Wednesday 21 March 2012

Tantrums and Paper Hearts

My eldest daughter has never had a tantrum. That's not 'she's never had a tantrum apart from that one in the sweet shop when I said no to the Haribo eggs'. She's never had one. My middle daughter made a few pathetic attempts, but they were really rather useless, more of a wobbly bottom lip and a look in her eye that said I'd somehow disappointed her. They blew over in a matter of minutes - she's easily distractable. I spent the first ten years of my mothering life thinking I was awesome. I thought I had it nailed. I'd look on as mothers hoiked screaming children out of playgrounds and supermarkets, dragged or carried under an arm, kids so angry they were puce in the face. Smugness pervaded. I was good at this! My eldest would ask for sweets and I'd explain, no, not before supper. "Why?" she'd ask, her irritation beginning to rise. "Because, if you do, you won't eat your supper." "Oh, okay," she'd say, nodding sagely, disappointed, but in full understanding, her irritation ebbed, and then I'd give myself a smug little pat on the back.

Oh you foolish, foolish woman!

How unwise to be so very pleased with myself. How unwise to think myself skilled in all matters maternal. When my third daughter hit twenty months I discovered something. I discovered I was never a great mother; I'd merely given birth, by twist of genetics, to two rational, placid children to start with. These two fooled me, lulled me into a false sense of my own capability, left me belly-up and unprepared for the volcano of rage that was to consume our peaceful home. The Beast had arrived. (Mr J and I semi-affectionately call her The Beast behind her back. The Beast or The Tyrant or The Fascist. I wouldn't call her these names to her face. Not yet, anyway - I'm a believer in self-fulfilling prophesy when it comes to telling children what they are and aren't, what they're good or bad at - and frankly I need to play this one down. I can't take the risk of her living up to her own hype). She's a ball of fire, igniting at the slightest thing, and never backs down. She'll storm up the stairs, scream until her throat is sore, stamp her feet, thump the wall and slam a door, and if the slamming doesn't get the desired attention, she'll open it and slam it again, and that's all because I said no to Cbeebies. Don't get me wrong, it's not ALL the time. This same child loves to make people laugh, she chats, helps, and is gentle with the animals. She's angelic at school and loves to please. It's by no means a done deal that she'll end up in Borstal (though I have to say, after tonight's outburst, I might drive her there in the dead of night and deposit her on the doorstep with a label tied about her neck saying: 'Please look after this Beast'. From this point on, like Paddington, she will be adopted by a kindly family called Brown, who will name her after the place they found her, and then send their new daughter, Borstal, to eat sticky buns with Old Mr Gruber next door). She is five and already I'm worried for her husband, a man who might not even be born yet. He's got a whirlwind ahead of him. The wedding list will be plastic plates only - that or a heap of smashed Wedgwood to recycle. Yes, plastic plates, no knives, and a shed with a lock on the inside where the poor boy can take refuge while the cyclone is raging. We will hand her over with a health warning like the cute little Mogwai in Gremlins.

This said, there's something strangely exhilarating about watching this mite fight her corner so gamely. She will take all four of us on if she feels she must. Her courage is admirable. I know she'll never take any crap. I know she won't be walked over. This little fighter will grow up to by one helluva feisty don't-mess-with-me chick. Would it be wrong to admit I'm secretly proud of her? That with every slammed door and screeched: 'You're ruining my LIFE!' I feel a burst of admiration? I was a reasonably placid child. I wonder whether I missed a trick. In fact, I'm wondering whether to have a chat with the other two. Perhaps it's about time they both learnt to slam a door and stamp their feet, fight for what they believe to be right, even if that's 24/7 access to Mr Tumble.

Ten minutes after the final door-slam tonight my daughter appeared. She solemnly walked over to me and handed me a paper heart. Crudely cut out, with a single misspelt word on it. Sometimes the making up is the best bit, right?

15 comments:

  1. I think she is suffering from a srong dose of spirit, and that will take her far in life, embrace the spirit!

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    1. Spirit she has in spades. We're now working on the self-control. Could take a while..!

