- July 18, 2011
It was school sports day today. I spent the morning watching my still four year old stomping around the race course sucking her thumb, occasionally looking over at me, to make time to give me a foul look. It is, after all, my fault.
My fault she is not enjoying sports. She doesn’t know why it’s my fault but trust me, she will think of a reason. Perhaps the sports shoes I bought her are too ‘rubby’? Or I should have made sure she was born with longer legs. Everything is my fault.
If this is going to get worse when she’s a teenager, then one of us is leaving home from age 13 till 16.
I could encourage her to join a circus perhaps? How can her blamey mopey attitude get any worse? She’s worse than a teenager because at least with a teenager I would get a lie in!
She’s waking between 5.30 and 7.30am. At least teenagers get up at midday and you can leave them to it! Even though the four year old is moody, blamey and hates me, I still have to be with her caring for her 24 hours a day.
“Maybe she’s just had enough of me telling her what to do”
Maybe that’s the problem. Too much mum and not enough other family members to disperse our tensions. Maybe she’s just had enough of me telling her what to do. I certainly have had enough of telling her to say ‘please’, and that she must wear socks if she doesn’t want her shoes to rub. It’s relentless, isn’t it, parenting!
I say the same thing over and over. Sometimes I say nothing. Sometimes I shout. Sometimes I look at her and think ‘maybe she’s deaf?’ No, she’s not deaf – she’s laughing away to Peppa Pig, and just ignoring me.
Then I shout too loud, she cries, and I am the worst mother in the world. My daughter hates me and I try to remind myself that in three minutes time she will have forgotten and will be happily playing with a manky, the two-year-old Kinder Egg toy she loves (rather than any of her expensive toys).
While I remember how annoying it was that my mother was always right, little did I know how annoying it was always being right. Having to watch your child fall over repeatedly even though you did tell them repeatedly not to wear the flip flops as “they make you fall over!”
(I have tried throwing them away, she found them in the bin… I am an evil mother in her eyes; not a protective mother as in mine…) I’m standing at the race smiling, clapping and encouragingly saying her name.
“Yay! Go sweetie!” My child hates the pressure of having too much attention. She grabs the relay baton, darting me another foul look and arms crossed, stomps over the finish line to suck her thumb. I let someone else remind her to pass the baton on…