Tag Archives: toddler

I am So Smug Mum

Posted in children, family, parenting, toddlers by

So tonight, I am So Smug Mum.

Like, soooooo smug.

Why?
Because tomorrow, Mini-Me turns four and I will no longer be the mother of a Threenager!

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When the sun rises tomorrow, it will mark a new phase in our family’s life. 

Gone will be the irrational, illogical, utterly terrifying (and slightly demonic!) three year old.
Instead, from the bedroom will emerge a calm, sweet and reasonable little four year old.

Mini-Me will be four.  As she told me today, when she’s four, she’ll be able to touch the roof because she’ll be so grown up.

The tantrums will end.
The screaming will cease.  (Mine too!)
Her moods will become more predictable and she’ll become more logical and rational.
I will have the bestest little buddy that a daughter becomes.  Obviously, she’s my best buddy already, but the love and ability to appreciate each other’s company will be mutual from tomorrow…obviously!

Because the Threenager will have left the building!
And I will have survived the “Terrible Twos” AND the “Tantrumesque Threes”.
So therefore, tonight, I raise my glass of red juice and say, quite happily, that I am indeed So Smug Mum!

See you on the other side S-Mummies!

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I am So-Smug Mum

I am SeelaSalaaCassello-Mum!

“SeelaSalaaCassello
SeelaSalaaCassello
SeelaSalaaCasselloooooooo
And so say all of us!”

This is what Mini-Me sings EVERY time she finishes singing “Happy Beffday”.
It’s completely ridiculous, but so cute that I don’t have the heart to correct her.  In fact, on Friday last, while her Aunty blew out her candles, everyone started to sing Mini-Me’s version of the song.  I have a feeling that it will be one of those things that will haunt her into adulthood.

And it got me thinking.  Why do we automatically correct some mistakes, while accepting others?
Why do I think it’s okay for her to change the entire lyric of a song, but yet when she says “Where is her?”, I immediately correct her with “Where is she!”?

It’s not like my own speech is perfect.
I sometimes talk really quickly.
Like, really quickly.
Or so I’m told.

I’m always aware that I need to slow down, especially if I’m speaking to someone new.
It can be full speed ahead, to the point that if you’re not from lovely Donegal, there’s a good chance that you’re smiling politely at me, but you’ve no idea what I’m saying.

Why do I do this?
I have no idea.

I do make an effort to slow down obviously, but if I’m nervous or excited, I speed up dramatically.
If I’m excited and I’ve had coffee, I go to superspeed.
If I’m excited and I’ve had wine, well you had better buckle up and try to keep up!

As an English teacher, I am constantly aware of the mistakes that we make in our everyday speech.  Indeed, outside of the classroom, I am happily able to slip into the colloquial dialect of my hometown.   I don’t apologise for it.

I’m am however, that person who is silently correcting your grammar.  I don’t mean any harm.  It’s my job I suppose.

When people mispronounce words, I cringe.  (I had a meeting once with a lovely lady who loved the word “specific”, but who pronounced it “pacific”.)
When my students make the (very Donegal)  mistake of “I seen him down the town,” I have been known to start singing “See-Saw, See-Saw, See-Saw!!!!!” at them.

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I want to throw people who like, say “like”, like a lot, out the like window.

So of course I try to teach my own girls to speak properly.

I find myself using the phrases “Slow down” or “Let me hear your words please” with Mini-Me quite frequently of late.

Her speech is generally very good.  It’s never been a cause for concern for me.
She drives my brother crazy saying “Lellow“.  He once spent 20 minutes teaching her “Ye-Ye-Yellow.”  She proudly ended the lesson with “Ye-Ye-Lellow!”
Everything is “Bery” good and she wears a “best” instead of a vest.
I don’t stress.  She’s three… (or free!).

She lost her first tooth last week and for a few days, her newly acquired lisp provided great entertainment to the adults in her life.  Of course, we didn’t make her aware of the humour she was providing to us, but we had a little chuckle at the cuteness among ourselves.  It passed after only a few days.

