The best way I can describe the last few months of 2016 is that it’s been like a flight in a very small plane entering an area of thunderstorms. Buckle up, grab the sick bag and hope that you come out clean on the other side.
A couple of weeks ago, the bumpy ride became a little overwhelming (see About this Blog), with no end in sight, so I decided that I will start writing about it. To keep me sane, to keep me laughing, to keep reminding me that things could be a lot worse.
Here are the last days of 2016, as we roll over into the New Year, which will no doubt come with more bumps and battles, but we’re ready for it. As we’ll ever be.
Wednesday, 21 December 2016
Hopeful this morning. We had a family meeting last night, a little mini focus group. We joined forces to compile a star chart with targets and rewards for the next two weeks, because holidays can be frightening. Miss Mayhem, in spite of all the other issues and anxieties, is very driven and competitive. She loves a reward. She works very hard to get what she wants.
Oh how very wrong I was.
Screaming started at about 7.45am. I was upstairs getting dressed. At 8.16am, I went downstairs, the screaming had escalated (this rollercoaster was coming down fast, terror express at full speed, arms flailing, crazed eyes).
Lying- on- the-floor-kicking- thrashing-kind of screeching, loud enough for the neighbours (10 doors down) to hear. I take comfort in the fact that they probably thought that we were slaughtering a good sized pig for our Christmas dinner. In the Kitchen. Chasing the terrified beast, knocking into furniture, squealing in fear. But no, it was our little girl, face of an angel, temperament of Donald Trump.
I think the screaming stopped around 8.30am. By the time we left the house at 8.45am, Chuckie was back in it’s box and our sweet little girl joined me for the walk to school.
Thursday, 22 December 2016
Hallelujah! She has tidied her bedroom. Could this be the end of the bad spell? Or was the reward just great enough to break through that barrier of demand avoidance. Default name for HB is still “stupid boy” and every question from her lips “what is wrong with you”, so jury’s out. We live in hope. Christmas might still be festive. Although, unfortunately, the top present on her Santa list has not yet arrived. It has gone missing in the post. The gods are not smiling upon us. Or Santa. I fear that he will get hate mail. We will get tears. It won’t matter that she will be getting four similar fluffy things on that day. Oh no, the all important Chloe will become the issue. I will be on gin from 6am and the Christmas dinner will be burnt, the carrots will be lost. Maybe I’m over dramatising, she might surprise us. Gin glass half full, gin glass half full, it will all be fine.
Friday, 23 December 2016
The much desired Beanie Boo has arrived, except its called Zoey. But it’s a zebra, I am sure that she said it was Chloe the zebra, but Chloe is a dog. Dear Lord, did I get it wrong!? I’ll just have to say that Santa is a bit dyslexic.
Saturday, 24 December 2016
Overheard Mayhem telling her brother that she asked Santa for Zoe. We can sleep in peace.
She tells me that she is going to try really hard not to lose her shit today. Not in those words exactly, but she manages to stick to her promise.
Friday, 30 December 2016
Christmas was festive, filled with fun and Beanie Boos. I lost count. My eardrums are still ringing from all the screams of delight. Happy children, happy days. As a reward for good behaviour over the Christmas period, we’d taken them to their beloved super-sized toy shop to spend the pocket money they had been saving for several months. Mayhem bought herself an additional four Beanie Boos. More happiness, more excitement.
And then disaster.
A synthetic fibre and hairdryer related incident.
Happy Boy was doing some close range drying of his favourite bear and then there was panicked screaming and smoke (apparently). Two toys were harmed in the incident. The beloved Chewy Bear, HB’s trusty companion from birth, and Precious, a newly purchased Beanie Boo in a overzealous shade of pink. Oh the drama. Oh the tears. Oh the melted patch of synthetic pink fur.
Happy Boy moved on remarkably quickly, mourning for his trusty (newly baldish) bear swiftly over.
Mayhem in full scale, proper screeching mode over the tiny singed patch on the back of the one day old Precioussss. Demanding that I fix it. “It’s burnt” I say, “I can’t fix it”, I say.
Demands to go back to the shop to buy a new one. “It’s only a small patch”, I say.
But no, it’s damaged. It’s no longer perfect. Around 20 minutes of wailing into the melted fur affair, I become that very terrible parent. I get the giggles. I can’t help it. I’m imagining an attempt to patch the creature (dog? It’s so pink) with the lining of a sanitary towel, dyed pink with the out of date food colouring in the cupboard. I can’t stop laughing. It’s infectious, Dad starts laughing. We know we shouldn’t, but we can’t stop laughing.
It wasn’t taken too well. I’ll leave it at that.
Once my fit of giggles were under control, I became that better parent again, apologised (sincerely of course) for my hugely insensitive behaviour and promised to attempt some repairs to the pink fluffball (not those words).
And all was good again in the world of mayhem.