I would rather slam my head repeatedly into the computer than go to Clamber Club

September 2008

Right now, I am not enjoying being a mother. I didn’t enjoy my leftover chicken whilst watching Liam purposefully pee on the kitchen table. I used to have work lunches at Bellinis – chicken salad and sometimes a sparkly pink Kir Royale. I didn’t enjoy having Barney juice spat in my face in front of the ‘perfect-parent-strangers’ at Pick n Pay. I’ve had drinks spat in my face, but somehow, my friend, who’s coke problem invoked all kinds of dubious behaviour, seems more manageable in retrospect. I wasn’t quite partial either to trying to get my 5 month pregnant stomach (and equally pregnant arse, I might add), my tenuous bladder, my handbag, my cell phone (whilst on the phone to husband, complaining about ‘his’ child) and my full trolley into gear, so that I could chase my two year old through Woolworths.

It’s been a bad few days. Or weeks. I don’t remember.

If I were less of a martyr; less hung up about getting this parenting thing ‘right’, I would placate him with sweets and Barney episodes and more time with our maid so that I could run away and avoid it all. But I am hung up. So I say no to the sweets, I say ‘only one’ to the Big Purple Dinosaur (say it with me: God Bless Barney) and despite work deadlines and a trip to London in 2 days, I say, “This afternoon, mom will take you to Smudge so you can do art while mom does some work.”

I know this is a phase. Either that, or he’s some kind of fast-developing sociopath. His teacher, who is lovely and contained, has told me that he is spending the better part of his school days in the Naughty Corner. Apparently, Liam feels that some of the children in his class ‘need a smack’. (I don’t smack Liam – done it maybe five times – zero impact) I don’t have the guts to tell her that the Naughty Corner is just reinforcing the behaviour. Liam feels special in his Corner. It’s his Hood. And he’s quite happily started labeling himself as ‘naughty’ because of it. So comfortable is he with the concept that now, when I do something that he doesn’t like, he threatens me with it. Nothing quite like a knee-high blighter telling you that if you don’t give him your cell phone, he’ll put you in the Naughty Corner. If I wasn’t pregnant and up most of the night itching and peeing and massaging the cramps out of calves, I would laugh. But I’m fat and tired and that leaves little room for humour.

I just feel like a failure today. An angry, helpless failure.

This afternoon, we’re supposed to go to Clamber Club (a baby and toddler stimulation and gross motor development class). The problem is that Liam doesn’t want to sit in the ring these days and sing songs about Jog the Frog. He wants to roll around in the centre of the ring and ‘accidentally’ kick other children. All the while, I get 360 degree filthy looks from the other mothers. They’re probably thinking, “She’s highly strung. That’s why her child is so hectic.” Screw ‘em.

Perhaps he’s punishing me because I’m pregnant, although his behaviour toward my stomach has been nothing but gentle and loving. Maybe he’s angry because we have a new maid and he’s asserting his authority. Maybe he’s a brat. Dear God. Don’t let it be that. Angry is a feeling. Brat is an early personality disorder. Probably though, it’s just a phase. Probably.

I see my more laid back friends handle this sort of behaviour with detached finesse. My dear old friend Tammy (mother of three) thinks I am insane; that Liam is slap-bang in the middle of normal and that my expectations are bizarre. I love her for saying that, but she has a higher chaos-threshold than I do. Being me, I think everything I touch (especially my baby boy) is a reflection on my character and competence. Liam’s rotten today. I must be too.

So be it. This afternoon, this hyper-peeing, porky, rotten mother would rather slam her head repeatedly into the computer screen than go to Clamber Club.