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| What you talkin' bout, Missus?? |
So your child/s is complaining/whinging/grizzling or just
being.
You are tired. It’s
been a long day. A day that is still, no
matter what way you look at it, only 24 hours long, but whose bright idea was that?
It’s a question you would like to ask Mother Nature if you
had the opportunity to book an appointment with her. Sure I may as well make a list. Just in case.
Two more burning questions of mine would be: did you really invent
Fridays and weekends just to have a laugh at mothers? Well, it’s not funny. And the million dollar question: why do kids wake up from 5am onwards, bright
eyed and bushy tailed while their parents are cemented to their beds? What’s the big idea? Should that not be the other way around?
So back to the witching hour, where your child/s seem intent
on making the last few hours of the day, the most miserable and loud ones.
In my house, at any rate, the craziness goes a bit like
this:
A fight breaks out over a piece of Lego or just because
someone looked at someone else. Breathing
in the same air as a sibling is also a boxable offence. The dog is racing round, barking the odd time
and making grabs at random pairs of shoes.
DS consoles are blaring and more rows start over the games for
them. There are a myriad of demands made
for food/drinks/stories/lost items to be found/bathroom visits/homework.
Smallest Boy is insisting on being carried. More fights.
It begins to get physical. There
are punches dealt and screeches for punishments to be meted out. The accusations start:
“He won’t leave me alone.”
“He keeps hitting me!” “Get him
away from me!” “He’s stoopid!” “You’re stoopid!” “Mammy, he called me…………………….” “That’s coz you are! Stoopid poopy
pants!” “I hate you!” “You can’t! Because I hate you more!” “No! I do!” “No.
Me!”
“BE QUIET!”
That there would be me.
I take deep breaths and wipe a dramatic hand across my brow. I reach for the smelling salts (Wine to you
and me)
No, I don’t. Come
on! That would be crazy! It’s
still only 5pm.
I make myself wait at least another half hour before I try
to dull the pain and stick a straw in the bottle.
“He’s still looking at me!”
“Well, he keeps touching me!”
“Because you keep looking at
me. I hate when people look at me.” “I hate you!”
“I hate you more!”
Oh, boy. Maybe 5.00pm
isn’t too early after all.
And then there’s PMS (Poor Me Syndrome). You know exactly the one I mean. And this is how you get them. Pay attention
now peeps. Here comes a good ‘un.
Them refers to my boys.
Me refers to, well, me. Moving
swiftly on. Convo would go as follows:
Them: “Can I have a
treat?”
Me: “No. You’ve had one already.”
Them: “Well, what
about……………………?”
Me: “I said,
no!” Insert mammyism of your choice here
for good measure. “You’ve had
enough/Leave some for tomorrow/You’ll rot your teeth/You’ll get a pain in your
tummy.”
Them: “It’s not
fair! I never get anything!”
Here it comes!
Agree with them. Go
on. Try it. Not only does it confuse them terribly, it
also shuts them up. You can actually see
expressions, like cogs on a wheel, change on their face as they process what
you’re saying to them. It’s gas! There is a strong inclination to agree with
you but the suspicion that you are being sarcastic stops them.
Drop everything you’re doing, look straight at them and use
your most earnest voice.
Me: “Yes, you’re
absolutely right. I agree with you. You never, ever get anything.” Now that
you’ve got their attention, nod for effect and continue. “All those toys you get. All the swimming lessons. Never mind about Freddo Fridays and when your
Daddy brings home Kinder Eggs. I don’t
know how I didn’t spot that you never get anything. What do you want to do about it? Have you any ideas at all?”
Look innocently at them and if at least one of your kids
doesn’t open their mouth in an attempt to point something out, but stop dead
because they know, on a sub-conscious level, they won’t win this one, I’ll come
over to your house myself and entertain yours for an hour.*
*Disclaimer. I’m an
awful liar.
Now where’s that aforementioned wine.
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