Month: March 2018

Yesterday I was unexpectedly joined by Darling Husband (DH) for my regular Friday morning jaunt to rhyme time at the local library with 20-month-old MiniM#2, followed by lunch at a nearby coffee shop. He had just stepped off the plane after a 12-hour flight from Cape Town, having spent the past 5 nights away with work.

I was pleasantly surprised he had so gamely volunteered to come along too. In contrast to having spent the past week coping alone looking after two of them, two of us now looking after just one small person would surely be a breeze. Or so I thought…

Rhyme Time passed pretty uneventfully. It was lovely watching my little girl smiling in delight at having her daddy miraculously returned to her.  It was during the next phase – going to a local coffee shop for lunch – that events took a turn for the worse.

Friday mornings are usually my ‘selfish time’ with MiniM#2; a rare one-on-one time I have with her. After Rhyme Time I often make the most of being in town to buy random items such as a present for a kid’s birthday party, stamps or a new toothbrush, or I might simply wander around the shops browsing clothes. MiniM#2 is still thankfully of an age she can be happily self-contained in a buggy.

Yesterday on the way to the coffee shop I saw there was a half-price sale on in one of my favourite clothing stores, but I could see Darling Husband’s heart understandably sink at the prospect of us popping in after his 12-hour flight.

So we made a beeline for the coffee shop instead. I queued while DH found a seat near the window and successfully installed MiniM#2 in a highchair (easier than it sounds), sandwiched between his seat and mine. Contrary to expectations, the whole experience turned out to be way less relaxing than when I’m on my own with her.

We had a smallish table and I immediately felt uneasy about the proximity of DH’s scalding hot coffee to the edge of the table. Every time our toddler would wave her arms around energetically I would yelp ‘YOUR COFFEE!’ in a strained vice as her hand came a whisker away from sending the cup and its contents flying. The cup would get moved in the nick of time, only to be picked up again a few seconds later and returned to its original place.

Meanwhile her food was another matter altogether. Normally when we go out together we’re with both girls, and one of us will assist feeding one daughter, while the other will help her sister. In this case MiniM#2 was sitting equidistant to both of us. So, we’d start by both trying to feed her at the same time, and then we’d both abruptly stop when we saw each other’s efforts.

We were eating paninis (which thankfully she didn’t take too much of an interest in), but I had brought along a baby pouch (for simplicity’s sake) and some homecooked pasta for our toddler. In the end I decided it was simpler to just let DH feed her, but her arm-waving continued aplenty as did my nervous interjections: ‘YOUR COFFEE!’ ‘YOUR PLATE!’ ‘THE PASTA!’.

When I’m on my own I make sure all breakable/ spillable/ hot items are out of reach, but it was tough with double the amount of such items this time and sitting at such a small table.

Pretty soon the inevitable happened. Thank God it wasn’t the coffee, but the pasta that was sent flying up into the air and scattered over the coffee shop floor. As misfortunate would have it she’d only eaten about two pieces of pasta.  And she was understandably distressed at the fact her favourite pasta was strewn on the ground.

Now we had a dilemma I knew we had to assess very quickly given she was crying noisily – and in danger of waking the baby girl who had just gone off for a nap in a buggy by the table next to us. In my mind there were just two options – either 1) throw the pasta in the bin, or 2) adhere to the famous ‘10 second rule’ and quickly scoop the pasta back into the bowl and continue like nothing had happened.

On my own I would have probably opted for the former. She’d eaten her Bolognese baby pouch so wouldn’t go hungry and you never know what germs may be on the floor. But I hesitated as I was not her only parent today, and I was terrified about her screams waking up the other baby, whose mother I had shared an empathetic smile with when her baby dozed off. She was clearly grateful for a bit of a break and the chance to enjoy her cookie and coffee in peace.

DH picked up on my dilemma and, true to his natural troubleshooting self, he offered a third option. “I could pick the pasta up and clean it with water,” he offered. Aware I didn’t have time on my side, this actually seemed like quite a sensible option. He had only just been commenting how great it was the coffee shop had a big vat of chilled water freely available to customers to help themselves to.

He scooped up the pasta and then was gone a. very. long. time. indeed. During which time MiniM#2 was distraught at not only her pasta disappearing, but also her daddy who had only just come back after 6 days in Africa. This was all too much for her. “Dadaaaaaaa!’ “DADAAAAAAAAAA!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs. I was left equally distraught. Where on earth had he gone and why on earth did I agree to this? She was clearly far more bothered about no daddy than no pasta.

The baby next to us awoke and joined in the crying. I felt so bad for her mother who had taken all but two bites of her chocolate cookie. The screaming continued and I was utterly powerless to resolve it. “He’s coming back,” I kept telling MiniM#2, totally nonplussed as to where he had gone and too embarrassed to look at the woman on the table next to us. We had water on our table that he could have rinsed the pasta with.

