It happened a little over a week ago. Little A was having some quiet time in her cot. I was slouched sloth-like on the nearby futon - the cover in dire need of a clean (toothpaste gets everywhere) - reading a book and trying to ignore the fact that the passing time was anything but peaceful. This was noisy time...
So Little A was role playing with an assortment of in-house cot teddies... There's Mother and Father and Kitty Cat and Rowena. It's the game she usually plays, and I give her cursory glances as I turn the pages of my novel, settling into the thread of the plot as my daughter mediates a dispute between her furry family....
"Be quiet you silly buggers!"
Now that word commands my attention. I sit up, decidedly unsloth-like, alert as a meerkat, shocked at the words spilling forth from Rowena's stitched mouth.
"Pardon? What did you just say?"
"Be quiet you silly buggers."
"We don't say the word bugger. Where did you learn it from?"
"Saffron at nursery said it."
"I don't think she did. That's not a nice word."
"Silly buggers. Silly buggers. Silly buggers."
"Little A, I'm warning you..."
"Are you going to put me on the thinking cushion mummy?" She asks, her eyes goading, full of mischief.
"Don't tempt me Little A," as I wrestle every muscle intent on pulling 'the poker face' into a smile. This, I realise with eagle eyed clarity, is when a mother undoubtedly needs botox.
I'm treading on a knife's edge here. I mustn't laugh. I cannot collude with the rapscallion's behaviour. Secretly though, I'm on her side. This is hilarious. I love the way she articulates bugger with such phonetic roundness. And where did she learn it from? Not me surely? Soap hasn't been within an inch of my mouth apart from the aftermath of the ladder incident - but that was just a one off, a rogue island amidst a daily sea of well mannered diction...(honestly)
"Buggers."
"RIGHT! TO THE THINKING CUSHION!"
And after a tearful stint on the cushion that-must-not-be-named, Little A apologises for her rueful choice of words. And then there was no more of that word.
Until yesterday teatime...
Little A was playing witches and mermaids with a plastic IKEA knife and fork as I finished the scraps from her sheep-cow-pig themed plastic plate.
"Silly buggers," she mutters under her breath.
"Er, Little A, what did you say?"
"It wasn't me mummy, it was the sea witch."
"Really? I didn't think forks could talk."
"And it was my little finger too," waggling a small digit at me.
Little A smiles at her cleverness, her fait accompli at having accused both a fork and a finger of language most foul.
And I am stumped.
Do I draw attention to her words and make a meal out of it with sessions on the thinking cushion? Or do I just ignore it?
Calling upon all mothers, how do you handle the situation if your wee innocent bairn swears?
I apologise for the language used in this post, it was Little A, not me. I have since added soap to the shopping list. And Younger Dad thinks she may have picked up that word from Granny of all people - Cussons for her next Christmas....
Showing posts with label thinking cushion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thinking cushion. Show all posts
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Friday, 21 December 2012
Merry Apocalypse
Dear Angel of Death,
I nervously rolled up the blind this morning expecting to find rivers of steaming lava flowing
steadily passed the postbox. Instead, I was greeted by the sun shining so brightly, the scene before me resembled more the first dawn of existence than a destruction rendered in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Not a very dramatic start to the end of the world. Disappointed.
I enjoyed a light breakfast of cornflakes with rice milk. I didn't think it a sage idea having a full stomach when the earth quakes begin shattering our much-in-need-of-repair road into unnavigable rubble.
The doorbell rang. I felt hopeful. Could this be the shady Grim Reaper bearing his over sharpened scythe? No. It was the postman with last minute festive parcels. I duly signed for the items and as I stood on the door step, I heard a familiar sound of hooves approaching. The Four Housemen! It's happening! It's happening! But the clipperty clopperting on tarmac turned the corner to reveal the local constabulary on yet another crime busting round.
I even phoned the End Of Days hot line number 666, and not a single response...
So as I sit and wait for the end, it's given pause for thought, time to contemplate the last year of my life. Mmmm. Let's see... Breastfeeding finished. Potty training began. There was the introduction of the thinking cushion. A need for anti-depressants. A couple of blogging conferences. The Pendulati, my gravity challenged breasts, suitably rehoused. Maternity tops thrown out. Stripey jumpers bought in. Readers enjoyed my writing. My Once Upon a Time stories rocked (if I do say so myself). One Week took off. And I finally realised there really is a writer in me - shame the earth is about to melt into cosmic oblivion.
