We have reached the end of our first week of J being back at work full time, you may recall in my previous post about J starting work, I had said I was looking forward to enjoying the time before the girl started nursery after Easter. In my mind, we’d be enjoying time together playing games, going for coffee and cake, and having lovely girly time (which is a bit bizarre, as neither of us could really be termed girly – other than because of our gender. Oh what fun we’d have.
Well, a week has passed, and I can confirm that I am more than ready for the girl to start nursery. The girl has mood swings which make my PMT induced rages, look like a relaxed stroll through a shady woodland grove, the breeze gently tousling your hair as the birds sing a delightful tune just for you.
We tidied their bedroom earlier in the week and rediscovered a child’s watch, about which she got ridiculously excited “Put it on me, put it on” so I did and off she went, happy as the proverbial. Two seconds later I heard her start screaming:
“What’s wrong?” concerned mummy voice.
“Watch hurting, take it off, take it OFF” screaming banshee, tears, snot and all.
So I duly remove the watch. Her face is now aghast, as though I had just ripped the head from her favourite dolly and flung it into a fire right in front of her.
“What you doing? Put watch ON” holding arm out, shrieking with the anguish of it all.
“But you said it was hurting” confused mummy voice.
“Put it on, PUT. IT. ON” Her whole being going puce with rage.
The watch goes back on.
“I love watchey, watch” wanders happily away whilst I look on in confusion.
Five minutes later, “Watch hurting me, take it off, take it OFF!” After days of this, I have this morning, confiscated the watch, admitting to her that I couldn’t deal with the rollercoaster anymore.
Another day, I told her we were going to hang out washing and feed the chickens, but then head indoors for some playtime. She trotted off happily. When it came time to go in, she refused:
“No, we do some gardening.”
“Well, mummy doesn’t really want to do gardening right now, as we’re off to get your brother soon.”
“Gardening…” quietly, looking up at me, with tears in her beautiful big eyes.
“OK, OK. Come on, let’s get the tools out” (I’m not totally heartless, she looked too cute to refuse).
Tools out, I get on the patch, I give her an area to dig and we set to work. Two minutes later, she is whacking her spade against the wall in a rage “Spade won’t go in, you do it”
“I’m doing this bit baby, you dig it, you can do it” calm mummy voice.
“No” escalating shriek “YOU. DO. IT”
“No,” firm mummy, “have another go, you can do it.”
“NNNNOOOOOO. I can’t do it” spade gets flung across the garden, accompanied by ear piercing wail of rage.
She has also rammed bikes / scooters / toy shopping trolley, against gaps that are too small for them to fit through, whilst screaming like all the hounds of hell are at her heels. Ending the outburst by collapsing to the floor screaming “My KNEEEEEESSSS” or, her favourite when I’m busy, “I need a poo poo”. And all the time, I fluctuate between laughing hysterically (behind my hand in case she unleashes her wrath on me), rolling my eyes and using my firmest of firm mummy voices, attempting to reason with a two year old, who seems to be hitting puberty remarkably early.
It’s been an interesting week, and I’d like to think that I’ve learnt something about my beautiful, strong minded, independent girl, from it. But really, honestly, all I’ve learnt is how to hide in the shed whilst stuffing chocolate down myself, trying to pretend I’m not being terrorised by the tiny dictator, screeching right outside the door.