Hell Hath No Fury Like a Toddler Scorned

It was all going so well. One of those mornings when you think you’re on top of things: that it’s really not so difficult to get two children ready by a certain time.

I had it all under control. The sun was shining, they were playing my tune on the radio and I was (somewhat smugly) multi-tasking to my heart’s content – feeding the baby with one hand, spooning a few cornflakes into my mouth with the other and directing toddler-dressing operations between mouthfuls.

And then, in an atom splitting instant, this precarious tower of domestic harmony collapsed around my ears and the happy scene became one of utter carnage.

Jess screamed that she hadn’t given daddy a second cuddle before he left for work. The ‘second cuddle’ is just the latest addition to an ever-increasing list of bizarre rituals that must be undertaken in order for the day to progress without a heinous toddler tantrum. As it’s a nursery day for Jess and I was trying to keep things moving in order to deliver her on time and without incident, I opted for ‘tantrum avoidance strategy’ on this occasion. This basically just involves trying to undo or resolve the problem – something ridiculously minor in the eyes of a rational adult but of monstrous importance to a toddler.

So, I left Finn with his mouth gaping like a fish as he prepared for another spoonful of Weetabix that wasn’t arriving and I dashed to the increasingly vocal Jess. I scooped her up and dashed out the front door to see if hubby had already unchained his bike and left – luckily he hadn’t so ‘second cuddle’ was administered and we went back inside. I let my guard down, assuming the calamity had been averted and shut the front door with a sigh of relief.

How could I have forgotten? Such a small thing; one of the first additions to the handbook of ‘bizarre toddler rituals’. Shame on me for not remembering that Jess has to shut the door every time we come back in the house, oh yes, in a very specific way, every single time. An ear-splitting screech told me it was too late to backtrack – too late to simply open the door again and give the neighbours another chance to see my pyjamas.

Within seconds she was prostrate on the floor, arms and legs flailing about, snot smeared all over her face and in her hair and absolutely no chance of getting to nursery for at least another hour.

I almost didn’t hear the crash in the kitchen above the din of the tantrum. I could see Finn in his highchair so went back to see what he’d dropped on the floor. Turns out he got fed up waiting for the Weetabix to come to him and I hadn’t pushed it far enough out of reach. It was now spectacularly decorating the walls, radiator and a good section of the hand-painted units.
How is that such a seemingly small amount of food can spread so far?

I don’t know about eating, this stuff must surely have any number of practical uses. It seems to dry instantly into an impermeable mass that no amount of wiping, rubbing or scraping can remove. I chiselled away with a palette knife as Jess continued her Sylvia Young Theatre audition in the hallway and Finn smeared his Weetabix winnings further into his scalp.

Only two more meals to get through today…