Mum Life

You will go on my first whistle…

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Anyone else’s kids gone completely batshit in this weather? I shouldn’t complain, I know this heatwave is fleeting and I’ll soon be moaning about drizzle and grey again, but man alive it has sent my kids loop-de-loo.

Don’t get me wrong. They’re usually pretty ‘good’ kids, the usual boundary pushing and whining over the colour of a cup (“I need purple!“) but on the whole they’re good. But in this hot weather they’ve turned into little whirling dervishes, head to toe in suncream, paddling pool obsessed and “not tired” despite the obvious physical signs of being knackered and being rattier than Roland Rat and all of his rat-fans.

And the suncream. Oh the suncream. The amount of factor 50 we smear over their weary little bodies, usually as they jump from one foot to the other DESPERATE to get in the sandpit, is beyond what’s probably necessary. I mean they don’t really need it under the all-in-one UV resistant swimsuits I insist they wear. But just in case (and as they inevitably end up naked for some of the day) I slather the stuff on and reapply every 30 minutes as standard. No wonder they’re a bit Roland. It’s the longest I think LB has EVER stood still for.

Luckily they’re so tired by bedtime they usually crash and don’t wake up until the morning, largely due to the fatigue caused by running from the paddling pool to the sandpit 4 million times a day. I reckon they cover more distance than Mo Farrah. But the one necessary function that is always made worse by the heat is eating. Tea time is an absolute shit show. LG has always been pretty good at trying new things and eats well, but LB is a standout nightmare. I feel like that fella from 90’s Gladiators – John Anderson, should announce every meal time with his whistle in his hand and an audience of giant foam fingers at the ready:

“Batshit ratty children: READY!”

“Exhausted, defeated and even more batshit Mum: READY!”

“On your marks, get set, 3-2-1… EAT!”

Except LB doesn’t. He hears a very different word. He hears ‘FAFF.’ Piss around with everything in your vicinity. Such as:

  • the chair
  • the cutlery (which should NEVER be used for actual eating, only for banging together like the cast of Stomp)
  • his sisters water (just to piss her off)
  • the toy of the day, which we don’t allow at the table but somehow manages to end up by his chair and then in his beans *sigh*

I turn into a negotiator and he weaves a tale worthy of a spin doctor. “I can’t eat peas, they don’t fit on my fork…. chicken is yucky next to broccoli…. the rice looks like it’s mad at me…” Any excuse to keep talking and avoid a morsel of food entering his digestive system at all costs. And then comes the killer question. “What’s for pedadin?” Yup, he has called pudding ‘pedadin’ for the past year in that cute ‘toddler made up word’ way, and now we all do it, even though he knows the right word is pudding or dessert. It’s infiltrated our vocabulary. And if he has eaten little to nothing my answer is that pedadin is fruit, or nothing. Cue –

“Take me down to meltdown city, where the peas aren’t green and the rice is shitty, oh won’t you please leave me alone…. (yeah yeahhh)”

Oh that sweet child o’ mine. I don’t know why his refusal to eat gets under my skin so much. He’s always been like this. He didn’t swallow ANY food until he was ten months old. For four whole months, I tried home made puree, baby led weaning, Ella’s pouches –  the lot and he wasn’t fussed with any of it. When he was two I consulted a nutritionist as I was genuinely worried about his vitamin intake, but she turned out to be pretty extreme and recommended giving him bone broth (wtf?), and so that avenue remains unexplored. I’ve tried ignoring him, literally spoon-feeding him (even at pre school age), coaxing, bribing, giving small portions, letting him help himself to food from dishes in the middle of the table, putting the telly on, leaving the telly off and he remains firm in his resolution to stay empty.

OK so I’m overdramatising now. In the past two years we’ve come a long way (baby). Sometimes he eats a carrot, unprompted. This evening, he finished two sections of his plate (left most of the veg, obvs). Once, on a very special day back in March, he ate everything on his plate (cottage pie). I instagrammed the shit out of that meal. But the daily struggles are still real, and I still get as infuriated as Trump’s social media team. Ah well. One day we will win. And win bigly. 😉

Until next time, peace out. N ♥



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