…unless you are four and it means absolutely sod all.

Teaching kids manners, courtesy and societal norms is one of the biggest responsibilities of being a parent. But it doesn’t come without it’s challenges. Like any animal the natural urge is to snatch and grab and push and shove and thwack people over the back of the head with Buzz Lightyear.

Even as an adult, knowing right from wrong, it is hard sometimes not to wonder about kicking irritating people in the shins for, well being irritating. But we don’t because it’s not nice and it’s also a bit illegal, especially if you don’t make it look like a shopping trolley accident.

Instead we learn that the correct action is to smile sweetly and make small talk – ‘Oh no of course that’s fine, no I don’t mind AT ALL!’ – before going home for a good old fashioned bitch.

In our house we try and operate a no snatching, hitting, pushing or saying nasty things to each other policy which is REALLY successful every other Tuesday for 10 minutes if there is an adequate supply of biscuits and Spiderman is on the tellie.

The rest of the time it’s more like…So I’ll be like ‘Hey it’s not nice to hit your brother about the head’ and he’ll be like ‘BUT HE WAS RUINING MY GAME!!!!!!!!!!!’

And then I’ll be like ‘Well I don’t care, come and tell me, don’t just hit him! Say you’re sorry please!’ And he’ll be like…And I’ll be stood there thinking – hey is this kid really sorry? Just because, I don’t know, he doesn’t really look that sorry and he almost, kind of like, sang that apology. I mean he may as well have been doing the can-can whilst releasing party poppers, such was the atmosphere of general exuberance.

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I was sat on the sofa the other day, minding my own business, when the youngest one wondered up and punched me in the face with his tommee tippee cup.

The blow was hard, for a not quite 2 year old, and as I watched the bruise rise around my left eye I couldn’t help but thinking it was somewhat metaphorical – signifying that the baby days were well and truly over.

Welcome to TODDLERHOOD, season 2.

I think I may have blocked out some of the horrors of the first series but lately I’ve been having flashbacks. I remember my first son tantruming to the extent that his face turned deep blue and his body lay jerking on the floor. I remember screaming, convinced that he was having some sort of seizure and dashing for my phone to call 999.

As it turned out he was just a ‘bit’ pissed off that I had broken his banana in half. And at that moment, all the anger at being given an incomplete bit of fruit, was deemed more significant than actually – just breathing.

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There are things we excel at in our house (dancing about the kitchen, devouring jam toast, farting) and there are things that we are altogether less good at (most things aside from the aforementioned things).

Basically stuff done voluntarily must meet the criteria of being funny, fun or delicious which causes no end of problems with the practicalities of getting to school/nursery/work on time because getting dressed falls into none of those categories.

Of course we could make it easier on ourselves by orchestrating the whole process but we are trying desperately hard to instil some form of responsibility in the eldest one at the minute.

So the new house rules are: –

1. Before you come downstairs for breakfast you must have put your clothes on by yourself. Claiming that you can’t do it is wholly contradictory to, er, YESTERDAY when you did actually do it by yourself, albeit over a 45 minute interval of pure unadulterated hell.
2. You have to apply your own shoes to your own feet before you leave the house. Poking one toe in one shoe and then proclaiming that you can’t do it, DOES NOT COUNT as a good effort.
3. Going to the toilet before you piss yourself will also be looked upon positively.

After a week of hard lining, improvement has been minimal. Probably because the chosen method of aiding co-operation involves making ridiculous threats and never following though. Sorry Jo Frost, my bad.

When I got to thinking about it I realised that nearly everything that comes out of my mouth is absolute rubbish! In fact by the end of the day I often feel like I have exhausted a full arsenal of empty threats including:-

Threat –‘If you don’t put your shoes on now then you can stay here on your own!’
Problem – Destruction of the house/destruction of himself. Also, um, illegal.

Threat – ‘No more TV/i-Pad!’
Problem – I might as well shoot myself in the face, TV/i-Pad time is the only time I actually have to get sh*t done.

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I’m a P/T SAHM, a P/T WM and a P/T WAHM. If you don’t know what any of those stand for then good for you.

I have always felt a very strong need to work, or just engage my brain and passions outside of being a parent. That in itself causes problems in my confused little head.

I wonder if I’m a bad mum because I look forward to having time away from my boys on the days that I work and when I’m at work I feel guilty about leaving them. The stupidest thing of all is that during the time I am supposed to be enjoying away from them, I just end up missing them instead.

That is the great brain f*ck of parenthood.

The need to escape, the guilt, the worry, the constant question that you are not doing a good enough job. How is anyone supposed to make sense of all that stuff?

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I don’t know if it’s the colder, darker days or the fact that my boys have been tag teaming me with a pre 6am wake up every fricking day of the week, but I’ve been feeling a teeny tiny bit tired lately.

Anyway I don’t like to complain so Instead I thought I would share my best practice guide to getting through the day when you are severely sleep deprived – broken down into easy manageable stages.

Actually I guess it’s more of a big long whinge but whatever here we go…

1, Shock – It’s dark, you are toasty warm in bed dreaming of being a world class gymnast when suddenly there is a small child all up in your face demanding cheerios, milk and/or a particular toy you haven’t seen for months.

‘Go back to sleep’ you say. ‘It’s the middle of the night!’ you say. But when you reach for you phone to confirm the nonsense hour you see that it is actually morning. Or at least A version of morning, just not a particularly good one…

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I tried my best to be a chilled out mother, to be honest it’s still the perception I like to give off.

In a lot of respects I am, they can eat Maccie D’s and watch inappropriate stuff on the i-Pad. I am fairly confident i’m not a complete tw*t.

But there is one big obsticle in my way – I have spawned children that like to bolt. It was ok with one because I could run after him.  I could scoop him up laughing and then slag him off, all the while secretly loving his crazy little ways.

When I was pregnant with the second I never gave a toss about the gender, just that my belly contained one that was a bit more, um, static.

It didn’t. F*cksticks.

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