The Secret De-Clutter

I've been asking myself the same questions, numerous times over the last several months.  "Where on earth did I put that thing last?"  "Why can't I seem to find it anywhere?" Of course, I'm referring to objects around the house - and a rather vast range of objects, at that - when I ask these questions.  Objects such as the egg whisk, some pieces of one of little madam's puzzles, bottles of rather expensive, nice-smelling hair product from the bathroom cupboard, soft toys, blocks...the list goes on.  And, as you can see, quite a list it is. 

Interestingly enough, although I've had the sense to turn the house upside down in my quest to find the various missing objects, I lacked the sense - for some reason or another - to look in the one place little man, over the last several months, has shown quite a fondness for.  No. I'm not talking about the toilet, for those who read my very first post titled, "The Mysterious Case of the Disappearing Handset."  Thankfully, little man's obsession with the toilet seems to have died off recently.  And what a relief this is, too.  After all, as a walking - or should I say, running - and constantly on -the-go busy little eighteen-month-old, he can get his hands on a lot more things than the telephone handset these days.  Which brings me back to the original point of my story. 

As I was saying, the one place I'd forgotten to look, in my quest to find missing things, was the bin.  Of course, for those who've also gotten around to read another of my earlier posts (one titled "What a load of RUBBISH! The Terrible Sin Involving The Poor Kitchen Bin"), his bin infatuation will come as no surprise.  But, like the toilet, I honestly thought he'd moved on, to bigger and better things.  Things like the washing basket - where, of late, I've managed to rescue a few misplaced items before they've ended up in the machine, including some crayons and sheets of paper which, I'm certain, would have been quite disastrous for any clothes they ended up being washed with - and even outside in the garden.  Oh.  And I mustn't forget to mention the bath. Unfortunately, poor Charlie Bear - little man's favourite of all soft toys - ended up having to participate, rather unwillingly I'd say, in a swimming lesson in a tub full of hot water (it was in the process of being filled for little man and little madam's bath) only a few nights ago.   

So, as you can imagine, with so many other wonderful places around the house to hide/place/toss things, it hasn't really occurred to me to check the bin recently, when conducting a search of the premises for a missing object.  The other day, however, when my husband located the roll of bin lining bags -purple in colour, with a lovely lavender scent - lying patiently awaiting discovery in the kitchen bin, I realised how stupid I'd been.  Why of course.  The bloody bin!

Suddenly, my questions have been answered.  Now I know exactly what's happened to the missing pieces of the puzzle, the missing toys, the kitchen utensils, and even my bottles of expensive hair-product.  They've all been unfortunate enough to end up at the tip!  And long before their used-by-dates I might add.  Well, I guess I could never accuse little man of having, like little madam in my last post, hoarding tendencies.  And in a house the size of ours (which is rather small, I might add) it's not such a bad thing.  Even if little man's de-cluttering has involved disposing of a full bottle of Moroccan Hair Oil.  Ouch!

Thanks, little man, for taking the initiative to clean out the bathroom cupboard, and kitchen drawer, and etc.  I suppose, given the state of my hectic life recently, I probably wouldn't have gotten around to using any of that hair stuff anyway.  Love you! 

The Young Hoarder

It’s amazing how many junky little bits and bobs accumulate around the house; particularly when you’ve got kids.  Yes, thanks to the good-old McDonald’s Happy Meal, cheap, tacky Christmas crackers, and lolly bags crammed full of plastic whistles that don’t sound, my house has, at times, resembled nothing more than the shelves of a $2 shop.  Thankfully, little madam’s toy-box (an amazing invention, the toy-box) has played (in the three-and-a-half years-or-so, that it has been in our possession), a huge part in helping to rid the house of much of the clutter.  So, every time I get sick and tired of seeing crappy McDonald’s Happy Meal toys, and the like, scattered around, I find myself on a mission to eliminate the clutter these small - and more-often-than-not completely junky - toys  seem to create in an otherwise relatively normal, yet still chaotic, home. 

Unfortunately, the downside to toy-boxes is they aren’t – like Mary Poppin’s amazing carpet bag – bottomless pits.  And the other day, when I tried to find room for the latest collection of plastic fantastic toys in little madam's toy-box - and after I realised the toy-box wasn’t going to close with ease due to the immense collection of stuff that seems to have built up over the years, I decided it was time for a spring clean (or perhaps early autumn clean, if you go by the actual seasons). 

