toddler Archives : Me, Annie Bee.

Potty training – Woe

Anna — Mon, 27 Feb 2017 06:00:07 +0000

I lost a round of toddler Top Trumps with Aoife’s lack of potty skill when she was about two and a half, obviously this led me to think she was probably behind developmentally and the lack of potty skills would hinder her socially. She would go on to do badly at school and have no friends (you know, all those thoughts you have when the other mums brag about what their kids can do) and so decided we must get her on the potty. With Aoife it was easy, she was the eldest so we didn’t have to work round the school run. I read lots of ‘Top Tips’ and armed with this knowledge felt positive. We could lock ourselves away and just make it happen. We chose a week and decided to not leave the house at all, Aoife would wear pants and if she had an accident she would hate it so much that she would realise the answer was to use the potty. Brilliant. OR She would actually have an accident, she wouldn’t care less and she would just sit happily in her wet pants or throw them to one side carry on what she was doing. We moved onto plan B, sitting on the potty to read a book or maybe even watch Little Princess or something. She would wee on the potty, we’d cheer wildly and she would want to go on the potty all the time for she loved the cheering. OR She would actually just sit on the potty a while, watch her favourite show, stand up next to the potty and wee on the floor then settle back down onto the potty to read a book. We then went straight to plan ‘Bad Parenting’, we ventured into the world of treats. Aoife would wee on the potty, we would reward her with a chocolate ball, she would forevermore wee on the potty and we would successfully wean her off the chocolate balls. OR She would actually sit on the potty from 9am-5pm knowing that eventually a wee would fall out sooner or later and would be successfully caught in the potty, she would be rewarded and she didn’t have to try. She could just sit there all day being rewarded and catching accidental wees. Eventually, after much carpet cleaning and disinfecting we realised she just wasn’t up for it yet and decided to halt proceedings. THAT was when she decided she would use the potty herself. She still expected a chocolate ball in return but, left to her own devices, she just decided to go for it. It was probably the audience and the persuading (and MAYBE the time we nearly lost her down the toilet) that put her off. We had been making too big a deal of it. Now we’re coming to Seth’s turn, I see blogs and articles advising me of 10 sure fire ways to get him potty trained and I feel that feeling again, like we’re getting to the point where everyone else expects him to be trained. I don’t know whether to wait for him to decide or try to encourage him. Though my BIGGEST concern with Seth is that he’s a boy! Do I try to potty train him standing up or sitting down? If the former is the best idea then I don’t even know where to begin! Buckets all over the living room? Who says it’s easier with the second child! Help! This post was first published over at http://meetothermums.com

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You’ll never walk alone (with a toddler)

Anna — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 06:00:35 +0000

One of the THE most stressful part of my day is the walk home from school. It’s not far, a mile, it’s a slight incline all the way and it’s like being dragged about by a herd of rampaging wildebeest! It starts in the playground while we wait for Aoife, Seth sits on the floor in the mud. Sometimes he might have a little lay, a small roll around. I take a snack to try and keep him on his feet. He has been known to pick it off the floor and eat it. Then he has a little crawl in the mud, he is more than capable of walking but crawling is more fun. Interestingly he never crawled before he could walk. Once Aoife has been gathered the fun really begins. As we walk home he will stop to carefully select a stick, a few steps later he will discard that one for a bigger one, a few more steps and that one will be cast aside for what can only be described as a tree trunk. Thankfully with this windy weather of late there have been so many sticks to choose from. So many. Today he found a fantastic stick and proceeded to do his best Basil Fawlty impression on a complete strangers car! I try dragging him away but I swear his arms stretch. Next, I physically have to wrestle him from a pile of dog shit that he so desperately wants to stand in and I’m clearly the worst mummy for not letting him leap in it. Every puddle is stood in, every pile of leaves walked through and every grass verge traipsed on whether they’re in our line of walking or not. He has to touch every post and electricity box at a certain point on the way home. I sigh with despair knowing they’re probably covered in dog wee, hey, maybe even human wee. He has a little lie down on the way up the hill, every 5 metres maybe. When we are actually walking between rests he is turned around, back to back with me, facing back down the hill. My arm is constantly being wrenched out of its socket. He is blessed with a strength beyond his two and a half years, he possesses the strength of Thor Bjornsson! We get to the main road waiting to cross, he likes to tease the drivers, making out like he is going to step out in front of them. Obviously it won’t happen as I have a firm grip of him. Finally there’s a break in the traffic “let’s go” I say, Seth spots a stone he really needs, I trip over him, Aoife trips over me, we all land in a pile back on the curb and wait for another lull. Once we successfully start crossing he must stop in the middle of the road to jump a bit (as you do) or to watch the bus that’s heading directly toward us. “Bus!” he declares with glee. As we round the corner he attempts, sometimes successfully, to dehead some lovely rosebushes. I mean they were really lovely, the man in the house there puts a lot of time and effort into them. I should probably buy him some new roses… There are a few more piles of dog poo to fight over then we’re on the home stretch. He sticks his hand in the wheel of the neighbours 4×4, covers his hands in filth and then goes for a sprint finish. Once we get to the front door he says “ding dong” wanting me to lift him up to the bell. I look at him standing there. God knows what on his hands, in his hair, over his cherubic little face. “Not a chance”. The Tale of Mummyhood