Anyway, I have packed the family bag. I thought it best to travel light, including only those practical items that should come in handy at the pearly gates of heaven - there's going to be a very, very, long queue there tonight! So, I decided upon a flask of camomile tea and freshly baked lemon drizzle cake for myself, Younger Dad's laptop - my understanding there's free wi-fi in the celestial planes - and Little A's blue teddy. Have also included toothbrushes, I don't care where I am, clean teeth are a must.
Right I'm going to dye my hair and hoover the carpets now in preparation for the final curtain call.
And if this doesn't come to pass, then I wish you all, my lovely dear readers, a very merry Christmas indeed!
OM XXX.
I nervously rolled up the blind this morning expecting to find rivers of steaming lava flowing
steadily passed the postbox. Instead, I was greeted by the sun shining so brightly, the scene before me resembled more the first dawn of existence than a destruction rendered in a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Not a very dramatic start to the end of the world. Disappointed.
I enjoyed a light breakfast of cornflakes with rice milk. I didn't think it a sage idea having a full stomach when the earth quakes begin shattering our much-in-need-of-repair road into unnavigable rubble.
The doorbell rang. I felt hopeful. Could this be the shady Grim Reaper bearing his over sharpened scythe? No. It was the postman with last minute festive parcels. I duly signed for the items and as I stood on the door step, I heard a familiar sound of hooves approaching. The Four Housemen! It's happening! It's happening! But the clipperty clopperting on tarmac turned the corner to reveal the local constabulary on yet another crime busting round.
I even phoned the End Of Days hot line number 666, and not a single response...
So as I sit and wait for the end, it's given pause for thought, time to contemplate the last year of my life. Mmmm. Let's see... Breastfeeding finished. Potty training began. There was the introduction of the thinking cushion. A need for anti-depressants. A couple of blogging conferences. The Pendulati, my gravity challenged breasts, suitably rehoused. Maternity tops thrown out. Stripey jumpers bought in. Readers enjoyed my writing. My Once Upon a Time stories rocked (if I do say so myself). One Week took off. And I finally realised there really is a writer in me - shame the earth is about to melt into cosmic oblivion.
Anyway, I have packed the family bag. I thought it best to travel light, including only those practical items that should come in handy at the pearly gates of heaven - there's going to be a very, very, long queue there tonight! So, I decided upon a flask of camomile tea and freshly baked lemon drizzle cake for myself, Younger Dad's laptop - my understanding there's free wi-fi in the celestial planes - and Little A's blue teddy. Have also included toothbrushes, I don't care where I am, clean teeth are a must.
Right I'm going to dye my hair and hoover the carpets now in preparation for the final curtain call.
And if this doesn't come to pass, then I wish you all, my lovely dear readers, a very merry Christmas indeed!
OM XXX.
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
The Slap
The art of discipline, I find, treads a delicate balance between draconian finger pointing and liberal indulgence. Between castigation and permissiveness. The (good) text books and psychologists applaud firm boundary setting, and I agree, for children feel safe and emotionally held when they buffet against the parental limitations of 'no', 'I've already warned you once', and 'you do that again and I'm switching off Rastamouse.' Consequences teach the invaluable lessons of cause and effect, Hindus and Buddhists, I believe, call this Karma.
I like to think that I am flexible in my approach to boundary setting, that I pick my battles carefully, that daily raids of the fridge or an extra episode of Timmy Time aren't worth raised words. I like to think that if I give a little, my will full offspring might reciprocate in kind. And this seems to work (most of the time), Little A being hesitantly malleable to requests of 'socks off', 'shoes on', 'books back on the shelf' (please).
But yesterday afternoon was different. Yesterday, I had to dish out some 'proper' discipline...
The scene was set a squash and a squeeze before teatime. Little A sat perched on my lap, facing me, at the kitchen table.
"Mummy can I do some painting?"
"No, I'm sorry sweetheart, it's tea time in ten minutes."
And with my response, Little A's eyes began to water, her face began to redden, to contort with toddler fury, and then, without a blink, a small hand administered a stinging slap, nay, whack, that planted itself on my right cheek bone catching the hollow of my eye. BIG. ALMIGHTY. OUCH. I loudly mirrored (screamed) my displeasure at her behaviour...
"Little A you really, really hurt mummy. Say sorry."
