Having small children is sometimes like living with a house full of drunks.
The speed in which they change their opinions, or love you then think you’re a dick a moment later is incredible and only comparable with someone who's had six pints of Strongbow and a couple of shots of Tuaca.
‘You’re my best friend,’ my two year old says in a slightly menacing way holding my face and trying to give me a Marmitey kiss.
Whilst in the same breath saying ‘go away naughty mummy’ and that little facehold turns into more of a nip.
I’d never really experienced the ‘terrible twos’ with my daughter.
Yes, she could be a pain in the ass now and then, ignore what I was telling her or have a mild mardy in the supermarket but it never lasted.
So these purple faced tantrums from my son have come as a bit of a surprise.
And the reasons for them can be anything.
Like literally any-fucking-thing.
In the last couple of weeks he has totally lost his shit because-
- He wasn’t allowed to eat the fish fingers frozen
- I’d cut the green manky bit off the end of the strawberry and couldn’t ‘fix it’ back on
- I changed the sheets on his bed
- He had to wear socks
- He wasn’t allowed to go out in his pyjamas
- Peppa Pig had finished
- Paw Patrol had finished
- Noddy had finished
- My shoes didn’t fit him.
I have this great idea for an invention.
It’s like handles for a bag, but they kind of strap to your child so that when they have thrown themselves on the floor and are going absolutely bonkers in the middle of the doctor's surgery when your name’s been called, you can lift them up like a weight lifter and carry them.
But in light of the fact that I might not get round to actually inventing this in the next six months, hurry up the fantastic threes.
Cos that’s what they’re called, right?