Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Babies in The Compost, Bitches In The Supermarket

Hard to snatch time to maintain this little blog at the minute.

Ivy is in a wonderful phase of life. She's a singing, dancing, note-scribbling,craft-tastic stand-up comedian, with a black turn.  For instance one of her knock-knock jokes involves her suddenly shouting  'Just open the door you idiot!' She spends a lot of time arranging her collections and playing in the part of the garden she calls Africa.  Luckily, she is not taking much parenting at the minute, because George and Ted are sucking all the space allocated for that.

Ted has got the three-year-old crazies. (Don't you think getting a kid from ages two until four should be an Olympic sport? I don't think I would medal. But man, how I would love to watch the champions.) He's also going through some sort of middle-child bleep. Focused attention, Teddy Time, increased discipline and desperate little talks are not so far helping. He doesn't know what's going on either. He's just in that loop where there's a bigger emotional payoff for him in being tricky, naughty or obstreperous than in doing what he's asked to do. I remember Ivy going through this too. 'Let's put Georgie in the compost,' I overheard him whisper to Ivy at the dinner table. I protested and Ted tried to defend himself. 'But I don't like her!' he said.

He's hungry all the time, shooting up out of his pantaloons, tripping over his own feet like a newborn giraffe. Today, as I tried hopelessly to get him to help me put his clothes away, he pulled a go-slow, taking forever to carry a pair of pants across the room. 'But Mum, I'm so tiiiired,' he said. I restrained myself from making the first response that sprang to mind. Instead I started counting to three which I do hundreds of times a day at the minute, like some kind of demented Rain Man. Ted suddenly engaged his legs and sprang into action, but meanwhile Georgie had ambled around the corner to check out the scene. Ted got his legs confused and sat heavily on her head.

She was fine. She was fine. But there were tears from me and from her before we established that. Then, on the way to school pick-up Teddy asked me how to spell words, one after the other, until he had written his first ever sentence on the etch-a-sketch. 'There was a poo.' That sums up three-year-olds for me. They are glorious, and they break your balls.

Meanwhile, the smallest has taken to shrieking at the top of her voice when her needs are not meant instantly or she wants to chat. She doesn't cry. She just screams. She screeched her way around the supermarket this week and I can't tell you how many angry looks I got. I kept holding up my hands hopelessly at tutting strangers. 'What can I do?'  (Another Olympic sport: making a baby do anything. I would buy tickets to that event too.) One woman actually hissed 'shut up!' at the baby as she  passed. That's how bad it was. Or what a freaky bitch that lady was. Or both.

Otherwise, my hip is hurting me from breakfast to bedtime, and as soon as I have a free shift, I am in the bath. (And finally, an Olympic sport I could excel at. Gold for Australia!) If only I could just direct all household proceedings from there with a cheese sandwich, a cup of tea and a megaphone.

I shall work on that and get back to you.

8 comments:

  1. Oohoo, you really got your hands full! At least Ted is still honest about all his plans and you can try to nip them in the bud.
    I can't get over the attitude of that lady - did she expect Georgie to obey that bitchy order or what?
    Hope you get a lot of time in the bath and your hip improves, pain sucks...

    Fine

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    1. It improves Fine, until I get out of the bath. Stupid not bring able to live in the bath.

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  2. how did you not slap that supermarket woman? i love your description of parenting three year olds as sport. ah. thanks for the reminder as to why i've been turned upside down lately by my kid. he's three. oh yeah.

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    1. I was part shocked and part wowed by the amazing anti-socialness of it Sascedar. The screaming was really bad. But telling a baby to shut up breaks so many social conventions that it is almost impressive to see someone do it.

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  3. I agree, getting any child from 2-4 years is the most hardest and stressful thing- constant accidental death watch. We called the time from 18- 4 the dark years cos even though they are bloody cute jeez they wear you down! my Busy is also spending a lot of time playing by herself in her room, arranging her ponies or dollhouse or some such thing just so- I can hear her next door to my office sometimes and I love hearing how she talks to animals/ dolls.

    What a bitch that woman was- it was a supermarket, not exactly a place for quiet contemplation!

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    1. Yes, bitchfaced moll, agreed. The dark years...yes!

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  4. I don't know how you do it. I did two days with three little un's and was spent. SPENT I tell you. Nb, the youngest in that house has the screeching when she wants something down pat too. It's a nifty trick :)

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Thanks for talking to me. I don't got cooties. Oh, except for when I got cooties.