This morning started with an email from a parenting expert that was referring to toddlers as “terrific twos!” and “thriving threes!” or some such shit with much vomit inducing fluffiness.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for positive thinking and “looking on the bright side”, but no matter what spin you put on it, three year olds are still right little fuckers.
Today also brought with it the usual double round of swimming lessons (a.m. and p.m.), an open for inspection of the house, and a bonus, private inspection.
Kill me now.
I opted to do the swimming lessons, as Grumpy Pants makes a much, much better housewife than me, and I think I’ll marry him one day because he is so awesome. Also, when the house needs tidying, he can be a rather grumpy fuck and I’d rather be elsewhere, preferably somewhere international, when he is in this mood.
Chippie, all happy and fun, turns, just like that. We’ve put most of his toys away. He wants his cardboard box full of rocks, to take to swimming. Because you need one of these for the pre-schooler swimming lessons. I have no idea where it is, and just want to leave.
So I do, cos I can’t be arsed waiting for the fucker. He comes running after me, crying, so I let him in. Then he needs his Arnah – the manky elephant – to keep him happy. Grumpy brings it out. Chippie has a screaming tantrum because he doesn’t want Arnah. I contemplate leaving him in the car and wandering off.
He screams some of the way to swimming, until I take a deep breath and calmly inform him that he needs to stop, and if he continues there is a good chance I will drive under a bus. I’m not sure if it was the calm voice, or the reference to a bus that stops him.
We find a park relatively close to the entrance of the swim centre. It is “the wrong car park” and he starts up again. I sigh. And calmly explain the need for him to get out of the car. I’m tempted, at this point, to just not bother with the process of swimming lessons, but I can’t go home, and don’t want to be in the car, cafe or anywhere with him in this mood, and me with my reslove shattered and tolerance levels at an all time low. Besides, at swimming lessons, the teacher has him.
So I shut the door and walk off. This is the only thing I am capable of doing at the time to get him to change his mind. He does. He’s not much happier as we reach the entrance.
A woman walks past us as she enters the building. She then makes the near fatal mistake of bending down and saying “hello” to the crying Chippie. This only has the effect of setting him off, again – still? – and I clench my fists and turn my back to her so I don’t kill her. I was able to tell myself she had the best of intentions, she just didn’t know. Also, I could have used the nice voice and the soothing stroke in the arm that he got.
I managed to get him changed, and carried him to his teacher.
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly the temper tides in a small child can turn so quickly. As I sat there, deeply breathing and trying to calm myself, and wanting to hit someone, or devour 18kg of chocolate, he was happily splashing about and laughing with his swimming friends.
I managed to smile after about 28 minutes, and had a giggle at the end when the teacher was readying the kids to jump into the pool. First up was a little girl who was more than a little anxious about the prospect. Chippie was last in line …
…. and sitting there, looking over at this little girl, big, big smile on his face and fists pumping as he yelled “Jump, jump, jump!”
I’m thinking a career in suicide counselling is off the list as a future job prospect …
I allowed him some more swimming, due to no point in going home just yet. Enough time for me to calm completely and enable myself to manage the Extraction Process.
The rest of the day went relatively smoothly. Mostly because Chippie fell asleep for a good portion of the afternoon, and I was out of the house at an appointment.
Collected big kids from school, put Monkey Boy’s change of clothes in the washing basket instead of the swimming bag, went swimming, told Monkey Boy, after the lesson, that “your clothes are in the swimming bag! For fuck’s sake, where did you put them?!” several times before he was able to get through to me that he’d given them to me to be responsible for … um … whoops?
A takeaway dinner, followed by some sitting and chilling.
We watched Heston’s Feasts, because it’s about food. Hubby watches from a professional, yet interested point of view. I watch because it is food. Yummy food. Very, very yummy food. Although, at times, a little dubious, but it is incredibly fascinating!
Tonight’s fare was a Roman Feast, and he replicated all manner of things from early Roman times. The main feature being Trojan Pig, whereby you eviscerate the pig, and replicate the intestines with a variety of sausages, then split the now cooked pig open in front of the guests. The ‘intestines’ fall out and the guests are horrified, but it is actually sausages, not real pig guts.
Chippie had joined us to watch. He was as fascinated as we were.
He talked about much of it as we watched, in his little three-year-old interpretation of events.
He scrunched his cute little nose up at one point, as the sausage-intestines fell onto the plate and the guests gobbled them up.
“What’s up the pig’s arse?” he asked.
I’m sure he’d make a fabulous chef with that kind of language … much to his father’s chagrin …