I just got into the shop at 9am – about an hour later than usual. Doodle, now 3, is at home, with Babyfather, who has had to take another day off work. She’s been vomiting on and off for three weeks now, and every time a couple of days’ intermission persuades us that it has cleared up, an afternoon lethargy descends, followed by flushed cheeks and finally, in spectacular fashion, the regurgitation of everything eaten that day.
This morning she came into our room “to look after us” and snuggled in between us before kicking off the bedclothes (rendering both of us unclad) and then demanding Milkshake (the televisual kind) and milk. We got up, Babyfather went downstairs to get the milk, I showered, peace descended. When I got back, the following exchange:
Doddle: Mum, can we make croissants today?
Recidivist: We don’t make croissants, darling.
D: (Impatient) But can we have some?
R: I don’t think so, love, they’re very rich and your tummy is still not right.
D: (Wheedling) But I’m better.
R: Well, you’re not really better, are you? Yesterday we thought you were and then you were sick in the afternoon.
D: But I won’t be sick today.
R: We don’t know that yet – you might be.
D: (Angry) I won’t be.
R: Darling I’m sorry but you’re not having croissants. You can have bagels or toast -
D: (Whining) But I don’t like bagels anymore.
R: Well you can’t have croissants. It’s just not going to happen. I am trying to make sure you get better.
D: (Furious and incoherent) No don’t you … I don’t … dah …
R: Doodle!
D: I’M RUNNING AWAY AND NEVER COMING BACK (Stomping downstairs). I don’t want to live with you anymore.
(The following is overheard from downstairs, between Doodle and Babyfather):
B: Doodle, that’s not a very nice thing to say to your mum.
D: (The following few utterances all in full-flowing tantrum mode) I don’t want to live with her anymore. I want to go back to London.
B: So who are you going to live with?
D: I just want to live with you.
B: But I live with mummy, here.
D: I don’t want to live with mummy, I just want us both to live in London without mummy.
(I carried on getting dressed. After a while, Doodle appeared in the bedroom, and came up to me and looked at me. She tilted her head to one side, and narrowed her eyes, determined to get through an unpleasant task.)
D: Sorry.
R: Oh darling, that’s ok. But you must be careful about saying angry things to people.
D: Can I have some chocolate spread on toast?
After much more discussion about what she could and couldn’t have, we had a rambling conversation which took in the following: where we live, why she’ll have to wait til she’s grown up to decide where she lives, why she can’t see that she’s growing up, how the fact that she outgrows her clothes and shoes proves that she’s growing all the time, how she doesn’t want to get too big for her new purple shoes, doesn’t want different shoes when she’s a grown up, and why didn’t she have an icecream last night. A brief return to the croissant debate, consensus on chocolate spread, and I was finally off.
Then to the doctor’s to drop off a poo sample. Then up the hill to put in an application for next September to an already oversubsribed list at a school out of our catchment area. And thence here.
Now to do some real work.
