Difficult pregnancy equals easy labour. Difficult labour equals ‘easy baby’ (a term I hate I may add). ‘Easy baby’ means the twos will be terrible. Undoubtedly a load of old wives tales with absolutely no facts behind them. Whatever the truth I know we were lucky, lucky, lucky when it came to the ‘terrible twos’. I’m not saying it was a doddle. Lack of sleep is always a contributing factor in our lives, but we did escape relatively tantrum free; potty training was quick and easy and the transition from cot to big bed went problem free.
Just as we were getting dangerously close to being smug, as we began to applaud ourselves at our consistent, supportive parenting, and hopefully getting it ‘right’, it all came to a dramatic end. In a week my youngest turns three. My little, angelic baby, all blonde ringlets and blue eyes. The tiny thing that used to be so shy has, without warning, turned into an unstoppable force to be reckoned with. All hail the ‘threenager’.
Almost overnight she cracked it. She cracked the unwritten parenting code. You know, the one where we pretend to have it all sussed, where it looks like we have control over them, but really we are winging every single day. She went from listening to us, from respecting us, to not being remotely interested in anything we have to say.
‘Please don’t jump on the sofa’.
‘Don’t punch your sister in the face’.
‘It is time to go to sleep now’.
An innocent trip to boots turns into her strutting her way around an overcrowded shop, picking up electric blue hair dye and the largest box of condoms she can get her hands on. Worming her way to the most obvious place before throwing them into the basket under my, slightly gormless looking, beetroot red face and announcing ‘Mummy, I need these’ as the attendant glares at me.
I am pretty sure the abbreviated letters FML may have popped into my head.
I usually like to end my blogs with an uplifting thought, a shout out to others, tips to help like minded parents. In all honesty, this time, I got nothing. We are a whole decade off adolescence but I can’t help picturing a parent - hating wild child. As she rides her balance bike around the yard I see black leather disappearing into the night on something a little more powerful. I can only hope this is a phase, a phase in her journey to become a strong, independent young lady, a phase we shall chuckle about over a coffee (as both well adjusted, down to earth adults). In the meantime, next time we hit a full force public display of vengeance, I shall lay the blame on Peppa Pig, pretty sure this is all her fault.