What a great opportunity, I thought to myself.  A great opportunity to teach little madam that cleaning and de-cluttering is just as important as accumulating.  Great opportunity my a**!  As, what began as a mission to eliminate some of little madam's junk, almost turned into an ordeal which, if captured on film, I'm certain would have been a terrific addition to the latest season of that fascinating (yet sometimes horrifying) show, Hoarders.  For those who aren't, like me, completely addicted to crap television, this is an American series that's aired on one of those new channels (not sure if it's 73 or 90) every-now-and-then, late at night, about people who actually have real-life hoarding issues.  Yes.  Little madam, it seems, is quite the hoarder.  Unlike me, who is keen to throw out just about everything in sight when the mood strikes. 

Anyway, so on this particular Autumn day, after convincing little madam that her toy-box was well and truly overdue for a clean-out, we began the task of attempting to select a few items to dispose of .  I think, all up, I suggested that little madam select ten things, and this was in addition to all the little crappy junky toys. 

Unfortunately, as we began slowly sorting through the mass of toys, it soon became clear that this wasn't going to be as easy as I'd first anticipated.  As, not only was little madam rather insistent that she was in no way willing to part with the plastic cockatoo that came in last month's happy meal, she was also rather adamant – to the point of tears, I might add – that she couldn’t possibly survive without the handful of plastic insects, a handful-or-so of small plastic bits and pieces, and the array of plastic smurfs  – including a revolting wind-up one that spins around on the ground, but looks rather odd, like a break-dancer with dislocated elbows – despite the fact they haven’t been looked at since the day our house was graced with their presence.

It was at this point, that I began to lose patience.  Well, perhaps I began to lose it the minute she refused to let me chuck out those damn insects.  So I decided I’d force her to make a decision, by giving her an ultimatum.  Well.  Not a very clever move on my part because, when I asked little madam to choose for the tiny chuck-out pile, between a beautiful musical Steiff bear – which was a gift from one of our overseas relatives, and something I NEVER EVER thought she’d part with – and a bloody two-dollar shop tiara and wand, I nearly fell over in shock (although I shouldn’t have I guess) when she opted to add the Steiff bear to the chuck-out pile!  Aaagghh!  Needless to say, it wasn’t too long later that the mission was aborted.  You’ll be pleased to know that the lovely musical Steiff bear was secretly (by me) returned to the toy-box as soon as the ordeal was over. 

As you can imagine, the toy-box remains an overflowing nightmare.  Funnily enough, I was reliving the experience with a friend a few days later, and complaining about little madam’s hoarding tendencies, and she very kindly and wisely told me that I would only be successful in achieving my mission of ridding little madam’s toy-box of all the clutter, if she was far from the task.  I wish I’d realised this before.  See.  As I’ve said many times before, a little bit of foresight would have gone a long way.  So I can assure you, with this being the case, next time I decide to conduct a clean-out of little madam’s toy-box, I will complete my mission with great success; of course, I’ll be making certain little madam is out and about at the time.    

Thanks little madam, for making me realise that using your toy-box to help rid the house of clutter, is not exactly a wise move.  Love you!  

Bruises can be good medicine, too

It’s amazing how people – even rather little ones – work out ways to make others around them laugh.  And it’s even more amazing what lengths people – even rather little ones – will go to go make others around them laugh. 

For example, I was dressing little madam in little man’s room the other night, after dinner and a bath, and little man – who finally started walking (and I mean real, full-on walking) a few weeks ago – who was exploring his surroundings, began tugging at his lovely snugly cot blanket that was tucked firmly in amongst his bedding.  Because lately he’s been finding rolling around in blankets on the ground quite a bit of fun, I decided that rather than allow him to remove the rather large cot blanket  - because I had the foresight (yes, amazingly, I had some on this occasion) to realise that allowing him to drag his lovely snugly cot blanket around on the floor (the floor that I hadn’t gotten around to vacuuming in at least a week) was going to result in a rather grotty cot blanket; which, in turn, would have needed to be added to the pile of washing in the basket that seems to be capable of breeding better than a pack of rabbits – I decided to try and find a replacement.  So, after quickly scanning the room, I grabbed a smaller blanket and handed it to him. 

Thankfully, he was immediately pleased with my offering, and left the lovely snugly cot blanket alone.  But, instead of throwing the blanket onto the floor to begin his regular rolling game, he proceeded to drape it over his head.  And, despite the fact that the blanket was small, because little man isn’t that tall yet, the blanket draped over him practically covered him completely.  From behind, he looked like a miniature master Yoda (he’s a little green man in Star Wars, by the way), in fact.  Although unlike Master Yoda, little man’s face was no-where to be seen under his very own make-shift cape. 