But it got me thinking.
Over the past week, I’ve found myself paying attention to the little words she mispronounces or gets completely wrong.  And where I would usually automatically say the word correctly to her straight away, I’m trying to remember them.
She’s growing up so quickly and as she proceeds through the school system, those little mistakes will be rectified by her well-intentioned teachers.

Instead, when she announces that she wants another “escapode” of Peppa Pig, I smile and enjoy the fact that she’s can even try to say that word!

And for now, when she has the confidence to stand in front of a room full of people and sing “Seeeela Saalla Casello!” At the top of her voice, I let her.
(How “She’s a jolly good fellow” became “Seeeela Saalla Casello!”, I will never know).
But it is hilarious. It’s cute. It won’t last forever.

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(Sometimes however,  we must correct.
Like yesterday when she bumped her elbow and screamed “You hurt my Booobeeeee!”, I HAD to correct her.
I’m not even going to try to understand how she got those two particular body parts mixed up, but she did.)

Because she’s three.
And for  “Seeeela Saalla Casello!” And so say all of us!

I am  “SeeeelaSaallaCasello-Mum”. 😅

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I am Snaughling Mum.

Posted in children, teacher, toddlers by

Snaughling…

Laughing so hard that you snort…then laughing that you snorted.
Snorting is for pigs, but sometimes, it happens to the best of us!

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It isn’t the most gracious or ladylike thing to do, yet yesterday, I did it…in public.

So proud of myself was I after Wednesday’s achievement of getting Mini-Me to school, that I began to feel in control of things.  You know?  This Yummy Mummy was in charge again.  I was no longer recovering from “the Section”. I was fully recovered.  Fully.  Physically and mentally.  Completely and utterly in charge of my world again.  Well,  I thought I was.

Yesterday morning, leaving Princess snoring on top of Daddy, I dropped Mini-me to school again (Yay me!!) and went into town to run a few errands.
By 11.45am, I’d ticked off the to-do list, brought coffee home to Hubby, squeezed in a 2km power walk, grabbed a quick shower and had my eyebrows waxed!  The sun was shining.  It truly was a beautiful day, and I was indeed Supermum.

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I drove back to the school to lift Mini-me at mid-day, full of the joys of January.  On days like these,  “I have Confidence in me” from The Sound of Music often pops into my head, and so I was singing to Princess (as loudly as only the privacy of your car allows) as I drove.

Pulling into the car park, I saw that the class were in the Playground.  Double Yay!  I was now able to drive up to the gate and collect Mini-me without having to disturb Princess, who was somehow sleeping despite the noise of my singing.

I stepped…no bounced…out of the car and waved at Mini-Me.  Her little face lit up and she ran towards me, with a face full of happiness, shouting gleefullly “Maaaaaaaaammeeeeeee!!”

Screw The Sound of Music… this was a Little House on the bloody Prairie moment.  All was right with the world.

And then.

I was greeted by Mini-me’s teacher.  She’s chirpy and lovely in that infectious way that only a pre-school teacher can be.  She was smiling at me.  Yes.  A little more than usual.

“Hi there!” she said.  Were her lips twitching at the corners?
“Hi!  How was she today?”  I was obviously paranoid.
“Great!  No bother!”  I swear she’s trying not to laugh.

She puts her hand into her coat pocket, pulling out a little plastic bag.
I recognise the bag as the reserved for soiled pants type and think “Oh crap.  She’s had a wee accident.”  And I simultaneously remember that I forgot to put a spare pair in her bag.  I’m expecting the “We had a wee accident.  It’s OK, we found a spare pair in her drawer” line.

Instead I get  “Did you dress her in the dark this morning?”  Yup.  She’s laughing.  I’m not paranoid.

“No?  Why?”  My brain is now whizzing back through my perfect and productive Supermumesque morning.  I’m replaying the dressing of the child and nothing is standing out to me as unusual.  It was all pretty calm actually.

“She was wearing two pairs of pants!” laughs teacher, handing me the little plastic bag.

What?  How was she wearing two pairs of pants?  That’s just ridiculous.
But then Mini-me looks up at me and squeels “I had TWO pants on my butt.  Silly Mammy!”   She’s delighted with herself.

