I am Suddenly Dumped Mum

“I’m not your best fwend Mammy.  I’m Danielle’s best fwend”…

And there it was. In one simple sentence, I’d been categorically dumped by my Mini Me.

friend

When I had my little girl, my aunt told me that I’d been blessed with my very own best friend forever.  We see signs and cards and photo-frames everywhere, stating that a daughter is a friend for life etc.  And this is largely true.

In my own case, I’ve been blessed with a wonderful Mum who I can happily call my absolute, all time, unconditional BFF.  We had our moments while I was (am) growing up, but we typify that stereotypical Mother/Daughter relationship and I know how very lucky I am. Friends may come and go.  Let’s be honest, only a handful are really there for the long haul, but Mamma Bear is a constant. 🙂

When Mini-me passed through the baby stage and began to bloom into the pleasant-if-sometimes-terrifying little personality that she is, I began to fully appreciate her role as my bestie.  We do everything together; we have fun, we fight and we laugh and we cry. We bake, we go shopping, we play and we are wonderful at doing absolutely nothing together.  We work.

In a world where everyone is busy and where as parents, we can often find ourselves a little isolated and out of the social loop for whatever reason, our friendships with our toddlers become more important to us than we can ever give them credit for.  She’s my companion and will always be 100% on my side (except for when she’s not!).  I know she has my back and I have to admit that I fell into the false security that I did indeed have my very own, custom made best friend.

mirror mirror

Until, like Snow White’s stepmother I asked the stupid question.  The question that I had allowed to become a daily certainty; an ego boost even.

Every day, “Who’s Mammy’s best friend?” was answered with “Meeeeeeeee!” and usually accompanied by a giant cuddle and slobbery kiss…until Friday.

Mini Me was in her car seat, engrossed in a Tinkerbell book.  We were driving to playschool and I was chattering about what we’d do that afternoon when I collected her.

I may as well have looked in the mirror and chanted “Baby, baby, in the chair, Who’s your bestest friend in the world?”  Without a second’s thought, she announced “I’m not your best fwend Mammy.  I’m Danielle’s best fwend”... and with that, the mirrors and illusions of my assumed Disney-perfect Mother and Daughter world, shattered into a thousand pieces.

Initially I laughed.  What else do you do? (For the record, the little girl in question is a wonderfully perfect BFF for my precious one.)  I posted it on Facebook and other people laughed.  Of course!  It is pretty hilarious, but the reality is, it marks yet another milestone in her little life and it freaked me the hell out!

She’s branching out.  She’s socially accepted, popular even.  She’s making her own friends and she’s growing up far too fast.  It’s wonderful and it’s terrifying all at once, because while we parents encourage our little ones to grow and bloom every day, realizing that you’re not the only thing your child needs in life, is just horrid.

We might be smiling, but we don’t have to like it.

Instead, we treasure every second, count every milestone, and celebrate every chapter.  We capture special moments in our memories, (or on our phones if we can!) We post on social media with pride.  We entertain others with our cute kiddies and we get through each day as best we can.  But sometimes, we get an inevitable slap in the face from our little angels as they take their own uncertain little stumblings through the big dark forest of the world.

As time goes on, I’m probably going to assume the persona of the Wicked Witch in my daughter’s eyes, rather than the perfect loving Queen.  That seems to be inevitable, but what is also inevitable is the certainty that some day, she’ll realize that Mammy IS actually her best friend again.  And until then, I can keep on asking the question and hope that the odd day, I get the answer I like!

.bff

I am Suddenly Dumped Mum.

I am so mortified Mum

This weekend, I met my threenager.  A work colleague kindly gave me this word on Monday when I mentioned by utter exasperation at Mini-Me’s constant whining and tantrums. It’s perfect.  Attitude, huffing, stomping, screaming and absolute defiance; and all quite out of character.  Thankfully, it seems to have passed and so I’ll happily attribute her shenanigans to her Daddy being away on business for the weekend as opposed to the beginning of a long-term hatred of Mammy.

images (2)

Thankfully however, even in the midst of her strops and screeches, she still managed to surprise me.  We were in a local supermarket on Sunday.  I’d like to paint a picture of calm and relaxation; you know where I hum happily as I push her around in the trolley and she sweetly impresses other shoppers by asking for oranges and singing at the top of her voice.  But no.

True to the form of the weekend, Madam refused to get into the trolley, insisting that she push the bloody thing even though she can hardly reach the handle.  By the time we got to the fruit aisle, (aisle 2), she had thrown two full blown tantrums; one over the pushing of the trolley, and one because she “neeeeeeeed buns!”

So when we moved into the next aisle and she seemed happier, (probably because she was holding said buns as if they were the last buns in the shop), I breathed a sigh of relief and carried on.  And then it happened.