Naturally, I was immediately enthralled by little man’s strange actions, so I stopped dressing little madam momentarily to observe his next movements.  And I couldn’t believe my eyes, when he started moving forward, despite the fact his vision completely hindered by the little blanket draped over him.  I was soon in disbelief, when little man took a few more wobbly steps and actually made it out of his room and into the hallway.  Unfortunately for him, this was as far as little man got.  Because he – probably as a result of the fact that he couldn’t see a thing - collided with the wall and was knocked off his feet.  I, along with little madam – who was witnessing the fascinating movements of the tiny ghost-like figure under the blanket – couldn’t help ourselves and we were both laughing, almost hysterically, before his backside hit the floor.  It was the funniest thing I’d seen in quite a while, that’s for sure. 

Then, only seconds after he landed, little man peeked from under his blanket, with a larger-than-normal grin across his little face, then stood up to do it all again.  And, although I’m absolutely certain he had no vision whatsoever – thanks to the blanket draped over his head – he managed to locate the small wooden block trolley and was next seen zooming down the hallway behind the trolley.    

As you can imagine, little man’s collision with the wall outside his room, wasn’t the only one he had that night.  And it wasn’t the only time little madam and I had a good laugh either.  Unfortunately for little man, the evidence of his over-the-top attempts to make us cackle, were obvious in the bruises he was covered in the following day.  And in addition to the regular bruises which he accumulates on a daily basis, as he continues to develop and practice the art of walking – with quite a few trips and falls along the way – he had the extra self-inflicted ones.  In fact, the poor bugger was so blue, he practically resembled the balls of an African Vervet Monkey. 

Thanks, little man, for the wonderful sideshow.  It’s really lovely to see you developing into such a great little comedian.  Love you!

Introducing Mummy's Parenting Proverbs

Why hello there.  This week, instead of my usual waffling (waffling that's intended to make those who have the time to read it laugh; a little or perhaps even a lot) I've decided to take this opportunity to introduce my new blog - Mummy's Parenting Proverbs.  What?  No more mad moments of motherhood? I hear you ask.  Don't worry.  I'll still be updating you with more mad moments on a regular basis but, in addition, I thought I'd also show you a different (perhaps a more visual - not to mention short and sharp) perspective of my life as a mother.  In my new blog, as well as having regular (hopefully weekly, as well) posts - in which I'll share with you a great number of phrases that I've come up with to highlight some of the fun (and not so fun) moments I have with my two wonderful children - I'll also be including some photos.  Please, if you have a spare minute (and for those who have children, believe me, I know how difficult that minute can be to find) check it out at:
www.parentingproverbs.blogspot.com

Drum roll, please! Announcing the winner of the bad parent award: Oh bugger...It's me!

