Toddlers.
Or more precisely, a certain two year old who will soon be three.
Cheeky, adorable, hilarious, unpredictable and unable to be reasoned with...
I think I rather forgot what it was like to have a tantruming three year old. Cohen wasn't big on the tantrums, thankfully. He had a couple of doozies in public places, and he was keen to be independent, but I just don't remember him being quite like his little sister. He was three and a bit when she was born, all the more reason to have tantrums I would have thought? But oh no, Emerson is the little miss of tantrums. She is redefining for me how one parents a toddler.
Windy day? Tantrum! Because I won't stop the wind.
Tries to climb book case and pulls it over. Cries from fright, then throws tantrum when we suggest she no longer climbs book case.
Walking to school? Tantrum! Because I suggest she shouldn't wear slippers to school in Summer. I tactfully decide to 'pick my battles' and allow said slippers to be worn regardless. Another tantrum on the way to school, as she no longer wants to wear the slippers. Thus, she walks barefoot, still whingeing.
Today there was a tantrum because I turned the tv off when it was time to pick up her brother from school. She refused to move, and rather perfectly imitated jelly on the floor instead. I had to carry her to the baby's pram and strap her in, while wearing Oscar in the sling, in order to pick up Cohen on time. Phew. Another tantrum from Miss almost-three about being in the pram. Then she fell asleep on the way home, so I carried her quietly upstairs. Cue another tantrum when she realised I had laid her down in her bed.
Oh my. On top of which I have had a teething baby with a runny nose and a six year old that would make a wonderful political, given his skill at argument.
My dear children. How I love them. Please pour me another glass of wine...
