Yes, folks, that’s the Enormous Turnip. Coming to a bedtime near you. Or a morning time. Or any other time of the day.
Repetition is the name of the game at the moment: Wallace and Gromit four times a day (“wrong trousers, mummydaddy”) and The Enormous Turnip about eight times a day. Today she even gave up halfway through “the rabbit one” (Curse of the Were-Rabbit), which is unthinkable, to toddle over and grab her “Normous Turnip” book. She knows it word for word, which of course isn’t a great achievement as there only seems to be about 50 words in the whole thing. And of course it’s a giant bore to read let alone reread.
We also have the monotony, nay tyranny, of tantrums which are recurring with depressing regularity whenever we go Outside. Generally, it involves hitting me and shouting at me to “GO AWAY MUMMY. Daddy do it”. Yesterday, she waved her arms venomously at my friend’s husband and again at their nine month-old child. I wanted the ground to swallow me up. Of course, I’ve never known their children do anything but beam sunnily at you. I can’t help but wonder – again – is this because I’ve worked full-time? Or because I’ve been depressed? Or because I’m so utterly lacking generally?
Toddler tantrums do that to you, don’t they? Please say they do and it isn’t just my own confounded sense of inadequacy all set to blight another life with this feeling that everything is my fault… Today, our last day together, was rained on by a phenomenal tantrum that ended with her being carried screaming from the park by wonder-daddy, whilst I trailed behind with the scooter and the bike like a pathetic tween, tears streaming down my face and alternating between feeling useless and wanting to just hand her wheels to a more deserving kid, sod off and leave them to it in an adolescent rage. Mature. Nothing has the power to break your own sense of confidence, perspective and equilibrium than a toddler hitting you in the face and worse than that, in public. Other parents and their beatific children stared at us in slack-jawed wonder. Even when my husband had put a distance of several hundred yards between us, I knew where they were. She’d found eleven on the dial.
The one things guaranteed to get her to just shut the hell up though, are books. And the book du jour is The Enormous Turnip. I want to burn this book, as I am bored of it beyond measure, but we are locked in a Con-Dem alliance with the thing. We need each other. We hate each other. I wouldn’t trust the Enormous Turnip with a library, either.
In case you decide to rush over armed with Prozac, to stage an intervention, it’s not all bad. Really not all bad. She’s loving books. We’ve been to lots of parks. We’ve been to the library (and she’s asked repeatedly to visit again although I may need to SSRI up before I try it again any time soon), we’ve broken the back of potty training, she’s scootering confidently now and today “rode” her balance bike for the first time. We leave the week having achieved so much together as well as having decided that daddy rocks and mummy sucks.
Over and over and over again.