What is this bad parent award everyone's talking about these days? I mean aren't we punishing ourselves enough for being terrible parents when, the truth really is, we're doing our best? Yeah, probably, but every now and then, even we (the bad parents) need some recognition for all our hard work, I guess. Unlike some, though, I have not won this week's bad parent award for leaving a sweet biscuit, or a piece of cake, in little madam's lunch box at kinder; although I definitely contemplated this, and would have, by now, if another "bad parent" didn't beat me to the punch and receive the, "no sweet biscuits, please" note from the kinder teacher. Thanks to you (and no, I'm not mentioning any names this time), I've managed (on this occasion, anyway) to avoid the guilt that's, no doubt, associated with this ho-hum, new-age, healthy approach to raising children we're all supposed to have adopted.
But, unlike you (the giver of sweet biscuits, and a piece of cake) I've taken out this week's bad parent award for...are you ready? Losing my temper. Ah yes. The joys of raising a threenager (this is a term I heard for the first time the other day, and I've been dying to use it because I think it's spot on, don't you?). A threenager (aka, little madam) who insists on making it her mission to throw every single punishment I've dared to dish out to her, straight back into my face. Punishments such as the use of time out - which in our house involves little madam being sent to her room - to give her time to calm down just a tad so I can begin to reason with her over the latest cause of her occasional misbehaviour. This punishment (or perhaps disciplinary tactic is a better term), I've only started resorting to fairly recently because little madam (although not always a perfectly behaved child....she is human, after all, and she has my genes, let us not forget), up until not that long ago (perhaps the dreaded threenage years are when it all began) has been a pretty well-behaved kid, and quite easy to distract. And, although for the most part, she's still a pretty well-behaved little lass, there have been times lately where I've needed to try a different strategy (different to distraction, that is) to deal with some of her rather frustrating (and quite normal, I'm assured) three-year-old behaviour. So began, in our house, the beginning of time-out.
Unfortunately - although the use of it has done its bit to diffuse some of the ridiculously unnecessary temper tantrums, and is terrific at allowing little madam to bring her rather over-zealous emotions down to the level of normal again - time-out has also been used as ammunition in little madam's rather growing desire to make me feel nothing more than a terrible, torturing parent. An example of this occurred only this morning, when I took little madam and little man to Playgroup. It was towards the end of the morning, after story-time, when a suggestion was made that the box of musical instruments make an appearance to aid in the final ritual of the session: the dreaded sing-along. Actually, the sing-along's not really that bad because there's usually a guy playing guitar, but unfortunately, he was absent on this occasion.
Anyhow. My frustration level reached a peak when little madam, who I'd only just praised a couple of minutes earlier for being a, "terrific sharer" (you see, I'd seen her hand a doll over to one of her friends, after her friend had asked for a hold, and felt that it warranted some recognition), refused to hand-over her musical instrument to the same friend, when she was asked (a few minutes after the start of her turn with this particular instrument) to do a swap.
After trying to negotiate with little madam, and assuring her that she'd get another turn of the instrument, she continued to hold her ground. And eventually, I was forced to tell her that if she wasn't going to share, we'd need to leave (it was only two-minutes till the end of Playgroup, anyway, so not that great-a-deal). I guess she sensed my annoyance, because she immediately started crying then, at the top of her lungs, began saying repeatedly, "I don't want to go to my room!" Can you please tell me when, in the above scenario, I told her she'd be going to her room? That's right! I didn't! But once again - as this was by no means NOT the first time she's used the same words in front of a crowd - little madam had chosen the punishment (or disciplinary tactic) I used the most, to try and make everyone around aware of what a terrible mother I am; a terrible mother who is responsible for frequently locking little madam in her room. Well, that's certainly how it sounded to me. And by the way, just for the record, I can almost count the number of times on one hand I've actually used time-out on little madam, so it's really not a frequent occurrence in our house; certainly not frequent enough to warrant her rather loud (and embarrassing at the time) plea.
Of course, I followed through with my intention. We left. But, it wasn't until I was securing her seatbelt, in a rather forceful manner, a few minutes later, that I became eligible for my award. As by the time we'd reached the car, and I'd settled little man into his seat (and, in the meantime, had to listen to little madam's near-constant wailing and the, "I don't want to go to my room", line another one-hundred times or so) I was more-than-a-little flustered. So as I did up little madam's seatbelt, rather quickly and firmly, she shouted, "DON'T BE ROUGH WITH ME!" I'll be honest. I was furious, at the time. Furious enough to have been a little, "rough", with her if this was, at all, my style. Although, to clear something up, I've never resorted to smacking, or using any form of force, in the past, and I'm fairly certain, by now, I never will.
Unfortunately, though, I realised, as I made my way round to my side of the car again and climbed in, I was being watched. And the observer - who then decided to make his presence known by turning on his car and headlights (it was day-time, too, mind you) - who had no doubt heard loud and clear little madam's "DON'T BE ROUGH WITH ME!" plea, decided to glare at me through his windscreen.

Oh the joys of raising children. As I drove home, and continued to endure little madam's nonsense from the back seat - which turned into a ridiculous level of noise when she realised I'd begun to ignore her (well, the best that anyone can ignore a screaming, shouting three-year-old) - I could almost picture myself, dressed in Versace, up on that stage, giving my speech, after accepting my bad parent award. "I'd especially like to thank you...the man in the black car...for glaring at me and making me feel like a terrible mother!" I bet he'd never had the pleasure of dealing with a threenager!

Thanks, little madam, for giving me the opportunity, once again, to win the bad parent award. I also really appreciate being able to refer to you as a threenager! Hahah! Love you!

