Forms of torture include – Bamboo under the finger nails. The wooden stretching rack. Electric shocks. Being forced to watch Loose Women. And the constant, grating, never ending whinging of a child.
I don’t mean a little cry, a paddy whack, or even something that has any form of tears. I mean that hanging-off-your-clothes-as-you-walk-around-only-stopping-their-death-grip-on-you-to-stop-and-look-up-at-you-and-winge-and-hold-their-arms-up ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. Making that noise that miserable, attacking zombies make in old zombie movies;
Did you have a previous aversion to finger nails being scratched down a blackboard before your loins produced a child? I bet you a win on Scratchcard Friday that nails on a blackboard sounds like (insert peaceful music of your choice – perhaps some Enya, perhaps some Iean Michel Iarre from the early 90’s) to you now.
Here is my guide, or my list of options for how to manage this torment;
1) Talk to your child.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t knooooooooooow!”
Repeat x 20.
2) Hide in the shower and shower for England. Sometimes I shower for 15 minutes. Twice a day. I am not that hairy or that stinky. The shower cubicle provides a soundless haven, much like a recording studio. If I lather my shampoo enough and poke the bubbles in my ears I can barely even hear the water. I will risk an ear infection for this. I will. All you can hear is this dull drone, like a zombie smacking its fists against the glass panel. But he can’t get in. The panel is a consertina and my foot is wedged against it.
3) Interact and distract. Probably should have been first on my list. Or at least before the shower. This might work, but like the flood walls on the Titanic it will save you minutes only. If the child is in a whingey mood, you can not stop the onslaught. And there are only so many times I will suffer being shouted at to bend Postman Pat at the waist and put him in to his van, seated, and then be shouted at that I got it wrong and he isn’t wanted in the van after all. There are a limit to the times I will show the child how to do this himself whilst he picks his nose and shrugs at me and continues to moan. Mummy. Has. Limits.
4) Ignore. Ok. Good luck with that one!
5) Give in and pick them up. Walk about cuddling the child, using one hand to make dinner/ a cup of tea/ mow the lawn/ get dressed/ shave your legs/ have a wee. Making a rod for your own back? No. Making a break in your own back more like. Hauling around 2 stone of 2 year old all day long will bend you like a question mark.
6) Blog about it. Ta daaaaaa. Make notes through out the day and try and find the humour. It is incredibly theraputic. Turn it in to a “fun project” to write about at 8pm.
*pours wine*…*pours another wine*
7) Give in to their demands. Look at this photo
There is nothing wrong with that finger. There was nothing wrong with this finger either
In fact, there wasn’t anything wrong with any of the fingers that also had plasters 3, 4 and 5 on them. He just wanted plasters. He can have plasters. *gritted teeth*.
8) Give them a paint brush and allow them to express themselves through art.
Hmmm. Annoyed much?
9) Prison. Aka the cot. Even the baby monitor has given in. Either out of sympathy for me it has decided to stop broadcasting sound, or has just decided to comit suicide because it can’t handle its own misery anymore. Listening was its only skill. So it had nowhere left to go but die. Prison + broken monitor = that quiet, dull drone of the zombie again. But the drone can be tuned out nicely by some Rage Against The Machine.
10) You may have hoped number ten would have provided the serious and actual answer for this blog post subject. It doesn’t. Sorry. However, having read it back through, I can see that a lot of these suggestions could also be put in force for when the zombie apolocaypse comes. So, take note.
An after thought, perhaps a 10 b)…Look at the little darling *cough* when they are sleeping. This always makes me feel a bit calmer about it all. If it is miserable for me to listen to them whinge all day, it must be miserable for them. They don’t seem to enjoy it much either. And then wake up tomorrow and hope it is all different. It’s all stepping stones to the end of the garden, isn’t it?