Finally he re-emerged, triumphantly handing our toddler the flaccid pasta. “Where WERE you?” I hissed, mortified. “I went to the toilets to wash it,” he replied, baffled as to what the fuss was about.

“The men’s toilets?”  This was a scenario I had yet to imagine and was struggling to digest, assuming he had gone to ask in the kitchen or something. “The men’s toilets?!’

“Yes,” he began to look irritated. “It’s drinking water you know, they always have drinking water in the toilets.”

“No they don’t,” I replied. “There are often signs saying ‘no drinking water’”.

“There was no sign, so it’s fine.”

Meanwhile, thrilled at being reunited with not only her daddy, but also her pasta, MiniM#2 began tucking in merrily.

I began to wonder, am I overreacting?  But something still profoundly bothers me about the whole episode; he must have placed his hand on the door to the gents to open it… and then how clean were the sinks and the taps? I didn’t dare ask details on how he actually washed the wretched pasta. It’s probably better I’m spared this information, given I wasn’t going to be the one to tussle away the beloved pasta my little girl was so excited to see again.

The moral of the story? Maybe wiser to keep Friday morning for one-on-one mummy-daughter time and suggest DH rests after such a long flight…

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In contrast to the intense haze of the early days, life with a 3-year-old and a not-far-off 2-year-old has become surprisingly manageable. Life has more of a pattern to it now. And both girls are in nursery care at least 2.5 days a week, meaning I have more time and energy to devote to running my own business.

The potty training I had been dreading and putting off – expecting to have plenty of stomach-churningly funny anecdotes to include in a blog post – passed by astonishingly without incident. I was *almost* disappointed.  The beauty of leaving it until she was 3 years old meant she went straight from nappy to toilet seat. I haven’t had to wipe out the contents of a potty (actually more gross than dealing with a soiled nappy if you think about it…)

Life is more manageable now, but obviously not without its quirks.

In a new twist to our routine, after Wednesday morning church playgroup I now drop MiniM#2 off at granny’s house for a nap, before taking MiniM#1 on to a certain coffee shop for lunch together. Now she’s older, and out of nappies, I’m thrilled at the notion of a one-on-one mother-daughter lunch.

The reality, however, turns out to be somewhat removed from the notion.

The first time we went, she refused to eat anything, because her toasted sandwich had traces of tomato in it. The entire lunchtime was spent with me cajoling her to eat and her saying ‘no.’  A total flop and waste of money.

Yesterday however was a slightly improved, if not toe-curling experience. Luckily ham and cheese toasties were in stock, which she normally likes.

But, as she cast her discerning eye over the shelf, she instead declared she wanted a brightly coloured kids’ smoothie. I flatly told her ‘no, you need to choose a sandwich.’ Her wail became louder and more insistent, and wary of causing a ‘scene’ I eventually found myself saying ‘if you eat your sandwich then let’s see.’

We found a nice sunny spot by the window and the lunch started off beautifully. She was in a grown-up chair, drinking water out of a glass, eating her toastie nicely and we chatted pleasantly. I was marvelling about how grown-up she was. But I was brought rapidly back to earth again:

“Mummy, what’s that lady’s name?”

“Which lady?”

“That lady over there!” she insisted, jabbing her finger in the direction of a woman in a grey jumper in her early thirties.

“Erm..” I began, conscious she wasn’t going to let this go. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“No mummy, I’m shy, you ask her…”

Determined to maintain the dynamics of this merry mother-daughter lunch, I found myself making eye-contact with the woman, who seemed to be aware we were talking about her.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking you this.. ahem.. but my daughter wanted to know your name,” I ventured, slightly surprising myself at the lengths I was going to.

MiniM#1 looked mortified and turned to face in the opposite direction.

The woman smiled “Sure, it’s X,” she began.  She then proceeded to tell me her life story.

I froze as it dawned on me – maybe she thinks I was chatting her up.

I smiled awkwardly and she went to sit at a nearby table, glancing up at me every few minutes.

I focused on MiniM#1 who was now staring at a man reading the paper while he drank his coffee.

“Mummy? What’s that man’s name?”

“No darling,” I said flatly. “I’m not asking everyone their names.  It’s ok if a child does it, but not if a grown-up does,” I explained, already imagining her confusion at my logic. “Have you finished your toastie? Shall we go now?”

“Mummy I want THAT,” she answered, pointing at the brand name smoothie from earlier. It was overpriced and young children aren’t really supposed to have drinks with high sugar content, especially not through a straw. It ruins their teeth.

“Darling I told you no.”

“But mummy,” the voice took on a more reasonable tone. “When we were standing over there you said if I ate my toastie then I could.”

Damnit. She was more or less right. Not wanting to quibble, or spoil the nice interaction we’d had, I went over and bought the pricey fruit drink. It was a one-off after all.

I punctured the carton with a straw and passed it to her.  She took a feeble sip and scrunched up her nose. “Mummy I don’t like it.”

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