“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!)
Mishty in my belly 