A young man was stacking shelves.  He was bent forward over the onions, minding his own business, doing his job.  I had started humming, happy that all was calm again.  And then my adorable, innocent, (mostly) pleasant daughter lifted her little hand and slapped him square on the arse, shouting “Woooohoooooo!!” as she did so…

I…was…mort…i..fied!

Tell me.  What the hell does one do when their toddler assaults a stranger while they work?  The victim jumped up, dropped his onions and looked around to see a wee toot grinning up at him, proud as punch of her self! He looked at me with shock on his face.

And then he laughed.  Thank the Lord Jesus and the baby donkey, he laughed.

Mammy on the other hand, turned 50 shades of scarlet and made a futile attempt at scolding Mini-Me while apologizing profusely.  “It’s fine!” he said. “I have a wee rascal at home myself.” And with that statement, all was right with the world.

I apologized again, grabbed the bun-free hand and dragged her off.  She was absolutely oblivious to my mortification and sang her way around the rest of the shop.

By the time I got the frozen food, I had resumed my normal pallor.  And then I started to laugh.  It wasn’t just the slap.  It was the “Wooohooo”.  I don’t even know where or how or why she thought to do it.  I explained to her that we don’t slap people and all I can do is hope that it doesn’t happen again.

“I like buns” she replied to me.

Seriously…

I am So mortified Mum

cake

I am Soap-Mum

“It’s not bedtime.  It’s still early!”  Curse these long evenings!

Mini-Me has been growing increasingly difficult to get to bed at the usual time.  I find myself, for the first time, cursing the changing of the clocks.

summerevening

The last few nights were beautiful.   The sun was setting behind mountains.  The sky was 50 shades of pink. And the daughter was still singing “Let It Go!” at 9.30pm.  I tried in vain to explain to her that although it’s still bright outside, it is indeed bedtime.

She was having none of it, until last night.

The debate was becoming quite heated.  Her logic was, (obviously!) that it’s not night time yet.  How the hell does one argue with that? I was beginning to have visions of her sitting up until all hours, when suddenly the theme music for the 8pm episode of Emmerdale came on the TV.

Madam stopped stomping her foot, looked at the telly and announced “It’s bedtime Mammy.  I need Shreddies.

And so I find that I have finally morphed into my mother.

As kids, the music to Coronation Street was our cue to no longer grace the kitchen.It seems silly, and we often joke about it now as adults, that it frightened the lives out of us! How ridiculous that was.  How ridiculous.

bedtime

Except it’s not that ridiculous.  I finally understand.  I never realized that it marked the one time of the day where Mother Dearest could make a cup of tea (which she’d actually finish), collapse on the sofa, and grab a fleeting moment of quiet and escapism after the chaos of the day. (Before getting back up to prepare uniforms and lunches and do washing etc afterwards!)

And so, if this music is going to mark bedtime for my “genius but not quite aware of time yet” daughter, then by golly, I am going to jump on that train!emmerdale

And whether it takes me to the Dales, or to the Cobbles is irrelevant, as long as it acts as a bedtime marker, I’m as happy as a character in a Soap Opera!

I am Soap Mum.

I am Sweeties-Mum

tonguesweeties

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“Sveeeeeeeties!” she screams, sounding suspiciously like the Grand High Witch in Roald Dahl’s Witches.

“You can’t have sweeties for breakfast Silly Billy.  Would you like toast or Shreddies?”

“COCOPOPS!!”

“What about French Toast? You can crack the eggs for Mammy.”

“COOOCOOOOOPAAAAWPS!!!”

“Do you want to crack the eggs?”

“Meeee cwack the eggses!  I wub Fwench Toooast” – and just like that, I win. No row, just distraction. I’ve kicked the sugar craving in the arse.

cookies.chocolate.bowl.13

But where, oh where does it come from? At what point did I teach my little girl that sweeties and chocolate covered cereals are the ultimate prize? How is it that she knows what to say to wind Mammy up in the morning?

We’re a pretty healthy family.  We try not to eat overly processed foods.  We eat a varied and balanced diet of good food and tasty treats. Mini-me has been eating the healthier versions of cereal since starting on solids, and her favourite breakfast is in fact Shreddies.

She gets sweeties and ‘choc-choc’ as a treat.  We do reward good behaviour with a sugary treat…gasp!  But to her, a raw carrot or cheese and grapes is also a treat.

We thought we were doing it right. We thought that we were teaching her to love healthy food and to see Sweeties as occasional treats.  When I offer her diluted juice, she prefers water or milk.  She won’t drink fizzy drinks; her choice.  She loves fruit and breadsticks etc.  We’re doing ok.

