Tears Get Results
Like most parents, I can’t get enough of my son’s laughter. He makes me work for it, but by god when he laughs, it’s like sparkling sunshine on a grey London day; it soothes my tired brain, eases my aching bones, and most importantly, releases all the tension and gripes that would otherwise end up on my Darling Husband’s plate. But laughter doesn’t get you results, eh. So he turns into a major choo-choo-da-murabba when he doesn’t get what he wants, when things aren’t happening quick enough, when he’s bored, when his poor mama struggles with socks and shoes and he’s like c’mon woman, let’s go already! My father helpfully abbreviated the term to CCDM many years ago, to refer to cry-baby hypochondriacs he saw in his practice as a general physician. Oh the irony, as all these years later, it turns out my son is The Supreme Emperor of CCDMs.
Tantrum Stages 1, 2 and 3
Leo’s choo-choo is intrinsically linked to him being a velcro-baby. In the early days when he had colic, I ended up carrying him a lot. Ok, all the time. I still cook, clean, tidy with him on my hip. Yep, I can do most things one-handed – so it’s hardly surprising that I’m developing a healthy super-woman complex. Thank you for that, motherhood.
But every time I have to do something that needs both my hands, I put him down for so many seconds and inevitably his face crumples. Leave him for a minute like this
and he sprawls on the floor, trying to drag himself in my direction, complete with a tear-streaked face, red eyes and a runny nose. Give it another minute, and he’ll most likely be crying hard enough to bring up his lunch. For all my Punjabi, no-nonsense bluster, I don’t let him get to that stage. Oh I know it’s just separation anxiety and all babies go through it at various developmental leaps of their lives and it’s all natural and a sign of progress and yada yada yada, but I can’t see him in tears. As my cousin said, if Leo had his way, he’d forever be perched in his mama’s lap, with the rest of the family “doing a circus” to entertain him. They nicknamed him Drama Preet Singh in India for good measure too.
Punjabi Works!
If I’m honest, a part of me loves being needed so much, so desperately. When nothing else in the whole wide world will do, except me. Sometimes he’s happy enough being with his grandparents or my friends, till he sees or hears me. And then the same tantrum ensues. What’s more, my scolding backfires splendidly. It started when he wouldn’t let me put his clothes on after swimming and I scolded him in rapid fire Punjabi, tossing my head for good measure. He paused, looked at me and burst out laughing. So now we are both happy – I get to scold him when he’s being a pain, and he finds it extremely funny and forgets what he was crying about. (And I do the pantomime over and over, greedy for his giggles till he gets bored or distracted. That’s motherhood for ya: willing slavery to a tiny tyrant.)
(The author is a former TV journo and currently the Head of Communications and Marketing at Anthemis Group in London. She became Mama to baby Leo in April 2015. She started this blog as an outlet for the intense, roller-coaster experience that pregnancy and motherhood entail. And for recording the journey with as much humour – black mostly – as she can cram in. Oh and dispensing free gyan as she ticks the been there, done that milestones.)
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