Did you read my last post? Well, I take it all back! I think the terrible two’s may have come early and I’m well and truly – absolutely – officially POOPED! Something has possessed my little gibbley angel and replaced her with a screaming contortionist on a mission to destroy all that stands in her path. Just ask the staff at Hobbycraft. They’re probably still trying to sort out the aftermath of a visit from the Tasmanian Devil that currently is my daughter. You see I made what I now know to be something of a classic error. Grace has decided that being in her pushchair is rubbish. Just rubbish. So while I am deliberating over various pots of glitter, G is straining at the straps like she’s pulling a monster truck in the World’s Strongest Man, and the whittering is reaching a crescendo.
“I know” thinks I “I’ll let her out – just for a minute, so she can have a little pootle about.” (I can FEEL the smiles from Mums in the know reading this!)
WOOoooosh . . . where’d she go?
After running round several isles after her (which is, apparently HILARIOUS) I finally catch up, scoop her up, and set her back down by the things I want to look at. Her concentration lasts all of 10 seconds whilst she picks up a tub of sequins, decides they are obviously for losers, and flings them away before triumphantly absconding again. This pattern repeats itself several times, and hundreds of various bottles/straws/ribbons/stickers/books are strewn with glee all over the floors before I decide enough is enough, and try to put her back in her push chair.
It would appear that this is the end of the world. All hell breaks loose. Not just crying – n n no. Full on heart wrenching,ear-splitting screaming, whilst thrusting around and making herself stiff as a board, and therefore, impossible to strap in.
Shopping is impossible, basket is abandoned, and pushchair is wheeled abruptly back to the car. Ooooh and the LOOKS from people! Some bend down and try to pander to her hissy fit with a concered “Oh sweety whadda madda?” (I feel like they may as well be saying “Is Mummy wummy woo being a howible mummy wummy and letting you cry?”)
Others just glare like you’ve RUINED their day. Some bite their bottom lip and tilt their head sympathetically. I ignore all of them and crash on out the shop – mentally flicking V signs at everyone as I go and annoyed that I haven’t done my shopping.
The car park however is a place of magic and calm, and the second we’re outside, all is calm and well, thumb is sucked and hair is twiddled.
Now . . . to get her in the car seat . . .