So here’s how things are working with me and the Giblet at the moment. It would seem that over the past few days, I have developed a method. A method of getting her to do stuff she doesn’t usually want to do, i.e eat main courses, brush teeth, have her eczema cream rubbed on her cheeks, have her ears cleaned etc. At first this method was a revelation! Genius! YES! cried I, FINALLY something that works. A few days in however and I’m having second thoughts. I am a wreck. Let me explain . . .
The method is thus: Grace will pretty much let you do whatever you need to do to her, PROVIDED (and here’s the rub) she can simultaneously do it back to Mummy. Oh dear. At first it was cute. One tea time she tentatively took up Mummy’s big fork and, balancing it carefully, she offered some spaghetti bolognese to my mouth, which I accepted accordingly with much smiling and “mmmmmm” ing. Much to my delight and amazement, she though this was brilliant and she let me return the favour, and happily accepted a fork-full in return. Lovely. Sorted. Mealtimes may take five time as long, but at least she’s eating. I am mother of the year, I am a genius. Annabel Karmel, eat your friggin’ heart out (that’s a weird saying isn’t it? Quite gross really when you think about it.) HOWEVER, a few days into this wonder method, and Grace has become an old hand at it and overly confident, happily stabbing Mummy in the face repeatedly and covering me in a variety of food stuffs and sauces. No attempt is made anymore to keep the food balanced. Nonchalance and/or enthusiastic violence is the order of the day. It’s horrible.
This can be pretty much applied to all the activities mentioned in the opening paragraph, and I don’t know what to do. I am physically . . . battered! Shampoo can be easily rinsed from Gibby’s little head, provided I myself get several jugs of water in the face, cream can be applied without a fight as long as she has her turn poking my eye/mouth/hair with a Sudocrem loaded finger. I’ve had toothbrushes shoved abruptly into gums, ear drums nearly perforated with cotton buds and the wrong side of the hairbrush battered down on my skull.
So, as I nurse my various injuries, I shall give some careful consideration as to whether the method is actually worth it, and how hard it would be now to back track. Have I condemned myself to months or years of facial poundings? Any thoughts?
No one told me being a mother could be like going five rounds with Tyson. (sigh)
(Thank GOD she doesn’t mind having her bum wiped!!!)