Dear Oliver,
Today we had our first trip to the library.
I had envisioned a picture perfect moment of the two of us browsing through the titles and then signing you up for your own card.
Despite the fact that all I really want to do at 37 weeks pregnant is sit on a massage chair with a tub of fried chicken and any type of chocolate, I was determined to make this happen.
I should have quit as soon as I realised what form you were in this morning.
After a lie in (we started well), you woke up an emotional mess demanding doooooast (toast).
The toaster wouldn’t heat the bread quick enough so that kicked off the first meltdown of the day.
When the toast was done, on the plate and sitting at your table you shot me a look of absolute disgust.
Clearly I was trying to poison you with this crap!
You waddled over to the fridge demanding a yogurt. Request approved, spoon acquired and again it was left on your table.
And that’s when meltdown number two happened.
I took the pointing and crying at the offending breakfast items to mean: “What the hell is this?!”
The rest of the morning pretty much followed the same pattern; but thankfully there was hope on the horizon,
A magical reset button called: nap time.
Off you went, without much of an argument, and I settled down on the sofa to continue my love/hate relationship with Pinterest.
It was at this moment that the builders decided to start pulling up the pavement outside the house.
Funnily enough this didn’t equate to relaxing background noise.
Nap time abandoned, I continued on with my library plan.
You were going to enjoy this excursion, even if it killed me.
After wrestling you into your clothes for the day, we set off.
We secured a parking space close to the library (that’s harder than you think) and strolled through hailstones because you refused to be lifted.
To be fair, you’re a bloody lump so meandering though the bitter cold was better than a hernia.
Giggling in the lift was a good start, and when we walked through the door your face lit up to see the pirate ships containing all the books.
I could practically see the ‘Hallmark’ card image.
That’s when things went hideously, hideously wrong.
After a grand total of 12 seconds looking at books you spotted the computers to the right of the room.
You had a head start as your weeble-shaped mother tried her best to get off the tiny children’s chair.
You managed to get the attention of one woman who was watching ‘Mrs Brown’s Boys’ on YouTube (so I don’t feel too guilty about interrupting her ‘study’).
Pulling at her sleeve you let her know that it was your turn on the computer.
With apologetic eyes, I tried to lift you away but you managed to slip your chubby arms free of the jacket.
From then, things got farcical.
I had to chase this little armless toddler around a table before finally lifting a slug-like wriggling maniac who was screaming bloody murder.
I could feel everyone staring extra hard at their screens as they tried to ignore the hapless mother with her ill-behaved child.
I wanted the ground to swallow me up.
Although I managed to get you back over to the children’s section, you decided my embarrassment hadn’t *quite* reached capacity.
You took it upon yourself to run up to a Chinese woman and her daughter, grab her hand and pull her towards the door.
It was like she was your last chance to escape your monster of a mother who was beating you.
The poor woman didn’t know where to look.
Should she take this child’s literal cries for help seriously?
Thankfully she didn’t, and escorted you back to your red-faced mum who was trying to check out three of the first books she could grab – yes, I was refusing to leave empty-handed.
Funnily enough, as soon as we left the building and were back in the hailstones you were fine.
Your tears magically dried up and you had a nice little chat of gibberish with me the whole way back to the car.
The drive home and subsequent lunch was in stony silence as I tried to process who the hell this demon child was?
Your books aren’t due back until next month and I’m going to need that time to recover.
I did get my picture though.
Of you and your Dad reading.
That’s right, you and your bloody Father got to have a lovely evening reading your books as I sat traumatised in the corner.
Thanks, son.
Love always,
Mum