Rage Roulette

“He’s a bit of a handful, isn’t he?” my friend remarked as we both watched Lebu scream hysterically at the other kids, demanding they go back the 100 yards where they had initially raced from to our picnic spot. Being a full five years younger than them it was no surprise to anyone except Lebu that he couldn’t keep up. He was in full Donald Trump mode, unable to accept defeat and arguing pointlessly for a rematch. “It’s because he’s hungry” I explained as he proceeded to ignore Hubby’s attempts at consolation by thumping him hard in the leg. Ironically, we were at a local food festival where he had refused nearly everything apart from a packet of crisps and a pain au chocolat (eating only the chocolate and none of the bread). In a surprisingly skillful move, Hubby managed to dodge a blow and simultaneously shove a banana into Lebu’s mouth mid-cry, and as the food made his way down, the rage subsided.

This was nothing compared to the time we flew back from our first post-Covid holiday in Egypt and I switched the iPad off mid-episode of Octonauts as the plane landed. This was a very bad move. I forgot to warn him so it came as a surprise (and not the good Kinder egg kind of surprise) and the timing coincided with naptime. His reaction was to refuse to get off the plane. This wouldn’t have been so bad except we had less than 1.5hrs to make our connecting flight and multiple security checks to get through. Hubby carried him in an armlock, Mishty and I stumbled behind loaded down with hand luggage and neck pillows, and Lebu thrashed wildly, yanking my earring out in the process. We marched towards the transfer, a cacophony of cries, shouts, pleas, threats with Lebu running back every time we put him down without a second glance. We were that family. At one point he sat on the floor and angrily threw his shoe at us – a risky move given we were in a Middle Eastern county. We were all fed up so we called his bluff and walked off. Mishty looked alarmed and even he tried in vain to encourage Lebu to come. People stared in amusement. Airport guards looked at the scene and tutted at him. But all to no avail, it was a meltdown of epic proportion, a full half hour of hysteria and the most stressful connection ever. Hubby had to carry him the whole way and then he conked out as soon as we got on the plane. Travelling was definitely a lot more fun without kids.

I’ve lost count the number of times where I’ve had to apologetically explain Lebu’s random rages on tiredness/ illness/ hunger/ a combination of the three. That plus his penchant for being “particular” mean that the sliver of time where he is none of those and also awake is a bit like when Santa comes down the chimney – a magical time where there’s usually no one else around to see it to believe it.

Of course, there are times where the only reason for the tantrum is purely because Lebu hasn’t got his way. Like the time we were at a toddler birthday party – being around small children always puts me on edge – and I heard my friend urgently beckon me over to stop Lebu from bullying her older child. Heart sinking, I walked over to see Lebu squaring up, fearless and threatening to punch the five year old in the face over a ball, aged three. Cringing and wishing this was someone else’s problem, I plucked him out of there and tried to talk to him separately about being kind. He struggled from my grasp, took offence to the message, repeatedly screamed “GO AWAY!” as well as “SHUT UP! STUUUUPID!” at the top of his lungs and slapped me hard. Apart from that I felt the chat went well.

Sometimes it’s just about being included. We visited a friend we hadn’t seen in years, and the husband offered to play a game of chess with Mishty. While this was a lovely idea, I had a feeling it might not go down well with Lebu. Predictably, he was not content with just watching so he decided to take play too. This did not go down well with Mishty, whose pieces were now being moved at random and with a sibling fight brewing the chess board was swiftly put away. At some point their toddler decided to join in the fun and bop Lebu on the head playfully with a toy. Lebu did not take kindly to this and within seconds Baby Fight Club was born and we were pulling them off each other. So much for a quiet lunch.   

Is it ever possible to relax when socializing with friends if there are children around? I’m on tenterhooks wondering if they will break something or hurt themselves, each other or someone else. Mainly because it will mean that I’ll have to do some parenting. In public. Which is embarrassing because even if people politely look away, you still feel judged and exposed for the mediocre mum that you are. I once had a 7 year old look particularly unimpressed because he felt my attempts at telling off 2 year old Lebu for squashing a bug in front of him was lacking. I didn’t tell him that if Hubby were there he probably would have screamed like a girl and squashed it first.

Can I just fast forward to the part where I can chat indoors sipping coffee, leave the kids to roam free and then we all go home after having a jolly good time like they do in Enid Blyton books? None of her stories involved kids nagging their parents for the phone because they were bored; they were too busy scoffing homemade lemonade and cold ham while rambling across moors following shady people in isolated parts of the country. Whereas my reality is having to intervene as a referee to stop Lebu scratching Mishty’s eyes out over plastic tat, repeatedly saying catchphrases like “tissue not t-shirt!” to stop him wiping his face on his clothes, and apologizing profusely for incorrectly cutting up a hash brown because somehow this has ruined his life. This, my friends, is living life on the edge… (of a nervous breakdown!)

What, not even water?!

Ramadan Mubarak everyone! The special month is here, the only time when women all over the world look forward to getting their periods, and you actually have a legitimate excuse for night time binge eating. It’s thirty long days of being the best version of yourself while abstaining from all food and water from dawn to sunset.

It takes endurance, self-discipline and willpower, and is the ultimate Hunger Games. It’s like running a marathon, except I can’t run, I just walk very slowly. I’ve plodded across the halfway point now and smacked straight into The Wall.

There are certain factors that make fasting reasonably easier – like when it’s in winter and the days are short. Then it’s just like having an early breakfast and a very late lunch. It’s also easier if you don’t have to go to work or school. Sleeping half the day to make up for the broken night’s sleep is living the dream.

