Yesterday. Wow. It was Some Day.
Having refused to sleep until nearly 9pm the night before (for, may I say, no good reason), Miss O was over-tired from the get-go and seriously over-wrought. (What does wrought mean? Why do we only ever say over-wrought, and never just wrought? And can you be under-wrought?)
Getting Master R to school wasn't too arduous, but on the playground Miss O became suddenly angry. I think one of her crocs fell off. She is already banned from wearing flip flops, because she develops "flip flop rage". Initially, the dreaded rage was prompted by the elastic strap (designed to hold a flip flop onto a child's foot) repeatedly slipping down. I could totally understand why that would drive her to the verse of hysteria and beyond, so I cut the elastic off. Then she would instead become infuriated that the flip flops wiggled about slightly and on occasion had the audacity to fall off entirely. So no flip flops for her. But now it seems like crocs are going the same way.
Anyway, filled with rage, she decided she didn't want to go home, nor go to sling library which we had to attend. She didn't want to use her scooter (I love pulling a scotter home, don't you?). She wanted to walk to sling library, which was far too far away. She wanted diddy (her word for breastfeed). I could tell I was in for a tricky day.
Trying to settle her fractured nerves, once I'd hauled all the bags and suitcases out to the driveway and squeezed them into the car, I snuggled her in my arms, and she had her beloved diddy. I even prepared her some halved grapes and cheese biscuits when, having fed, she proclaimed that she was still hungry.
Placated enough to cope for the meantime, I bundled her into the car and we set off for the sling library session, which was to be held at the monthly gathering of an APUK group. (FYI, APUK is the UK's Attachment Parenting network.) Miss O was happy to help me with the first two loads from the car, then I left her happily doing a jigsaw whilst I fetched the final suitcase. But within minutes of us beginning to set up, she spotted packets of biscuits on the side and was demanding them. Having fed her two breakfasts (see above), I felt this was unreasonable request and informed her she'd need to wait a while. The whinging, crying and constant shouts of "I'm still hungry!" lasted about 30 minutes. During this time, Rosie and I managed to set out the carriers on rails and table and I decided it'd be a good chance to get photos of some of the newer carriers we still hadn't photographed. You'll see I was laughing hysterically, because trying to get a photo including me and the carrier (containing wee babywearing doll, Murphy), but not containing the furious red-faced toddler was proving challenging.
Thinking maybe a short nap would help her to restart the day more positively, I wrapped her and breastfed her. Nope. She stayed awake, and once she was done, got down and demanded a biscuit. Since other children were now scoffing biscuits in front of her, I allowed her one. She played contentedly for fifteen minutes or so. I managed to help a mum choose some carriers for a holiday. Then she requested a second biscuit. Ok, I replied, but two is the maximum. Two is ALWAYS the maximum number of biscuits in our family. She enjoyed biscuit number two, but then wanted a third. This would have been in clear violation of the two-biscuit rule.
Cue next tantrum. This one was mega. She repeatedly climbed into my lap to try to help herself to diddy. When I tried to get her off my lap and playing, she fought me. I stood to remove myself from her raging arms so she tried to climb up my body. I restrained her in a big bear hug. She spat, kicked and screamed. For the sake of the other parents and children, I removed her to a hallway in a bustling community centre where she snarled and random strangers (many of them adults with additional needs who were there for a socialising group), repeatedly tried to sneak away from me into the children's centre and refused to follow any instructions. Every time I brought her back to the hallway she attacked me with furious fists and feet. It was a stand off. The only thing likely to soothe her at this point was diddy, and since that was the CAUSE of the argument, I was unwilling to concede. I sat there, smiling wanly at passers by, wondering how in merry hell I was going to get the slings packed back into my car. I honestly didn't know how I would get through the next half hour.
Eventually, I convinced her to have a shoulder carry back to the room we were stationed, but while we packed away the sling library, she removed her clothing in protest. Twice. She refused to walk with us back to the car, so I had to abandon the suitcase of carriers so I could drag her along by her wrist. At this point I decided to strap her into her carseat where she could do no more harm to herself or others, while I got everything jigsawed into the boot and backseat. Phew. I was able to leave in one piece. I suspect the APUK group may be so traumatised by the behaviour of this wayward child that we may not be invited back. The health visitor who kept walking past may well have filled in pink forms about the physical battle she had witnessed between parent and child. It was about the worst place to pull that particular stunt. But it was over, and we could go home and try to calm her before her stay-and-play session at the school nursery she'll be joining two days a week from September. At this point, I was prepared to cancel going if she was A: asleep at 1:30 or B: still behaving psychotically.
I really expected she'd fall asleep during the journey, but she was awake and totes emosh when he got home, so I suggested we put on a film while I sorted myself some food. We don't often have screen time in the middle of the day, but it was a worthwhile investment on this occasion. She giggled along to Olaf's Frozen Adventure and we even had time to play at being a family of foxes. Daddy fox tickled her a lot to try to giggle those difficult emotions away.
