That awkward moment when your child gets walloped

I’ll never forget the first time my son was walloped.

We were at a ‘mum meet up’ at the local church hall. He was not yet two and running around happily, not a care in the world, safe in the knowledge that he had a blissful, blessed life. Another, larger boy looked him up and down, thought for a moment, before opening his palm wide and pushing it with full force, very slowly, into my son’s face – forcing my son’s head back a good ten inches.

I saw the expression on my only child’s sweet, innocent face- utter devastation; shock, confusion. In his eyes was a flash of a new realisation – that life is actually pretty shite – and it’s full of bastards!

I watched the child with my seething eyes and scanned the room for the ‘bad mother’… where was the bitch? (slowly takes off earrings and tucks shoes under the chair) IT’S ON SKANK!

I couldn’t identify her … and my son was now howling and screaming so much that all eyes were on me (tag! You’re now the bad mother). So we scurried off.

I told Grandma. She wasn’t best pleased. I tried to explain to her that the police had more pressing matters on their hands and probably wouldn’t be too interested in filling out a report about the incident.

Soon after, at another kids’ group my son was bitten by another child. I saw the whole incident. Thankfully the fact I had put my son in such a chunky heavy-duty knit that morning had saved his left arm. This time I saw the mum. It’s on!

Ah! But what do I do now? What do I say? How does one start a sentence with a complete stranger that segues to “your child tried to draw blood from my child.” Do you start by complimenting her on her shoes… or remarking on the humidity… and then slamming into “I have reason to believe your spawn is feral.”

I ended up shuffling up and apologising, stuttering and falling over my words like Hugh Grant trying to declare his love. I tried to tell her what had happened in the most polite / British way possible as a look of mortification crawled over her exhausted face. She apologised profusely as I backed away saying it was no problem – of course, no problem, and I felt worse for bringing it up.

If you look up the word “Awkward” in the dictionary I think you’ll find a small picture of one parent trying to tell another parent that their child walloped theirs.

The thing is, my son grew up over the next few months and started getting a bit more boisterous, a bit more ‘playful’, a bit more heavy handed. He clomps about the play groups like a pissed up platypus knocking into the smaller children like they’re wobbly pins at a bowling alley. And slowly you realise, with horror, that one day your child will be the one who wallops another child. And it serves you right for being so judgemental.

My time at kids’ groups is sectioned into: 80% terrified my son will clobber another kid, 10% terrified my son will be pummelled by another kid and 10% being thankful another child is doing the clouting for today. I am also waiting for a not so understanding parent to launch themselves through the air at me like someone out of The Matrix.

I am much less judge-y than I used to be – I know it is only a matter of time before it’s my child doing the biting / head butting / kicking / walloping. I also know it’s not bad parenting. While my mum still scowls “but where has that girl learnt to wallop? mmm…” I know it’s not as simple as that – I know it’s the child experimenting, testing, playing, expressing.

I know this because since turning two – my own, gorgeous, innocent, wide eyed angel has head butted and bitten me. Me! As though my three day labour means NOTHING to him! He has bitten the hand that literally feeds him. And he certainly hasn’t learnt that from home – unless he can read mummy’s mind when Daddy doesn’t fill the dishwasher (not a euphemism).

And then there is the delicate politics of when you see someone else’s child get walloped. Do you intervene? Is it your place? Where is the rule book?

This morning at a huge soft play centre I witnessed a very small child head butt a larger girl around seven times. We will call the head butter child B for Butt-er. The taller child was sobbing and trying to get away. We will call her child C for Cry. So B is head butting and C is crying. I assume they must be siblings (ah…sibling love – what joys I have to come). I look around the room to see if I can identify the mum of the pair just to let her know child C is very upset.

I see a room of mums enjoying their coffees, reading the papers, chatting to friends. I have no clue which mother owns these two gladiators. I look back at the children. Child C is now lying on the floor screaming as child B punches her. Oh dear. It’s escalated. Time to do something. Yes – it will be awkward but politics means sometimes doing the hard things, putting your head above the parapet, intervening in wars.

So I approach a large table of mums and ask if they have little girls – say what I have seen and they set about going into the soft play to retreive children. Job done. You can feel very pleased with yourself now Steph.