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Sweet child o’ mine.

Anna — Mon, 12 Dec 2016 13:41:18 +0000

In 2010 I was pregnant, I would have told you that if my child were a girl she wouldn’t always wear pink, if it were a boy he wouldn’t always wear blue. I would have told you that my child would always show good manners. My child wouldn’t have a snot encrusted face. My child wouldn’t have massive public meltdowns. My child and I would have an amazing, love fuelled relationship. My child and I would do many different activities every day. My child wouldn’t watch TV. My child would never be mean. My child would never act spoilt. My child would be a kind child who recognised that they were blessed with a loving family and a lovely life. Here I am six years down the line. Mine is the child who likes to lay down in the middle of the street, maybe even eating stones. Mine is the child who scooched along the floor on his back and got stuck under a clothes rail in Primark. Mine is the child trying to hold the hands of strangers to take them home. Mine is the child constantly looking for a means of escape. Mine is the child telling me how unfair I am because her pillows are all wrong. Mine is the child kicking the bath because we had the audacity to ask her to have a shower. Mine is the child who threw the biscuit across the playground because I bought the wrong one. Mine is the child who looks like their wardrobe exploded at them. Mine is the child eating yogurt covered raisins from the wet floor. Mine is the child who speaks to me in a way I would never dream of speaking to my parents even at this age. Mine is the child walking away from me when I ask for a hand. Mine is the child wearing clothes inappropriate for the season. Mine is the with pasta sauce in their hair at least I hope it’s pasta sauce. Mine is the child who doesn’t stop all day, every day. Until we need to be somewhere then he barely starts. Mine is the child who bites in anger. Mine is the child who walks under my feet so I trip up in public, usually in front of people. Mine is the child who ignores what I say in public leading me to talk in that low, whisper type voice that means business but is still dutifully ignored. Mine is the child having a tantrum because I have no snacks left. Mine is the child who makes other people look up from what they’re doing to see what the commotion is about. I am the mum often looking harassed. I am the mum, sometimes exhausted even though her children should be sleeping through. I am the mum who often wants the earth to open up and swallow her. I am the mum who tries hard to placate her children and make sure they don’t spoil your day. I am the mum who constantly reminds her children not to be mean. I am the mum who tries to encourage her children to have manners and be respectful to others. I am the mum who can feel your judgemental glare. I am the mum who sometimes feels like she isn’t coping at all. I am the mum who sometimes looks like she is letting her children run wild but is actually carefully selecting her battles. I am the mum who sometimes hurries home so she doesn’t cry in public. I am the mum who sometimes feels alone. Mine is the child who smothers me with kisses and cuddles. Mine is the child who tells me I’m the best mummy ever. Mine is the child who tells me they’re sorry they were naughty. Mine is the child who declares family time is the best time. Mine is the child who is still learning how life works. Mine is the child who makes my heart swell with pride simply by existing. I am the mum who forgets childhood is short and lets what others think bother her too much. I am the mum blessed with two beautiful, funny, clever, fiercely independent children. I am the mum lucky enough to snuggle up with her children and watch Mickey Mouse for the 50th time in a day. I am the mum who cries laughing at the funny things her children do. I am the mum who, probably, wouldn’t change a thing. Mine may be the child who often behaves in ways I swore they never would but I am the mum who now realises that childhood isn’t for practising to be a grown up. Mine are also the children who can’t stand still long enough to have a photo taken together.