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I’m horrified.  This is not the kind of thing that I do.  I’m in charge.  I’m sensible.  I’m completely organised thank you!

I feel my face turning pink.  My full face now matches the two strips of pink on my freshly plucked eye-brows.
I look at Teacher, who is now giggling unapologetically…As is her colleague who has been cleaning a little boy’s nose beside us.

This is one of those moments that you read about in novels.  It’s the type of moment that you cringe at; that makes you laugh at the silliness of the poor Mum, safe in the knowledge that it’ll never happen to you!

I was wondering how the hell to react, but before my brain could send a sensible reaction signal to the rest of my mortified body, I snaughled.

I threw my head back and laughed; then I snorted; then I laughed some more.
Teachers were laughing.
Mini Me was laughing.
I had spontaneously combusted and the embarrassment subsided as the hillarity of the situation became clear.
“At least her bottom was warm!”  I managed.

I put the offending plastic bag in my pocket, said Goodbye to the teachers and set Mini-me into her carseat.
I vowed that I’ll have my coffee before I dress her in future.
It’s not a big deal.  It’s hilarious.  And at least the teachers were able to say it to me, rather than laugh about me behind my back.  At least I didn’t send her out without pants!

There’s no greater feeling than a good laugh.  And it’s even more refreshing when it’s completely at yourself!  Even if I did snort!

And this little Piggy snaughled…all the way home.

I am Snaughling-Mum.  xx

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I am Streetlamp Mum

Posted in children, parenting, toddlers by

Oh to be able to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, without even trying.

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On Saturday past, we received a last minute invitation to join friends for dinner.  Now, while we usually try to have Mini-me tucked up in bed by 7.30pm, we’re also aware that she needs to have the odd night out of routine.  We’re also very aware that in a few months time, we’ll be less able to make sporadic plans with a new-born in the house, so we gratefully replied to say “Absolutely!  See you in an hour.”

We had a lovely evening.  The kids played for hours, oblivious to bedtime passing.  The adults ate and laughed and talked. It was bliss.

In true Cinderella style, just before midnight, we packed an exhausted threenager into her car seat.  We assumed that she’d fall asleep and that Daddy would simply lift the Sleeping Beauty into the house and tuck her into bed in her clothes.  We were wrong.

Because what we had never considered or anticipated was the absolute magic that the journey would present to her.

As we drove through the town, she began to gasp in awe.  “Oh Daddy, I looooooooove them!” she announced.

We hadn’t a clue what was so exciting, until I looked around and saw her chubby little face illuminated by a streetlamp.  Her eyes were popping out of her head and her jaw was quite literally on the floor.

“What do you love?” Daddy asked, still unsure of what was so amazing that it had warded off the snoozes.

“All the magic lights floating in the sky,” she replied.  “They’re booootiful!  I love them. What are they Daddy?”

“They’re streetlights Darling.  They light up the town when it’s dark,” was his answer.

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“Nooooooooo!!  They’re magic lights from the fairies to guide us home. They’re floating  lanterns like Tangled!” was her reply.

We agreed with her that of course the magical fairy lights were there to keep us safe and guide us home.

When we finally got home, our little Rapunzel was asleep before her head had properly settled into her pillow.  We drank cups of tea, both pretty bemused by the cuteness of the whole conversation.

The reality was that because she’s always at home in bed by 7.30pm, she’s never been in town in the dark; well, not that she remembers anyway.

And she taught us a lesson.  Because while Mammy and Daddy saw nothing but the familiar streetlamps along the town streets, if we had bothered, we could have seen something much more exciting and wonderful.

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Through the eyes of a three year old, the industrial sized orange light-bulbs were actually the magical glow of the fairies who were lighting the road to make sure that our wee family made it home safely.

So while I like to think that I am good at seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary, I’m only a novice in comparison to Mini-me!  But I’ll never look at the streetlamps in the same way again.

I wish I had her perspective of the world and I hope that Mini-Me always sees her world through her extraordinary little eyes.

I am Streetlamp  Mum. 🙂

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I am so mortified Mum

Posted in children, parenting by

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.

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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

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