To my horror I realise soon after that the girls were not sisters. They were strangers. And the table I have been at is child B’s mother. The head butter. I see child C in hysterics with her mother at the other end of the room trying to explain to her mum what had happened. The mum then walks up and down the room, clearly upset, looking for the offender and mum.

Lord! What do I do now?! Bloody Hell.

After much deliberation I slither up to the mum of the very upset pummelled girl. My exact words:

“Er….excuse me…I don’t really know how to do this. I haven’t done this before (I meant parenting really). But if it was my son, I would want to know.” I then kindly explain that another child had been head butting her child (and thumping) and that I would have intervened – but they were on the second level and I can’t clamber up the slide at seven months pregnant…(or usually).

The mother was very thankful that I told her what had happened – before asking “WHO IS THE MOTHER?”

Oh….Shit. Gulp. “I think, I mean, I think, I mean it could have been…but I’m not sure – it might have been her?” I subtly nod my head towards the mother in the opposite corner of the ring, I mean ‘room’.

“Thanks” she says, as she strides her way towards her, walloped child in her arms. Me left there looking shifty – like a proper grass! Like the kid in class who just told teacher! Like a drunk, meddling instigator of a fight in a dodgy pub. I have thrown the grenade and can now only sit there like a lemon.

I see the women exchange words and the child is made to apologise. I squirm in the corner trying to look at the menu of “chip butties” intently as the room stare at me – Little Miss Tattletale.

Moments later the younger child, head butter – well she decides she wants another go and does the exact same to child C.

The mum sees it now.

She exclaims something pretty rude into the air.

It’s earrings off.

Shoes off.

Ding Ding Ding.

Round two!

Grandma and I make a swift exit as we see the mother storming up to the parent – it’s on!!

Abort…abort… I think it might be nap time.

mummy's writing darling
That awkward moment when your child gets walloped

 

Dear Chicco, About Your Advert

After my 3.40am wake up on a Saturday morning I like to watch some Dawson’s Creek on Sony TV. In between the sickly sweet, utterly false, utopian, fictional drama – I have become aware of your advert. This one …

I feel we need to have a little chat about it.

The woman in it appears to be well rested, her hair is done and she has a lovely face of make up. Where are her bags? Where are her wrinkles? Where is the mascara smudged across her pale, sleep deprived, dry, pained face? Where are her roots? Why isn’t her hair matted and greasy? Why does she appear to have showered in the last day? Why does she look so happy?

Why doesn’t she look like an extra from The Walking Dead?

Why is the baby dressed in a clean, white baby grow? But more importantly, why is he sleeping soundly? He appears to be fast asleep. If this is the case – why is his mother awake? And if she is awake why isn’t she on Twitter, glugging coffee, brushing her teeth, watching Judge Judy and frantically rubbing baby wipes under her arm pits (all at the same time)?

Where is the bedside table of crap?

Including:
Several used baby wipes
Sick covered muslins
Three cold half cups of tea
A large glass of orange squash
Several packets of wipes
nappies
Chocolate digestives
a take away pizza box
Tissues (used and unused)
a TV
dust covered books
a breast pump
dirty baby bottles
one red wine stained wine glass
Some empty packets of quavers
Gripe water and saline solution
pain killers
a half eaten lemon drizzle cake

Why is her other half hugging her? Why is he sleeping? Why is he also happy? Where is his beer gut, grey hair and furrowed brow? Why is he in the same bed as her? Why isn’t he in a separate room? why isn’t he snoring?

Most importantly, why is she not spitting at him through gritted teeth “It’s your fucking turn you fucking arse hole!”

Now I know what you’re thinking – it’s an advert. Adverts are supposed to sell us the ideal – the dream. But I fear you are treading on thin legal ground here. Aren’t there some rules about false advertising?

I don’t worry for myself – I am a mother of two. I’m experienced. I am worried about the new parents to be – they might stumble across your advert after some love making and a lie in. Over their eggs Benedict and bucks fizz they might say “oh look sweetheart, doesn’t that look great?” “Yes pumpkin” he will reply, “let’s buy that!” and they will look forward to the day they will resemble the folks in your ad.