The Flatulent Fiend

Have you ever noticed that if you fart while your backside is parked on a plastic surface, the noise is much louder – and is far more effectively amplified – than if you fart when you're seated on a cushioned surface? No? Yes? Maybe? Perhaps you haven't taken much notice of this. Well. I know from experience - not my own experience, mind you - that this is definitely the case.
You see, not too long ago, my husband and I decided that it was time little madam – who’s three-and-a-half now – had her first cinema experience. So after agreeing on a suitable film, and dropping little man – who’s only fifteen-months and far too young to be expected to sit still for an entire film session – off at his Oma (Grandma) and Opa’s (Grandpa’s) place, we headed down to our nearest Village Cinema to catch a session of Happy Feet 2. It was such an exciting time for me - mainly because I'm a huge movie buff (well, I used to be pre-children, anyway) - and anticipation filled me as we queued for tickets, and enthusiasm gripped me, when little madam’s face lit up as we bought her very first bucket of popcorn and slushy drink from the candy-bar. Even the ride up the escalators was a new experience for me – even though I’ve ridden the same escalator many times in the past – because it was the first time I’d been accompanied by little madam. Then came the time, after handing our tickets to the cinema ticket-collector, for us to...well...as we’d arrived fifteen minutes before the session was about to begin...wait.
It was during this wait, while little madam had gone off with my husband to use the toilet – in the hope that a trip to the loo before the movie started would prevent any interruptions during the film (sadly, this backfired, by the way, as the minute she realised there was a "new" toilet to visit, there was no counting the number of times she then claimed she needed to go while the film was on) –that I spotted the stack of plastic (not cushioned...PLASTIC) booster seats just near the cinema entrance. Of course any parent who’s taking their child to the movie’s for the very first time, is going to see the benefit of being able to prop their child up on a booster seat so they, too, can enjoy the same view of the big screen as you. So I did what’s expected and collected one on my way into the cinema.
I guess you might be wondering, by now, why I emphasised the fact that the booster seat was plastic, and not cushioned. Well. Keep reading and you'll soon find out. As it wasn’t till after we – little madam (on her PLASTIC booster seat, of course), my husband and I, were settled in the cinema a short while later, and enjoying the previews to the up and coming flicks, that this story actually gets interesting.
Because the movie was a fairly recent release, and we'd chosen the middle of the school holidays to go, the cinema was rather full. So when little madam decided to let out her very first fart, with her backside nicely settled on the PLASTIC (not cushioned) booster seat, I was really regretting choosing such a busy time to take little madam to her very first film. And I was also of the opinion that it would be far better if Village had supplied cushioned, NOT PLASTIC, booster seats. Because the sound that reverberated off the plastic, at that very moment, was - despite the fact that we were in a noisy cinema - embarrassingly loud. I guess at that point, more than anything, I was really hoping people didn’t think it was me. And, to make it clear that it hadn’t been, I uttered a rather thunderous, “I beg your pardon, little madam!” Of course, even I had trouble keeping the smile off my face, and little madam, who finds farts just as funny as me, snickered involuntarily; even my husband shared in the joke and laughed quietly along. Unfortunately, though, she then decided that the best way to keep the joke going would be to let another one rip. And another. And another. Well. The only thing preventing the other cinema patrons from seeing the bright red flush in my cheeks at this point, was the fact that the cinema was pitch black. Damn those plastic booster seats!
Now the farting eventually stopped, I'm pleased to say (actually, it was interrupted by an imaginary urge to use the toilet, believe it or not). But not before she'd let at least ten noisy little rippers fly. And for those who know little madam as well as I do, you'll believe that this is no exaggeration. As from the time she was just a tiny little bub, she's been exceptionally good at releasing wind. Not that this was such a bad thing when she was little, because there's nothing more uncomfortable than being a bloated little baby with a wind-filled tummy. No. There was no crappy colic for my little madam. But unfortunately now, although I'm certain it still has its advantages for her (advantages like still not getting a sore tummy, for example), it can be a rather embarrassing habit. Especially if she chooses a place, like on top of a plastic booster seat inside a packed-out cinema, to practice it. Or perhaps, like a few days ago, a place like Oma's cosy and warm (particularly after little madam let a few go) lap.

Thanks, little madam, for sharing your frequent flatulence with us, and for making your first trip to the cinemas so memorable. You little ripper! Love you!

Cling on...cry...it’s time for crèche

A few weeks ago, I suffered a rather unexpected, and heightened, level of anxiety when, for the first time since my eldest child (little madam) was born, three-and-a-half years ago, I decided it was time to utilise the available services of the crèche at my gym. Yep. That’s right. A whole three-and-a-half years and I’ve never needed to utilise the services of my local childcare centre, occasional care centre, or even a dial-a-babysitter. And, although I have absolutely nothing against the idea of childcare, I guess I should consider myself one of the fortunate few that has a terrific support network around me (actually, a support network that consists only of my poor, exhausted - and possibly over-utilised parents and, on two occasions rather recently, my good friend, Terri, and her husband, Simon) which has enabled me to avoid childcare and all the little things – including the constant runny-noses, conjunctivitis and all-too-frequent bouts of vomit-inducing gastro – that come hand-in-hand with placing your child in an environment where they interact closely with other littlies and their under-developed immune systems. Not-to-mention the costs associated with having to use such a service.

