I had to feel sorry for poor Broccoli the other night. My daughter (twenty months old) ate cauliflower-broccoli-pancetta mac ‘n’ cheese for dinner; she gobbled it down but not so haphazardly that she failed to delicately remove delicious Broccoli and place Him on the side of her plate.

It was not the first time my little lovely has eaten Broccoli but probably the first time that He has been so… obvious in her meal. I found it highly amusing that she pretty much has no idea what Broccoli tastes like but found Him suspicious anyway. Cauliflower did not receive the same treatment, most likely because He blended quite nicely into the cheesy macaroni sauce, but poor Broccoli was pronounced guilty with no trial. Not very democratic.

Amused as I was, I expect my child to eat her vegetables and the ‘no biscuit unless you finish your dinner’ worked a charm. Broccoli was gobbled and swallowed - when my stubborn child doesn’t like something but is made to eat it regardless, in a battle of wills she has a tendency to keep it in her mouth and NOT swallow (having learnt the lesson that spitting out food is unacceptable); she once kept a piece of half-chewed chicken in her mouth for fifteen minutes before eventually swallowing it only when distracted by an offer to play in the garden; so swallowing the broccoli was a big deal!

The signs are clear, dear Broccoli, Amelia will learn how yummy you are – she has stubborn parents after all.

My little girl doesn’t like Mondays. After a weekend full of daddy time, and undivided mommy attention, Monday just sucks – daddy cycles off to work and mommy’s eyes are glued to her writing tasks.

Poor Amelia… poor mommy.

Grumpy Mondays are composed of various antics aimed at drawing my attention away from my work. When Amelia’s look-at-me-mommy shrieks and now-mommy-now wails are ignored, my person becomes a jungle gym and my lap a springboard – it’s sort of hard to ignore the human chimp that is my daughter.

I politely tell my princess that ‘mommy needs to work and Amelia needs to play’ – usually once is enough but not on Mondays. My command-in-the-form-of-a-request is met with melodramatic gesticulations – the little hands go up to the face and with head on arm my sweet one drops to the floor in anguish as her life slowly but surely comes to an end.

A firm tone and lots of cuddles get my baby through the day. And then it’s Tuesday… and being the owner of working parents is not as terrible as yesterday.

My little girl can say please. Well… ‘peas’, if we’re going to get technical. Amelia’s daddy and I, with the help of Persistent Repetition, have taught my 18-month-old sweetheart that if she would like something, “please” is the word. She also ‘signs’ please by bringing her little hands up to her chest in a beautiful gesture of all things polite.

We started by asking her to say “please” when she gets a treat after lunch or dinner. And after a couple of days she had cottoned on to the concept… almost too well. I am now faced with the Beast of Please also known as ‘Peas’, whose best friend is Unparalleled Sweetness.

My darling Amelia brings me a toy saying “peas, peas, peas” – a toy that has no buttons, no complicated switches, nothing to turn… and I am utterly befuddled. What am I to do with so polite a request and so obvious a toy? Desperate not to disappoint and discourage the pleas of ‘peas’ I make up some ridiculous game to distract the unfathomable intent of the questioner, and my child seems happy. Until…

… until, the Beast rises again. In strolls Amelia, carrying two pairs of tights, a hoodie and three shirts, begging “peas, peas, peas.” This time I am not confused. She wants to wear all of the above. I try to rationalise by telling my little lovely that her tiny person cannot possibly accommodate so much clothing. Reason shmeason. I end up dressing her teddies, which seems to compensate for and appease the ‘peas.’

Then there is the dreaded I-would-like-to-wash-myself-in-copious-amounts-of-soap “peas, peas, peas” and the I-would-like-you-to-spend-all-morning-making-my-dollies-dance-to-Disney-classics “peas, peas, peas”, which are never as bad as the point-randomly-in-any-direction “peas, peas, peas” or the may-I-play-with-mommy’s-very-expensive-Venetian-masks-all-the-way-from-Venice “peas, peas, peas” – both of which cannot be satiated.

The… Beast.. of… Please… is… wearing…me…down! It’s cuteness is heart-breakingly, unashamedly precious!

