took over every inch of my body. Why wasn’t the cashier going faster? Sighs of impatience behind me, as the other hot and flustered customers started to clock the commotion on the other side of the store.

Minutes passed in slow motion, as the fluorescent lights shone down, illuminating every tired pore and dark shadow on my face. A bead of sweat dripped from my lip, leaving a salty tang in my dry mouth. The shouts were definite screams of anger now. There was a man’s voice, sounding panicked. Rising.

Paying for my dress (it wasn’t worth the wait, but I’d got that far), I flung the bag under my arm and ran as fast as I could to the pants section, following the noise. I ignored the concerned tuts and whispered judgements of the gaggle of customers passing the scene.

As I got closer, I searched for my tall husband. My stomach flipped as I realised he must be crouched on the floor, trying to placate our screaming child. Maybe she’d crawled under the clothes rails? I felt sick.

Rails of pants parted like the Red Sea, the shrill sound of a toddler’s tantrums filled my ears. And there, kicking and screaming before me… was a little boy with thick black hair and glasses. Not my child. Both parents stood over him, waving toys and sweets in his direction.

The relief was like a glass of water to the lips of a traveller in the desert. Palpable, swooshing over me leaving immediate calm.

I was safe this time. Some other poor bugger had to deal with it.

The post The panic: why shopping and children don’t mix appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

The lunchtime nursery pick-up started as normal. As I drove the usual route I planned an afternoon of painting and snuggles watching CBeebies with my two year old. Rushing into the nursery, I was greeted with positive indifference.

My shining diva child did not want to be collected. She wanted to carry on playing with her friends and didn’t much like the idea of going back to her boring home with her boring mummy.

Stung but undeterred, I shrugged. One battle down, telling myself she’d be fine once we got outside, I kept up the smile and cheerfully ignored my tot’s angry grumbles.

Once outside, I lost the battle of the coat and accepted that my daughter preferred to have the biting cold air nip her neck as we walked across to the car. Drooping under the weight of her bag and general nursery crafty paraphenalia, I swallowed back the rising shouty mum that threatened to make an appearance, as I attempted to stop my toddler running away from me in the carpark. I managed that battle, but the biggest was yet to come.

It took me twenty minutes to get my tired, ratty, fretful toddler into her car seat today. Twenty minutes. Angry at her fun being ruined (apparently playing chicken with cars in the carpark is SO thrilling) and cross at being dragged from her playmates, Frog kicked up the biggest stink I’ve ever known her to pull.

There was hair pulling – so much that big fistfuls of my hair came off in her fingers – and scratching. I was kicked and screamed at. “NAUGHTY MUMMY!” came the shouts, along with, “I NOT GO IN CAR SEAT. I GO IN FRONT! I DRIIIIVE CAR NOW!” She’s nothing if not ambitious.

All the while, I fought the urge to shout back, to lose my temper in front of the playground full of pre-schoolers starting to collect by the fence to see the drama unfold. I pretended not to notice the other mums hastily walking their toddlers past and strapping them without fuss into their car seats. I hid my face from the nursery staff using their best loud jolly voices to drown out the screams of my child.

Inside I was sobbing.

Eventually, after a twenty minute battle – did I tell you it was TWENTY MINUTES?! – the buckles were snapped into place and we could finally leave that blasted carpark. As I drove away, I mentally notched up a point to myself, pleased with my win. The battle of the car seat is not one I’m willing to lose.

An afternoon of rest made things much better. It turns out stress isn’t helped by huge levels of exhaustion, so both my two year old and I had nothing to do but head to bed. On waking, we eyed one another up and offered a conciliatory cuddle. “I your friend now” whispered Frog. I melted a bit.

Half an hour later, another battle was on the horizon. As teatime approached, my toddler spied her beloved Cheerios on the kitchen counter. The whining started, then the little yelps of bossy defiance. And you know what? I gave in. Call me a lazy parent, call me an “under the thumb mum”, but I’m not bothered. Some battles are worth fighting and some aren’t. Simple.

So, my daughter had Cheerios for her tea, followed by a pudding of fishfingers and bean salad. Did she eat all her fishfingers? Of course she didn’t. Did we have a tantrum? Nope. Am I pleased with the way I handled this testing day? Very much so.

I won the most important battle and let the others slide. I’m sure there’s a cliche about winning the war and forgetting your battles or something but, to be honest, I’m too tired to care.

