The Wonders of Elmo
September 12th 2006 04:26
Its been a long day in that hard, brutal land, where screams for chocolate, McDonalds and going to the park bellow out at random times, and where that cup of tea you made never gets the attention it so rightly deserves: that land being Motherhood.
Today Miss Toddler is in a mood. Granted, she’s recovering from being ill, but still, Motherhood is a trying land today. We’ve had tantrums, sobs, book throwing, and refusing to go to the toilet, unless its in one’s nappy. Yes, toilet training is a whole other story.
Anyone who says housewives have it easy should be left alone with a two-year-old for eight hours. If we did this to every person who claimed motherhood was easy, and housewives were lazy, they’d be a lot more respect for stay-at-home mums!
The day started early, which is never a good start to any day, I think. Refusal of weetbix came next, and screams for chocolate for breakfast. Only on Easter, I say (or when Mummy really needs that chocolate pick-up).
Off to the shops then, with enough hand luggage to make me wonder whether we were overnighting at the local Woolworth’s. Miss Toddler had her lovely, cherry-red sun hat on, Bunny tucked under one arm, and her pink lunch cooler slung over her shoulder. Just as we get through the back door, down the back steps, and to the car, I realize, sniffing the air madly, that she’s done a Number Two.
Inside we march, to change the Nasty Nappy, only to have Miss Toddler trek mud through the house. We change, we clean, we talcum-powder, then I scrub the floor, before we get to (finally) leave.
The shops turn into a battle, with Miss Toddler refusing to go into a trolley. This causes problems only a mother would understand. She dances, she twirls, she tries to pull glass jars off the shelves - which are all alarmingly at toddler height - she sticks her thumb through fresh tomatoes (or not-so-fresh tomatoes, as would be the case). To obtain those magical twelve items (just to ensure I can use the short queue), it turns into an hour long venture.
I see one mother, with a Mr Toddler of her own, sweetly stand by patiently while her toddler does much the same as mine is doing – dancing down aisles, but in the opposite direction to the mother. She coos to him, speaks softly and sweetly to him, and waits for him to join her once again.
My patience is gone, much like dear old Elvis, and there’s no sweet tones from me. I’m snapping for her to follow Mummy, or they’d be no treats later (this doesn’t work; does it work for anybody?).
An hour and a half later, we leave the shopping centre, my hair all frazzled and sticking out in a frightening fashion in places.
The rest of the day has followed much the same pattern: she refuses her lovely green broccoli at lunch, but still wants that elusive chocolate. The after-lunch-time nap has become a real trial: every book she owns, or has borrowed from the library, must join her in bed – and there’s a lot of books. Same with the toy collection. You have to squint and tilt your head to make out the toddler in amongst all the colourful debris.
After an hour and twenty minutes of trying to settle her into bed, and about 200 trips marching her back to her room, I give up. I see the triumph come to her eyes as she realizes Mummy has admitted defeat. She whoops, she grabs Bunny, and she races for the lounge room.
Bleary-eyed, exhausted, I do what every mother does when she's worn out, but will never admit for fear of Dr Phil finding out - I switch on the TV. Its now 3.05pm, and after all hopes of a sit down seem like an oasis in Mummy Land, that great red monster fills the screen. Miss Toddler stares, transfixed to the TV, even if it is only for fifteen minutes.
Doesn’t matter to me how long it is. I make that cup of tea, and sit down with a magazine, and finally get two seconds to myself.
Thank God for Elmo.
Today Miss Toddler is in a mood. Granted, she’s recovering from being ill, but still, Motherhood is a trying land today. We’ve had tantrums, sobs, book throwing, and refusing to go to the toilet, unless its in one’s nappy. Yes, toilet training is a whole other story.
Anyone who says housewives have it easy should be left alone with a two-year-old for eight hours. If we did this to every person who claimed motherhood was easy, and housewives were lazy, they’d be a lot more respect for stay-at-home mums!
The day started early, which is never a good start to any day, I think. Refusal of weetbix came next, and screams for chocolate for breakfast. Only on Easter, I say (or when Mummy really needs that chocolate pick-up).
Off to the shops then, with enough hand luggage to make me wonder whether we were overnighting at the local Woolworth’s. Miss Toddler had her lovely, cherry-red sun hat on, Bunny tucked under one arm, and her pink lunch cooler slung over her shoulder. Just as we get through the back door, down the back steps, and to the car, I realize, sniffing the air madly, that she’s done a Number Two.
Inside we march, to change the Nasty Nappy, only to have Miss Toddler trek mud through the house. We change, we clean, we talcum-powder, then I scrub the floor, before we get to (finally) leave.
The shops turn into a battle, with Miss Toddler refusing to go into a trolley. This causes problems only a mother would understand. She dances, she twirls, she tries to pull glass jars off the shelves - which are all alarmingly at toddler height - she sticks her thumb through fresh tomatoes (or not-so-fresh tomatoes, as would be the case). To obtain those magical twelve items (just to ensure I can use the short queue), it turns into an hour long venture.
I see one mother, with a Mr Toddler of her own, sweetly stand by patiently while her toddler does much the same as mine is doing – dancing down aisles, but in the opposite direction to the mother. She coos to him, speaks softly and sweetly to him, and waits for him to join her once again.
My patience is gone, much like dear old Elvis, and there’s no sweet tones from me. I’m snapping for her to follow Mummy, or they’d be no treats later (this doesn’t work; does it work for anybody?).
An hour and a half later, we leave the shopping centre, my hair all frazzled and sticking out in a frightening fashion in places.
The rest of the day has followed much the same pattern: she refuses her lovely green broccoli at lunch, but still wants that elusive chocolate. The after-lunch-time nap has become a real trial: every book she owns, or has borrowed from the library, must join her in bed – and there’s a lot of books. Same with the toy collection. You have to squint and tilt your head to make out the toddler in amongst all the colourful debris.
After an hour and twenty minutes of trying to settle her into bed, and about 200 trips marching her back to her room, I give up. I see the triumph come to her eyes as she realizes Mummy has admitted defeat. She whoops, she grabs Bunny, and she races for the lounge room.
Bleary-eyed, exhausted, I do what every mother does when she's worn out, but will never admit for fear of Dr Phil finding out - I switch on the TV. Its now 3.05pm, and after all hopes of a sit down seem like an oasis in Mummy Land, that great red monster fills the screen. Miss Toddler stares, transfixed to the TV, even if it is only for fifteen minutes.
Doesn’t matter to me how long it is. I make that cup of tea, and sit down with a magazine, and finally get two seconds to myself.
Thank God for Elmo.
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Jo sent me through the link, i thought the story was awesome, cant wait to read more.
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