After the euphoria involved in the joy of bringing my daughter one step closer to social propriety, lesson number two in ‘correct social conduct’ is that ‘peas’ is not in fact a magic word that grants all wishes. Following which, is lesson number three; this unfair state of being need not be acknowledged with unearthly screeches and bouts of melancholia. Life’s ambiguity is a tough lesson for a toddler…

…for anyone.

A children’s book for grown-ups

Let’s not kid; sleep deprivation is hellish. One of the sacrifices demanded by parenthood is the pleasure of a good night’s sleep. Whether it’s midnight feedings, distressed cries or the worry of late night escapades, our children plan on keeping us awake for a good 18 years, and probably long after.

With this in mind, California Book Award-winning author Adam Mansbach has written a foul-mouthed, tongue-in-cheek bedtime book for parents who live in the real world. Go the Fuck to Sleep tells it like it is; that a few snoozing kitties and cutesy rhymes don’t always send a toddler sailing blissfully off to dreamland. Here’s an excerpt:

The eagles who soar through the sky are at rest
And the creatures who crawl, run and creep.
I know you’re not thirsty. That’s bullshit. Stop lying.
Lie the fuck down, my darling, and sleep.

The cubs and the lions are snoring,
Wrapped in a big snuggly heap.
How come you can do all this other great shit
But you can’t lie the fuck down and sleep?

The book has been describes as “profane, affectionate, and radically honest… Adam Mansbach’s verses perfectly capture the familiar – and unspoken – tribulations of putting your little angel down for the night. In the process, they open up a conversation about parenting, granting us permission to admit our frustrations, and laugh at their absurdity.”

I’m all about keepin’ it real: on more occasions than I care to admit I have mouthed the title of Adam’s book, as a drag myself up and out of bed to tend to my screeching child. I love her dearly… and I love sleep. At times the two seem to be mutually exclusive.

Go the Fuck to Sleep has topped Amazon’s bestseller chart a month ahead of publication. CLICK HERE to pre-order your copy.

Source: The Guardian - Foul-mouthed bedtime book is hit with parents

My little girl enjoys chewing on toothpaste tubes. I indulge her fetish as long as she keeps the lid on – a mouthful of white paste, although delicious to a child (I used to eat toothpaste back in the day) and probably good for the teeth, can’t be good for the tummy.

However, today I found Amelia dunking her precious tube into the toilet bowl. Luckily we are healthy flushers. But still… I guess she may as well ingest toothpaste if pee and poo are par for the culinary course of taste intrigue.

Keeping the seat down is no longer a sufficient deterrent. My little lovely can pry it open with the force of toddler on a mission. When I say “yucky” and pull a face, Amelia giggles with enthusiastic delight and reaches in for another dip. I am a big fan of the word ‘No’ and a stern face to accompany but my daughter’s natural inquisitiveness does not seem to warrant a bellow and a frown.

In any case, toilet training is next on the list;perhaps then toilet water will not appear so appetising. Or worse, perhaps it will…

No one tells you that this whole learning to walk thing is going to be murder on your back. My daughter has reached the age where crawling is no longer enough of a challenge and cruising along the furniture provides a limited experience. So I now spend a large part of each day hunched over, holding Angelique’s hands as she explores our flat.

We’ve chosen not to buy a walking ring; partly because there’s really no space for it here, but also because I read one too many articles about possible damage to little feet. Perhaps I’m also against walking rings as a result of my own bad experience as a baby. Apparently, like Angelique, I imagined myself as a mini-stuntwoman. So I raced headfirst for a step. No prizes for guessing what happened next.

Besides, Angelique doesn’t need a walking ring to injure herself. Tripping over blocks, falling over when she thinks she doesn’t need any support to stand, bumping her head on a sliding door she didn’t see … I’ve learned that babies get hurt, but most of the time it’s nothing that a kiss and a cuddle can’t fix.

I have also learned the difference between the “I’ve got a big fright!” cry and the “Mommy, it hurts!” cry. Then there’s the “Don’t take that away!” cry – a popular one in our house due to Angelique’s fondness for chewing paper. And also the “I don’t want to sleep!” cry, usually followed a minute later by absolute silence and a passed out baby.