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Like raking leaves in a hurricane.

Anna — Wed, 16 Nov 2016 12:09:53 +0000

Before I had Aoife I was very house proud. We didn’t have the biggest house, it was clean and tidy but not soulless and clinical. I’ll admit that one of my proudest achievements after having Aoife was maintaining a clean and tidy house (I aim pretty low as you can tell). I didn’t obsess about it, I didn’t use valuable mummy daughter bonding time to do it. I just managed to keep on top of it. I was winning. Then Seth happened. Despite all my good intentions my house hasn’t been tidy since. It’s just a constant, low level mess, like a visual version of white noise and I can’t bear it. There’s always a greasy hand print or scratch up a wall. There’s always a sock or random item of clothing lying around. The curtains are always bunched up from where he has watched the neighbours coming and going. Half the toys are under the couch along with a sippy cup and half eaten apple from who knows when. There’s always a bit of train track in the middle of the room or bits of torn magazine on the floor. There is always crumbs from torn up brioche or scrunched up crackers. Food apparently tastes better when eaten via the floor. Lord only knows where the handset of my landline is. There’s always a wet patch from spat out drinks. There’s always something for me to fall over. This is all after I’ve attempted to tidy, Seth just follows me, like a small tornado, destroying everything I’ve tidied. It drives me mad. My conservatory isn’t a haven of tranquility where I can enjoy the peace of an evening, it’s a toy store. As I settle down on an evening to chill out all I can see, where ever I look is toys and ‘stuff’, their idea of tidying up is to shove everything to the edge of the room. But how long before trains, queen Elsa, beads and greasy hand prints are replaced with phones, tablets, size 11 boots, stinky sports kits and the lingering stench of Lynx or Impulse? How long before I’m sitting in a lovely tidy house, enjoying the peace tranquility of my conservatory* because my babies aren’t part of it anymore, creating that constant low level of mess, the constant low level noise, that high level of joy and love?** It doesn’t bare thinking about. Ours maybe an untidy house but it’s a happy house. *That conservatory will obviously be in the South of France where I will get over the lack of children pretty darn quickly! I jest, of course. **Most of the time…..

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“Life is a journey to be experienced not a problem to be solved”

Anna — Mon, 07 Nov 2016 22:36:10 +0000

There are some things that I can’t dwell on too much or my brain has a small meltdown. Aeroplanes for example. How does a large coke can move through the sky with no strings? Space travel. WTF? How can a tin can LEAVE THE ATMOSPHERE WITH A HUMAN INSIDE AND FLOAT AROUND AND THEN COME BACK? Even more perplexing – WiFi How is the internet floating all around us. Invisible. All the information in the world is just floating about waiting for a device to pick it up. BOOM I get a headache just thinking about these things. There is only one thing more baffling than these freakishly impossible things. My children. Why, If I’m sat in the same room and ask her to do something she can’t hear yet if I’m sneaking a bit of chocolate in the kitchen she hears it from miles away? Why does he consider a headbutt a sign of love and affection? Why does she loves chicken (and “actual dead fish”) at school but not at home? Why does she like pasta, sauce, chorizo and bacon cooked in a pan but if I cook it in the oven it’s the worst thing in the world? Why is she too tired to get out of bed to shut her bedroom door but OK to come to the top of the stairs to let me know? Why doesn’t he want his socks on? Ever. He wants no one else to have their socks on either. Why doesn’t she remember what she had for lunch at school but know she ate it all up? Why does he announces the end of every meal by throwing his plate? Why doesn’t she remember what she did at school but knows exactly what one of her friends did? Why doesn’t she know the answer but does know that I am most definitely wrong? Why does she declare a love of cucumber but won’t eat it? Why does he store his drink in his mouth for AGES then spit it all over the floor? Why can’t she possibly write neatly or stay in the lines in her homework book, she most definitely can’t draw and label a picture but her friend’s birthday card contains a well written and perfectly illustrated essay? Why can’t she sit quietly for 3 minutes while the news is on but can be deadly silent whilst Shimmer and Shine is on? Why does she feel the need to alert me to her misdemeanors via the medium of song? She could get away with so much more if she didn’t feel the need to soundtrack her life. Why can he barely makes sentences but can repeat anything he hears? ANYTHING. Why do they love crap TV like Topsy & Tim or Max & Ruby* but not enjoy Hey Duggee quite as much as me? Why does she have to make really shrill noises when I hoover or use the blender? Why can she have 3 napkins yet still use her sleeve to wipe her mouth? Why does he decide he absolutely MUST pick up the very important stone the minute we’re about to step into the road? If I really have no hands free he must attempt to eat it too. Why, when they are tired, do they want to stay awake even more? Why do they always want Daddy more than me? (Especially if he isn’t here). Why do they insist on growing up so flipping fast? Why won’t they give me a minute just to stop and take them all in. *Seriously, where are Max & Ruby’s parents? Why is she, a mere child of a rabbit looking after her little brother. Grandma lives really close, why doesn’t she chip in or alert the relevant authorities? Also, Why is Ruby such a bitch to Max? All he wants to do is play with his truck or something and she won’t let him. Clearly the loco parentis responsibility has gone right to her head.

