I don’t know what in hell possessed my brain when I decided this morning to take mites to a train museum in Covent Garden. It would be the first time I’d be taking the mites out on my own. I should have known better. It was bad enough the youngest mite was back to his night restlessness last few nights, I didn’t expect the oldest to be so bad-tempered that he’d be just like me when I was a mite.
He didn’t want to go out. He wanted to stay in and play with toys. I forced him into his outdoors clothes, shoes and blah blah. Throughout this, he whined, bitched, whined, moaned, whined. Tried to say he had a tummy ache. He had an ear ache. He had a bad head(ache). He had a lot of things to do. (“Like what?” “Toys! Gin, Kick, Tomato are going to die!” “We’re going out, all right?” “No! Where’s Daddy? I WANT MY DADDY!” “Daddy would go out with us if he was here.” “NO! Don waaaaaan-nah! (fake-crying) I want to stay!”). He tried to hide his feet by tucking them into Will’s Wellington boots. I held him up and tried to shake those bloody boots off, but his feet curled, clinging on the boots. It was an five-minute epic battle. He also tried to dash off when I picked up his top.
Meanwhile, the youngest mite ran around in a circle in middle of the living room floor, then froze and swayed for a moment and toppled over. He shrieked in delight at this. As soon as he recovered from a bout of dizziness, he jumped up to do a circle run again, and again, and again. I knew we’ve made the room child-proof, but you never know. A table corner. A fireplace corner. His teeth sinking unwittingly into the coffee table (which happened to my brother when he was a mite and it rewarded him with three missing front teeth). Paranoia City, indeed.
So while I grappled with the oldest’s resistance to put on those clothes, I had one eye on the youngest being a retro hippie getting acquainted with the principles of physics, or whatever you call it. You would think this would make me realise that it might not be a good idea taking them out on my own after all. Oh, no. I was so set on shoving the oldest into a pair of trousers that it didn’t even occur to me. I kept thinking, “Get in the fucking trousers! We’re going to have a lovely day out. Get in the fucking trousers. We WILL to have a lovely day out. You, me and [youngest mite]. We will go!”
When I won the war, I went over to the youngest to dress him. The oldest ran off to sulk under his bed (under his bed is his hidden universe at the moment, where he does his thinking, sulking or occasionally, sleeping). Once I finished dressing the mite, I tackled the pushchair and chucked the youngest in, then went to fetch the oldest. I had to drag him out by ankles. Shame on me, I know, but he held tight on the [censored] bed legs. I tried to blackmail by threatening he’ll never, never watch Speed Racer ever again. This didn’t even faze him. He just kept chanting, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, etc.” I tickled him. That did a trick. Yay(!)
I carried him down, in spite of him trying to squirm out of my hold. Got them both out of the house. Locked the door. Down the drive, turned left. Half way down the street, the cheeky bastard suddenly relaxed his body, which almost had him toppling over my arm onto the street, head first.
Oh, fabulous. You want to pretend to be a corpse? Suit me fine. I ignored his corpse as I trudged on with the push chair. But he was too floppy to hold, and heavier. I adjusted him so he was hanging over my arm. As one would do with a sulking cat. I figured he’d get tired of being carried like a sack of flour and demand to be put down so he could walk.
Ha ha ha. I forget he can be like my gran: stubborn as [censored].
After a few minutes of walking, his dead weight was slowly killing my right arm, turning it into a numb leg of lamb. But my teeth just grinded while I thought, “We will have a lovely day out. We will see lovely trains. We will have a fabulous time.”
As we were nearing a tube station we walked past a long line of people waiting for a bus, this son of a [censored] dog beneath my arm suddenly waved his arms around as he screamed “Don’t wanna! Mummeeeeeeeee! DON’T WANNA! I WANT MY MUMMMEEEE!” He must have spotted the tube station.
People in the bus line instantly fastened stares on us. Omg. Omfg. Newspaper deadlines galloped through my head. So what did I do? I grinned nervously at them as I struggled to put him on my hip from my numb arm. Then while looking straight into his gaze, I loudly said to the git, “What are you saying? I am your mummy, silly!” The brat jerked his face away and with his nose in air, pouted. Jesus. So like me. (This is not a compliment, by the way, in case this wasn’t clear enough.)
When I finally settled him on my hip, the git suddenly turned his head and looked straight at me. I was a bit startled but held strong. I thought he was going to apologise, or something. But no. He held his fists up, with both index fingers extended, for a moment. I started to think, “Hm? What does he want?” when this git suddenly poked those fingers into my eyes.
Now, I have to say, I do hold my youngest brother fully responsible for this.
Last few weeks, he had been “teaching” them some self-defensive/judo/shinobi/action movie moves (e.g. Ramboseque screams and floor dives), including that bloody poke-in-the-eye trick. The problem with this trick, though – the mite hasn’t quite yet grasped a good judgement of distance, which means his fingers literally poked my eyes.
