Tally Whacker: random toddlerisms

Despite his relentless protestations that he's apparently a big boy now, more often than not The Toddler appears to habitually regress and insist there's things he can't do, things like close a door or walk across the room or even sit up.  Perhaps it all sounds terribly twee yet believe me when I say it's exhaustingly frustrating.  Take the other morning for example, whilst trying to get us both dressed he declared he absolutely couldn't possibly put his trousers on.  Okay, picking my battles I told him I'd help as soon as I'd dressed myself.  Upon turning to see what he was doing he was still laid on the bed where he'd been moments before seeing as sitting up had become an impossibility in his world only he was hitting his winkie.  Yes, really.  Naturally I enquired as to why he was administering a torrent of smacks to it when he piped up 'I'm trying to make it go small again, Mummy.' Joy.  The reason The Toddler couldn't get dressed was revealed, his morning wood was getting in the way.  Blimey.

Surely things could only go, excuse the pun, up from here.

He's positively exuding raw energy, he flies down the stairs on his arse at hyperspeed, hands outstretched behind him to make a satisfying thud thud thud on each step as he impressively comes to a halt at exactly the right time to avoid a full on collision with the front door and bursts into the lounge.  Literally.  After all why use the door handle when you can bulldozer your way through it?  The Kitten, knowing what's best for her, scarpers up the stairs, knowing all too well that anytime all three of The Spawn are in an enclosed space, anyone in their right mind would make a swift sharp exit.  I take this opportunity, as The Toddler launches himself at an unsuspecting remote hogging Thing One and practices his seagull impression of 'MINE. MINE. MINE' thus instigating the first of many loggerhead situations of the day, to slip into the kitchen.  Whilst under the guise of preparing Thing Two's packed lunch for school, I self medicate as usual by stuffing as much chocolate into my mouth as I possibly can before they notice I've gone.  The  urgency serves two purposes firstly, if they see me having chocolate for breakfast they'll shriek at the injustice of it and secondly, quite frankly, I refuse to bloody share it.  Temporarily fortified, I finish the lunch and brave the lounge again, before I act upon the urge to flood a bowl of cocopops with vodka for breakfast wondering if it will turn the vodka chocolately.

The Husband is still sprawled on the sofa under his duvet, mumbling incoherences whenever The Spawn dare to ask him anything  becoming noticeably more pissed off each they remind him of the time.  I beckon Thing Two to the sanctity of the kitchen to complete the morning ritual of me doing something with her hair.  Something being the key word here seeing as I'm about as adept at hairstyling as I am at sewing.  Two wonky bunches later, two bobbles and six slides and I then commence operation fuck-off-nits as I fumigate her entire head with tea-tree oil spray to repel any beasties that may be visiting her friends at school.  She's asking if i's safe to breath yet as I compulsively squirt it just a few more times...just to be sure.  I'm half hoping it will repel undesirable children from nearing her too.

So, been up an hour or two already with The Toddler who probably breastfed for at least 40 mins of that.  I've gotton us both dressed, flushed two cat shits, fed The Kitten, prepared Thing Two's lunch, done her hair and then The Toddlers as he too wants clips and ponytails despite the fact he'll remove it all within minutes afterwards.  I've banished The Spawn upstairs for operation brush-your-skanky-teeth and told them not to return unless it's complete with a school jumper on.  The Husband is still half asleep on the sofa.  Eventually, and miraculously without me kicking him (shame), he awakes.  Here starts the routine 'I'm more tired than you' bollocks. Yes, competitive tiredness, welcome parenthood. Somehow him choosing to go out the night before to see a friend, getting in at 2am and not getting to sleep until 5am trumps my insomnia, my chronic fatigue, the night feeds and everything else.  Diddums.  My heart bleeds for him.  I issue the death glare whilst ensuring The Toddler isn't escaping what with him being a dab hand at unlocking doors nor watering the carpet with strawberry milk whilst he commences crumbling at the no icepops for breakfast ruling.

Regardless, I win and he does the school run.  Back of the net!

The next day was Busy Day, every Tuesday morning is shopping day.  Upon returning, amidst a sea of bags The Toddler is refusing to get up off the kitchen floor where he is laid and go into the friggin lounge.  Arse.  After telling him for the third time to go into the lounge he looks up at me with those saucer wide eyes and proclaims 'I can't take my shoes off you Plank' I don't know whether to be annoyed or impressed at his creative name calling, something The Husband and I excel at.  Granted it's infinitely better than The Husband telling me I have a fat back the night before, bang went his blow job rations for the rest of the year.

Later in the day the lounge is quite literally a bomb site.  I'm meticulously trying to locate all the sticklebricks and ask The Toddler to pass me the tub to put them in.  Predictably his reply was 'I can't' followed by 'I can't reach' and topped off with a 'I can't stand/walk/move' when I asked him to please get off his bum and get it.  However, he was perfectly capable of emptying all the cars and building bricks I'd put away, that he seemingly could do.  Futility threatening I ask one more time to which he replies 'I'm just annoying you now' .  He knows.  He knows he's annoying me, he knows because he's doing it on purpose.  Git.

Finally seeing a glimmer of carpet I go to rinse the hair dye from my hair.  As usual he trots up after me and has a mooch round Thing Twos room promising me he'd sit on her bed and watch a Scooby video, yes video, we're terribly retro darlings.  Towel turbened up and red eared I sneak up on him, he's hurriedly moving stuff.  I call out to him cheerfully that it's time to go back downstairs as he murmurs about 'just putting these back' aww, he's tidying up! Oh Please, don't be so stupid, really.  I assume he's been playing with the much coveted Moshlings.  I was wrong.  I caught him red handed, or should I say glitterhanded, in Thing Two's treasured make-up box.  Buggersticks.

Typically when Things One & Two returned from school, The Toddlers other personality comes out to play as he relentlessly fights with Thing One and follows Thing Two around like a lost puppy.  Still, I had to smirk when I hear The Toddler sternly berate Thing Two with 'Will you stop turning your TV off I'm sick and tired of having to turn it back on!'

I'm counting down the minutes until I can self medicate with chocolate again under the guise of cooking tea whilst day dreaming about which colour straw would compliment a bottle of vodka best whilst singing badly.  (seriously kittens have been killed by lesser evils than my singing) to my mp3 player, turning the volume up just enough to mute WWIII in the lounge.

The Toddler is telling his latest joke

Him 'Knock knock?'
Me 'who's there?'
Him 'Dr'
Me 'Dr who?'
Him 'Doctor POOMAN'

You see he takes after The Husband, he isn't funny either.

Still he's a lot more charming what with his morning compliments of 'I like your top.  You smell nice Mummy'
the boy will go far.

I'm losing track of days,  I'm too exhausted to sleep and too exhausted to be awake.  My new glasses keep falling off my nose and I'm contemplating which internal organ to sell to fund a new tattoo.

Still, as The Husband offers a cheeky stubble free snog and Things One and Two throw goodnight kisses for me to catch I settle down in the dark with The Toddler as he feeds to sleep, the lullaby of his gentle breaths soothing the soul...ready for it all to start again in morning.  Tis a good job I love the sods.