I will not refer to these years as the terrible twos.
I will instead refer to these years (for I have been told it can last longer than just one year) as ‘The years which aged me so much that I now look like Donatella Versace.’
I should explain.
Last month my angel, the one time little blob who used to just lie there gazing up at me with love, from his cute little crib, resting beside my heart, gurgling and being adorable, transformed before my very eyes, in to a… Well, in to a… Well, in to a bloody crazy ferocious 2 year old.
I didn’t think it was going to happen, I thought we were going to get away with it, but alas, I was deluded once again.
This very morning while relaxing watching telly together, having a cuddle and enjoying each others company, out of absolutely nowhere, he grabbed my left boob with such ferocity I honestly thought he was going to plunge his hand directly it my lung, twisted it as if trying to prize it off with his tiny nails, and before I could even think about how much reparative breast surgery would potentially cost, screamed ‘Toast!’ directly in to my ear, before howling like a werewolf may do, in the general direction of the kitchen.
He doesn’t even like toast.
Still, being the dutiful and peace loving mother I am, after I had pleaded through watery eyes for him to return my nipple back to where it should never have been removed from without a serious amount of anesthetic, I limped in to kitchen and nervously pulled out the bread.
I then, like any normal person would, turned towards the toaster to put the bread in to the damn thing, and was head butted in the crotch at full force for my trouble.
He wanted toast, but he didn’t want me to put the bread in the toaster to actually toast it.
I do not doubt that his communication style needs some work, but evidently so does mine.
I could only think of 54 ways to explain that without putting the bread in the toaster, it would never, ever be toast.
This simply would not do though, and what followed I can only now begin to discuss, having downed a shot of whiskey for shock and rang my best friend for an emotional meltdown, such is my post traumatic tantrum trauma.
She suggested, to guide me through the upcoming months, I should make a list of all the house rules and hang them up on the wall for him to see.
(The fact he can not read does not escape me, but whatev’s I’m up for trying anything at this point.)
So I did. And here they are.
Mammy’s house rules.
- You will not head butt mammy in the crotch. Ever.
- There will be no ice pops for breakfast; no matter how many times you kick the freezer and shake your little fists at the unfairness of the world.
- Jam is not to be squirted up Doodle’s bottom, for he doesn’t like it.
- Mammy will not squirt Jam up your bottom either, no matter how much you scream, because having been around a while, I am pretty sure I could get arrested, and I’m also pretty sure you wouldn’t like it either.
- You have to wear trousers to be able to leave the house. Pajamas aren’t trousers. Swimming trunks aren’t trousers and neither is toilet paper.
- Your left foot will never be your right foot, no matter how much you shriek.
- We don’t fish poo out of the toilet with our hands. Ever. This is none negotiable and isn’t funny. Throwing poo is never ok. We are not monkeys.
- The windows cannot be open and closed at the same time. It is physically impossible.
- If something is too big to fit in to where you want it to fit, banging your head against the wall will not change anything.
- Bath time is to happen in the bathroom, in the bath.
- The bath is fixed to the wall; I am unable to move it in to the kitchen.
- Mammy lives in the house with you, she will not let you lock her out or wait in the hall simply because you fancy some alone time and like waving at me through the window.
- Doodle’s bed is Doodle’s bed, it will never be yours, do not growl back at him, just get out of his bed.
- It is not funny to poke mammy in the eye at random times, just because you feel like it, mammy needs her eyes not to have your fingers plunged in to them. Ever.
- Worms are not food. Or pets.
- Saying hello to worms is fine, but stamping on them will not make them say hello back.
- Our car is the black one, not the red one, I am simply unable to click my fingers and change this, or in fact get in and drive/ steal someone else’s car just because you point at it passionately. It is not Car Park pick and mix and we don’t all throw our keys in a bowl, we just aren’t those kind of neighbors.
- Head butting mammy’s crotch, just to be absolutely clear here, is not an acceptable form of communication.
- 4am is not time to get up.
- You will never be able to fly. Please stop trying.
- You cannot have ketchup on cornflakes. End of.
- Sand isn’t food. You know this. Please stop eating it.
- Mammy’s lips are attached to her face. No amount of pulling will change this fact.
- The birds fly away because you run at them. That’s what birds do.
- Naptime is important for mammy’s sanity, please use this time to reflect on your behaviour and ignore mammy’s tortured sobs coming from the kitchen, she is simply re-attaching her body parts with sticky tape and glue.
Any you think I should add, or be aware may need adding at some point soon? All warnings much appreciated! All help needed!
He is only 2 and 1 month!
I’m gonna need one of those things American footballers use to cover their tackle, aren’t I?
I bet they look horrendous with skinny jeans though.
Bringing home the magic and dialing up the drama.
Call me in 10 years if you need a Donatella look a like. (And send me some fake tan.)
But for now, does anyone know how I can get an ice pop to be in the plastic wrapper, without it actually being in the plastic wrapper? It’s important.