"No!"
"Right, then it's time out on the thinking cushion."
"No! No! I don't want to sit on the thinking cushion."
"I'm sorry Little A, but that's where we're going."
So I packed her up, and took her forthwith downstairs, down to the cushion on the floor in mummy and daddy's bedroom. The thinking cushion only presents itself in times of physical outbursts - there haven't been many but recently Little A has begun testing her physical nerve, again.
On the way, there was a request for the potty. Mid flow, a sobbing Little A apologised in earnest. I wanted to say okay, to cuddle her with pants and trousers concertinaed around her ankles. But I knew I had to follow through. So I gently acknowledged that I'd heard her sorry. But, I had said it was the thinking cushion. So the thinking cushion we must go...
"Noooo Mummy!"
I firmly held a wriggling, resistant Little A on the cushion, wrapping my limbs around her body. She remained on the cushion for two minutes (she's two years old). Then I explained to her why we had done this. That we don't hit, nip or scratch other people (and certainly not mummy). That I could see I'd angered her when I said 'no' to paint. But that we still don't lash out when we can't have something. And that, importantly, she'd caused me pain, and must say sorry (again).
"Sorry Mummy."
And a big fat hug ensued.
In the aftermath I felt unsettled, upset, a bad parent. Although I know it's often necessary, it always saddens me when I have to play bad cop. Boundary setting and disciplining is a fine art, made all the more challenging by the anger it fires in me when Little A misbehaves. Sometimes it's like taming two beasts. It really is an aspect of parenting I don't enjoy, that I feel quite unsure about, that I will have to increasingly engage with, no doubt, the older Little A becomes... (minefield).
So how do you handle discipline?
I like to think that I am flexible in my approach to boundary setting, that I pick my battles carefully, that daily raids of the fridge or an extra episode of Timmy Time aren't worth raised words. I like to think that if I give a little, my will full offspring might reciprocate in kind. And this seems to work (most of the time), Little A being hesitantly malleable to requests of 'socks off', 'shoes on', 'books back on the shelf' (please).
But yesterday afternoon was different. Yesterday, I had to dish out some 'proper' discipline...
The scene was set a squash and a squeeze before teatime. Little A sat perched on my lap, facing me, at the kitchen table.
"Mummy can I do some painting?"
"No, I'm sorry sweetheart, it's tea time in ten minutes."
And with my response, Little A's eyes began to water, her face began to redden, to contort with toddler fury, and then, without a blink, a small hand administered a stinging slap, nay, whack, that planted itself on my right cheek bone catching the hollow of my eye. BIG. ALMIGHTY. OUCH. I loudly mirrored (screamed) my displeasure at her behaviour...
"Little A you really, really hurt mummy. Say sorry."
"No!"
"Right, then it's time out on the thinking cushion."
"No! No! I don't want to sit on the thinking cushion."
"I'm sorry Little A, but that's where we're going."
So I packed her up, and took her forthwith downstairs, down to the cushion on the floor in mummy and daddy's bedroom. The thinking cushion only presents itself in times of physical outbursts - there haven't been many but recently Little A has begun testing her physical nerve, again.
On the way, there was a request for the potty. Mid flow, a sobbing Little A apologised in earnest. I wanted to say okay, to cuddle her with pants and trousers concertinaed around her ankles. But I knew I had to follow through. So I gently acknowledged that I'd heard her sorry. But, I had said it was the thinking cushion. So the thinking cushion we must go...
"Noooo Mummy!"
I firmly held a wriggling, resistant Little A on the cushion, wrapping my limbs around her body. She remained on the cushion for two minutes (she's two years old). Then I explained to her why we had done this. That we don't hit, nip or scratch other people (and certainly not mummy). That I could see I'd angered her when I said 'no' to paint. But that we still don't lash out when we can't have something. And that, importantly, she'd caused me pain, and must say sorry (again).
"Sorry Mummy."
And a big fat hug ensued.
In the aftermath I felt unsettled, upset, a bad parent. Although I know it's often necessary, it always saddens me when I have to play bad cop. Boundary setting and disciplining is a fine art, made all the more challenging by the anger it fires in me when Little A misbehaves. Sometimes it's like taming two beasts. It really is an aspect of parenting I don't enjoy, that I feel quite unsure about, that I will have to increasingly engage with, no doubt, the older Little A becomes... (minefield).
So how do you handle discipline?
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