So yesterday was a fun day, of sorts. Yesterday was one of now, since the big move, relatively few days that was just me and the kids. In Bristol I had these days down. Full on routine. Breakfast, park, Aldi, lunch, sleep, craft/bake, cafe, tea, Daddy home, bed. We all knew where we were and we were like a well-oiled, family-machine…most days.
Since the move I seem to have lost my lone-parenting rhythm.
Faced with a totally rain-laden sky our options for the day pretty much halved. And we needed milk. Stat.
Knowing full well that the suggestion of a trip around Asda was not going to entice The Smalls to behave in any desirable fashion I decided to combine said trip with storytime at the local library, conveniently located right next door.
We have attended storytime before when the focus was trains. Little Miss was dressed up as Thomas the Tank Engine by a librarian and there were three wooden push-along trains that the kids enjoyed racing up and down the room to happy cries of ‘Choo choo.’ They listened to stories. All was good.
Yesterday there was no theme. But the three wooden trains were there. On display. Up high.
As soon as we entered Little Miss spied them and started to point. And shout. “Choo choo Mummy.”
With slightly more aggression, “Choo choo Mummy?”
Full red-faced pelt “CHOO CHOO MUMMY!”
I am ashamed to say that at this point, feeling the stares and the judgement from all fellow parents I caved. In the hope of restoring the children’s library to it’s former state of calm I grabbed two of the three trains on display and handed them to my kids. And then the third to another kid who, following suit, decided to have a meltdown of ALMOST equal proportions.
Job done. Fire out. Calm restored.
Until we needed to leave.
“Will, it’s time to go love.”
“Ok Mummy.” Puts on coat.
“Em, it’s time to go love. Come and get your coat.”
“Em, it’s time to go.”
“No. No. My choo choo.” *Crawls away pushing toy train.*
“Em, it’s lunchtime. Let’s go home and have lunch.”
“No. MY choo choo. MINE.”
“Em, we’ll come back and see the choo choo next week.”
“NOOOOO! MY CHOO CHOO. MINE. MINE.”
“Em..” *approaches softly…*
“NO!” (I will take your soft approach and raise you…) *swipes ENTIRE shelf of books to the floor then lies prostrate, legs kicking, bawling, MY CHOO CHOO, NO, MY CHOO CHOO, MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE, MY CHOO CHOO*
To which I watch in horror while Will stands and points at her stating repeatedly “Look Mummy look.”
There was really no need to point.
The whole storytime circle of immaculately behaved, cross-legged, angel-kids and their clearly much-better-at-this-than-me-parents were perfectly aware of EXACTLY where she was. Oh yes. This show was way too good to miss. Beatrix Potter has nothing on Little Miss in a tantrum.
Eventually, after what felt like a MILLION YEARS, I finally managed to wrestle her, kicking and screaming into her coat. Then after another MILLION YEARS wrestled her, kicking and screaming into her buggy.
Then I pushed her, kicking and screaming, out of the library, the halls ringing out to the desperate wails of..
“MY CHOO CHOO.”
We won’t be going back to story time for a while yet.
Happy Mothers Day folks. *Passes Gin.*