parenting advice

posted on March 13, 2018 by elizabeth

The Joys of Potty Training

This evening, my eldest son came into the kitchen looking forlorn. I asked him what was wrong and he said:

“Oscar threw a poo at me.”

And with that, I decided it was time to talk about potty training.

It should come as no surprise, to those who read this blog regularly, that this next parenting milestone has turned into a complete farce.

Some people reading this may feel that I should reconsider sharing the poo-flinging incident on the blog for fear it will come back to haunt him when he’s older. However, I feel that this could be a teachable moment. For example: should he irritate me in his teenage years I will be able to teach him that is not advisable by printing out this post and handing it out to his classmates.

I have spent months trying to convince him to start potty training, explaining that he needs to learn for when he starts nursery.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him that he gets to wear super-cool pants.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him he’ll get a treat, every time he uses the potty.

He thought about this for a little while and ultimately decided: he didn’t care.

The only person he will remotely be convinced by is his older brother. He wants to be just like him – to the point where he repeats his sentences straight after Oliver says them and pines after him at the window when he leaves for school.

Oliver has had some success with the treat angle (mostly because every time Oscar gets a treat I relent and give him one too). I have a feeling, by the end of this, I will have a kid out of nappies but two children bordering on the verge of Type-2 diabetes.

Back to this evening…

I went to check on the poopetrator and found him innocently sat on the potty, whilst the offending turd was sat on the living room floor. I asked him what happened and all I could gather from the guilty party was that: ‘Offer did it’.

‘Offer’ (Oliver) denies this and I’m inclined to believe the good one. Yes, I said it.

He didn’t even try to keep the pretence up for long, for fear of losing favour with his hero. Instead he cut his losses gave me a ‘sowee’ and went back to basically not giving a f**k about being in my good graces.

This child will be the death of me.

I was going to attempt to put together a handy guide on how to deal with potty training but, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I haven’t a damn clue.

If you want advice, ask Oliver – he seems to have life figured out at four-years-old.

posted on April 6, 2016 by elizabeth

S.O.S: Save Our Sanity

I’m currently sitting on my bed looking like a very lifelike extra from ‘The Walking Dead’ because, for the last two weeks, Oz has decided to embark on a sustained campaign of REM sleep deprivation against his parents.
How do I put this nicely? Oz is being a complete asshole.

Apologies to the more sensitive readers, for the remainder of this post I will change the ‘A’ word to something less harsh in order to appease your gentle disposition. We’ll go with: darling.
Wanting him to sleep more – although obviously is for his own good – is also for very selfish reasons. I miss my evenings. I miss mindlessly scrolling through my phone while sitting on opposite ends of the sofa from my husband therefore qualifying as spending time together.
To say the lack of sleep has had an effect on our relationship is an understatement. Today, I threatened to drown him if he didn’t stop irritating me. Even by my standards that’s a pretty harsh threat – although he can tread water frig all so I don’t think it would be that hard. I’m getting off topic.
I don’t think we have shared a pleasant word with each other in weeks and my daydreams of running off to Dingle with Colin Firth are becoming very detailed.
Last night I sent out an SOS to friends and family with kids for advice and thankfully I had no smug replies of their angels, and how great they were at sleeping from the start. I got sympathy and although I was reading replies with heavy eyes they were appreciated.

In order to get some semblance of rest, by the third time he wakes up in the night we have just relented and let him into our bed (in order to let his older brother sleeping beside him get some kip).

This usually results in either of his parents being head-butted as he throws himself around the bed. Last night, it was my turn. I got a chubby body slam across my face and then he fell soundly asleep. I was so tired and my alarm for the gym was going off in 90 minutes so I just lay there being smothered by a butter ball in a onesie.

See how I managed to brag that I was going to the gym there? Shameless.
Anyway, after another day of being at each other’s throats and threats of drowning exchanged, we decided it was time to renew our conviction and stay true to the course.
Oscar has been moved out into his own room so Oliver can snore his happy little head off while the little DARLING can scream at us from his cot knowing that we are on the other side of the door lying on the hall floor, rocking in the fetal position.
He’s asleep, for now and dinner has been started for the grown ups at 9pm. This is not ok.
And do you think he cares? Let’s see shall we?

What.A.Darling.

posted on September 24, 2013 by elizabeth

The Evils of Alcohol

Today I’m going to teach you about a wonderful/hideous substance called: alcohol.
More specifically, vodka.
After a night of drinking this devil juice, the best case scenario is that I will look a bit bleary-eyed and my reaction time will be null and void.
Worst case scenario, you may find me sobbing in a dark corner while rocking back and forth in the fetal position.

To properly explain what actually happens when your mum drinks this poison, you should imagine that vodka is actually a gremlin.
A gremlin that gets ingested into my body with each delicious mouthful.
This gremlin, let’s call him Dave, is great craic.
He’s full of fun ideas, thinks he’s super clever, loves to sing karaoke, has terrible balance, dances like a crazy person, only stops talking to take another drink and hates sleep.
Unfortunately, this gremlin only operates by using me as a puppet.
So everyone around thinks all this is bizarre behavior is me.
But it’s not.
It’s Dave.

In the days before you, all I had to worry about the next morning after a heavy night with Dave was finding out how he systemically tried to destroy my life by sending (mostly abusive) text messages to people at 2am.

Now however, I have to try and function as best I can and not drop the tiny person I live with, who likes to vomit on me, pull my hair and scream.
That’s a lot of pressure for a hangover, but ironically not a million miles away from what happens when you hang out with drunk people for the evening.

Nowadays I’m woken at 5am, after getting to bed an hour before, for us to have a chat.
To be fair, I’m pretty sure your gibberish makes more sense than anything ~~your Mum~~ Dave said the whole night.
After you’re settled I hobble out of the room to assess the damage.

The checklist is:

Phone, purse, keys. If all these are in the house, things are looking up.
Check to see if I bothered to take off my makeup. I don’t want to terrify you by peering over the crib looking like the joker**
Get into suitable nightwear. I usually collapse into bed fully dressed, complete with shoes.
Kill the stench of stale alcohol by guzzling a bottle of mouthwash and burning my clothes.

** This is also a courtesy thing to your Dad. One night I forgot, and he woke up to me taking off fake eyelashes and hair extensions in bed. He screamed. Literally screamed.

When you wake up properly, I spend the rest of the day lying on the floor beside you because sitting up like a normal person is too much effort.

Next, I try not to vomit when I’m changing your nappies.

Finally, I’ve also learned a handy trick were I hand you to people and run away to another room.

This never works for long, they always find me.

The moral of the story is that hangovers and babies do not mix.

The problem is, I don’t seem to be learning this lesson.

So please take it easy on me when you notice I’ve spent the night with Dave – and if you could, save your smelly nappies for Dad.

That’s a big help.

Love Always,

Mum

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