It’s just another phase.
This is something I have to remind myself of most days. The not going to sleep at a decent time, the early mornings, the not eating fruit and veg, the refusing to get dressed, the only allowing one filling in their sandwiches. It’s just a phase, it will pass. But of course, as soon as one has passed, the next appears, usually even more irritating then the last.
Currently The Chunky Monkey is going through a particularly frustrating phase. He is going through the “sore loser” phase. Yay.
You see, I quite like that my children are competitive, it was going to happen of course, look at me. However, even with that in mind, I am really disappointed that The Chunk is currently a sore loser (I am totally ok with losing, but only because THAT NEVER HAPPENS). It’s not like I make everything a race, in fact, sometimes I dig my heels in because I’m having a I WILL NOT PANDER TO THESE MONSTERS moment, but even when I’m not, it doesn’t have to be a planned competitive activity which starts the meltdown, heaven forbid what he’s like on sports day.
An example of The Chunk being a sore loser is easy to pick out at the moment, he didn’t finish his breakfast first, he got his glass of milk after his brother (simply because he was further away), he didn’t get the seat he wanted in the car. I should take this moment to point out these are not always classed as competitive sports, he picks and choses depending on his mood – I would also like to note for the record he never enters into such battles when it comes to getting dressed or putting on his own shoes.
The meltdowns for the above are usually dealt with a little bit of eye rolling from me, a lot of sniggering from his brother, and perhaps a few photographs and videos – which I have a feeling is another post entirely. You see, most of them are at home. I don’t really give a monkeys if he melts down about silly things at home, in fact, it gives me an opportunity to deal with it how I want to (he spends A LOT of time in the hall). But they’re not always at home, oh no, in fact, one particular race happens every.single.school.run.
It’s like clock work, we’re happy happy in the car, singing the snake is in the gRARRRsss and I park the car. They all climb out, and then it starts. The Chunk squares up to his brother finger on chest and says “DO NOT RUN AHEAD.” The Beast looks at me, and I’m torn. After all, the feeling of pleasure that my five-year-old son runs happily into the school gates is amazing. I LOVE his enthusiasm, it makes my day seeing him race ahead with his pals (although the fact he’s too cool for a kiss still grates a year on). BUT, and this is the BUT…I know what happens if he does this.
So I pander (I know I know) half-heartedly and say “hey, don’t leave your brother behind…” and to be fair he tries. He really really tries, but then inevitably he gets carried away with the moment, and in a rush of enthusiasm legs it around the corner and into the school gates, across the playground and towards his classroom door.
Aww…isn’t that lovely I think happy that my boy is so happy.
But as it’s happening, I begin to count.
One…”WAITTT” I hear The Chunk call, panting behind…Two…”WAIT I SAID WAIT…” the voice is getting louder and more angry…THREE “WAAAAIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTT” and then the tears roll, and before we know it he’s standing with this face.
I try and comfort him “Heyy, it’s ok you can still beat me!” It is treated with distain and louder crying. So I try no nonsense “Oh don’t be a wally, come along now!” Which of course goes down really well. Then, I get a bit grumpy “oh for goodness sake!” This obviously results in my basically dragging, or carrying tucked under my arm, a Chunky Monkey to the classroom.
Sometimes he can be persuaded to forget about it, another parent will take pity on me and make him laugh (or they take pity on me for being such an incompetent mother), or perhaps he’ll spot one of his nursery friends. But most of the time this continues on. With me holding his hand so he doesn’t run back to the car, and him kicking and punching me.
Occasionally I bend down and reprimand him “It’s not acceptable to hit mummy!” and the odd “NOW THEN…” but by then he’s lost all reason, he’s IN THE ZONE.
So what happens? I stand there, looking like this.
And I laugh it off, as he kicks and hits me, because you know, I’m cool with it. I’m down with the fact that my child is known for having a tantrum every.single.morning. Then I kiss my eldest son goodbye and send him into his classroom, before dragging The Chunk to his nursery where I don’t attempt to conceal my delight as I hurl him through the door with a “GOOD LUCK” before legging it back to the car, knowing that that’s it. That particular tantrum is dealt with and gone for another day.
But it’s ok, because it’s just a phase, it won’t last forever.
PASS THE GIN.