Why I’m grateful for my not-so-terrible toddler
I was Googling something parenting-related recently, as you do when you have access to a magic machine that holds all the answers, except there are way too many of them and they often contradict each other, and in the middle of searching for our answers you get distracted and start d***ing around on Facebook instead.
I can’t remember exactly what I was searching for. Something nap related, probably. The Popple has recently stopped napping her her cot, so my ‘get stuff done’ time is now ‘awkwardly scroll through my phone while a small sweaty person snores on my chest’ time.
Anyway, I typed “Why does my toddler…” and this is what Google suggested:
- Why does my toddler hit
- Why does my toddler hit me
- Why does my toddler bite me
- Why does my toddlers scream
- Why does my toddler hate me
And I felt lucky.
Because the Popple doesn’t hit me. Or bite me. She screams occasionally, but her complaint method of choice tends to be a low-level, unrelenting whine. And she definitely doesn’t hate me. If anything, she loves me too hard in that sticky toddler kind of way, when they cling to you and run their filthy fingers through your hair while yelling, “Mama uh-oh choo-choo” or some other such toddler nonsense.
Maybe all this hitting/biting/screaming/hating stuff is yet to come. It probably is. The Popple has never done anything the easy way, and I’m under no illusion that her toddlerhood is going to be a series of silly songs and giggly teddy bear tea parties. But for now, I’m happy to enjoy her as she is – a curious little person who loves the Jackson 5 and that Carly Rae Jepson video with Tom Hanks. Who puts her stuffed rabbit in her high chair and feeds him imaginary food. Who is obsessed with anything with wheels. Who laughs any time I say the word ‘silly’.
Popple, you are the weirdest and the best. Please remember that when you hit your terrible twos are have the sudden urge to bite me.