I've spent a lot of time wondering whether my kids are normal kids – you know, boisterous, whiny and mostly annoying, with a little pinch of angelic thrown in just to keep you on your toes?
The conclusion that I have come to is that two-thirds of them are normal, or they would be if it weren't for the other third.
You see, I have two regular children, and then I have one of
those kids.
I'm not sure exactly when it started, but he was certainly a difficult toddler – ruling the roost by the time he could walk. Much of his early years were spent ordering one or other family member around. 'Get me my drink! Fetch my pyjamas! And make sure they are the cuddly ones. I like the cuddly ones!'
Before long I caught myself asking him whether he wanted his sandwiches cut into triangles or squares, and how he would like his bath run.
Warm with bubbles? Ducks or no ducks?
No ducks you say? No problem – let's just scoop them out shall we? No? Not working for you? Oh, I see, they touched the water. Yes, of course I get it. Duck butts in your bath. Okay, let's just let the bath out before you burst through the door with rage leaving a cartoon-like hole in the wood.
Life with a Psycho Toddler morphs into a weird normality in no time at all. Psycho enters the rooms totally naked, menacingly swinging a garlic crusher, and nobody even bats an eyelid.
They're too scared to.
Many's the time Psycho Toddler had a meltdown because he 'WANTED THE BLUE BOWL NOT THE WHITE ONE!' Cue 20 minutes of hysterical kicking and screaming.
Stupid Mummy. What was I thinking?
After much soul searching, I've realised however that it is not entirely my fault. As I know Lady Gaga herself would agree – I'm pretty sure he was born this way.
But now he is six. And what was cute or at least excusable as a toddler isn't so cute or excusable any more. It seems there's only so long you can get away with being a psycho.
He also has his older brother and sister terrorised. And I don't blame them. He can be pretty terrifying. Like a miniature Hitler with less facial hair and more swagger.
I know that something's got to change, but I fear we have left it too late. The monster has outgrown us.
Naughty steps, removal of privileges, quiet explanations, cross words and every mother's old reliable – the empty threats have all proved unsuccessful so far.
What to do?
Then, just as I'm beginning to despair, he does something beautiful. He puts his chubby hand in mine and squeezes it, then tells me how lucky he is to have me as a mummy, or nestles into my neck and tells me that he 'still very loves me' – and all is magically forgiven.
God he's good at this.
