I used to dream of the day when the boys would begin to play with each other, make each other laugh, smile and generally entertain each other. I guess I
stupidly naively thought that my life would become easier when that happened.
What an idiot I was. As soon as they become friends, they become a team. When they become a team, it’s no longer mummy vs each of them…its Mummy Vs the Boys. Those of you who only have one child, or a lovely none moving, none communicating with each other sibling dynamic going on may be asking what I mean, may also be thinking what I thought. You’ll be reading this with a funny feeling in your stomach…so let me offer you a bit of advice pitch them against each other now, before it’s too late!
There are times when them playing together is nice, for example, this morning I actually put my make up on without anybody climbing up my leg, I also managed to make the bed without having to stop briefly to pretend to shoot spider-web from my wrist. This was because they were playing cars together.
So what am I talking about? Let me break it down for you.
Each day, probably in the car on the way home from wherever we’ve been (while I’m singing to the radio ignoring the commentary) they appear to have a conversation, flip a coin, draw straws, they decide who is going to delay my Gin and Tonic. It is RARE that putting the children to bed actually finishes at seven. Some examples of delay tactics are:
- Pooh in the bath
- Refusing to put PJs on
- Both going to bed, waiting until all is quiet, then one SCREAMINGGGGG at full throttle therefore waking the other one (this usually happens when it’s time for a solo bath/and bedtime).
Overnight it’s rare that both my children sleep through. Some nights they go easy on me, one of them just wakes up once. But sometimes if they’re feeling particularly cruel, they play cry-tag – a game which basically consists of “wait until your brother has stopped crying, count to 60 then you start”. This usually happens from about 2pm-6am when I give in.
Getting ready to leave the house
Never in my entire life has it been so difficult to leave the house. Not when I used to spend hours getting ready for work, not when I was heavily pregnant, and not when I had a new born who was constantly projectile vomiting or my breasts decided to explode meaning an entire bra, and top change at the last minute. That was a doddle.
Now I have to deal with synchronised poohs, refusing to get dressed, stair climbing while I’m pinning the other child down to pull jeans on him, emptying the toy box and strategically placing toys in my path so when another child manages to escape from the front door I trip over, tears, tantrums, zips, undressing, removing shoes and socks. The list goes on.
I’m quite proud of how fast I have mastered this issue. I can get showered and both boys dressed and fed and out to nursery within an hour and fifteen minutes. Perhaps this is due to the fact that then I don’t have to spend the next 6 hours with them.
When you’re out and about
I am aware that leaving the house alone with both children could get worse at any moment…the minute The Fat One begins to walk. Currently, if I’m having a particularly
brave capable feeling day he quite likes being strapped down in his pushchair, and if at any point he arches his back I quickly offer a biscuit, therefore most issues with him are easily rectified. The Beast on the other hand would rather lie next to a muddy puddle then walk any distance at all, and I’m very aware that soon I am soon going to be in a situation where Beast and Fat both require carrying. I just pray to god they bring Drive Thru Starbucks to the UK soon.
Based on the above, I feel that my only option is to encourage a bit of healthy sibling resentment…so I’m going to break the head off Spiderman and blame The Fat one.