Barefoot In The Kitchen

In a week where I’ve been struggling to balance work and life, a week where I’ve not had a moment to sit down, a week where I’ve worried that my depression is coming back, I’m grateful for days like this.

Days with toy cars.

Days warn emough for David to run around in a nappy and a t-shirt.  (Mostly because, well, have you ever TRIED to put trousers and socks on my wriggly fifteen-month-old without a screaming fit?)

Days with zebra-print Blueberry Side Snap nappies.

Days with startled cats.

Days when fifteen-month-olds decide they’d like to sleep in the carrycot they outgrew nine months ago, when they climb in, snuggle down, and fall asleep without any parental input.

Days with striped trousers.

Days with trips to the park.

Days with curls like these.

Days with blue skies and bright sunshine, when it’s warm enough to not need a coat for the first time this year.

Days with lots and lots of cuddles.

Apologies for the photo post again, there will be a proper written one at some point.  Maybe.  If the world doesn’t end before I finish this project.

I’m feeling particularly crap and undermined today.  We spent this Easter weekend with David’s “other” grandparents: my parents.  I’m glad to be home.

My mother has a horrible tendency to take over.  This morning, I was up and awake and looking after David, and she came into the bedroom, took him out of my arms, and took him downstairs to play.  I hadn’t yet changed him and he hadn’t had his morning feed, but that didn’t matter to her.  She played with him for a bit, and then took him for breakfast.  Now, he’s perfectly capable of feeding himself with a loaded spoon, and in the last few weeks he’s started to crack loading his own spoon, and feeding himself.  I arrived downstairs when he was in the middle of a bowl of Weetabix with added Cheerios (the sugar content!), which he was trying valiantly to feed himself: she, of course, wouldn’t let go of the spoon and was trying to force it into his mouth.  After every messy spoonful she wiped him: it would’ve been much less messy if she’d just let him get on with it.  When he’d finished his breakfast she remarked that he smelled of wee, and should I perhaps change him?  Well, yes, that’s what happens if you leave a child in the same nappy for twelve hours.

There’s another thing.  Joe and I aren’t bothered about a little bit of mess: that’s what babies and toddlers and little boys do, surely?  Mum, however, disagrees.  As soon as his nose starts to run or a little bit of dribble escapes from his mouth, she pounces on him with a tissue, even if he’s wearing a dribble bib.  She does it with paper towel, too, so it’s rough against his poor skin.

Usually, if David wants a hug, he comes and asks for one, then runs off and plays again.  My mother picks him up at every opportunity, and holds onto him until he throws a fit.  She won’t pick him up and pass him to me, she has to hold him herself, even when he’s tired and asking for me.  This evening, when he needed to be held and snuggled to sleep, he didn’t want to be touched: given that he’s had next to no personal space all weekend I’m not suprised.  It took me an hour to soothe him.

The damage that all of this has done should be able to be undone in a day or two’s time.  However, she’s also managed to undermine me on something I’ve been struggling with for weeks.   In the time we were there, my mother gave David everything he wanted, the minute he wanted it, even when I’d said no.  All he had to do was point and say “dat!”, and she’d hand him whatever he was pointing to.  This morning he ate far too much chocolate, because she fed it to him without asking me.  He ate half a punnet of grapes on Friday morning for the same reason.  Every time he wanted something this weekend he went to her and asked her for it, and now he expects everything to be handed to him the second he decides he wants it.  We’ve had tantrums this evening over not touching the Aga, over not being allowed to dismantle the decoration on the bathroom door, over not being allowed a fourth Mini Egg.  We’d only just got to the point where he wouldn’t throw a complete fit over everything minor, and I can see it taking two or three weeks to get back to where we were before we went down to Kent.

It’s not just these individual things that annoy me, it’s the way she tries to undermine every single parenting decision I’ve ever made.   Although she’s not spoiling him when she gives him everything he wants, I’m apparently spoiling him by breastfeeding.  Although she clings onto him for dear life, I shouldn’t carry him in a sling as it’ll make him clingy.  Although he’s a big boy now (and far too big to be breastfed) he should have his food mushed up and fed to him, and although he “doesn’t need red pepper” (direct quote!) she has to feed him chocolate.  She does tell me these things to my face, but she’s also got these sly, subtle ways of doing exactly the opposite of the decisions we’ve made, and I hate it.  I wish she’d just support me (and Joe, of course) in the decisions we’ve made, in the way we’ve chosen to bring up this little boy, rather than turning it into a competition all the time.

One thing that’s certain is that David is going to be shocked and horrified at the loss of his chocolate tomorrow:

Dearest David,

Today you turn thirteen months old.  Woah.  You’ve celebrated the occasion by catching a nasty virus: one that causes ear, throat and eye infections, apparently.  This makes you, well, a little miserable.  Daddy is happy, though, because your doctor is young and really rather attractive.

You’ve well and truly mastered walking this month.  You now walk 99% of the time, only crawling when you’re really tired.  I think you’ve realised that walking means you can reach things, carry things, and go much faster.  Those poor cats don’t know what’s hit them, and neither did the stationery cupboard in Daddy’s office…

Master David, let’s talk about sleep for a minute.  Because you’re tiring yourself out with the walking, you’re supposed to be sleeping more.  That glorious, wonderful thing called “sleep” that means Mummy gets a break and you feel less grumpy: PLEASE START DOING IT AGAIN.  Please don’t make me rock you to sleep in the pushchair, or take you out for a drive in the car.  I do dearly love snuggling you back to sleep in the mornings, but not for every nap.  Please.  You are still sleeping through most nights, unless you’re teething or ill, so Daddy and I are lucky in that respect, but I really, really would like daytime naps to be a little less stressful.

Your talking and understanding are coming on in leaps and bounds.  You can now choose between two outfits (and no, nakedness is still not an option), two different things to eat, and a couple of different toys.  You had a lovely little conversation with the lady in front of us in the checkout line yesterday, and she couldn’t believe you were only thirteen months.  You like to talk on the phone: you’ll come and take my iPhone out of my pocket and pretend to talk on it: it’s much better than a toy phone!

I’m not sure what’s happened to your tastebuds, but you are EATING!  Something other than meatballs and chocolate buttons and garlic bread!  You have decided that you quite like lettuce, and peas, and butternut squash, and raw mozzarella.  You are prepared to try anything we offer.  You have learned to use a fork.  You even ate lumpy food without gagging!  The biggest change, I think, has been that you’re asking for everything that Daddy and I are eating, and putting it in your mouth without looking disgusted.  If Grandma asks, your new favourite food is peas, but we both know it’s bites of Daddy’s bacon double cheeseburgers.  (Disclaimer: it might look like it, but that is not a cheeseburger in the photo.  It’s a muffin.)

You’ve spent lots of time with other children this month: mostly your cousin Wilfred.  You’re both old enough to really enjoy playing with each other now.  You’ve been teaching him how to crawl, and showing him how to use a bottle.  You’ve also met Daddy’s best friend’s daughter Josie, who is exactly a year younger than you.  You are so gentle with both of them, (except when you occasionally forget and throw a brick at Wilfred’s head), and I have a horrible feeling you’ll be leading both of them astray in years to come.

You are very definitely a toddler now.  I miss your baby days, but you are so much fun!  I’m going to enjoy every second of our days at home until you go back to seeing Claire for a few days a week in July.  I love watching you learn about the world around you, and when you are challenging I relish the challenge.

Love,

Mummy and Daddy (who will cry when he reads this, as usual)