Toddlers' Rules

If it is on, I must turn it off.

If it is off, I must turn it on.

If it is neatly folded, I must unfold it and scrunch it up and chuck it on the floor. Mama will pick it up.

If it is a liquid, it must be shaken, then spilled and left for Mama to discover by slipping in it.                                                       

If it is a solid, it must be crumbled, chewed, smashed or smeared. Mama will sweep it up.

If it is high, it must be reached, preferably by the most precarious route possibly.

If it is packed and shelved, it must be unpacked and left lying on the floor. Mama will pick it up.

If it is sharp and pointy, it must be run with at top speed. Mama has shares in L'Oreal, to cover the grey.

If it has leaves, they must be picked, chewed and spat out.

If it is plugged in, it must be unplugged. And my fingers inserted into the now empty socket.

If it is not trash, it must be thrown away or trod on. Mama will pick it up.  

If it is in the trash, it must be removed, inspected, possibly licked and thrown on the floor. Again, Mama will pick it up.

If it is closed, it must be opened. If it does not open, it must be kicked and screamed at. Until Mama comes to help.                                                

If it has drawers, they must be rifled through and used as a step ladder. Even though Mama has just tidied it after procrastinating for a year. She has nothing to do, she can quickly do it again.

If it is a pencil, it must write on the refrigerator or pc monitor, or be used to make gouges in the coffee table.

If it is full, it will be more interesting emptied, preferably on to the floor or Mama's lap.   

If it is empty, it will be more interesting full. Especially my nappy.

If it is a pile of dirt, it must be laid upon and patted into my hair.

If it is dog poo, it must be trod in or poked with a stick.

If it is stroller, it must under no circumstances be ridden in without protest. It must be pushed by me instead.

If it has a flat surface, it must be banged upon. Mama has a large supply of headache tablets anyway.

If Mama’s (or Daddy’s) hands are full, I must be carried.

If Mama (or Daddy) is in a hurry and wants to carry me - I must be allowed to walk alone.   

If it is paper, it must be shredded and trailed across the office. Mama will pick it up.

If it is a new book its pages must be torn. (Mama has a particularly good reaction to that one)

If it has buttons, they must be pressed. These include Mama's.

If the volume is low, it must go high. The most annoying tune, the better.

If it is toilet paper, it must be unrolled onto the floor or stuffed into the loo.   

If it is a toothbrush, it cannot, under any circumstances, be inserted into my mouth. It can, however, be used to clean the plug hole.

If it has a faucet, it must be turned on at full force and spray Mama's clean jeans to be soaking wet.

If it is a phone, I must talk to it. But if it actually talks back I must be as quiet as a mouse, making the voice at the other end feel like a twit.

If it is a bug, it must be touched and maybe swallowed. Mama has the doc on speed dial.

If it doesn’t stay on my spoon, it must be dropped on the floor. (The dogs really are my best friend at meal times)  

If it is not food, it must be licked and sucked to see if it is edible. Dog poo, for some reason, has been banned from my grasp.

If it is dry, it must be made wet with drool, milk, toilet water or pee. Mama's washline is always full. 

If it is a car seat, it must be protested against with arched back and flailing arms. Safety, shmafety!

If we go out to a restaurant, I cannot, under any circumstances, allow Mama and Daddy to actually enjoy and eat their meal together.

And if it is Mama, she must be hugged to within and inch of her life! Even if she is pulling out her hair.

I am TODDLER!

Eating Out. Not.

"Never. Again."


This was the dark declaration The Darling Husband muttered as I slid into the passenger seat beside him and buckled my seat belt. He was not looking too Darling either.


This statement followed what was meant to be a nice intimate evening out at a local restaurant, spent sharing a delicious Italian meal with my sister and her Handyman Husband and my niece. And the Boy.


The Boy at that moment was strapped into his car seat and wailing miserably. I handed him his favourite teddy in the hope that it would soothe him, but to no avail. The take-away polystyrene container and pizza box warmed my lap as we sped off leaving the car guard shaking his (empty) fist at our rapidly dwindling tail lights. Sorry, dude, next time.


I should have seen the signs, the tired eyes, the glazed look while he was watching CBeebies (mind you, i also get a glazed look when I watch CBeebies...). Anyway.


But the invitation to dinner, and a Dinner Out At A Restaurant(!), was too delicious to refuse. Despite the Darling Husband's offer to stay home and do the evening drill while I go out, I poo-poohed it aside and bundled us all into the car and we actually got to the restaurant on time. ON TIME!! (A rare occurrence in the Grizwald household.)
We were seated quickly and the evening started off without any hassle. Fantastic. The children received their own plate of pizza dough and mini rolling pins and cookie cutters along with liberal dustings of flour. The flour was meant for the dough rolling but most of it ended up on little faces, up sleeves and on my lap. No problemo.


I could see trouble brewing when any offers to help with the Boy's dough cutting was met with sullen scowls and petulant annoyance. I was eventually given the crumbly dough shapes but was berated for placing them 3mm off the specified spot (page 2 of the nice clean menu). O.Kay.


