Since I was made redundant someone has to take up the slack round here. It’s looking like Ted really wants a desk job.
“I wanna get some work!
Push me in to the chair and get some work!”
It’s hard to put in a day at the office when your arms can’t reach the computer & feet don’t touch the floor. And just look at how messy that workspace is? Messy desk, messy mind. Someone should really clean that up…
I think by “work” he means the Sesame Street YouTube channel.
Where are those paper towels gone? Anyone seen the disinfectant spray? Ah feck, there’s another puddle over there. Yep. It’s toilet training time. Actually, forget the cleaning up gear, where’s the baby gone? Look at him there above; stretching up, helping himself to something, well able to fend for himself in the wild for all I know.
Of course, you know what the worst approach to any develpomental milestone is? Putting yourself and a child under pressure to get there. And what am I doing? Trying to impose a not-weeing-on-self deadline on the fourth and final human member of our household. Like an eejit (albeit, an eejit that kinda needs this to happen sooner rather than later)
Number one child trained a little earlier than this guy, and it took a while but he got it okay. We also had the invaluable support of a creche for some relief on the pooey underpants disposal front. Other than that I really can’t remember much about it because the current champion floor-piddler was only about six weeks old so there was a lot of embracing of chaos going on.
So why am I doing it differently this time round? Remember back then I said I was going to be a student soon? Well I am one now, and it’s getting harder to concentrate at the level I need to when I can only start studying late at night. I remember well my last stint in college; I watched a lot of MTV’s The Real World and This Morning With Richard Not Judy (look it up). Britney Spears had just burst onto the scene in her approximation of a school uniform and I used Telnet for a form of social media (shout out DCU’s Redbrick Society!). Somewhere amongst that and pints I got a degree also. Now the only thing standing in my way of time to study is an obstinate toddler and a load of Lightning McQueen underpants.
I have a place for him in a local Montessori pending potty training. Three glorious mornings where I can get shit done while he does his somewhere else. Sure I might even get a run or a sneaky haircut/latte/nap in if I get through my lectures.
Anyway, two days in, he’s doing okay. There’s been more misses than hits, but the kind of misses that happen halfway to the potty so the intent is there and that’s good. He hasn’t quite cracked the poo either; a look of shock crossed his face at his suddenly weighty pair of pants yesterday but today he shouted “What’s on my bum?” just before the main event. That’s progress right?
He seems quite pleased at all the attention he’s getting – chocolate buttons and high fives abound. I bought him fourteen new pairs of pants today to add to the just-in-case ones purchased optimistically six months ago. So I remain positive but realistic. Fingers crossed for me eh? A toddler’s bodily function control lies in between me and my future career. No pressure.
There’s not many things my kids can play with nicely together. They will fight over crayons and tiny little super hero figures and get very worked up indeed over the ownership of particular Lego bricks.
Dominic got a Hexbug set for his birthday, a wee one which nonetheless entertained them both, sometimes together but mostly separately. One single buzzy little Hexbug was not cutting it. I had to get the set out for Ted when big bro was in school and sneak it back up on a high shelf before he got home.
I posted this tweet and resigned myself to heading to the toy shop for some additional bugs; resigned because I have a pathological fear of “spoiling” my kids. If it’s not a birthday or Christmas or you don’t deserve a little something then there’s no new stuff coming your way “just because”.
Then, the Hexbug mothership decided they couldn’t stand to see a forlorn toddler and a large box of panels, pipes and FOUR new Hexbugs arrived five days later. The elder treated it like a YouTube toy reveal video, listing all the pieces as he pulled them out of the box (he is obsessed with this one kid who builds Lego kits).
They built an “upstairs” and tubes that go nowhere until reluctantly, bedtime arrived. By this time Dominic had deduced their name comes from the hexagonal panels (see: educational too!) So, I wonder are they spoiled now? Well, we’ll see if they give postman an earful the next time he arrives with just boring bills.
But for now, from us to you, thank you Hexbug!
We received these courtesy of Hexbug UK. They didn’t request a review but I want to share the love anyway. All opinions are our own. The boys’ opinions amount to: “COOOOOL!”
With Mother’s Day coming up on Sunday, I thought it was time to paint a little picture of the second of my major achievements in motherhood. After all, Boy Number One gets plenty of airtime. So, the younger, he’s two and three quarters and it’s everything you’d expect from the terrible twos. Terribly loud, terribly emotional, terribly cute, terribly funny.
Resilience is Ted’s middle name. As a second child vying for attention he might be a tad dramatic, but that same familial position does bestow upon him a lot of thumps. He roars and screeches, and knows well how to say “Dominic do it” when the accused was clearly in another room at the time of the incident. It must be said though, that mostly, Dominic did do it. Also, Ted gives as good as he gets.
Clingy is his other middle name. He loves me to hold him close. He loves not to walk and to be carried. He dislikes walking up or down the stairs yelling “Hold me UP! Hold me UP!” no matter which direction he wants to be brought in. I tried a toddler carrier which he tried to fling himself out of kamikaze style. No handy back-carry for me; no, he wants to be locked on my hip or my front blocking my view and preferably while I’m trying to get somewhere fast.
He loves to rock out, enjoying nothing more than giving nursery rhymes a sort of spoken-word-metal hybrid treatment, as above. He bashes his drum kit and his ukelele. He sings constantly, on the Luas and in the supermarket. And I could listen to his warbling all day.
He refuses to show any interest in potty training. There have been tantrums over bin-bound stinkers which he would prefer back on his bum. He lies about when he’s done a poo despite the cat slinking out of the room in disgust and nearby flowers wilting.
Delaying tactics are his forte. Running late for school pick up? Ten minutes to accept the fact of wearing shoes, then it’s time to insist on climbing in the front of the car and putting on some music before getting into his own seat. Everything on his own terms.
He’s got marvellous hair. It’s thick and shiny and I’m loathe to cut it beyond keeping it out of his eyes but suncream season approaches and I nearly always give in to practicality then. Unlike his older brother, he won’t let me play with it and tie it up in bunches. The meanie. He does love to brush my hair and if I’m good, he lets me brush his. Santa put a small hairbrush in his stocking for this reason.
He loves to “help” around the house; getting an egg from the fridge for his lunch – splat; getting his own snacks generally because I would give him one yogurt where he takes two. He likes to sweep neat piles of dirt all around the floor while I have gone to fetch the dustpan. His version of helping in the garden is the excuse I’m using for my pathetic attempts of GIY thus far…
I was nervous I’ll admit. He’s been peppering his conversation with declarations of “luv woo mammeeee” accompanied by slobbery kisses for a couple of months now. Sometimes he’ll lick my face too, if he’s got more love (read: drool) to give. After he sidled up to me at lunchtime while I flicked though the weekend paper and called me pretty girl, I knew the time was right to pop the question.
If you’re looking for a squishy wailing crawling human, this isn’t the place to look. We’re all out of babies in our house. Sing hosannahs! The bottle is gone! He held onto it quite a bit longer than his big brother (Seriously, could you refuse that face?) Anyway, we’ve convinced the toddler he doesn’t need a bottle at night because he’s a big boy now.
I did this by saying “you’re a big boy now, aren’t you Teddy?” to which he said “yep”. Clever eh?