So how is it, that when she feels mischievous, she knows to ask for chocolate covered cereal which she knows we don’t buy?

Well, probably because she had them once while on a sleepover, and loved them,  What child wouldn’t? It’s chocolate in a bowl…for breakfast!?

She also had great pleasure in throwing poor Granny under the proverbial bus one day “Granny gave me cocopops” she announced as we pulled into Granny’s driveway.

“Did she now? And did you like them?”

“I wub Cocopops”

Of course she does!

Listen, I get that people are happy to let their kids eat chocolaty breakfast cereals.  I have no problem with that.  It’s none of my business what other parents feed their little darlings.

We just choose not to give them to ours. That’s our prerogative as her parents.  We know we can’t control what she eats all the time, especially when she’s with other people, but we can influence what she perceives as good food or as a treat as she grows up.

People don’t agree with us. Sure there’s no harm in them.  My kids ate them and they didn’t do them any harm etc... Yes. Ok.

But we just don’t want to give them to her as an option.

Breakfast is one of the few chances we get to ensure that our little darlings leave the house ready for their day.  If we want to make sure that they are fueled with goodness, rather than with sugar, that’s OK too.

I can smell the sweetie irony though.  By offering sweeties as a reward for good behaviour, we’ve actually taught her that the sweeties are something precious and special.

So it’s absolutely my own fault now that she expects them as a reward for good behaviour.  It’s absolutely my own fault that she sees sugary treats as the holy grail and would chose the chocolate bar over the plain biscuit.

Of course it is.  But sure I would too.

As an adult, I have my own relationship with food.  I love it.  Eating is one of my favourite things to do. I love a bit of chocolate.  I love the odd sweetie. I eat well and I’m active, so these devilish treats are fine.  As is everything in moderation.

And that’s the key.  Moderation.

sweeties

She likes sweeties.  She likes chocolate.  So what? Who doesn’t.

She likes her good behaviour to be verified with a treat, so, I’m making an effort to replace these “rewards” with non-sweets from time to time.  Her craft box full of feathers and glue is now offered as a reward for being a good girl. Or I let her watch Minions (again!).

And sometimes, I’ll just reward/bribe her chocolate. Sometimes I’ll offer her sweeties. Sometimes, I’ll share the sweeties with her, (but never with Daddy!), just because I can.

And yes, sometimes I’ll give her sweeties when she asks for them…but not for bloody breakfast!

I am Sweetie-Mum 🙂

sweeties2

I am Showbiz mum!

Humpty Dumpty was pushed? We often hear debate about imagination. Are we responsible parents if we give our children an unedited, realistic and clinical outlook on life? Or are we fools if we immerse our little darlings in Disney, Santa Claus and fairies?  When should we give our children a reality check? When is too soon? Is there any harm in allowing them to believe image image in all things glittery and magical? Is reality prematurely injected into their lives with TV, Media…and sometimes the shitty reality of real life? Everyone has their own ideas and circumstances, but for this S-Mum, I’m all about the imagination and the happy ending.

Yesterday, I watched Mini-Me gazing into her Fairy Door (check out the Irish Fairy Door Company!) and singing to Fairy Rosie. The fairy door is a part of her daily routine. She talks to Rosie. She sings to her. She blows her a kiss every night. It’s cute and adorable, and I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.

We all know that reality is unavoidable, but what’s wrong with a bit of make believe? I’m in my 30’s and love the fact that my parents have never yet told any of us that there is no Santa Claus. We figured it all out ourselves of course, but we keep the magic every year, looking forward to finding our Santa gift under the tree back at home when we visit…and long may it last!

The imagination is a powerful thing. As long as we, as parents, equip our little darlings with the skills they need to deal with reality, what’s the harm in them believing that good prevails and we can all live happily ever after?

Tonight, this big child begins her annual week of treading the boards of our local theatre, playing a big old game of “make believe” with my friends.  I’ll pretend to be a hooker from New York. We’ll sing.  We’ll dance.  We’ll laugh; and hopefully, we’ll bring our audience out of their own realities for few hours, into a world of true love and murderous, talking plants!

What’s the harm? No one will go home afraid that their plants will eat them. (Or will they?!)

After the curtain falls on Saturday night, we’ll wash off the make-up, go home to our own beds, wake up to our own worlds, play with our children, go to work and continue to live our own real lives…but we’ll have had a week to remember, playing make-believe and not hurting anyone, on the stage.

So yes, Humpty Dumpty did fall off that wall. Maybe he was smashed into smithereens. Maybe he was pushed, but in my head, he landed on a soft mattress and waddled off into a glittering sunset with Mrs. Dumpty… 💗😉 I am Showbiz Mum 😘