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  2. I used to think Rosie, our dog, was the sweetest beast I'd ever known. I fear, this morning, I shall have to tell her, despite how sweet she really is, there is another competing for that title. What a lovely post - about all of them. As ever, most enjoyable!

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    1. Thanks, Sash. The Beast awaits your next visit. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

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  3. She sounds very similar to my feisty two year old who, at 3am this morning was shouting gutturally 'No Daddy, go AWAY! I want MUUUUMMMMMYY!'. It was like her mouth was the lid to Pandora's Box and out of it came all the ills of the world....in toddler speak.

    Her older siblings are not adverse to a bit of shouting either, but she is fierce!

    Love the paper heart......one word, speaking volumes...

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    1. Love the 'ills of the world' spewing from a toddler's mouth. Perfectly describes it!

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  4. Amanda, you are awesome. Don't ever, even for a tiny fraction of a moment doubt it. What you have just shown is that you are also human. I have discovered that parenting, like it or not, is a bloody competition and I hate the parents that say "our children of perfect"! Well, actually it's not them I hate, it's my own pathelogical jealousy of their fortune that gets me.

    I have two wonderful children. Fenella is nearly 7 and is 99% of the time a wonderful, loving and blissfull child. She has her moments, but don't we all? Freddie is 4 and has aged me more in those years than the 36 that came before.

    There is not a malicous bone in his body, he is just inquisitive. He is part whirling dervish, part crash test dummy and part angel. He needs to know the why and how for everything. How much shaving foam is in a can, what happens when vaseline is put on hair, clothes and carpet, how much area of a double duvet can be painted with one bottle of nail varnish etc etc. (A drawer full, Mummy gets cross, a third). Last year we had some friends round for lunch. Freddie was hiding behind my legs, I said he was just being shy and would warm up shortly. He ran off only to reappear two minutes later, stark bollock naked, tackle in hand shouting "I'm not shy"

    I have decided that he is trail blazing. He is the youngest of the generation and the only boy out of the six cousins. He has decided dolls and make up are not for him, thank God, and doesn't have older boy relatives to tell him these things so he is just finding out on his own!

    I found him sitting on the stairs recently and asked what he was doing. "Daddy, when you see the playroom, you would have put me here, so I thought I would come on my own." What can you say in the face of such logic? He was right by the way!

    We have decided that, if he carries on at his current rate, he will either become James Bond or, and this is far more likely, the chap that James Bond is sent after. I love him to bits and love that he has a curious nature. I just hope that is does not progress to hooliganism. I can't wait for him to go to school in September!

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    1. He sounds awsome, and about the right age to fix up with my fireball. Let's arrange the marriage!! Love the naked 'I'm not shy' thing. Brilliant!!

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  5. So gorgeous, made me laugh and cry all in one go!

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    1. Yes. I was sighing and crying with irritation and love like a pendulum yesterday. She announced today that she's going to try her hardest to be good most of the time, but there maybe naughty bits she can't help...

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  6. Oh Mel, you beat me to it. Tears in my eyes, from laughing, crying and being there with you totally Amanda. Gorgeous note. Don't you just love them, however they are....

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    1. Thanks Jen. Yes, isn't the note lovely?! Children do this kind of thing on purpose, just as one is about to rehome them. A good skill, me thinks!

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  7. As an amusing ps to this post, my mum emailed me today. The email was titled: Additional information on your 'placid' youth. It then went on to list all the tantrums, arguments, and door-slams that had peppered my childhood. Apologies for this misinformation. I think this is a perfect example of selective memory!!

    At least we know where Borstal gets it from now...

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  8. Amanda you are an amazing mummy, and that is why she has so much spirit, It would be terrible to have boring children, I am sure she will be running the world before we know it and the wedding sounds wonderful, how do I book an invitation - plate smashing at dawn and dancing on the table that would be some party!

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  9. It is great you've given her the confidence to let you know how she's feeling! Even if her manner of expression isn't very comfortable sometimes!

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