***

By the way, the annual Brilliance in Blogging awards are now open for business. Nominations are being taken as we speak, so if you’re short of a blog for the Writer or Family (or any category to be honest, I’m not fussy) then you know where I am. Mopping up Cheerios and and attempting not to have nightmares about car seats, that’s where.

The post Parenting a toddler – picking your battles the wise way appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

The thing about 4pm, is that it often coincides with the exact minute that my energy levels have dipped below zero. By this time in the afternoon, all I want to do is crawl under a blanket on the sofa and give in to exhaustion. My toddler’s fractious behaviour, however, would never allow it. So I’ve started trying to ward off 4pm and greet it head on, with a pre-planned activity. Yesterday, it was all about the Sensory Box.

I filled a plastic tupperware tub with a couple of cups of rice, which I then mixed with red food colouring. I added three different types of dried pasta to the mix, along with some red glitter, a couple of little pots and a spoon.

And then I let her go wild.

Inevitably, there was rice on the floor and I’m still discovering bits of glitter in the cracks between the tiles, but – astonishingly – there was no tantrum. Not even a tiny whinge.

As the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine returned from work, grumbling about my “hippy ways with motherhood” and questioning why it wasn’t enough just to let our toddler play with her nice tidy jigsaws, I felt a bit smug. Yes, I’d caused a mess. Yes, I had glitter stuck to my eyelashes and had experienced my first (forced) taste of dried pasta with sticky bits of red rice attached but, for once, I’d averted a tantrum.

My two year old was so busy making dried pasta cupcakes and spreading glitter and rice on the table to trace out letters, that she forgot to get cross. She became absorbed in her Very Important Task and paid no heed to me as I bustled around in the kitchen, preparing tea and sorting out the washing.

I’ve come to the conclusion that this is now the way forward. When 4pm rolls around, I will now be ready and waiting with some kind of activity that doesn’t involve Frog’s usual toys. Something she’ll actually be interested in doing, that will distract her from the fact she’s tired and a bit bored and a bit hungry.

Failing that, I’ll just push her around the floor in the washing basket. She seems to like that.

***

Linking up to Tot School Tuesday at See Vanessa Craft.

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The end of a long day

Before I was a mum, I had an idea that MY experience of parenting would be a rosy one. I naively assumed that others who had difficult days were probably “doing it wrong” and that there was ALWAYS a solution to a problem – and I would instantly know that solution.

I wish I could go back in time and have a word with myself. What an idiot.

I’ve been lucky enough to be graced with a beautiful, independent, hilarious, clever, quick witted child. Who is also somewhat of a diva. I say “somewhat”. I mean “very much”.

In my clear-headed moments, I know that my toddler is the double of me in terms of personality. I was a pretty high maintenance child (my mother tells me with glee). I didn’t sleep through the night until the age of five. I had epic tantrums. I didn’t like water in my eyes when I had my hair washed. I was scared of hoovers and motorbikes. I liked to have an audience. I played up to all of the above. Every. Single. Day.

My own daughter is very similar. She is touchy around certain noises – she’s terrified of the log burner, to the point she’ll sit in the freezing cold dining room on her own for three whole hours until bedtime. She’s quick to tantrum. She likes an audience. She likes things her own way. Every. Single. Day.

Obviously, some of these points are just standard toddler behaviour. But others are just her.

I like that she’s spirited, but sometimes that spirit equates to walking on egg shells. On a day when she wakes ridiculously early and refuses to sleep, for example, I know a huge tantrum is only seconds away. It’s like living with a coiled spring which is set to snap at any moment. Exhausting.

Since the beginning of January, I’ve settled into a better working pattern, which has made me happier and more prone to err on the side of patience, even in the middle of the hugest toddler screaming session ever known. My husband, on the other hand, has been struggling.

Today started for him at 1am. He bounced out of bed as our two year old cried over a bad dream. Then, at 3am, he bounced out of bed again, eager to get to Frog before she woke me up due to another bad dream. At 5.30am, when she was screaming and shouting and having a tantrum because it wasn’t time to get up yet, he gave in.

The rest of the day has been spent in a bit of an egg shell manner. I’ve been attempting to be the beacon of calm in tempestuous waters, as my tired diva child throws tantrum after tantrum because she can’t eat a neverending supply of chocolate / paint the walls purple / have Daddy’s computer / play with her friends at nursery / go and live with her grandparents in Devon. The (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine has been battling tiredness with a lack of patience and trying ever so hard to bite his tongue when the anger bubbles to the surface and he feels the need to shout.

It hasn’t been the best.

I just wish I could bottle today and cast it out to sea, throw it away and draw a line underneath it.

