Tuesday is the day that throws me.
I’m just getting back into the headspace of working, and attacking the To Do List with gusto and excessive amounts of coffee after a two days of “but I want to show you something on Mario Kart” and the Grumpy One making comments about housework and looking after children and various similar statements. Monday is a day of six, uninterrupted by children or husband hours in which to do some good, solid, tackling of To Do List with excessive coffee and Chocolate Teddy Bear Biscuit consumption.
Then, it is Tuesday.
A day whereby Grumpy Pants heads of to work early, and I embark on the morning before school horribleness and endure school run activities and am home alone with Chippie for the entire day.
It’s hard changing the focus of the head overnight like that. Especially when fuelled by fatigue. Usually, it takes a few hours for my head to function Mummy Style, and send signals various body parts that enable me to put together a three-piece jigsaw puzzle, or sit on the floor and not wish to stab myself in the eye with an AK47 whilst playing trains. Or just make playing trains more enjoyable by creating dialogue that is not littered with profanity, so that when the toddler does repeat what I say when he’s playing, I don’t get into trouble. Again.
Then a good chunk of my remaining hours is taken up by feeding Chippie lunch, him having a nap, waking, screaming because the train he took to bed and/or his “mum” (aka dummy) have fallen out of the cot, my going in and retreiving whatever it is that has caused him such distress, settling him back to sleep, returning to my office with my To Do List in front of me and pondering which bit to take on first, as I have no idea how much time I have in which to do anything. It could be anywhere between 2.3 minutes or 2.7 hours.
Then it’s sitting around waiting for it to be time to head off to do the school run, whereby Grumpy Pants will contact me just as I have got Chippie in the pram and have started the walk, to advise me that he will pick the kids up on the way home.
Of course, not every Tuesday is like this. Sometimes, there is variety in the activities we partake in. Especially the time between school drop off and lunch. This morning’s, for example, when I opened the up high cupboard to retreive the container of ground coffee to make one, and Chippie, who had located the missing-for-some-days-now dummy and shoved it in his mouth, hung off the bench and screamed.
The thing with his dummy is that it seems to make him scream for something, rather than use what limited words he has. Or even “urgh!’ and pointing. It’s why I hate the damn thing and don’t go looking when they go missing.
So, there he is, hanging off the bench, screaming, whilst I’m on a phone call and making coffee, until I eventually work out that he has seen the container of marshmallows. Being on a phone call, I did the most appropriate thing, retrieved container and pulled the lid off. He then wanders off with it, stuffiing a (thankfully small) handfull in his mouth before I can take it back and put it out of reach.
This sets off a chain reaction of him screaming, me ignorning and occasionally enquiring of him as to whether his tantrum is working or not.
Apparently, he decides it will, and continues with the screaming. I continue with the ignoring. At which point, I think he begins to accep that I’m not going to give in, and tries banging his head against the cupboard door. At which point, I walk out of the room, still chatting on phone, as he is beginning to piss me off.
I hide around the corner.
He keeps screaming. Until the point he realises I have left the room, and goes quiet. Very. Quiet. The problem with this, from my aspect, is his newly acquired Breath Holding Spell, and am left to contemplate whether he is listening to see if I’m coming back (to get marshmallows for him) or whether he has, in fact, passed out again.
Damn it. Because now I don’t know if he’s just passed out passed out from not breathing, or is, in fact, lying in bloody mess on the kitchen floor after having smacked his head on slightly open drawer and falling all of one and a half feet (he’s still very short. He’s only a toddler), and whether I will be required to call an ambulance and suffer from Immense Mother Guilt, or will be screamed at for marshmallows.
Either way, I don’t really want to be entering kitchen for fear of one or the other.
Fortunatley, I think he heard my voice when I enquired of Friend on the other end of the phone as to which would be the better outcome of this silent moment, and he starts up the screaming again.
He then climbs up on me, still screaming, smacks me in the head with a train, falls asleep on me, wakes when I attempt to put him to bed, give him some lunch, and put him back into bed.
Well, wasn’t that a fun way to kill a morning? On the upside, it required no watching 74 billion episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine or having to spend his nap time picking mushed in playdoh from the couch.