I’ll Thcweam and Thcweam and Thcweam

The first bit is really Shouty Old Trout Part II.

Since I dashed down this morning’s post, I’ve been reflecting on my shoutings and the unconscious thoughts that led to me blowing my stack at Maxi and Midi by the road. I’ve had a pretty testing day, and I’ve been humbled by some really lovely, loving and thoughtful replies to my original post, by email, message and reply to a Facebook status.

It seems that I’m not, in fact, alone in being a shrieking, paranoid, shrew-mother when it comes to scatter-brained offspring and roads. I feel a little less weird and over-reacting. Thanks, ladies xxx But as I said to my friend L, I think I need to go back a stage or 2 in my wee informal programme of becoming a less stressed mum, and do some consolidation by encouraging the minxes to go make and eat mud pies 🙂


I said it was a pretty testing day. Well, Mini has been in a bad mood since 9.30am. She was happy enough toddling up the hill from school, sometimes even being allowed to let go my hand (woah, shocker!). In my street, the front gardens go right to the edge of the road; there is no pavement. Some of the local kids are encouraged to walk along the edge of the gardens, which is very safe and pragmatic. The Boss, however, wants the minxes to grow up with some road sense. So he prefers that they walk along the edge of the road and remain aware and alert to traffic. I see both perspectives. So although I encourage the girls to walk at the edge of the road, I won’t nag toooooo much if they stray onto the lawns. What I won’t tolerate, though, is my 2 year old scuffing through lawns and flower-beds, leaving Mini Minx sized thrash marks in bushes, and generally laying a trail of devastation like the Tasmanian Devil. She didn’t like me holding her hand. She hated that I continually picked her up from each lawn and plopped her feet back on the road. Most of all, she was incredibly frustrated that I didn’t react in pain to her new, sharp little fangs sinking into my hand, apart from calmly squeezing her cheeks hard to make her release.

She got home in a bad, frustrated mood. She then spent the next 2 hours getting up to all the mischief she could: hitting Midi, shouting at the cat (well, the one we’re fostering; she’s too scared of our old one), kicking over toys, ripping books. Normally I sit guard over the girls in the kitchen when they eat or drink anything; nothing is allowed in the living room. But sometimes, when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. So I went. And Mini immediately sneaked a full beaker of milk into the living room that she then threw over Midi and the settee. Both settees got fragged, actually. I had to give myself a strict Time Out to be able to shout coherently, never mind anything else.

The washing machine and tumbler have been going on all day since. 10 loose covers and 2 settee covers = 4 loads. As well as being made of heavy, motor-straining cotton, the fabric is also deeply-encrusted with glitter. My whites will never be the same again…

And that wasn’t the end of Mini’s strops. She refused to eat her lunch, insisted on being fed, then refused to eat off whatever cutlery I offered her. She wanted milk. NOW! But not in that beaker. Or that cup. Or that glass. Or that mug. She had a screeching tantrum at having to sit in her own car seat, preferring her sisters’ (no chance! Safety first, safety second, and you, Mini Would-Be Octopus, are going to be folded like a pretzel by your much stronger Mummy till you get into that seat and stay there). She ranted at our Foster Cat for sniffing disparagingly in her general direction. She went apoplectic at having to wear wellies in the rain instead of shoes. She furiously plucked her socks off, insisting on wearing a single, odd sock whose partner was lost eons ago.

Foster-Cat can climb bunk bed ladders. Or levitate. I’m not sure which.

To top it all off, Maxi bit Midi on the finger after The Boss put them to bed. It seems Midi had kept shoving her finger in Maxi’s mouth. Though why they were in the same bed I still haven’t established. “I’m so sorry, I forgot that I’m not allowed to bite Midi!” wailed an apologetic Maxi.

The Boss's favourite white pants, newly washed. Oops....
(Photo: Lazybum outlet, marketplace.secondlife.com)

Bloody Vikings!

Midi Minx was very lucky to make it through yesterday unscathed.

I’m not sure what set her off, but she spent the entire day being the very definition of recalcitrant.  We had our standard battle over breakfast, fight to get her to drink anything, war over getting dressed, and she glowered at me all morning because I wouldn’t let her play with her glitter (well, finding glitter in the contents of Mini’s nappy, as well as upon wiping, is evidence that the bloody stuff is over-used in this household.  As well as damn alarming).

Anyway, while I was busy changing Mini’s (sparkling) nappy, Midi quietly hauled out her big sister’s Peg Farm World.  Some game with about half a billion tiny beads.  Which is why none of the minxes have been allowed to play with it, yet.  In the 3 minutes it took me to wrestle Mini to the changing table, hold her in a head-lock and swipe her clean (the child detests nappy changes and scurries away as fast as those little legs will take her at the mere mention of, “What’s that smell?”), Midi had ripped open all the bags of beads and had them overflowing out a big bowl onto the table.  I came in, saw my worst choking nightmare, roared, “Stop that right now, young lady!”, to which she retaliated by grabbing 2 meaty handfuls of beads and deliberately emptying them slowly on the floor.  The smirk on her face told me this was no accident.  I should tell you, too, that earlier in the morning she wet herself in her chair at the table over breakfast literally the instant I hit ‘go’ on the washing machine; she has been potty trained successfully during the day for quite some time.

Half an hour later, when I’d climbed back down off the roof, Midi’s indignant howls had mostly subsided and the last of the beads that wouldn’t fit in the bags were (mostly) swept up, me and Maxi sat and had a mother-daughter chat.  She wanted to talk about her favourite pants.

Maxi Minx loves her pants that have the days of the week printed on them.  She can’t read, but recognises that ‘Wednesday’ can’t possibly be the word for Friday (I tried to hoodwink her when my washing obviously hadn’t caught up in time to wear the right pants on the right day, and failed miserably).  She gabbled for a bit about recognising some letters, then asked why the days were called what they were.  Example, where did Wednesday come from?  I explained that some days were named after Viking gods, like Wodin and Thor.  So she had a bit of a giggle about the names and what they were the gods of.  Obviously she’d heard of Vikings before, because she declared seriously,

“Viking are normal people now, because they had kids, so they had to stop all their killing and scaring people”.

Um.  Yes.  OK.

“I’m wearing my Viking pants, so I’m not scared about anything!” she added proudly.  “Nothing makes me scream”.  Oh right, except the spider this morning, the bee at the window 2 minutes ago, your sisters all bloomin’ day and the cat…  Still, at least she can hear properly: Midi misheard me, and now thinks that Saturday is named after Santa.