Parenting – it’s not ALWAYS crayons and kisses. Sometimes it’s just bloody hard work.

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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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Hollie’s written no less than ten best-selling parenting books, the latest of which – First Time Mum – was recently published. I was on a panel of mums to bare their soul offer pearls of wisdom shared in this book so, obviously, it’s very good.

In fact, I think it’s SO good that I’ve leant it to my lovely pregnant friend in the hope that the non-judgmental balanced, real advice and scenarios will help calm her nerves as motherhood approaches (by the way – congratulations Leanne and John, I love you both. But please can you skip the passages where I’m quoted talking about going to the loo after childbirth? John doesn’t need to see that.).

You can read more from Hollie on her brilliantly funny and wise blog.

Anyway, enough of my rambles, I’ll step aside and let Hollie take the floor, with her take on toddler tantrums. Very fitting, considering the last few tantrum posts that have featured here…

***********

So you’ve got a small child who’s giving you grief with their tantrums? You have my empathy. The pre-school years are fraught with challenges for parents, but toddler wobblers must surely be the worst of them. And I really, truly feel for anyone going through it – as Molly is right now – because I’ve definitely been there, and I’ve definitely done that.

What I can say, with the glorious benefit of hindsight, is that whilst tantrums feel like the worst thing in the world to be coping with at the time, they really are just a part of a behavioural phase that will (eventually) pass into the annals of your family history. You may even look back at them and laugh. Remember the B&Q debacle of ‘03? Oh, ha ha ha! How we chuckled when the manager requested our exit from the premises. Gosh, though, but didn’t that paint take a long time to come out of her hair?

I don’t mean to sound trite. Like I say, I know from experience that it’s far from funny trying to deal with a child whose knickers have become comprehensively twisted.

What I want to offer is reassurance that these meltdowns are entirely normal. And that they will stop at some point. Honest, they will.

You know what? I can’t even remember much about all those tantrums my daughters had, although I know for a fact they both stropped for England in their day, and that I struggled to cope with it: one detail that remains with me is a well-meaning but very misguided female relative’s suggestions that my eldest’s tantrums were so terrible, they might just amount to a behavioural disorder. Helpful stuff. And also bollocks, as it turned out. They were, of course, just an ordinary two-year-old’s tantrums.

There was one meltdown I can remember in technicolour, when my daughter went completely doo-lal in Claire’s Accessories. It was so bad that when I’d finally hauled her out of the shop in order to re-locate her fury to the precinct floor, I was sobbing. A woman I didn’t know – a mum with older kids – came up and put an arm round me. Her words still ring in my head: ‘Don’t worry. We all have days like these’. What a lovely lady. To this day I think she might actually have been an angel.

On the whole, though, I don’t recall the specifics. How often they came, how bad they were, what triggered them, exactly when they stopped. I suppose, a bit like childbirth, nature ensures the memories of these things are thoroughly muddied, otherwise no-one would ever go on to have a subsequent child after their first. My point is, if you’re going through it now and it feels like a big deal, I promise you it won’t, some day.

Meanwhile, if it helps, remind yourself why little kids have big tantrums. They have well enough developed brains to know what they want and what they’re feeling, but they don’t yet have the language skills to express it or the physical ability carry it out. Also, they’re immature little so-and-so’s. They just don’t have any anger management skills yet.

As for how to deal with tantrums, well, you undoubtedly know the excepted wisdom on that already. Pre-empt them in the first place by steering clear – whenever possible – of known trigger factors such as hunger or tiredness; and divert if one seems to be brewing, by any means necessary. Get down to their level and offer calm reassurance if you can. And if you can’t? Bite your lip and ignore them, walking away (as long as they’re safe) if necessary.

Truth is, tantrums are just something you have to ride out until you’ve reached the other side. And so is the phase in general.

When might this other side finally present itself? Look, I’ve got to be honest: this is a phase that can rumble on for a while. They call it the terrible twos but I’m pretty sure mine were still chucking regular hissy fits well into the threatening threes. Frankly, the feck-awful fours and even the frightening fives may continue to loom for you.

But stop they will. Remember what that angel lady in the precinct said, about Days Like These? Well I don’t have days like that anymore. My girls are ten and eight now, and I can assure you that they haven’t thrown a toddler wobbler in a long time. My Days Like These now involve struggling to get anyone to listen, eat a piece of fruit, or tidy their rooms. When the heat’s really on I must deal with ‘whatever’ attitudes, sibling scraps, and pre-pubescent tears that flow regularly, for no clear reason.

