Yesterday. Was. Horrible.
Absolutely horrible. From go to whoa, I couldn’t do anything right. Not according to Ashleigh, anyway.
She wanted to get out of bed. She didn’t want to get out of bed. She wanted a cuddle. She wanted a kiss. She didn’t want to be touched. She didn’t want anyone in the same room. She wanted to wear shorts. She wanted to wear pants. She wanted to wear shorts. She wanted to wear a dress. She wanted to wear a winter coat (in 23 degree heat). She wanted Weet Bix. She wanted Corn Flakes. She wanted porridge. She wanted Weet Bix with Corn Flakes and porridge on top.
That was all before 8am. I could go on, and recapture my horrible day in its entirety, but it’s already painful reliving it. And you get the point.
Yesterday, Ashleigh was indecisive, quick to cry, quick to yell, and quick to tantrum. About anything. About everything.
About things she’d asked for in the first place. Like wanting to meet Santa. Wanting to see her friend. Wanting to go to the toilet. Wanting to go to bed.
For the first time in a long time, I had to constantly remind myself that she is in fact two years old.
And that Cameron would be home in five hours. Three hours. Two hours. One hour and twenty minutes. One hour and ten minutes. Has it only been ten minutes since I last checked? Really?!
And that I should be glad she isn’t normally like that.
Some days you enjoy; some days you endure. And some of the days you endure end with a little extra kick in the guts. It’s hard not to take it personally when your tantrumming toddler terror turns into an angle cutie pie the minute her father walks through the door.
But you don’t. You carry on. You remind yourself that she is in fact two years old. And hope that you get a better day the next day.
Which is true so far.
|Sugar and spice and all things nice…|
When did you last endure rather than enjoy a day?