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As a renowned perpetual worrier (even before child/ren) I was particularly shocked and disappointed to discover I had become that unutterable C word – complacent. A dangerous zone to ever find yourself in when wending your way through the crazy maze of parenthood.
It was about 4 months after the birth of my second son and boy no 1 was (unbeknownst to me) on the cusp of the ’terrible twos’… Rapidly learning to speak, amusing us with his cheery, charming, happy persona. Comfortable, secure and down right angelic. Baby brother pretty much fitted in
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and I was (though sleep deprived) pretty smug. I don’t think I realised it had happened to me, this complacency thing but when I did – boy I was annoyed I had allowed it to happen!
In my eyes it’s fine to be ’cruising’ (for want of a better word) as long as one always knows that one is lucky. In fact, sing from the rafters when the going is good but always retain an underlying understanding that anything could happen in an instant. This pessimistic optimism (PO) as I call it, is what has kept me from deep disappointment and shock in the past but
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not that day on the common, that day when the boy turned into a proper toddler, the day my PO safety mechanism had been switched off and I was cruising on Complacent Control.
I asked H as we left the house at 3pm if he wanted his scooter. ’NO MUMMY’. Ok.
So I stuffed the golf club, 3 x ball (various sizes), his neeee naw fire car and digger in the bottom of the buggy on top and around Freddie who is cramped in.
We get to the ’bandstand’ about a mile from home where he has demanded we go and then tries to steal 2 pink scooters, I tell him he
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can’t and explain that he can play with his when he gets home. Tantrum 1.
He then sees a boy with a ball and tries to take it, I get his out and he throws it in my direction, flings his entire body from side to side akin to a soaking wet spaniel shaking off its water laden coat. Tantrum 2.
He sees a boy eating a wafer so I buy him one and he has one bite and decides he wants his ball, another boy walked within a 2m radius and he starts crying ’my ball MY ball’, which I (apparently stupidly) told him wasn’t a nice way to talk to other boys.
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Tantrum 3.
We then start playing a running game and he sees another boy with Toby (’well let’s say he’s square’) and Percy (’pulls the Mail on time’) and he starts crying ’Thomas’ (because ALL trains are Thomas apparently no matter how many times I try to explain their difference)… I tell him he can have the fire car, he carries on screaming, I get the golf equipment out and show him how not to hit a golf ball, I tell him we can find Thomas when we have fish fingers later and try to reason (yeah right), I try a number of bribes (episode of
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Fireman Sam, naughty step, won’t see daddy later) but he is sobbing inconsolably ’T T T Thomassshhhhhh’ and pretty much sitting on poor little ’Hugo’ with his trains and I eventually decide to throw the hat in and (after a princely 8 minutes at the bandstand) take him home.
By the time we get home he wants to go back to the bandstand.
I have since shed my complacency and the boys ensure it is filed deep deep down in my cavernous cerebral vacuum under ’open in 30 years maybe – yeah right – different challenges’.
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Rosie Willcock - 28 Jul 15
As a renowned perpetual worrier (even before child/ren) I was particularly shocked and disappointed to discover I had become that unutterable C word – complacent. A dangerous zone to ever find yourself in when wending your way through the crazy maze of parenthood.
It was about 4 months after the birth of my second son and boy no 1 was (unbeknownst to me) on the cusp of the ‘terrible twos’… Rapidly learning to speak, amusing us with his cheery, charming, happy persona. Comfortable, secure and down right angelic. Baby brother pretty much fitted in and I was (though sleep deprived) pretty smug. I don’t think I realised it had happened to me, this complacency thing but when I did – boy I was annoyed I had allowed it to happen!
In my eyes it’s fine to be ‘cruising’ (for want of a better word) as long as one always knows that one is lucky. In fact, sing from the rafters when the going is good but always retain an underlying understanding that anything could happen in an instant. This pessimistic optimism (PO) as I call it, is what has kept me from deep disappointment and shock in the past but not that day on the common, that day when the boy turned into a proper toddler, the day my PO safety mechanism had been switched off and I was cruising on Complacent Control.
I asked H as we left the house at 3pm if he wanted his scooter. ‘NO MUMMY’. Ok.
So I stuffed the golf club, 3 x ball (various sizes), his neeee naw fire car and digger in the bottom of the buggy on top and around Freddie who is cramped in.
We get to the ‘bandstand’ about a mile from home where he has demanded we go and then tries to steal 2 pink scooters, I tell him he can’t and explain that he can play with his when he gets home. Tantrum 1.
He then sees a boy with a ball and tries to take it, I get his out and he throws it in my direction, flings his entire body from side to side akin to a soaking wet spaniel shaking off its water laden coat. Tantrum 2.
He sees a boy eating a wafer so I buy him one and he has one bite and decides he wants his ball, another boy walked within a 2m radius and he starts crying ‘my ball MY ball’, which I (apparently stupidly) told him wasn’t a nice way to talk to other boys. Tantrum 3.
We then start playing a running game and he sees another boy with Toby (‘well let’s say he’s square’) and Percy (‘pulls the Mail on time’) and he starts crying ‘Thomas’ (because ALL trains are Thomas apparently no matter how many times I try to explain their difference)… I tell him he can have the fire car, he carries on screaming, I get the golf equipment out and show him how not to hit a golf ball, I tell him we can find Thomas when we have fish fingers later and try to reason (yeah right), I try a number of bribes (episode of Fireman Sam, naughty step, won’t see daddy later) but he is sobbing inconsolably ‘T T T Thomassshhhhhh’ and pretty much sitting on poor little ‘Hugo’ with his trains and I eventually decide to throw the hat in and (after a princely 8 minutes at the bandstand) take him home.
By the time we get home he wants to go back to the bandstand.
I have since shed my complacency and the boys ensure it is filed deep deep down in my cavernous cerebral vacuum under ‘open in 30 years maybe – yeah right – different challenges’.
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Mummy of 3 boys - Henry (7), Freddie (5) and Paddy (3). Rosie lives in Oxfordshire and juggles a career in gardening with writing and mumming:
@rosierthings
www.rosiewillcock.co.uk
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