Tinytoes has hit the terrible twos. To be fair she has been ‘spirited’ since she was about 14 months, but now she can talk we are at least beginning to have some insight into what can trigger a temper tantrum. Not that we can always do anything about it, mind.
Now Tinytoes has a peculiar obsession with moons. This recently manifested itself when she was crying in desperation at her Catalan grandparents not understanding the word ‘moon’ in English. “Ah, la lluna!” they repeated when I came into the room and translated. Tinytoes nodded vigorously with renewed hope that a moon would now be drawn on her blackboard. However, after drawing a moon my mother-in-law made the grave mistake of thinking it would be appropriate to draw a sun next to it. “No no no!” she screamed. “A moon, a moon, a moon!” Fortunately for my MIL, the chalk could be wiped away and a moon could be drawn in its place. Over and over again.
I had no such luck the following day. After drawing around 30 moons in her note book, I make the fatal error of attempting to draw a planet – Saturn to be exact – in black felt tip pen. “No!” she screamed. “Take it off Mummy!!!!”. And my heart sank helplessly. Ripping the page out wasn’t an option. Neither was trying to explain that Saturn had moons. I simply had to endure her cries of frustration.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one for walking on egg shells around my daughter or pandering to her ‘needs’. I just think if a non-essential temper tantrum can be avoided and it’s towards the end of a long day, well, I’ll happily draw 300 moons if it will pass the time until DaddyO walks through the door. One day last week I began to seriously question my sanity when I looked up from one such moon-drawing frenzy to discover that my audience was no longer there. I was on the sofa colouring in moons and Tinytoes was playing with her Daddy and her baby sister. I think they hadn’t liked to disturb me…
Temper tantrums
Thankfully when Tinytoes hits the pinnacle of her rage, she now takes herself off, of her own volition, to sit on the mat by the front door. When all the doors surrounding her are closed she will sit eerily quietly in the hallway for a good 15 minutes. When she’s ready, and only when she’s ready, she will come out for a ‘cuddle’. This works a treat unless 1) it’s bedtime and I want to get on with cooking the supper/having an evening/life 2) it’s a mealtime and we want her to eat rather than provide her with a crafty getaway 3) we need to go out for whatever reason.
Tinytoes’ confusion about the meaning of certain words often adds an injection of irony to her meltdowns. She thinks ‘want’ means ‘don’t want’ and will wail: “I want it, I want it mummy!” in front of an untouched and eventually cold plate of chicken, carrots and baby potatoes.
She thinks ‘need’, on the other hand, means ‘want’. For example, she will shout in earnest ‘I need granny’ or ‘I need fish fingers!’ When I went with Tinytoes to drop our friends off at the railway station the other day I made the mistake of telling her, “I’ll take you on a train somewhere one day, that would be fun wouldn’t it?’ The words had slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them. And she began shouting ‘Train, train, train,” and with increasing urgency ‘I need a train mummy, I need a train!’. I was treated to a repeat performance the next day when I drove her back from nursery through our local town.
Today, she finally gave up on trains and went back to her usual practice of reciting every single carer’s name at her nursery followed by ‘a nice lady.’ A reassuring, if not slightly irritating, endorsement that we’ve chosen the right nursery. She then continued with her own name, followed by “a nice lady?” Yes, well, you’re a ‘nice girl’. “No no no, nice lady!” her voice began to wobble. There are some battles worth fighting, it’s about choosing the right ones. “Ok yes you’re a nice lady,’ I replied quickly.
She calmed down then said her baby sister’s name followed by “a nice lady?” “No, a nice baby,” I began, then quickly changed tack. “Yes that’s right a nice lady,” I sighed. She continued happily, “And daddy’s a nice lady?” I stayed quiet. “Daddy’s a nice lady? Daddy’s a nice lady?” “Well he’s actually a nice man…but yes yes daddy’s a nice lady, daddy’s a lovely lady,” I found myself saying, to my disbelief.
Postscript
By way of a postscript (I wrote this 2 days ago but didn’t get a chance to post it) my mother came over today to watch the babies while I had a call with a potential client. When I had finished the call she informed me her granddaughter had told her Daddy was a nice man, she herself was a nice girl, her sister was a nice baby, her granny was a nice lady and that her mummy – wait for it – was a nice girl! So, unless nursery had given her a crash course in family gender, something at least had gone in. And there’s questionably still some youthfulness in me yet.
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Calamitous Mummy 