Right, let’s get this shit straight, right now shall we?
- Toddlers, specifically two-year olds = The Terrible Twos (spoken in a Dracula type voice).
Mm hmm. Cool. I know what’s coming. Plenty of people harp on about the TT’s. I can mentally prepare for this. I can buy a book patronisingly entitled How To Tame Your Toddler or some such bollocks. I can stock pile wine and Cadbury’s, I can double up my medication, I can get my 8 hours of sleep in. I’m fucking READY for you, Terrible Twos. You’re gonna regret messing with my kid. BRING IT.
But what I was not, and am still not ready for, is what is happening now. The Bean has gone turbo, it’s all kicked off, the shit’s hit the fan etc etc. My problem is Bean is three years old (plus three months) and I absolutely, most certainly was not ever prepared for this. As far as I know, there is no name for this, so I am christening it:
- The Tyrannical Threes (Trademark pending).
I’ll be completely honest here, I’m struggling to even like Bean right now. At times it feels as though he’s been switched in the night by an evil alien being, sent to emotionally exhaust and inevitably destroy me.
I love my son, I do, more than I could ever put into words ‘ere, more than I could incoherently say but Lord Almighty he is testing me. For what I don’t know. I failed miserably at the Patience test, I skived the Energetic Mum test, and I copied someone else’s answers on the Newborn to One test. I couldn’t even list here what it is he is actually doing that is so naughty, because pretty much EVERYTHING he is doing at the moment is bad. It’d be easier and more time-saving to list the good behaviour. Which are as follows:
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not focusing on the bad only and ignoring the good things he does, I always praise him, if anything I OVER praise. I praise him for crossing the road with me, or tell him he’s a good boy for stroking the cat instead of wearing her like a furry scarf. I lost it this morning, after me making a quick dash upstairs to go to the loo, when I thought he was momentarily preoccupied, he sneakily followed me like a special agent and proceeded to jump on my bed, shout while his sick dad was still asleep and throw all the clean, folded washing down the stairs. All while I’m still doing up my jeans and telling him to stop.
I say “lose it”, well I can’t properly Lose It anymore can I? No, I didn’t slump to the floor swigging from a bottle of cheap pink wine, slurring threateningly and crying uncontrollably. Nah. No, I sighed a big sigh, which by the way, the test for Sighing I fucking ACED, took him downstairs and grabbed a wedge of paper and every single brightly coloured felt-tip I could find, even the dried up, scratchy ones and proceeded to make a reward chart.
Bean watched me with suspicion and refused to join in, just watched from the sofa with narrowed eyes while I doodled questionable pictures of suns and cats and rainbows like a woman possessed. Evidently the art student in me has cleared off long ago, in search of red wine and boys with stupid fucking hair, the slag. ANYWAY, we (by which I mean, I) finished the chart, proudly stuck it on the fridge as if it was the answer to all our problems, and told him if he gets X amount of stickers, he can get a nice Playmobil toy. See how desperate I am? Bribery. My parenting book will be out in all good (and bad) book shops this coming Winter, don’t get your knickers in a twist.
Of course, it didn’t sodding work. Of course, he’s fucking sussed me right out. Of course, the little naughty alien he’s been swapped with couldn’t give a toss about shiny stickers or small plastic German toys. It wants to see me crumble, it wants tears, it wants whispered conversations between me and my OH in the kitchen which essentially involve us dramatically gesticulating and pleading “What the fucking hell do we dooooo?” to one another in hushed voices. It wants me to sit in the corner with my cold tea, and after climbing on me, biting me, pulling off my glasses one too many times for me to say “Just give mummy 5 minutes, please.” in a scarily despondent tone.
He’s been ignoring everything I say for a good few weeks now, to the point today, in my utter desperation I was clicking my fingers by his ears to be certain that he can actually HEAR me. Yup, no problems there, he turned around and looked quite annoyed and asked “Mum, what are you doing that for?”
I’ve tried the naughty step and the cooling down spot. I’ve done counting to three and looking all mean. I’ve tried reward charts before. I’ve tried taking toys and treats away when he’s bad and giving them back when he’s good. I’ve tried to talk to him so, so many times to try to wheedle out of his little head WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? But nope. Nothing. Not a sausage.
I even, get this right, honestly, it’s a fucking good one, said to him the other day “When you don’t listen to me, you make me sad.” Yup. Yeah I did. Take that parental disappointment weight on your tiny little shoulders, son. It actually made him cry. I’m a fucking monster, seems the Bad Mum test was another good’un for me. But please, buy my book? What do you mean the deal’s off?
I am officially at the end of my rope, my tether is long gone and I’ve had it up to here *waves hand above head*. Is this an unspoken thing? Are the Tyrannical Threes real? Or just in my house between 6am and 7pm? Is there a toddler boarding school or boot camp I can send him to, preferably orchestrated by Mr Tumble? Or is it just yet another phase that’s totally and utterly sucker punched me?
I’m going to drink some pink wine, bitterly swear at all my parenting books, before throwing them at the wall and crying myself to sleep again. Haha. JOKE. *weeps*