I have a confession to make…my boy is a monster. Not the type to come lurking out of the shadows on Halloween, but the kind that tricks you with his beautiful big brown eyes and then treats you to an ear-piercing scream so blood curdling that it momentarily makes you heart stop in fear. Turns out the little darling just couldn’t reach his milk (FFS).
Everybody talks about the terrible twos, and more recently the rise of the ‘threeanger’ (we live with one of those too), but no one seems to mention the horror of the horrible ones. In our case this marks the transition phase between being a bouncing baby and a fully fledged toddler. A time so filled with frustration that it’s no wonder the little sod doesn’t spontaneously combust.
Raffy arrived less tiny baby and more rugby player, so we never really got to enjoy the teeny, tiny delicate stage second time round. His newborn cry quite literally made your ear drums vibrate and we knew early doors that we have been gifted with another “spirited” child. It was only when Raffy started trying to get our attention through scratching our faces off with his razor sharp baby claws, that we knew for sure trouble was afoot. This behaviour soon escalated and it wasn’t long before all bare patches of skin had to be hidden, or kept far from Raffy’s reach, in the fear that we would soon fall victim from one of his heart felt pinches/scratches/bites. It’s now unusual for poor Coco to turn up to playgroup without a deep, red scratch across her pretty little face.
Last week the birthday boy turned one. To celebrate we had a really lovely day out at London Zoo. Raffy was absolutely spoilt by a wealth of presents from generous friends and family members, but the little joy also had a couple of gifts for us. The gift of “screaming like a child possessed unless I get my own way instantaneously” and a particularly special gift just for me, “biting down till your boobs bleed”. Suffice to say breastfeeding has now been knocked on the head. We also had a particularly enjoyable visit to a supermarket cafe earlier today, when Raffy reduced the whole floor to a deadly silence by screaming so loudly, and with such force, simply because he couldn’t immediately get his grubby hands on a croissant. This quickly followed by a herd of elderly folk audibly guffawing at his bad behaviour and my obvious lack of parenting (it’s not the bloody Ritz ladies!).
This doesn’t mean he’s a bad boy, and that I don’t love him with every fibre of my being. Of course times must be pretty tough when all you want to do is talk, walk and shove pastries in your gob, and you have little to no control over these things. I might scream pretty loudly too. I also remember Coco going through a similar phase when she was one and desperately saying to my other half, “what if this is just her personality!??” Obviously it wasn’t and we’ve now moved onto other new equally fun chapters (cue bursting into tears at any minute to the back drop of screaming – it’s a fun household). But despite all this, I really am “special mummy” to this one (Mark is Coco’s “special mummy”) and when you do get a genuine kiss or cuddle (normally followed by a pinch) it makes it all worthwhile.
Any one else suffering at the hands of a one year old!?