Freedom Fridays – The Tantrum Tales

This will have to be a stealth post. It’s been in my head the whole day long but even without the shackles of a child, I’ve not had time to put pen to… sorry, fingers to keyboard. I can’t let Friday pass by without sharing with you my top three of this week. I’d feel I were cheating you somewhat.

It’s been manic today. I dropped a rather unhappy Wrigglet off at nursery. His bestie has now started on a Friday too and despite his smiles and happiness to see ‘Haawee’, my little man was replicating a mum-limpet, clinging to me. Having prised him off, ensuring him he’d have a cracking day with his buddy, I raced home to complete my rowing mission, have brekkie, dye my hair, get my nails done and then I had intended to jump on the tube to get to Westfield Stratford but they were up the spout. Raced back home, jumped in the car, drove to Stratford, completed mission to purchase an outfit for a very special celebration tomorrow night, bought some hold-it-all-in tights from Primark, decaf coffee to go and then off to pick up little man. Home, trains, trains, Hey Duggee and ‘The Train Badge’ five times, dinner, trains, bath and bed and then bloody awful film with hubby.

So here I am at 22:28 furiously bashing at the keys to share with you my surprise at the limpet child; having had a somewhat challenging week I thought he would be chomping at the bit to get some time out from the monster that is Mummy. This week’s top three are the top three tantrums I have endured:

One – The Train Tantrum

Those who follow me on instagram or facebook will already be familiar with this classic moment. I wanted to elaborate on the carnage that was our morning though. As our last weekend of Christmas holidays, having had two glorious weeks as a three with Daddy on tap – we carried out our weekend ritual of coffee and cake.

Daddy Unyoung decided to be a bit wild, for a man who does not favour change, and take us to Chelmsford. When I say take us – he sat in the backseat scrolling golf feeds on twitter whilst I drove. Getting there was not fun. Thanks to the festive flooding, roads were closed and our route was circuitous to say the least. It took us forty-five minutes – quite a mission for a danish and a flat white.

On entering the hallowed doors of John Lewis, the Wriggles was ready to let off some steam. I had put in a plea for the JL cafe on the top floor. Husband had decreed that we would be drinking at the Benugo on the first floor. The same floor that houses women’s fashions, lingerie and, yep, the children’s department. With the Wriggles unleashed we attempted to pass by the shelves of beautiful wooden toys. To no avail. With the speed of Usain Bolt, he’d whipped a train off the shelf with a cry of ‘my train.’ I humoured him and let him carry it as far as the cafe, the packed cafe, the packed cafe with no seats. Sigh. Husband then announces we will traipse to Pret-a-manger instead – up the high street – but first he needs the toilet.

Fabulous. We all know that means another ten minutes scrolling the golf twitter feed whilst I try to wrestle the train off Wriggles. It wasn’t so much a wrestle as a full-body take down. The after-shocks reverberated through the Calvin Klein scanties and bounced from wall to wall. People politely stepped over the feral beast writhing on the floor wailing – ‘my traiiiiiiiiin, my traiiiiiiiiiiiiin!”

Looks were passed my way. Some of sympathy and understanding and some of disapproval that the miserable mother wouldn’t purchase the unpriced Winnie-the-Pooh wooden vehicle. We know that unpriced means top dollar. Sorry little man – you’ll have to suffice with the three boxes of train kit you have at home. Train hidden on a top shelf, I managed to shoe-horn him back in to the buggy just as Daddy made his casual exit from the lavatories. We had a coffee on the top floor. It was from a self serve machine. It was awful. Wriggles tried to lick a danish on display. He got eyeballed by a mean-looking lady who gave her colleague a nod as if to say ‘watch this one.’ We left. Quickly. Before further incident could occur.

Two – The Mango Meltdown

The recurring theme of ‘mine’ has been played out time and time again this week. The latest acquisition to the pot of Harry things has been mango – frozen mango to be specific. This is what I have learnt:

• Mango must be eaten on demand
• There is no such word as ‘wait’ with mango
• Mango goes hand in hand with ‘now’ and occasionally ‘now Mummy, please’
• Mango can be eaten at any time and in combination with any other food stuff – inclusive of pesto-pasta
• Mango did live in the bottom drawer of the freezer
• Harry can now open the freezer door by putting his entire weight in to the pull
• Mango now lives on the top shelf
• Mango can be found in many obscure places around my home but it is no longer frozen
• Mango is 8 of your 5-a-day
• Mango keeps you regular
• If mango runs out – then please expect the full wrath of the gods to be unleashed on your ass

Three – The Bathtime Hysterics

Frankly, I can’t tell you what causes these outbursts sometimes. We said goodnight to downstairs. We walked up the stairs. We found the dummies, located monkey and rabbit, prepped the holy James book from the Thomas the Tank collection. It was all going fine. Clothes came off, nappy disposed of, wiggly bits all free and easy, a few landing sprints to the bedroom and back. Then in to the bath. Temperature was all fine. A bit of a splash.

Then. He. Lost. His Mind.

Answers on a postcard please. Wails and wails. For two long minutes. I suggested that he try to tell us what was the matter and that he could use his words. Ohhhhh, no mummy. This angered him: the frown appeared; the “no, no. no” and the refusal to accept any form of distraction went in to full affect. A squidgy ball, a plastic cake, a stegosaurus and a submarine were then launched from the bath faster than any tomahawk missile. My pjs were drenched. The floor was drenched. He was drenched.

But then, it seems the sponge sitting on the poury pot had become an ice-cream he wanted to pretend to lick. Whatever had possessed him had clearly found another vessel to inhabit. Normal, smiley bath service was resumed. We silently prayed it was not the eye of the storm as we manoeuvred him out of the bath, in to pjs and in to his cot.

So Hurricane Harry has caused some devastation in his wake this week. As exhausting as it is, the calm and cuddles when the storm blows over are almost worth the carnage. At the end of this month we will be half way through his twos… but then someone had the audacity to suggest he may become a threenager! Give me hope people. When will this all end?

Have you got any classic tantrum tales to tell?

What is your strategy for defusing the ticking time bomb that is a toddler?

I love to hear from you and share in the adventures of parenthood. Pop me a reply in the comments! We are not alone in this – stay strong people! Have a fabulous week!