So I guess, for me, when the decision was made just before Christmas last year to give the crèche at the gym a go – as without it, I was finding it rather difficult to make it more than one or two times a week, and because I rely far too much already on good-old Oma and Opa (my parents) and felt it was time I started to take a little of the reliance of them for a change. Besides, wouldn’t it be great for the kids to have a change of scenery and an alternative form of stimulation? – it was a pretty big deal for. Oh yes. And also for my two lovely children, who up until this point in time, had never before been left – not even for a minute – in the care of strangers.
As I was aware little madam and little man, might find it difficult to accept this new way of life, I started the process by actually spending a short while with them in the small crèche room at the gym – which is a lovely little space filled with toys and activities of all sorts – in order to prepare them slightly. Unfortunately, despite the preparation my two lovely children were offered – preparation most littlies don’t get – I (and them, too, of course) found the experience (that very first time left in the care of strangers) extremely difficult. It was also an experience that to set my heart racing before I even set foot on the treadmill to begin my workout.
I guess the first reason for this, was that little madam – yes, the little madam who’s never been left in unfamiliar territory - reacted rather badly; surprisingly badly, in fact. I honestly expected that she would accept the new experience much better than she did. And, given that she’s now three-and-a-half, her flying leap through the air, and attempt to claw her way along the carpet while the crèche supervisor (a lovely lady named Andrea) tried to peel her off the floor, was a little difficult to take. But little madam’s superman-like manoeuvre – along with her pleas and the tears she shed – wasn’t the only difficulty I faced.
You see, little man – who is a tad younger than little madam and, unfortunately, currently in the thick of his, “stranger danger”, phase – also reacted badly to my first attempt at leaving him in the care of a few complete strangers. And, although at first he was completely unaware of what was about to take place, he cottoned-on to the fact that I was about to leave him as soon as I attempted to hand him to one of the well-intentioned crèche ladies. So, not only did I have to contend with little madam’s incredible aero-acrobatic display, I also had to listen to little man’s terrified-sounding shriek, and watch his face distort in horror – which is the image that haunted me the entire time I tried to get my exercise that day – as I left the room. I assume it’s now obvious why my anxiety level was so high.

Now as you can imagine, I was a little...well, maybe a lot...put off by this experience, and I was reluctant to give it another go. But after receiving numerous assurances from friends, who’ve all been there (experienced childcare/crèche) before, I decided to try it out a second time. I guess I was thankful little madam avoided any incredible acrobatics, tears and pleas, and she managed her second time much better than her first. Unfortunately, though, little man didn’t. I believe he was even a little worse the second time around. And I think this is because he knew, the minute we set foot in the crèche room, what was in store for him. And prying his little hands – which had attached firmly around my neck – was not an enjoyable (or easy) task.
The third time, for little man, was similar to the second. Although, I was deluded enough to think he’d progressed slightly, as we made it into the room, and I managed to distract him with a toy for long enough for me to make it to the door. I was nearly outside before I heard his shriek; the shriek he gave once he, no doubt, realised he’d been tricked. Still, I was optimistic given I’d only heard his protest for a brief moment before I stepped out of the room, and because he’d allowed the distraction, so I went back a fourth time just the other day.
Unfortunately, things have gone south once again, because the minute he spotted the exterior of the gym building, as we pulled up in the car outside, he began his distressed-sounding shrieking. And, to be honest, he really didn’t stop carrying on (in my company, anyway) until we were on our way back out of the building an hour later. Although, I was assured by the lovely crèche ladies that he had settled for a short period after I’d left.

I guess I’m wondering, at this point, whether things will get any easier. But then I have to remind myself that, like most things in life, things have to get worse before they get better. And I’m as pleased as pineapple punch to report that, since her first experience, little madam has been going great-guns. She even started three-year-old kinder last week without a single tear, or any superman-like displays. So, despite the fact little man seems intent on making me feel like a horrible abandoning parent, for the one-hour-or-so a week I decide to leave him while I get my heart-rate moving on the treadmill at the gym, I will continue in the hope that little man will follow his big sister’s lead and accept his new fate, eventually.

Sorry, little man, for forcing you to experience the little “c” (aka. Crèche). I really am hoping you’ll get used to it sooner or later. If not, too bad because I really need the bloody exercise. Love you!