The moment my brain registered, it was too late to close my eyes. Tiny stabs of pain exploded in my eyes as they instantly watered. I almost dropped him flat on street. I hate little children’s nails. They can be razor sharp. I think I screamed, “What the fuck, [oldest mite's name]?!” I’m not certain, to be honest. I know I screamed something, but can’t remember what. Probably a rude word. Or two.
I quickly set him on ground and gripped his coat collar with one hand while my other hand rubbed my smarting eyes. Seriously, it stung. A quick check on the push chair assured me the other one hadn’t disappeared during this incident.
Once I recovered I did what I promised I wouldn’t do: I pointed a finger at the oldest’s face and snapped, “No! That’s naughty. No! Say sorry and promise you won’t do it again!” I hated it when Gran or Mum pointed their finger at my face, so much that I swore I wouldn’t do this. So far? I did it a few times including this time. As I blinked away the watering tears like crazy, I shouted at the mite’s face. He was completely unfazed. Unimpressed, even. His upper lip curled while he gave me a lofty glance as if he was saying, “Is that the best you can offer?” I didn’t know what to think or say. Except this tiny thought: Why you [censored] [censored]!
At this point, I didn’t notice the youngest mite – obviously got bored – started to rock himself, making the chair move forward. I honestly thought I had the brake on before the fingers-in-the-eyes incident happened. While I nagged at the oldest, I sensed the push chair wasn’t where it should be. I looked up. It was already about two arms’ away with the youngest’s feet, clearly seen beneath the chair, using ground to pedal the push chair onwards. I was so shocked that I just quickly grabbed the oldest mite by collar and leapt far enough to grab the handle. I didn’t think. I panicked because the chair was steering towards the busy road. As soon as I grabbed, I heard the poor oldest choking on the coat collar. Guilt flooded through every vein of my body as I immediately loosened the grip. I was seriously concerned I had hurt him when he kept choking, until I realised he was actually all right.
The daft brat kept making painfully loud fake choking sounds as he dramatically swung back and forth while his hands wrapped around his neck as he faked body spasms. What on earth is he doing?, I thought. Then I realised, because of his repeated sideway glances, he was aware of the bus-line people watching us.
Basically, he was showing off his acting skills. He choked, retched and dramatically fell to ground, prolonging fake dying sounds. Oh, jesus. Acutely aware of the dirt on street, I quickly picked him up. I was too embarrassed to look at the bus-line people. I couldn’t even glance at them. I just held him under my arm and grabbed the push chair. Turned it round. And went home in a hurry with steam coming out of ears.
A day out? We didn’t go further than half a mile from home.
I admit I sulked in a corner while the mites played happily with their toys on the living room floor. My mood nose-dived even further after I told Will about it on phone. He laughed hopelessly, so much that he couldn’t speak for a bit. I was so pissed off that I shouted he should be home today. Giggling hopelessly, Will apologised and promised he’d be home tomorrow. And by the way, Will’s comment, paraspeaking? “I guess we now know what [oldest mite] wants to be when he grows up.”
Over my dead body! I refuse to let the mite become an actor. Top five jobs I absolutely don’t want the mites to consider:
- actor
- footballer
- stand-up comedian
- producer
- farmer politician
Sorry your day didn’t go as planned. The train museum was a lovely idea.
I hate taking my two out on my own at the moment. Shopping is the worst. Trying to prevent my oldest from playing in the traffic while wrestling youngest out of car seat and into a shopping trolley, then hauling groceries plus kids in from car when we get back home. The youngest can now walk but takes off as soon as an opportunity presents itself. It is exhausting sometimes.
I hope you were able to relax once they were settled with their toys.
Oh, my. Husband and I have been considering a 2nd one. How could I forget about the tantrums? Agh.
I admire your restraint. I don’t think all of my [censored] stuff stayed internal (though I usually made it behind a closed door before letting it out).
Poor, poor, you. This all sounds very painful and embarrassing. Hope your eyeballs haven’t suffered any permanent damage.
Hahahahaha. Wish I had been one of the people in the bus line. Oh, sorry. I mean – what Laura said.
I got some of this from you on Twitter, but I just now made the time to come over here and read the whole thing. Poor you! It must have been so frustrating and frightening for you.
When the problem child (my third of four) was little, she was a terror. Once when she was about 2, we had her at the local shopping mall. We were ready to head home, but she was not. She refused to walk or to get in her stroller (pushchair), and when her father picked her up to carry her she began screaming “Help! Help!” There we were, walking through the mall and out to the parking garage, all the while carrying a child screaming for help — heads turned, but no one actually stopped us or called the authorities (that I know of). Which is good, because how would I have proven that she was our child? Yeah, I had some [censored] thoughts.
They get older, though, and the challenges change. You have that to look forward to.