I've lost the word, mummy...

Now, Her Ladyship is a proud and somewhat stubborn little lass... I've known that for a long, long while.  Getting her to say "sorry" for things was a struggle to say the least - there was one incident where we had a Time Out stand-off for 45 minute before she cracked and muttered the feeblest "sorry" I've ever heard - but she's made a lot of progress in the last two years.  That's mainly because she's realised that I have had 30 years more practice at being stubborn than she has.  She's even started meaning it too...

Anyhow, that was until yesterday when, after taking a sneaky pot-shot at one of Mr M's friends as he dared to pass between her and the television, she point blank refused to apologise.

Oh dear.

Cue the back and forth between Time Out, pep talk explaining how important it is to apologise, psyching up to do it, leading her in front of the victim, silence, back to Time Out... I was getting a bit angry, so after doing the whole "disappointed" thing, passing swiftly to "my patience is running out now", I tag-teamed with the Good Cop... still to no avail.  She remained silent and sulky.  Good Cop was becoming Impatient Cop too by this point, so I took her aside and asked what the problem was.

"I've lost the word, mummy", she says.
"What word's that?"
"Sorry."
"You've forgotten the word "sorry"?!" [tries to keep a straight face at the obvious flaw in her argument]
"Yes, so I can't say it"

... aaaaand breathe!

Fortunately Mr M's friend had hardly noticed the incident, and was even less concerned about the apology (NOT THE POINT!!!)... but hey.  Her Ladyship opted for bed, rather than to be reminded of the word she'd lost.

Bath time chit-chat...

I like the kids' bath time especially now that I know they are confident in the swimming pool, so kind of, er, don't stay exactly within arm's reach any more.  At least we're on the same floor... and I do go in if there's a large splash... or at least ask if everything's ok...

Anyhow, I also can't quite get over how disturbing bath time is too.  There's something quite, quite wrong watching Mr M smiling at me when he realises I'm watching him discover what his nappy usually hides.  Poor lad... There's also Her Ladyship, who thinks many things are hilarious.  I've obviously had to put a stop to her discovering what Mr M's nappy usually hides (silence then raucous giggles from both of them... you know it's not going to be good!) but bath time just seems to be a forum for all kinds of bodily functions.  The logistics of a full bath evacuation in the event of an accident is just... and then there's the minor detail of catching the object... and yes, I have, with my bare hands.  Another thing I didn't sign up for when I launched into motherhood!

But even that's not what's spurred me on to write this post.  Nope, this evening's bath-time was all about the conversation.

Her Ladyship often declares she's a princess, but occasionally magnanimously adds that Mr M is a prince.  This evening, she also declared that she was going to marry him.  No you're not Dear.  Why not, he's a prince?!  He's your brother and people don't marry their brothers.  Why not, mummy? [oh gawd - walked into this one!]  Because if they do, they'll have babies with two heads! [er, where did I get that from?  Seriously, it's been a long day!]

Her Ladyship than looks rather awkward, giggles nervously and then says "but, I'd only go round him this much", gesturing doing a three quarter turn.  Ok... right.  Urgh.  Hmm... and moving swiftly on...

She later asked me about the shampoo we were using (sorry for the non-sequitur - welcome to my world of random tangents!) and more specifically, who made it.  Er... hmm, "Scheiber"... must be a German company... "oh, ok Mummy... does that mean it's full of germs?!"

[cracks up laughing]

Unexpected thanks...

In balance today has been lovely, if with a bit of a fraught moment when I randomly glanced upon that funny little book I occasionally write important things in and discovered that I had 30 minutes before Her Ladyship was due to have her latest vaccinations.  None of us were dressed, let alone ready to go out, but hey... I'd had to book this appointment 5 weeks in advance and had already got told off for missing one, so it was very much a case of "Octonauts, let's do this" and Kinder Egg hastily stuffed in my bag, we launched off and out.


Injections are horrid things at the best of times, but worse when you're a pre-schooler - there's total recognition of what's happening but no possibility of grown-up stiff upper lip attitude.  Still, "oh look, a Kinder Egg!" seemed to distract her.


After declaring to my father in law that "the doctor did something very nasty to me", I was somewhat reassured that Her Ladyship wouldn't hesitate to tell me about anything untoward should it happen, but it reminded me of the time she told everyone in the child-minding group that I broke her arm.  Not exactly the truth, but still enough to worry Social Services.


Anyhow, we filled the rest of the day with lots of fun things and at dinner (strange one-pot pasta, chicken, carrots and mushrooms in a creamy sauce - tasty, but took some convincing) she put down her cutlery, beamed and said "Thank you Mummy, you're the best best best best best Mummy ever!" (She'd obviously forgotten how I'd had to hold her for the jabs).  I smiled back with an appropriate "aww, thank you" but she carried on: "Mummy, you fix things and mend things and cook and make things and are the best best best best  Mummy ever!"