That’s kids for you. They stop offering one challenge. They’ll soon throw down another.

The post Guest post: Dealing with toddler tantrums appeared first on Mother's Always Right.

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.

Sometimes I feel like a kettle.

Not just any kettle, but one of those old ones. The ones that sit on the hob and make a loud whistling noise when the water’s hot enough for a cup of tea.

Yesterday was a typical Kettle Day.

I have to describe it like that, as it’s the only way I can think of what happened last night without getting upset. It wasn’t funny at the time.

I was tired, my daughter was tired, we were both tired.

Having been up for work since 3.30am and only having my usual 5/6 hours sleep, I wasn’t in the best frame of mind to deal with the hugest tantrum known to man. This tantrum lasted from 4pm until 5.40pm.

And when I say tantrum, I’m talking the works.

Not just screams and the constant pull on my shirt with, “Mummy, mummy, MUUUMMMY!” as I tried to dish up a hot supper. But the throwing of said dinner across the room with shrieks of “YOGHURT! NOW!”

I didn’t recognise my gorgeous child. Tiredness had taken her and replaced her with something else.

Her face was red, angry. The screams were so loud I could see people outside on the pavement walking past our dining room and looking round, trying to work out where the noise was coming from.

I stayed calm. On the surface. Expecting my husband through the door any minute I took the food away and began to run a bath.

Still with an angry, screaming child hanging off me, trying to ignore my constantly bleeping phone telling me yet more emails were waiting to be dealt with, I took a deep breath.

Still no husband.

With the bath ready, I attempted to strip off my daughter and sing her a song to distract from the noise coming out of her mouth. As I took off her t’shirt she launched herself at me. Hitting, scratching, shouting, “NO MUMMY! NO MUMMY! NO MUMMY!”

Remember that kettle? It’s getting hotter and hotter.

Still no husband.

Resigned to doing bathtime by myself, I tackled the gravy in my daughter’s hair, while she lunged at my face and cried and cried and cried. Still the phone is bleeping.

I can feel myself getting smaller and smaller. The kettle is starting to whistle.

I sing to my distraught and angry toddler as I dry her hair and retrieve her pyjamas. And as I attempt to get a nappy on her, the kettle shrieks.

My husband is still not home. At this particular moment, on this particular day, as I battle my early start and constant work deadlines, bleeping phone and angry angry angry child, this feels like the end of the world.

The task of getting a nappy on my little girl rises before me like a huge mountain. It’s a battle that can’t be won.

And I lose it.

I shout, “STOP” over and over again as my daughter throws herself at me. Biting and pinching and scratching.

The phone bleeps.

And I see myself. On the floor of my toddler’s room. Exhausted. Broken. Shouting.

And I hate myself.

And I cry. Great, heaving sobs.

And I throw the nappy to the other side of the room and just sit there, looking at my daughter in between the tears, while she looks back at me.

Tears coursing down our faces. Drained.

And at that moment, my daughter shuffles over to me and puts her arms around me. She’s not crying any more. She just kisses my cheek and strokes my arm.

The nappy goes on. We read a story together. We sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and bedtime is over, just like that.

No fuss. No getting out of bed. No calling, “Mummy, mummy, mummy”. Just peace.

So, just as my husband walks through the door, I slump.

Feeling like I’ve failed at motherhood today and been beaten by work, I take myself to bed at 6pm.

The phone bleeps.

And I fall asleep.

The post Breaking point 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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Of course, like many mothers, I am in constant denial of this fact, telling myself I really know my daughter. Above all others. And better than all others.

But I don’t think this is really true.

Because, just as soon as I think I have her solved, she outdoes me with such ease I am left speechless. She is the only person on this earth who has the ability to do that.

She sleeps with a soft blanket. Every night of her short life so far, she has drifted off to a world of dreams clutching that blanket. Except for now. In one millisecond the only habit I would bet every penny I’ve ever owned on, has been quashed.

Now, it seems, it’s all about the teddies. Not one teddy either – my girl is quite a floozy in the teddy department – now it’s all about the seven teddies.

And then the words. With every newly formed syllable, I feel like I’m getting an insight into the child my 20 month old daughter really is. Except, of course, I’m not.

Because she’s changing so fast I can never quite get a handle on her. She’s like a memory, half formed, hiding at the back of my mind, dodging in and out of the cobwebs, taunting me.

But then she looks at me. Holds my gaze for long seconds. And I think, I know exactly who you are, little girl.

You are my enigma. And I love you for it.

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