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It’s a tough job but someone has to do it. With pleasure.

Anna — Mon, 05 Sep 2016 09:17:00 +0000

The summer break is over. After a glorious week on the Cote D’Azur Rory is back at work, Aoife has just started Year 1 and it’s back to reality (booooo). There’s no other job, yes I referred to parenting as a job – If a job doesn’t get done, things go tits up and things fall apart. If parenting doesn’t get done things go tits up and things fall apart, though to be fair things generally go tits up when I’m on shift anyway. Anyway, I digress. There’s no other job where I would put up with my boss physically attacking me, screaming in my face, throwing my stuff, throwing everyone else’s stuff (I’m thinking dinner plates at the villa we rented last week) and making impossible demands. There’s certainly no other job where I would do it all for free on a 24 hr shift pattern. If most people were at work and their boss called them to the office and said Read this to me they might think Hmmm OK, this is a little odd but what the hey If the boss then stopped them mid-sentence and said NO, I need you to read these sections in a French accent, this bit sounding like a boy and this bit here like Woody from Toy Story They’d reply Heck no and start updating their CV. The CEO The President There’s only so much shit you can clean up from your toddlers back. So many headbutts you can handle. So many times your glasses can be ripped from your face or your hair can be pulled or you can be scratched. There’s only so much food you can have thrown at you or scrape from the walls or floor. There’s only so many times you can retrieve broken pieces of items you rather liked. There’s only so many times you can be summoned at 4 am to replace covers that are well within reach, or find teddies that are *right* there. There’s only so much you can handle before you ask yourself Why on earth did parenthood seem a good idea? Then I think about it and I realise there’s only so long I’ll be needed to do these things. There’s only so long a bedtime story will be required. There’s only so long a hand will need holding or a booboo need kissing. There’s only so long that I’ll be considered the fountain of all knowledge and the fixer of all things. There’s only so long a Mummy cuddle will make things better. There’s only so long that a trip to the cinema with me will seem like fun. There’s only so long they’ll want to holiday as a family. There’s only so long before they’ll feel they’re too old to need me. There’s only so long. My contract is temporary, I’ll be made redundant one day. And so I’ll remember this when I’m up to my eyes in one mess or another, when I feel like I’m just there to serve not as a human. I’ll remember that one day I’ll not be needed for anything, big or small. I’ll remember that although now I may feel insignificant sometimes, these jobs need doing and these processes need playing out and I actually AM of importance in my workplace. One day I’m going to be very sad to have retired. On a lighter note, we just spent a week in France. One evening we’d got Seth down to sleep at a reasonable time so went to sit outside. Aoife came out in her pyjamas and sat next to me. This is what it’s about. Sitting here, relaxing in the sun, enjoying the peace and chatting I tried hard not to laugh What would you like to chat about? Ummm the view? Those trees down there are lovely aren’t they? She’s perfect. Relaxing in the sun.

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