They say you can’t choose family.

However, I inelegantly brought you in to this world my little cherub (sideways stirrups were never going be graceful). I grew you inside me, with the assistance of almond croissants, and nurtured you for thirty-nine long, tiring and wonderful weeks.

Yet sometimes, I get the distinct feeling you don’t particularly like me much. Evidence to support this theory:

Your current favourite phrase is “go away Mummy”
When your father (who did not get stretch marks and does not have a shot-to-pieces pelvic floor) leaves for work – you sob and bang on the door, as if to say “don’t leave me with this mad woman”
When I ask you to do the simplest of things, for example hold my hand crossing a carpark, it is as if I have asked you to walk across hot coals without your revered wellies on
You have perfected a look of complete disdain that I thought was synonymous with teenage years, not toddlers
I am required to buy or feed your affection. Yes – to make you smile I did purchase not one, but two hideous gold, glittery Christmas train decorations that in no way go with my ‘Woodland Wonderland’ tree theme. Since when did a train run through our local forest? I will be finding glitter in every orifice for the entirety of advent
When you sit down outside a county house, refusing to move, and Mummy says ‘see you later, I’m off home’ – you still sit there
You follow other families as if adoption would be your preference
When you ask for mummy hugs and I pick you up, you writhe like a prisoner attempting escape

Disdain, doing a runner and deciding on a sit-down protest

But, arguments to the contrary

When you really do want mummy hugs, you really do mean them. And they are the best
When you laugh at my face-making, or ninja warrior impressions, you really laugh and light up my day
When you do hold my hand, it’s like you’ll never let go
When you fall or bump yourself – it’s me you look for
When you go to bed, after a day of grumps, battles and frowns, you snuggle in to me like we are one again.

You can’t choose family. But I would choose you every time. And I reckon you’d choose me.

Is anyone else struggling with the terrible twos, who seem to body swap your child for some angry, grumpy monster? Do you ever find yourself apologising for getting frustrated? Please say it’s not just me! I’d love to hear your stories of how you cope.

Written by Karen Legge for her blog, The Unyoung Mum.

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