Speaking of silence, the princess is a little too quiet for my liking. Excuse me while I go see what destruction she has wrought in the other room …

Motherhood is not for sissies.

Forget about labour and the actual birth, it’s what comes afterwards that really tests your strength. Poopy nappies, snotty noses, projectile vomit … being a parent is not for the faint-hearted, that’s for sure.

I have learned, in a mere eight months of being a mom, that it is a good idea to keep a burp cloth in every room of the house, as well as in each car, an extra one in the nappy bag, and one or two at the grandparents’ houses. One of the side-effects of teething is extra up-chucking, and regurgitated chicken, peas and milk are one of the many things I look forward to each day.

Angelique has also decided that the most fun activity to do (post-projectile puking) is to play with whatever has just come out of her mouth. This is why I advise random burp cloths scattered around the house – you just never know when you’ll need one.

With the onset of winter, Angelique is also suffering from a cold. No prizes for guessing what that means … As unpleasant as it must be to have snot running non-stop from her nose, she has an aversion to me trying to wipe it up with a tissue. On the odd occasion she sits still long enough for me to swoop in with a tissue, I realise afterward it’s only because she’s decided to eat the tissue. Yum.

Maybe it’s because she just wants to wipe her own nose with the object of her choice. Mom’s shirt, for instance. Or the leg of Mom’s pants. Mom’s suede couch. Mom’s bedspread. A fistful of Mom’s hair.

But then she gives me an adorable smile, and I drop the burp cloth and handful tissues to pick her up and cuddle. I have the best job in the world, no doubt about it.

My 16-month-old daughter loves digging in the dustbin. I am raising a pleb.

The smelling pit of putridness that wallows in my kitchen, basking in the deceptive glamour of stainless steel, is like honey to a bee for Amelia-the-peasant. Manky sponges and rotting straws are her most valued discoveries. She is also partial to the occasional yoghurt carton.

It was not five minutes ago that I saw my little hobo sucking on a smoothie pack that I threw away yesterday. Totally gross. Not only did Amelia ingest old smoothie but she so generously flicked it all over me and my previously clean computer.

I have decided to euphemise Amelia’s bourgeois mentality by saying that she is explorative. Like a pirate, or better… Christopher Columbus.

So, today I found my daughter happily dunking her cup of milk into the toilet. I have no idea if she had had a swig after dunking said cup. I’m thinking more along the lines of she did.

On a recent trip to the playground Amelia scooped a half eaten, rotten looking, biscuit off of the floor and shoved it into her mouth before I could whisk it away. Yum.

She also decided that it would be a good idea to shove a fist full of sand-pit sand into her mouth. It took her two times to learn that rather unpleasant lesson.

Groveling on the floor in the hope of finding hidden treasure aka old bread, half eaten raisins, soggy all-bran flakes and mushy banana is another favourite pastime.

The point: children do disgusting things – no matter how much you vacuum and scrub, and no matter how quick witted and agile you are. And it’s all rather hilarious.

One of the “highlights” of the Baby Expo I attended last year was the appearance of a certain purple reptile who, despite being the most annoying thing on the planet, continues to avoid extinction.  Children screamed in delight and parents groaned in agony every time He Who Shall Not Be Named took the stage and danced to his theme music.  There was no escape. It was traumatic, and cemented my decision to ban the creature from our house.

I promptly let all friends, family and acquaintances know that should any toy, book or DVD related to the monster be given to my baby, it would continue its journey to the nearest charity shop.  (I’m all for recycling, you see.)  The reaction from most people was something like, “Oh, we’d never do that to you!”

I’ve been happily telling people that I grew up just fine without the purple beast, so my child will do equally well on a diet of Smurfs and Gummi Bears.

Imagine my horror when I visited a friend recently and she put on a DVD to entertain the kids while we chatted.  Not just any DVD – no, it was one featuring the very creature I’d been determined to shield my daughter from.  Angelique was transfixed.  I was appalled.

Then I thought, she’s only seven months old.  She’s probably not going to remember this.  And if it happens again, well, I’ll just have to come to terms with the fact that I can’t protect my daughter from all the evils of the world.  But accepting this doesn’t mean that devil dinosaur is welcome in our house.