Over nine months later they might come knocking on your door asking for a full refund because daddy’s new nickname is ‘useless tit’, they haven’t slept in thirty six hours, and he’s spent the last four hours Googling “why is my baby crying” and “flights to Peru” on his iPad.

Can I suggest you just dial it back a tad?

First off – put the man in a separate room. The last thing she needs is to have to deal with a large sweaty, snoring lump hogging the bed and the duvet.

She needs to stretch out and if he is there and “doesn’t hear the baby crying” in the night the next time you’ll see her will be in a factual documentary about Spousal smothering. The theme tune of which will be “He had it coming” from Chicago.

Next – get rid of the natural lighting and the beautiful sun beams across the sleeping baby’s face. She should have black out ‘blinds in a box’ on her window that she had to buy after her neighbours complained about having to see her walk about with her breasts out wearing only her pants for two weeks straight. The last thing she needs after being awake for fourteen hours is a reminder that it is now day time outside. The lighting should be dimmed with the constant flicker of a mute Judge Judy lighting up the room from the table of crap.

Now make her a bit more realistic. I know she’s got a gorgeous baby and all – but no one is that smug. Keep your actress up for a few days and make her live on a diet of biscuits and toast for a week. Keep making her hot cups of tea and tell her she can’t drink them – don’t let her wash, or brush her teeth for a day or so, tape some earphones to her head and play ‘this is a song that will get on your nerves’ for seven hours and finally slap her across her face with a wet trout for good measure.

Make sure there is a side table of crap.

Lastly – get a baby model with a cold or colic who is wide awake and likes the sound of his own voice.

Yours, sleep deprived mum of two x

 

Mummy's Writing, Darling
Dear Chicco, about your advert

 

Children, in twenty years, guess who’s coming to dinner?

Guess who’s coming to dinner?

Sons, I want you to prepare yourself for your father and I coming to dinner in around twenty years time (or whenever you hopefully move out).

I’ll ring ahead of time and insist you make my favourite – lasagne – from scratch, and your dad’s favourite – apple crumble. As soon as we arrive your dad will take off one shoe: Just one mind.

I’ll ask for red wine but will only drink it if it is given to me in a very specific cup and if you hold it to my lips whenever I shout. I will jut my tongue in and out of it without ever actually drinking it as that’s just how I will roll.

Once dinner is served your dad will refuse to sit at the table and announce he hates lasagne. He will cry and continually request chocolate milk and a bread roll.

I will eat your lasagne … If the stars are aligned, but be warned, if I get so much as a whiff of a vegetable I will straight up regurgitate it into your open hand. Half way through the lasagne I may decide it’s no longer my favourite – I think it was a different shade last time I had it – and I’ll demand dessert.

Your father will eat the custard, and the crumble topping but then he will discover there’s apple in the bowl and simultaneously shit himself and realise he’s only wearing one shoe which will devastate him.

He will then lie on the floor and eat any old food he can find in between the cracks in your floorboards that you cooked days ago. Probably lasagne – just tastier than the fresh lasagne on the table.

At some point I will want to hold my wine cup myself and when you’re not looking I’ll just let it tip out over your most recent or precious purchase.

We will go to bed at 7pm quite easily and instead of going to bed too, you stupidly will stay up to actually enjoy your evening and watch whatever the equivalent of Breaking Bad is in 2035. You will retire for the evening at about 11.30pm.

At 11.32pm I will start screaming as though I’m being slaughtered. As soon as you get out of your toasty bed I’ll stop. I will continue this every hour on the hour until 4am.

Your father will wake up at 11.45pm and start shouting out numbers, colours, modes of transport and favourite characters from his favourite TV program.

JEREMY CLARKSON!!!

JAMES MAY!!!

RICHARD HAMMOND!!!

He will continue to do this every two hours on the hour.

At around 3.30am he will crawl in the dark on his hands and knees in search of an object – any object – then find the radiator in the room and bang his object against the radiator until you give up and get up at 4am.

(He may find a tambourine or xylophone – you probably don’t remember even buying them! But he can find them like a pig searching for truffles).

The next day we will both insist on chocolate cake for breakfast and make you watch utter shite on repeat for 4 hours.

Just when you think you can’t take anymore Grandma will pop round. She’ll give you a leaflet about the dangers of drinking too much and how it makes you terrible sons and give us a chocolate cake and a cuddle and take us off to the pub.

