It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I thought I had more time.
More scrumptious peach blossom, honeysuckle, talcum powder and regurgitated milk newborn baby smell.
More ‘If you slam that door one more time daddy, I will actually throw the breast pump at you – and don’t think I’m joking’ utterly adorable startle reflex.
More chipmunk-like high-pitched hiccups.
More prying clenched fists open for ill fated handprint crafts that Pinterest made look easy.
More key mother/baby bonding moments I read about in all those glossy parenting magazines, that if I hadn’t needed to eat, sleep, drink, wash or poop, I would totally have done a thousand times already.
But, no. No more.
I woke up one morning, not so long ago and there he was – a toddler standing in his cot, where my baby used to be. And I wasn’t prepared. In fact, I might have cried a little.
Okay, quite a lot actually.
I needn’t have. For it wasn’t goodbye to my baba, it was ‘Hello big boy! Look how much you’ve grown! Now kindly slow down before that pulsating vein in mama’s forehead pops’.
Time to breathe; calm down – and celebrate.
This is the dawn of a new era. An awesome era. An era where if he’s happy and he knows it, my son claps his hands. An era where he’s applauded for twerking to Bruno Mars in his undercrackers. And an era where his postmodern self conscious abstract expressionist finger painting of a frog is totally appreciated in its own time.
Henceforth, this time shall be known as The Dawn of the Toddler:
Holy mother of WT actual F? Nothing is where I darn well left it.
I am now accustomed to discovering:
- A teapot in the shoe rack.
- A papaya in the play cooker.
- My toothbrush at the bottom of the laundry basket.
- Car keys inside my left cable knit pom-pom slipper.
- The remote control inside my right cable knit pom-pom slipper.
- A matchbox car loitering amongst the cornflakes.
- One silver drop earring hanging precariously from the peace lily, several weeks after I lost it.
- My husband’s passport application under the shag pile rug.
And when my son really wants to drive me stark raving batsh*t crazy – he’ll put something back where he found it.
I fully expect this to happen around about the time of the next blue moon. (It’s marked on the calendar).
He’s got the moves like Jagger.
No, wait. I mean Carlton Banks.
He’s as hard as nails. When he wants to be.
You know that feeling when kiddo bangs their head so hard your heart lindyhops Gangnam Style around your frontal cortex?
You hold your breath and count to three mississippily, awaiting the dreaded, toe-curling I’m going to scream like I just stepped barefoot on a Lego scream…
You were pretty darn confident your little one just fractured their skull in thirty-seven places, but actually, they’re fine.
Fret not. Moments like this are cancelled out tenfold by occasions when a microscopic dust particle grazes your munchkin’s elbow and they wail like someone’s hacked their arm off with a fusty pineapple.
And I do mean fusty pineapple.
He thinks he’s Lady freaking Gaga.
It’s cold outside, so what does my little tyke put on? A scarf, bobble hat, mittens and a pair of rainbow wellies. All good so far?
Nothing else; just a scarf, bobble hat, mittens and a pair of rainbow wellies.
It’s all about the accessories. Clothes are merely a sociopolitical-cultural construct for the ill-informed. Every self-respecting preschooler worth their weight in glitter crayons knows that.
He calls his friends when I’m not looking.
Fortunately 5343##8454#367#11111 is not a valid area code.
I have come to expect an epic, Oscar worthy John McEnroesque “You cannot be serious!” meltdown every time I wipe his nose.
He really was quite attached to that snot. And I stole it.
Now I must go and sit on the naughty step while I think about what I’ve done. One minute for every year of my life, so that’s roughly – twenty-seven years.
He changes his mind more often than Zsa Zsa Gabor.
‘Oooh, grapes! My favourite!’
‘What the hydrated raisiny hell is this fruity crap?! You call yourself my mother? You know nothing! Where is my banana? I demand banana immediately! Banana, banana, banananaNANA!’
‘You call this a banana? I want a banana that looks and tastes like grapes. In fact I want a grape. Lots of grapes. Now. Now. Now. Now. Now! NOW! Where are my grapes?!’
‘Why mother? Why would you do this to me? Why would you give me grapes? Why? Why? Why? Why? WHHHHHHHHHHYYY??????????????’
He thinks he’s all grown up.
Which explains why he’s often to be found brandishing his daddy’s drill / wallet / nose hair trimmer.
I find something totally gross in his mouth on a thrice weekly basis.
And in case you didn’t get the memo, the stock response is to:
- Take a picture.
- Confiscate the sanitary product in question.
- Review picture.
- Laugh again.
- Take a mental note to save said pic for your little one’s wedding day.
- Congratulate yourself on being so darn clever.
- Whatsapp said pic to the hubster.
- Feel pang of bad-mama guilt.
- When the hubster suggests saving said pic for your little one’s wedding day – remember why you married him.
- Look up to discover something else totally gross in your child’s mouth.
- Opt not to share this with the hubster.