I’ve decided children are eeeevil.
In the last few weeks the child has lulled me into a false sense of security (and organisation) by being perfectly compliant in the morning rush to get ready. She has been clear with her breakfast requests (rather than the previous “I’m not huuuuuungry”), gotten dressed with little to no drama, and I’ve been able to get out the door and to work on time for the first time since I started my job a year ago.
Apparently it is completely justified to have the world’s biggest melt down if your mother pours milk over your porridge and therefore conceals the redeeming feature of the oaty gloopiness, golden syrup.
That, my people, is the end of the world as far as a four year old is concerned.
That, my people, slows down the getting ready process by approximately half an hour.
That, my people, is when I would happily get on the floor with her and scream for just as long.
So yes, I spent that half an hour trying to convince her that the golden syrup was still there. It didn’t work. Then I tried an alternative method. The enforced-giggle-method, whereby she laughs her way out of melt-down land… and so had a minor freak-out about tears and snot and general goobies getting on to my dressing gown. All feelings of self-consciousness must be abandoned at this point. Thank freaking goodness that worked. The next tactic to be employed is “Seriously Grumpy Mummy” and neither of us like that one. (And it usually leads back to square one as far as melt downs go so isn’t particularly effective.)
Sometimes I seriously don’t know if I’m cut out for this parenting business.