Skip to main content

The big step...

The Small(er) One started walking properly this week. She's been 'walking' for a while, which meant clinging to my finger and dictating that I support her efforts from here to there for at least 99% of her waking day. Yeah, that was fun, especially when a polite request from me for a toilet break was invariably met with bellows of rage, promptly followed by a chubby little body writhing on the floor in anguished abandon.

But now The Small(er)One has discovered that it's much more fun to do this thang on an independent basis - basically, that she can get up to all kinds of enjoyable destruction when my back is turned. So far this has involved reassigning the contents of the kitchen cupboards to the washing machine. I'm not complaining as it keeps her quiet for hours...although I wasn't too happy when I missed a pack of instant oatmeal before putting the laundry on to boil wash.

Firstborn is finding it all kind of hard to deal with. Imagine, for the past three years she has been the head of the household, dictating which toys The Small(er) One gets to play with, able to tease the little one and run away when the going got tough. But now the tables have well and truly turned. The Small(er)One is out for revenge - and she has advanced skills in the use of the tantrum tactic. If Firstborn dares to withhold anything she wants, she screams until Firstborn(dependent upon her emotional resilience on that particular day) either bursts into tears or runs away. Whatever the reaction, The Small(er) One emerges triumpant, clasping her prize in her podgy hand and cackling with the sweet, sweet joy of yet another victory.

Our household is in turmoil.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...