I admit it.
I was complacent.
I was smug.
I thought to myself… I’ve done toddler. I’ve toddlered before. I know about toddlering. Second time round… I’ve got this toddler shit down.
Oh how wrong I was…
The truth is. My second toddler appears to have viewed his sister’s toddler days from the womb, like some kind of ‘toddler trial’, which needs to ‘bettered’. Upgraded. He needs to be ‘more toddler’. And more toddler he certainly is… *sobs and rocks with some mid-afternoon gin*
So for everyone entering into toddlerhood second time round… here’s the things you should know about owning a toddler… again…
- The first rule of owning a toddler is that obviously you don’t ‘own’ them. Nope. Those chubby little pre-speech humans own the shit out of you though. Don’t they. *nods slowly without blinking* (try not to cry yet it gets worse)
- You thought this time round you had cracked eating one handed, and might actually manage a meal whilst hot with real-life cutlery…? Well think again, because the second your toddler is finally contained and you are about to consume something above room temperature… the other human/humans you’ve produced with your womb will need a poo. One of the ones that takes forever and involves singing. By which point the toddler will have escaped and be crying, and your food will be back to luke-warm. As it should be. You idiot.
- You vowed you wouldn’t eat as much crap this time around… but the mum-crap has gone into turbo mode. You have a special cupboard. A cupboard of shame. Just for stolen party bag treats, halloween hoards and pom bears… Where you hide several times a day and pretend to be ‘checking what’s for dinner’…
- Incidentally this is the same cupboard you stand next to and drink wine while you’re ‘preparing’ for dinner. (and also while they’re eating dinner) (and also while you’re clearing it away) (and also… wine…)
- The cats left home after the second one started walking… Occasionally they venture in during nap time, hoping no-one’s around that will attempt to ride them whilst naked. Or fire partly digested Quavers at their face.
- The buggy is obsolete… you don’t really know why you walk around with it… while all the children roam free, asking for snacks every 3 or 4 seconds or so… While you cry and try not to think about when you used to go out on a Friday night…
- Not only will they not go in the buggy. They won’t hold your hand. Will not respond when you call their name repeatedly like some kind of banshee-on-repeat in public. And if you even attempt to put reigns on them… they manage a look that says ‘I will fuck you up with knives if you come any closer.’ And you believe them.
- You don’t use the remote in front of the second one. They know the sound of the buttons. And there’s no point putting it up high on a shelf or something, as he can scale any bookcase or shelving unit in seconds.
- The iPad only works if you sit with them. SERIOUSLY WTF.
- You’ve aced the slummy-mummy style this time… You’re still wearing the same actual leggings from the first time round… except this time there’s no actual fabric left on the inside thighs and the hybrid toddler matter is fully ingrained now. Like armour. Let’s say that.
- You’ve learnt that the easiest way to get rid of the falling food debris is to eat it yourself. Nothing says ‘I’ve hit parenting rock bottom’ like consuming your child’s half-chewed rice cake shards…
- You said you definitely wouldn’t let them eat any food in the pushchair this time, and now you can see the funny side of this… as you scoop yoghurt/biscotti hybrid matter out of the footmuff…
- The second one may be even cuter and more expertly ‘winsome’ than the first… they reel you in with a head tilt and a smile, and just as you go in for a kiss they PUNCH YOU FULL ON IN THE FACE, TIT OR VAGINA. NO OTHER AREAS. THEY KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING. THEY MAY AS WELL CALL IT THE FA-TIT-NA AND GO FOR A SOLO PATENT.
- It’s only a matter of time before they can operate taps and open doors… and you know it’s coming… and that’s the reason you own an Amazon Prime account. And order all the gin.