My carefully crafted list of “I resolve to…” for 2012 has temporarily been thrown out the window as I’ve been drafted in to look after a two and a half-year old whilst her mother, father and newly born sister are all in hospital. My intention of spending my second week of holiday becoming an expert in l’art de vivre, la dolce vita and becoming a fully-fledged flaneur has been cruelly replaced by succumbing to the whims of a surprisingly articulate toddler.
End of Day One: Two sessions of yoga for toddlers, one tantrum, one vomit-inducing nappy change, and the recruitment of lots of family members to help.
End of Day Two: Why don’t toddlers come with an off switch? <too tired for witticisms>
End of Day Three: Playing a 2.5 year old Beastie Boys and Run DMC videos on YouTube isn’t ethically immoral if it distracts them; a McClaren seatbelt mechanism has nothing on a child's car seat; and yoga for toddlers is frickin’ hard work. No amount of cutesy jungle storytelling can disguise the fact you’re being twisted into positions that should be reserved exclusively for those who choose to practice karma sutra.
Having carried out the night shift for three nights and had the toddler all to myself for two mornings, I’ve come to the conclusion that the idea of unconditional love for your own flesh and blood is a myth. After caving in to her incessant demands for Hot Chip’s I Feel Better, I find myself bouncing around the kitchen with my arms in the air in a bid to keep the toddler amused - any dignity having been thrown out with a worrying number of nappies.
I suddenly have a newfound sympathy for my parents. How long exactly is the gap between a kid becoming self-aware and the moment they wish to disown their parents? And is there any way of speeding up the process, or perhaps missing it all together? Is this what boarding school is for? And is it considered bad parenting to ship your kids off because you refuse to listen to Glen Campbell’s Rhinestone Cowboy for the fifth time in a row? I mean really, Glen Campbell! Later, as she plays on her toy phone by saying authoritatively that she’s “leaving a message for Glen Campbell, asking for a number”, I wonder on which ill-fated night did her father decide it would be a good idea to expose his daughter to this song? How desperate do you need to be? How much yoga must you have endured?!
Now that I’m safely home, as are my cousins and their new baby, I can revisit my “I resolve to…” list and make a start on embracing the small things in life, distraction, and random city wanderings and musings. And also hope that no more distractions such as childcare come my way. And also pray that the new baby has the sense to put her father straight the second he looks like he’s desperate enough to play her Glen Campbell…
Did you know that a good friend of yours went to see Glen Campbell in concert in October, although not their favourite track, Rhinestone Cowboy is held in high regard by her.
ReplyDeleteI did not, and I apologise profusely for any offence I may have caused! The objection was not so much directed at Glen Campbell, as the toddler who wanted to play it on a loop... I began to feel the same towards Hot Chip after the third play
ReplyDeleteI've been walkin' these streets so long
ReplyDeleteSingin' the same old song
I know every crack in these dirty sidewalks of Broadway
Just in case you forgot how it goes...
Mrs Green your identity has been lifted!
ReplyDelete