So having a child, a full time job and the days being 18 hours long and hot are really not conducive to fasting at all. In fact here’s how a typical 24 hours goes for me:

2.20am My alarm goes off and I stumble in a sleep-laden stupor down the stairs trying not to wake anyone, especially Mishty who will want to join in and not leave me alone. I begin my binge by tucking into a pie. My body clock has no idea what is going on. I catch myself micro-sleeping with my fork dangling in mid-air.

2.52am Realise I have 60 seconds left to wolf down a banana, yogurt and 2 glasses of water.

2.53am The fast begins.

3.30am I am still awake in bed, feeling like a beached whale with a lot of water sloshing around, willing myself to fall asleep.

4am I need to go pee.

4.30am Finally asleep.

5.45am Mishty comes into my bed. I tell him to go to daddy in the spare room so I can sleep because I’m tired and fasting. He stubbornly refuses and snuggles even closer. I push him to the other side of the bed but he is still noisily wriggling and trying to establish contact with his foot. I get mad and flounce into the spare room to kick Hubby out to sleep with Mishty instead. As we swap, Mishty follows me so now we are still in the same bed, just in the spare room. Hubby pleads with him to join him but gets no response. Finally he bribes Mishty with promises of cheesecake for breakfast. Mishty sprints off to join him.

6.45am My alarm goes off. I am grumpy about missing an hour’s extra sleep. I get ready, realising that my concealer is no match for the huge bags under my eyes.

8am I am already hungry. Only another 13 hours to go.

9am I am meal planning instead of programme planning.

10am I am farting like a trouper. A loud one slips out but my face does not give anything away. I let another one rip and this time I look innocent but questioning, like, I wonder what that noise was? I move away after a stinker to avoid suspicion.

11am I am in a meeting and my tummy is rumbling loudly. This is all I contribute to the meeting.

11.30am I don’t need to go to the toilet or the teapoint. What the hell am I supposed to do now when I get bored?

12.30pm I go out and wander past the sandwich shops, looking like a haunted person every time I get a waft of coffee or a tuna melt panini. I torture myself by going into M&S where I want to eat everything. I bump into a friend who says we must do lunch. I tell her it’ll be awhile as my social life is on hold until Ramadan is over.

2pm Someone has brought in delicious chocolate cornflake bites. Bastards.

3pm Another meeting. I am making notes but fall asleep dreaming of a swimming pool filled with Starbucks caramel macchiato. My pen is now flatlining across the page. I prise my burning eyes open wondering whether anyone has noticed.

5pm Home time! I make my way to the station but my energy levels are so low that I feel like a wilted flower sagging under the weight of the sun. I’m running late now so I have to run up three escalators to catch the train (did they really need to make London Bridge so goddamn big?). I am super thirsty and my thighs are feeling the burn. I get to the platform panting like a dog with bad breath only to see the train pull away. ARGH!!!

6pm I’ve picked Mishty up from nursery and now trying to feed him dinner. I want to eat his food but mustn’t. He doesn’t want to eat his food but must. He knows I can’t eat and yet he will attempt at least three times to put food into my mouth / face while I dodge. He used to do this when he was little and didn’t understand but now he does it deliberately. I try not to get food rage.

7pm Irritability levels are running dangerously high and I am starting to get a headache. Mishty wants to watch one more Jamie Oliver show instead of going to bed. I give in and drool over his tasty looking meatballs.

8pm Mishty falls asleep as Hubby comes home. He isn’t fasting as he can’t hack it during work. Something about the combination of hot trains, hayfever and a sensitive stomach. “You don’t understand, it’s really hard”, he tells me as I stand there after coming home from work on a hot train, not having eaten in 17 hours or slept properly.

8.30pm I go downstairs and am disappointed to see Hubby eating his dinner already. I expected him to show some solidarity and wait so we could eat together. His response, “Sorry, I can’t wait that long, I’m starving”. My eyes narrow dangerously. Did he really just say that to me? I mean REALLY???? He looks sheepish and carries on eating while I refrain from bitchslapping him – it is Ramadan after all.

9.08pm After counting the minutes and getting a hunger that feels like my stomach is going to eat itself the azaan finally plays and I break my fast with a wrinkly date left over from last Ramadan and some water. They might be really good

for you but everyone knows dates suck. I eat by myself with the telly on for company, feeling nostalgic for when I lived with my parents and we would break our fast together to the sound of Sunrise Radio or go to iftar parties hosted by our friends. We would eat shitloads of amazing traditional food specially made for Ramadan like pakoras, samosas, kebabs, parathas, haleem, moori, chana, daalpuri, aloo chops, jelebis, shemai and anything else deep fried that guarantees a heart attack. Sadly, I have neither the skill nor inclination to make them myself so I settle with whatever is in the fridge. Today I tuck into some biryani from my in-laws that leaves me in a food coma and unable to move off the sofa.

10pm To stay hydrated I have consumed 4 glasses of water in under an hour, and pondering whether I can fit in a fifth even though I’m feeling a bit sick.

10.30pm My efforts to get ready for bed keep getting thwarted by my need to pee while belching man burps.

11pm I am falling asleep when Hubby comes in for a chat. Out of the whole evening this is the time he picks to talk to me. I banish him to the spare room.

12.30am I gotta go pee. Maybe the fifth glass of water wasn’t such a good idea.

2.20am WAKE UP! It’s time to start all over again….