Why do I have to look pretty, Mummy?

I was attempting to pull a brush through the mass of tangles that is my daughter's hair, much to her consternation.

'There!' I said, 'Now you look pretty.'

She paused. Then looked at me and said:

'Why I do I need to look pretty, Mummy?'

And I didn't know what to answer, because she doesn't need to look pretty, does she? I don't even know why I said it. I brush her hair because she gets her food all over it and so that I can tie it up and she can actually see what she's doing. And then I read this:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-bloom/how-to-talk-to-little-gir_b_882510.html

The truth is the future – her future – terrifies me. When I was 11 or 12 I couldn't care less what I looked like... I was too busy going out on my BMX bike. But her generation are in the thick of it: a society obsessed with celebrities who are botoxed, boob-jobbed and fillered to within an inch of their lives. Everyone is judged first by appearance - ask questions later. And the peer pressure, oh the peer pressure. Have you noticed young girls these days (and boys, for that matter) they all look the same. Their hair is the same, their make-up is the same, they wear the same clothes. It makes me want to up sticks and move us all to a desert island until she's, like, thirty.

In the end, this is what I said:

'You don't have to look pretty, honey.' I said. 'But you can't do glueing and sticking and eating at school with your hair in your face, can you!'

'No!' she agreed.

And I resolved to think twice before using the word 'pretty'!

The Book is Out!

Every parent wishes that their children came with their very own instruction manual. Alas, in the absence of such a thing I am very proud to have been able to contribute to Joanne Mallon's excellent book on the minefield that is toddler-rearing. You can get yours here!

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Toddlers-Instruction-Surviving-Written-Parents/dp/0956702449/

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Toddlers-Instruction-Surviving-Written-ebook/dp/B006MLH0LI/

Bedtime

Everyone knows that kids hate going to bed. That they'll think of every last possible excuse:

I need a wee wee / poo poo / drink / the light's not on enough / the light's too bright / I haven't got my covers on / I'm cold / Ive lost my noo noo/big bear/Richard bear...

So you go up and down like a bleedin' yo yo

No you do NOT need a wee wee you've only just had one

There's a glass of water by your bed

Right, if you don't settle down I'll shut the door

Right, THAT'S IT, if you don't settle down I'll shut the door AND the gate.

Until finally, all is quiet.

Only, when you go up to bed later,  he's gone back to bed alright, and he's fast asleep...

...having closed his own door and shut the gate himself.

Sunshine Duke 1
Mummy 0

This is how my week is going

Exhibit A.

My new mug. Next to an ordinary size mug.

Exhibit B.
New mug filled with what we like to call around here "Mummy's Go-Go Juice" (aka Coffee)

The Reason

My son has decided, once again, that sleeping through the night is just not for him. And why would he? It's way more fun waking mummy and daddy up four times a night. And at 5 am, can you think of anything more fun than standing outside mummy and daddy's bedroom, with a jumper over your head, pretending to be Darth Vader? And when mummy stumbles out and demands to know what you're doing you say "I'm hiding." I don't know about you, but I can think of a million things I'd rather do at 5 in the morning than play hide and seek with a two year old.

But that's not the half of it. Not content with getting us out of bed by calling out for us, he, on the odd occasion, then has a night terror. Every witnessed one of these? They're bloody terrifying. There he is, screaming his head off, throwing himself around the bed, repeating mummy mummy mummy over and over, yet if you go anywhere near him, touch him, try to reason with him, the terror escalates a notch. So you're left placing pillows all around his bed in case he falls out, and standing very still and very quiet, waiting, praying for it to pass, and thinking that if this goes on any longer you might have to call an ambulance, or something.... After about thirty minutes, he falls asleep where he is (on the floor, last time), into a deep and unquiet sleep, while you remains petrified in the corner, having just aged about one thousand years.

Thank god for coffee.

And massive mugs.

Show and Tell Postcript

Exactly 11 weeks since the beginning of term, with a mere three weeks to go until the end of term, I have finally remembered to give the kids their items for the weekly Show and Tell.

And

this time, I got it right.

That's twice in one term. I reckon that's about a D minus, don't you? With a report card comment along the lines of must try harder. I've been wracking my brains for an excuse, but as SAHM for everything except a few hours a week, excuses fail me. Like I said, D minus.

Comment of the Week

"Mummy," she says, hands on hip, head cocked to one side, like she does when she's making a Really Important Point..

"Sometimes I only love you, and sometimes I only love Daddy."

Well I guess there's only so much love to go around, huh?

As a relatively new parent (I'm only four years into it you know) I've often wondered when that moment will come where your kid becomes smarter than you. You know, the time when they will roll their eyes, sigh exaggeratedly and with all the patronising gusto they can muster go, "no mum, this is how you use it" about any form of technology you can think of.

It's a foregone conclusion that, unless you're a techno-geek, one day your kids will think you're a dunce. You did it once, remember? When you had to show them how to use the brand new video recorder?

Well, it's happened to me already.

We're on holiday, and this morning, due to the Sunshine Duke's unwavering ability to wake up early no matter what time he went to bed, I was up and trying to work the TV, to give everyone else in the house, at least, a lie in. I tried every remote control (and there were five of them), I tried fiddling with the batteries in them, I tried the buttons on the TV... I tried the cables at the back, I tried everything. Exasperated, I flounced into the kitchen to make myself a calming cup of tea, promising the Duke that I'd be right back to have another go. 

I turn my back for five minutes and guess who's switched the TV on?

Did I mention he is not even three years old yet?

At least I didn't get an eye roll and a sigh, just a "Look, Mummy! The TV is on!" and a delighted smile across his cherubic face.