Resilience

We need to be pretty resilient as parents. I should have a complex with the amount of times I’ve been de-friended, called a “poo-poo” or “sent to jail” on a daily basis.

I’ve even “ruined” someone’s day for cutting their pizza wrong.

One time last year when Master Five was making a card for his beloved teacher he asked how to write a ‘T’. Distracted with cooking dinner I told him it was like the goalposts. Boy did I pay for my mistake.

Unimpressed, his face crumpled before he dissolved into a down and out tanti.

“You hurted my feelings mummy. You’re not my friend. I don’t love you anymore. I’m not your baby anymore. You’re going to jail. You’re a poo-poo, bum-bum and you’re not pretty. I’m gonna hide your pillow.”

And with that, he scribbled over his hard work, screwed it into a ball, tossing it on the floor and stormed off upstairs before I could mention the word Twink.

I later found my pillow hidden under the bed.

Then there was the day, as a two-year-old, he was particularly peeved at something I’d done. I’d sent him to his room and, after hearing an awful lot of activity going on inside, went to investigate. There, it turned out, he’d waged a personal vendetta on me, ripping every photo off the wall that mummy happened to be in and throwing it across the room. As I stood looking at the carnage, he made his escape, shutting the door and locking it. I had no choice but to climb out the window.

According to word in the playground, I’m not alone with the insults – whether they’re intentional or not:

Last night Master Three was sitting on the couch lovingly stroking my stomach when he asked if I had a baby in there.

“No, why?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Because you have a fat tummy.”

Despite this, I should be thankful that most of the affronts have been aimed at me and not a member of the public. Until last week.

We were pulling up outside kindy when Miss Three noticed a masculine-looking woman using a pram to deliver leaflets into letter boxes.

“Mummy why is that man pushing a stroller?” she asked.

“It’s not a man, that’s a lady and she’s delivering mail.”

By the time we got out of the car the woman had caught up to us and Jayla again asked what the man was doing.

“It’s a lady,” I whispered.

“No it’s not, that’s a man,” she said even louder.

Horrified, I almost wrenched her arm out of its socket as I dragged her through the kindy gates.

But the one that takes the cake (which I certainly will be steering clear of from now on) was when we were grocery shopping one day when the oldest was four.

“Mum,” he declared accusingly. “You told me you only get a big nose when you tell lies.”

With a burst of speed I pushed the trolley past the man with the big nose and round into the safety of the next aisle before asking: “Why’s that?”

He looked sheepish before answering “Because you have a big nose.”

Charming.