Now, that's enough to warm any mother's heart, isn't it...


After a slight [dramatic] pause, out came a bigger grin, flick of the hair, head cocked slightly to one side and the appropriate coy look...


"And now a thank you for me?"
.
.
.


[where would I start?!]


 o_O

The patience of a Saint...

Today is just one of those days where small things have just ganged up together, had a little chat and decided how fun it would be to challenge me... and I'm not in the mood to be challenged.


We've all heard the expression "you have to have the patience of a Saint" when it comes to raising children (and if you haven't yet got children - hehe - hang on to those happy thoughts!), but I've realised that the only thing I have in common with a Saint is a questionable grip on reality and the ability to hear voices in my head.  


On days like today, it's not my patience that's tested to breaking point, but my self-control.  Repeating the various mantras of  "I am the grown-up here", "Lead by example" and "Breathe and walk away" can only take you so far before completely losing it for no apparent reason and launching into a tantrum that even left Her Ladyship rather stunned.  Yes Dear, you think you can tantrum?!  Ha!  Got 30 years more practice at it than you, missy!  


What I really needed her to do, rather than continue to get on my frayed nerves, was to sit me down, make eye contact and talk to me quietly, asking me to say in words (nice words) why I was so upset and offer me some sympathy and solutions.


She didn't.


Instead, as I drove off from our house for the second time, having forgotten my phone (grr grr) she simply said "well done Mummy" in what could only be a rather patronising tone of voice.  Are 3 year-olds meant to have grasped the subtleties of tone?  Didn't see that in my BabyCentre milestone updates...


Short of a stiff drink, there's nothing better to help you through a day like today than meeting up with your fellow long-suffering mum friends (and then have a stiff drink). 
/waves
Some will be chirpy, some will have done interesting things that don't involve children and others will just mirror your blank, frazzled look with a vague raised eyebrow, nod and tired smile of recognition.  It's fantastic.  I love you all!

The wax crayons, the wall and the wet wipes...

I've had a nice day today really... it started well with a lie in until 8h, when Mr M tried to tug me out of bed and only minor incidents of sibling headlocks, wrestling-to-the-ground, bribery and cajoling, but hey, that's just another day in the life.


I was just cooking dinner (butternut squash and parmesan risotto with grilled chicken - moderate success), when Her Ladyship came bounding in, grinning and declaring "Mummy, come and see what I've done!".  You know it's trouble when you realise that the previous 10 minutes were strangely silent.  As she turns around to lead me to whatever wonderful thing she wanted to show me, I notice the wax crayon in her hand...


... and there it is - a wonderful rendition in brown all over my lovely white hallway wall.
Fortunately, it happened to be right next to where I sit her for Time Out, so remembering that I should stay calm (thanks Supernanny), I told her to sit down, that she wouldn't have any television for the rest of the evening, that I was exceptionally disappointed in her, that she should only ever draw on paper (and is the wall paper, dear?  No?!  No, it isn't - so DON'T DRAW ON IT!), and that she should stay put while I quickly save the chicken from burning.  Maybe not quite that calmly and maybe not quite that concisely.  Must try harder.


Now, Time Out's great, but Her Ladyship's a clever cookie and has perfected a look of remorse that she can turn on and off at will.  She'll say sorry in an appropriately sheepish tone and has even started, after lowering her eyes to say sorry, looking up and promising oh-so-sincerely "never to do it again".  She has yet to learn that I'm not fooled.


Coming back, she's already looking all doe-eyed and getting ready for the "sorry, I promise" routine but I've decided to nip that one in the bud and get all Victorian on her.  "Consequences", Supernanny said, so consequences there will be!  She moves into Sympathy Vote Phase II - tears welling up, but this is Tough Mummy she's dealing with.  Hah!  Yeah!


When I tell her that she's got to clean it off the wall, she's strangely enthusiastic, so I give her a wet wipe and tell her to get to it, reminding her that she's going to be cleaning until it's all gone and if it's not done by dinnertime, then she'll have dinner and get back to cleaning.  Rah!

I do cave in a little and help her out because in reality a 3-year-old's cleaning skills aren't all that, but there were some good excuses:
- My arm's hurting (yeah, look at my caring face)
- [sits back] Mummy, I'll just watch now and tell you where to clean (uh-huh?  No, you'll clean too...)
- Mummy, it's making me so tired! - Shall we get you ready for bed then? - No thanks Mummy.


Do I feel even a bit evil... nah.  We cleaned it all up and were friends again, so she got to play, Mr M was doing some colouring next to me and I was getting distracted by Facebook... or maybe a forum... or both.
A while later I was taking her up to bed and I cast my eyes onto the lovely cleeeee...


/argh


Mr M was last seen with a blue crayon in his hand and thinking about it, he had been rather quiet...


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Apparently hairspray gets it off...