Ants had crept into sized 2-3yr pants and I had to take him on a tour of the restaurant. Not a very long tour as the restaurant is a "cosy" Italian joint and kids are not permitted into the pub area. By this point Mama was longing for a few gulps of her own rapidly warming semi-sweet.


A tall wooden giraffe proved a source of mild interest. But viewing of this giraffe could only be considered if Mama slid around full tables and risked bumping shoulders with her ass, apologizing profusely. Of course this giraffe was also touchable a few feet from our table and would cause no disturbance  whatsoever via a different route, but that was Just Not Good Enough. How can such a small person be already so full of bullshit nonsense?


A tour pamphlet depicting cool nasty big sharks and cute penguins was studied for a while while Mama gingerly eased herself into her seat and tenuously tried stuffing a cold chip into the child's mouth. No go, and the wailing began. Some fish with the chips, baba? You like fish, remember? No? And the wailing increased in volume. The Husband is stony-faced and his pizza is barely touched. I did not want to be a mind reader at that moment.


My poor sister is gobbling her pasta down and her Handyman Husband is hastily trying to locate the waiter to request our meals as takeaways. My beautiful marinara pasta is dumped into a box with the whole Parmesan serving chucked on top for good measure. I swig the last few mouthfuls of wine and wipe the drops from my chin. We're outta here.


I'm sure I heard the collective sigh of relief from the patrons around us as we exited the establishment, trailing teddies, jackets and crumbly burnt dough lumps.


He moaned the whole way home, the whole way up the stairs and back down again. The child was so bone tired that he fell asleep right away after finishing his bottle of milk. Phew, peace and quiet. My pasta can finally be appreciated and I get a giggle from my niece by sticking a prawn head with tickly feelers on my finger and singing a silly tune. My sister and HH assure us they went through the same thing and its only lately that they can now go out without too much hassle. My niece is 7. Happy days.


So. A warning word of advice to new parents - never attempt going out with a tired child, especially at the end of a long day. I have now decided to learn my lesson. As inconvenient as that decision may be.


Oh, and never go out with the idea of enjoying a relaxing meal together while your cherub plays quietly, odour-free and happy to just Sit Still. You will always eat in relays, scoffing down your food in the attempt to go relieve the other parent's shift. Okay, I don't scoff too quickly anymore as I've had more than my share of "first shifts".
You will undoubtedly get to explore every restaurant you visit, willingly or unwillingly pulled along by little arms with a surprisingly strong grip, and longing for another sip of wine.


Your food will be cold and your wine will be warm by the time you get to tasting the first bite as you have been cutting up the child's food into a trillion tiny pieces and making sure he ingests just a few.


Instead of leaving the restaurant relaxed and satiated you will probably be leaving more harassed and exasperated than when you entered. Expect this.


Having related all this I still enjoy taking The Boy with us when we go out. Most days he is really fun to be with and good company, just don't take him out when he needs a nap, or has an ear infection. This hands-on decision may cramp our style(style? us? do we have any?) or even earn us some bothered looks but too bad. We're a family and we stick together. Even if its with a few lumps of sticky pizza dough...

My favourite movie family, the Grizwalds....

Cause and Consequence - (Not an Edwardian fairy tale)

Going through Facebook this morning I was offered this article to read with the headline "Mom sentenced For Spanking 2 year old". My first reaction besides rolling my eyes was "Puh-leeze. These Yanks are going over the top, a good hiding never hurt anyone."
That statement in itself is an oxymoron you might say. Yes, the whole point of a hiding is to remind the errant party that behaviour displayed 5 seconds earlier was and is, unacceptable. This lesson is reinforced with a certain measure of discomfort to make it stick and hopefully be stored in young brain cells for future reference when said young brain is considering sticking his finger in a plug socket. Again.


A hiding can serve 2 purposes: 1) it can be a reminder that to continue in the misguided behaviour will result in punishment and 2) be punishment itself.
Cause and consequence, every action will result in a reaction, this is the life lesson most parents wish to teach their kids, right? While I believe its a parent's responsibilty to ensure that their child gets the right amount of guidance and discipline to function normally in a "normal" society I am keenly aware that discipline and punishment can be taken too far.


After quickly skipping through my friends' updates and checking for any cute baby pics I scrolled back up to the article and read the whole thing.
Turns out Mom in Law reported Mom to the authorities after noticing red marks on the child's bum. (Imagine the love in that family right now...) I'm still shaking my head and muttering "OTT Yanks..." Then I read a bit further and see that Mom has already had her other 2 kids removed from her care. Hmmm. Maybe something's up there. Mom has been sentenced to take parenting courses and is working to get custody back of her children. Well, good for her.


But when does "a good hiding" cross the line between discipline and abuse?

According to the Texas Attorney General website, there are a few guidelines that help a parent determine if their discipline is abusive or not. Here’s what they say:

Striking a child above the waist is more likely to be considered abusive; disciplinary spanking is usually confined to the buttocks.

