Hello again! Welcome back to my blog series – The Toddler Years. You can read the opening post to this series here to find out what it’s all about.
Today I have a guest post from the amazing Shan from shanelliswilliams.com
This incredible lady is powered by coffee beans and you should definitely go check out her story. She’s an amazing Mum and a fantastic human being. I don’t feel like I need to tell you any more, here’s Shan’s post.
An Open Letter To My Mini Dictator
Take five. A little breather and a sit down. Just for a moment, stop what you’re doing, your toys don’t need to be strewn all around the room and your weetabix bowl really doesn’t have the right European regulatory certificates to be worn as a war helmet as you’re chasing the cat. As I’m watching you with my well deserved first coffee of the (middle of the night) morning, I wonder is your life in your head going as quickly as it is through my eyes? Two and three quarters years have gone far too quickly.
Thank you for coming into my life. As you woke me up at 5:20 this morning, instructing dad and I that it was still night, the proceeding to swing on the curtains. Thank you for crawling into bed with me demanding cuddles, wanting to blow raspberries on my belly, and kicking me in the boob with frozen feet. When you wrap your little arms around me and mess up my hair, I do appreciate you. Even though you’ve learnt to say sod off from these (numerous) early morning wake up calls. Darling boy, Netflix, and You tube aren’t great for this time in the morning. Even if they do keep you still for two minutes.
You’re all excited to go to school, but love, there is a whole four hours before I kiss you fondly at the gate and you run in without saying goodbye.
I know you’re growing. And quickly. But your food is fuel for growing. It doesn’t really belong on the wallpaper, the carpet, and mostly all over me. I don’t think that lollypops and wotsits which you demand daily are really good for you either. I try and give you healthy choices. But you seem to think cherry tomatoes are cannon fodder for pee shooting me with, and that mashed potatoes are a good look for a Persian cat’s fur. You’re absolutely amazing.
I’m trying my best. Some days I can’t catch up with you in your excitement. There is a standing joke in this house that your legs are longer than mine. You certainly are a pocket rocket. But hold back for your old mam G, you want to explore, see the world, jump in puddles, but hold my hand so I can keep you safe. The river is a great place but wading in over your wellies looking for fish, I’m scared for you and I want to keep you (dry) safe as long as I can.
When I say no, there is a good reason behind it. You don’t need to turn into Mohammed Ali, and scream so loudly my eardrums bleed. I really don’t like to hear you cry on the naughty step and fair play I don’t need to use it often. But since your dad play boxed with you, your left hook can earn you money (when you’re MUCH MUCH older). No doesn’t mean yes, or maybe. And repetition of asking for what you want with varying degrees of volume attached, won’t get you what you want all of the time.
I’m very proud of you. You pretend to be a doctor, and attentively listen to your siblings ailments. You don’t really need to try and slap them awake or do CPR with your knee in their chest when their on the floor. Your language is coming along amazingly too. You listen, and you repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Sheep shit seems to be your absolute favourite to tell everybody you meet at the moment.
And at the end of the day, when you demand kisses, again and again, and hug your bear tight in your little arms after iggle piggle stories, I’m not even mad that you’ll wake me up at 5:20 tomorrow morning telling me it’s the middle of the night.
All my huggles