We’ve been confined to barracks lately. Ivy is still waging the wee-war on various fronts. Yesterday she put her hand on my shoulder and said conversationally ‘Mummy is very angry.’ My heart sank. ‘Where is the wee, Ivy?’ I said, cloth and floor-spray in hand.
Teddy has been in sleep-training boot camp. It’s my fault. Somehow, through incremental lapses of parenting, like a pot-smoker inching down the rocky road to crack-city, we reached a point where he would only go to sleep tightly swaddled in a sheet, plugged with a dummy and rocked in my arms to the tune of ‘The Wild Colonial Boy.’
Anyway, the hootenanny had to end and poor Teddy has been going to bed, free of all his comfort wrappings and convict toons. He’s not happy, and if the baby ain’t happy… ain’t nobody happy. I hope the tears and patting will end soon. What with the sleep training and the toilet training, I’m all out of beans.
What a good day to fall down the stairs!
I knew the universe would punish me for buying stupid Havianas instead of the identical Kmart thongs. They’ve been threatening to flip me for weeks and yesterday they followed through, sending me down the front steps to land, hard, on my hip. Teddy bounced off and we both cried. Keith rocketed out of the caravan and didn’t know who to triage first.
We are both fine but I’ve got a nasty bruisey ache and it hurts when I walk. How jolly!
We had a wild old storm yesterday just after the Havianas Incident. Ivy, Teddy and I watched it from the bedroom window, and then Ivy ate her first hailstone. This morning we went for a wander up the road, Ivy all gum-booted up, ready to jump in the puddles. It made me think about the arbitrary nature of the Rules that toddlers must live by. She was having such fun stomping in the biggest puddle that she sat down, dug around the bottom and took a little wallow. Why not?
You can always take a little bath in the laundry sink,
but you can’t always take a swim in a big puddle.