A delightful holiday has been had by all. It is, however, high time for Firstborn and the Smaller One to resume their education. School has many merits, one of them being to give weary mummies and daddies some much-needed peace and quiet.
This afternoon a situation occured which rendered me quite speechless (those who know me in the non-blog world will vouch that this is a rare occurance). Firstborn, hithero my sweet darling love, shimmied at me with hands on hips and the sort of hard-assed look on her face more usually seen on a Bronx hottie grinding it up on an MTV special, then snarled: "YeahwellMUMI'lldowhatiwantandyoucan'tstopmesothereandifyouspankmybottomI'llspankyou
Stamp, stomp, pout. "AND YOU'RE A BIG POO HEAD!" screeches the tiny harridan before she turns on her heel, swings her hair at me and slams the door on her way out.
I should point out that Firstborn is a mere and supposedly tender five years old.
Sigh... Sob... Gnashing of teeth...Beating of the maternal breast, etc.
What have I done wrong? Did I neglect to practice some essential parenting thingybob that ensures that your pre-tween doesn't turn into a tiny diva-brat? Maybe allowing the ritual Sunday sugar-fest was a bad idea? Breast fed for too long? Or too little? Am I now being punished for sneering at all those super-hot-housed kids stuffed to bursting by their ex-Management Consultant Mamas with kiddie Kumon and Ancient Greek conversation classes, with a weekly burst of Salsa for Toddlers as a special treat? Should I have banned all TV (although you don't see this sort of attitude on CBeebies, I can assure you), home-schooled and raised her in an ashram on home-spun tofu and super-strength fish oils in the most remote corner of the Outer Hebridies?
God, this parenting lark sucks. Pass me the Pinot, someone, before I sink to the floor in despair.