Since she was neither asleep nor hysterical, we went along to nursery. She played nicely, involving me in her cooking, listening to several stories and making some lovely play dough cupcakes. She was mesmerized painting layer over layer of colours on one sodden sheet of paper. I think she found that quite therapeutic. But all the while I could sense the underlying tiredness and tension, which she was just about holding in check. I had already warned the nursery teacher that Miss O is highly sensitive; she, like me, gets more feedback from her senses than most people, so slight irritations are unbearable. We spoke more about how shoes, clothing and her hair can drive her to distraction. I explained that she cannot cope with being outside on even a hazy day without sunglasses (and often wears them inside if the sunlight is streaming in). We talked about how sounds are either too loud or too quiet. How small frustrations can provoke an eruption of fury. It's so hard, when everything BOTHERS. Being highly sensitive is basically having ALL the feels, ALL the time.
We made it the 70m walk from the nursery door to the playground before she found a new outlet for her anger. She wanted to collect her scooter from the bike shed NOW. I insisted that we wait for Master R to come out first so we could collect them together. At least a dozen times she broke away from me and marched rigidly towards to shed, pumping her angry arms and alarming parents and pupils alike. I chased and returned, chased and returned and prayed for Master R's class to appear.
Once he did, I told Miss O we could go and get her scooter! Hurray! Of course, she didn't want her damn scooter anymore. The conversation outside the bike shed went something like this:
Me: Let's go and get your scooter. You can scoot home with Master R.
Miss O: NO!
Me: Ok, I'll get it then.
Miss O storms off. I fetch her back and hold her by an arm.
Me: Right, well, I can't get your scooter if you keep running off. It's not safe. Will you stay standing just here?
Miss O: Mm! (while shaking her head and frowning)
Me: Ok, we'll leave your scooter here and collect it tomorrow. Let's go!
Miss O: NO! I want my stoota!
Me: Then will you stay standing here while I fetch it?
Miss O: NO!!
Me: Then it'll have to stay here.
Miss O beats the side of the bike shed in rage.
Me: Will you stay here sensibly?
Miss O: Mm. (with the smallest, barely discernible nod)
Me: Great! Thank you.
I fetch the scooter. Miss O stays fairly close. Another child, a friend of Master R's, appears. We'll call him Master T.
Master T: R's Mummy... can you put on my helmet please?
Me: Of course I can! You asked so nicely!
I put on the helmet, while watching Miss O gradually edging away from us.
Master R: Mummy, O is going.
Me: I know. She's not going far. There you are, T. Are you going to go back to find your mum on the playground? See you tomorrow!
I slide Master R's bookbag, lunchbag and Miss O's helmet onto the handle of the scooter and follow her down the path, pulling along the scooter.
Master R: What is O angry about?
Me: Everything R. Just everything. She's having a very hard day and she's angry with the world. How was school? Did you like your lunch?
The trip home will be seared into my memory forever. We've had many a challenging school run previously, but this was on another scale. People 100m away were turning around and craning their necks to see who was removing a child's toenails with rusty pliers. I genuinely saw one mother spot us coming, and quickly cross herself and her child to the other side of the road. I absolutely commend her actions. At this point, getting hit by a swinging limb was a genuine and unpleasant possibility!
The whole way, I was having to do the infamous parent "wrist pull" to keep Miss O walking with us. Every time I let go, she turned and stormed in the opposite direction. Furious that I was holding her, she kept prising my fingers and thumb up and bending them back, which actually really hurt. By the time we reached our road, she'd decided the best ploy would be to bite my fingers, so I had to slide my hand up to her upper arm to steer her across the road. I unlocked the door, ushered her in, and shut the door behind her.
At this moment, Master R said: "Shall we just lock her in, Mummy?" Poor, long-suffering Master R! I declined, however, to lock his sister in the house. We took the vehicles to the garage and by the time we returned, this had happened:
Yep. More protest stripping.
The rest of the afternoon was totally manageable. We got both children into clean clothes (Master R appeared to have painted himself rather than the paper at school, as usual!) and I let Master R play on the Wii, while Rosie and I described our morning to Gina on WhatsApp, and I read up on the newest Brexit-related fallout. Yes, I nearly wept when the Wii controller demanded fresh batteries and, later, Master R accidentally hit Miss O in the head with the Wii remote, then had a melt down when I said it was time to turn the Wii off, but that's just a regular day at the office. I think Miss O was simply out of energy to be angry anymore.
This was a pretty marvellous sight though, I can tell you.
This morning, Miss O chose "My Big Shouting Day" to read. It's a brilliant book by Rebecca Patterson, which I highly recommend. It's been one of Miss O's favourites for over a year.
I wonder if she knows it's about her.