Spanking with the bare, open hand is least likely to be abusive; the use of an instrument is cause for concern. Belts and hair brushes are accepted by many as legitimate disciplinary “tools,” and their use is not likely to be considered abusive, as long as injury does not occur. Electrical or phone cords, boards, yardsticks, ropes, shoes, and wires are likely to be considered instruments of abuse.

It is best not to hit a child in anger. Abusive punishment is most likely to occur when the parent is out of control.

Finally, and most important, punishment is abusive if it causes injury. A blow that causes a red mark that fades in an hour is not likely to be judged abusive. On the other hand, a blow that leaves a bruise, welt, or swelling, or requires medical attention, probably would be judged abusive.

One of my clearest childhood memories (I must have been about 4 or 5) was of my Dad dishing out some "corrective action".
Now anyone who has the privilege of knowing my Dad will probably only know him as the gentle, quiet, laid back Oupa that he is. While he enjoys a good chat, you will more than likely find him quietly listening to the conversation going on around him and making the odd remark if the discussion requires him to make a contribution.

Back to the memory. My Ouma, his mom, was living with us at the time and my sister and I shared a room. I still remember the lemon yellow bed spreads and dodgy wallpaper. (Which would be considered uber retro and super-cool today, I suppose). We were being obnoxious and pesky by running and knocking on my ouma's closed door. Then we'd bolt back to our room, chortle about how we'd irritated her, and promptly go do it again. Oh, what fun.

My father was busy doing dad stuff in the nearby vicinity and was alerted to our mischief when he overheard his ma bitterly complaining and berating us for our exasperating childish ways. After several warnings and predictions of doom if we persisted in aggravating Ouma just once more, and us foolishly ignoring his warnings, my Dad finally snapped.

Now while I don't particularly remember his face or what he said while he unleashed his wrath, I do remember the furry green slipper he grabbed to whack across our legs a good couple of times.

A tale of horror and woe? Hardly. While some may argue and say "Clearly this incidence of violence has imprinted itself on you and obviously scarred you for life!" I think I disagree. We were naughty, (as children are), we were warned, we disregarded, we were punished. End of story.
Lesson learnt: Listen to Dad when he talks. Unless you want your ass whacked into next Wednesday.
And we didn't do it again. An instance where talking and talking and talking did no good and a klap got the message through.


I still advocate trying to explain and reason with one's child before smacking but sometimes the situation calls for a stronger tack. My child stepping off the curb into the road before I am able to gather his bags and lock the car and grab his hand will earn him a physical reprimand. Because I have admonished him How Many Times?


I smack because I care. Does that make sense? Someday he will understand. Probably when his own son is about to give him grey hairs with his own heart stopping antics. Here's hoping :)

Just another minute

Unplugging his dummy from his mouth he says" Lie down, Mommy, lie down" as he pats my cooling pillow and snuggles his back into Daddy's warm arms.


"Mama has to get up and go shower, Baby" I regretfully reply while pulling out clothes and underwear from the drawer.


"Come Mommy, come" he invites me, still patting my pillow. A big smile follows as he snuggles deeper into our bed.


What to do. Nature is calling, the snooze button has buzzed at me, twice, to get a move on, lunch boxes await and I need to jump in the shower. The word "jump" is used very loosely here as it is 6:20am. I also need to set some time aside to get to grips with styling my new hairstyle. Time is marching on and waits for no man, or bleary-eyed mama in this instance.


"Ok, Baba, just for a minute".


Beloved teddies are rearranged and a little arm is flung round my neck as I climb in under the duvet and pulled closer to his warm little body. This must be Heaven. We share giggles as I tickle and stroke his back and his tummy presses against mine. Mommy must be hugged, then Daddy must be hugged, then Mommy and Daddy must hug too. Kisses all round. Mommy gets another extra hug.


Ten minutes later I ruefully extract myself from his embrace and stumble down the passage to go do my ablutions. Hmmpf. I know where I'd rather be.


I'm keenly aware that time is fleeting and I won't always be given the opportunity to cuddle and snuggle with my little prince. Before long I will blink and he will be a hairy teenager who will no longer quiver with happiness at the thought of hugging dear old mom.


I instantly think of my younger brother. His arrival was quite a surprise for our family, particularly my dad who had to sit down on the bed after my mom announced she was (at 38), indeed, once more "in the family way".


You couldn't find a sweeter, more loving little boy, that was my brother. He still is, he is just loathe to demonstrate too much affection. Particularly to his Big Sister. I have to grab him and pull him to me to make him give him a hug let alone a kiss. And all the while he is rolling his eyes, smiling and muttering "Do I have to..?!"
Oh the terrible life of a little brother. "Little" is also used very loosely as he is taller and wider than me and is a whole lot of Gorgeous packaged into a sport-crazy, computer games mad body.


But I digress.


So I will be late for work today. Again.
But it was oh-so worth it!
More cuddles tomorrow morning, same time, same place. 
Now where's that Snooze button?, just one more time...