Prepare yourself lads,

We’re looking forward to it.

(Revenge is a dish best served cold, and that lasagne better be stone cold or I won’t touch it).

Why is it you?

mummy's writing darling

Why is it you?

 

At age two, to a goose, I wouldn’t say boo
whereas you son, would shoot it and stuff it too.

Why is it you?

who cant sit still, while fifteen others do,
Who has to play with the fire extinguisher on the wall,
while everyone else is queuing, single file, down the hall?

Why is it you who has to snatch the block off the three month old,
who doesn’t seem to acknowledge anything you are told,
who needs to jump up and down at the front,
who has to roar, bark, gurn and grunt?

Why do you always rugby tackle the babies,
leap and stomp and stamp on the daisies?

When others are sitting, listening sweetly in a trance,
why are you performing a deranged, erratic, river dance?

When everyone is singing ‘twinkle twinkle little star’ notes
why are you trying to shove the maracas down your throat?

Why is it you – and seemingly no other?
Can you not see everyone judging your mother?

When you turn five and all you ask is why,
why, why, why, why, why?

I shall say, great question son, glad you asked
Why, when you were two, were you such an arse?

poetry, mummy's writing darling
why is it you?

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Mum Lonely Hearts Ad

Seeking fellow mum to have strong coffee with and keep each other company during these terrifically isolating mummy years so I can stop talking aloud to Steve the Stegosaurus about how the toddler never listens.

Preferable: 

You will have a child a similar age to mine so they can entertain and amuse each other – so we don’t have to.

It would be nice if you were a big drinker. I’m not talking Bacardi on your sugar puffs or anything – but “shall we just have the bottle?” should be one of your most commonly used phrases.

If you don’t drink, we can get along – as long as you don’t tend to judge those who consider half a bottle of Rioja a ‘palate cleanser’.

You will be blind to my increasing belly – which we both know is just cake at this stage – and will not mention it until I am eight months gone (at least) or in full labour.

I don’t care what you eat as long as you mainly feed your toddler normal human food stuffs – the things I grew up on! Dairy-lee Triangles, spaghetti hoops, smash and fish fingers.

You will not judge me if you see me eating / drinking anything that is not on the ‘pregnancy approved’ list.

If you come over to my house you will always come bearing some sort of refined sugar and white flour combo and you will regularly say things like “sod the diet girl! Life is for living! What do you need to diet for anyway?”

You will like cats. More than children.

All suggested days out are planned carefully around my child’s and my own nap times. ‘Activities’ will involve sitting down with a cup of tea while children take care of themselves, glued to Cbeebies.

Talking of, you will not look down on any TV choices made by myself or my toddler (these can include ‘In The Night Garden’ and ‘Say Yes To The Dress’)

Full agreement that Mike The Knight is a cretin and Judge Judy rules.

If my child bites or head-butts your child during soft play – you will forgive and forget. And not assume it is because of their spaghetti hoop diet.

Essential:

A naughty sense of humour.
An understanding of sarcasm.
A willingness to be brutally honest about the toll of motherhood and pregnancy.
An ability to have a right old moan.
An empathy for all of parent kind.
Absolute honesty regarding your child’s talents, vocabulary and learning history/ potential. Along with an ability to provide video evidence of said child ‘talking about Fauvism whilst making Sushi’ before I am forced to entertain it.
Absolute honesty about your child’s pitfalls and willingness to see when they are being an arse.
Ability to see how wonderful my child is.
Non-judgemental about my parenting style (I don’t have one).
Non-judgemental on my choice of husband. (One man’s meat is another man’s poison).

I still want to hear from you if…
you breastfeed or use formula.
you co-sleep or put your baby in a cot.
you are a single parent, parent with a partner or husband / or wife.
you moan about your children all day long. I understand that it doesn’t mean you don’t love them – and it doesn’t mean you’re not a wonderful parent. As am I? Right?

What you will get from being my friend:
A laugh
An end to loneliness
A drinking / moaning / walking / coffee / doughnut buddy
Company
A supporter
I will defend you to the death.

I Need You.
Be My Friend.
Please?
I’m so lonely…
Apply within.
Bring Baked goods.

Mummy's Writing Darling
Please – send Wine