Well, what a week we have had! Winter finally decided to make an appearance for the first time since I was 12. It was lovely to see the children out enjoying the snow, building snowmen and snowball fighting. The school closure could have been timed a bit better, like, on a day that wasn’t my first day at a new job, for instance. Fortunately, I know some wonderful people, and I didn’t have to leave Oscar chained to a lamppost all day, like a dog outside a shop.
In addition to the snow, and me re-joining the world of proper workers, this week has also seen Oscar give a cracking performance as a sheep in his nativity, lots of children (and some grown ups) sliding all over the place on black ice, and what I thought was the end of term. I have now been informed that the end of term is actually next week, and I really need to start reading my Parent Mail messages.
On top of all of this, I have had an incredibly exhausted child. Now, those of you with no children, or children who are so old, you’ve forgotten this bit, would be forgiven for believing that an exhausted child equals an early night and a nice relaxing evening for mummy. You would, of course be mistaken. What an exhausted child actually means is, nonstop tantrums, tears and emotions over the smallest of things. I asked Oscar to pick his sock up on Wednesday night and he had a 20-minute melt-down, complete with snot bubbles and everything.
An exhausted 5-year-old means they no longer have the ability to follow simple instructions. You ask them to put their shoes on, but they just ignore you completely. You then find yourself shouting at the top of your lungs “Get your shoes on before I throw them outside in the rain, that will teach you, then you will have to go out in the rain, in bare feet pick them up!” You then realise that you’re an absolute twat for making that threat, because he isn’t going to budge. You have no choice but to throw his shoes outside in the rain, you’ve threatened it, if you back down now, he knows you are weak, but he isn’t going to go and get them, and you’re not really going to make him. The neighbours will already be watching, they’ve heard you screaming, they’re interested now, they’re just thankful that someone else is having an even worse morning than they are. So, you stomp outside after the shoes yourself, while the child is smirking at you behind your back. You walk back in, a broken woman. You ask him to put his shoes on, you’re out of threats, you know it, he knows it, at this point, your only option is to resort to begging and pleading.
Tonight, after school, I had to pop to the shop for some toilet paper. I no longer have time to do such errands during the day, and my only option was to either go and pick some up on the way home, or start wiping my bottom on odd socks (to be quite honest, I do have enough odd socks to keep my bottom fresh for a good year or so). So, we popped to Aldi. We got to the car park, and it all went wrong. Oscar decided it would be hilarious to hide in the footwell of the back seat of the car. He got stuck. I needed a piss, I’m not going to lie, I never kept up with my pelvic floor after he wrecked it, when I need a piss, every movement is basically playing Russian Roulette with my knickers. So, bending down to wrestle a rather large 5-year-old from underneath the seats of a pretty small car was a big risk. Fortunately, we made it unsullied, and I got him into the shop. The whole shopping experience was a battle of wills, and Oscar demonstrating his vice-like grip as he clung onto the display cages, while I tried to wrestle him off them, at the same time attempting to maintain some sort of dignity. At this stage, the only dignity I had left was that I hadn’t pissed myself. The shop was busy, I was getting looks left, right and centre. You know the looks. You may remember Rita, from my earlier blogs, well she was there, with her ‘perfect in public’ children, and her raised eyebrow eye roll that ignites a spark of fury inside, while I’m dragging Oscar around the aisles by the hood of his coat, and her kids are merrily skipping along beside her.
Rita just makes me more furious with Oscar, we get out of the shop, back to the car, and instantly he breaks down in tears. He knows his fun is over. His only regret is that he didn’t make more of a spectacle of me in the shop. If he knew I needed the loo so badly, he would have headbutted me right in the bladder. He starts by apologising, you know the one, with the begging in their voice, attempting to appeal to your sense of guilt. Any chance he had of that working went out the window when his teacher caught me dragging him off the floor by his coat. We got home, and he went straight to his room. There was a bit of shouting, I won’t lie, I think it’s pretty clear by now that I am a shouter. He had his dinner in his room, and even thought he was getting pudding. It was at this point I explained the concept of prison and sentencing to him, and he is now sitting in his room doing one night of solitary confinement. He is expecting to be paroled on good behaviour in the morning, and occasionally comes and gives me a peck on the back of the hand to try and butter me up. I hate to admit it, but at 5 years old, he knows exactly how to wrap me around his little finger.
And I wouldn’t change him for the world. And I never did piss myself.