Yesterday, T1 was in a grump. Salty, as seems to be the contemporary vernacular.
It’s the first official day of school holidays, so his behaviour gave me a foreboding sense of ill. Two weeks (almost three for the twins) stretch on ahead of us, without much in the way of entertainment or places to visit, given Victoria’s alarming rising rate of COVID numbers.
Anyway, T1 snapped at me in the morning and pretty much ignored me for most of the day. And, in a very poor display of parenting, arcane by any mature adult’s standards, I did the same to him.
I was pretty confident he’d break the icy barrier between us, as he needed me to take him to soccer training. Around 3ish, though, my heart was aching due to my juvenile behaviour. I went to his room and hugged him. His arms drew tightly around me and he muttered ‘Mummy’ somewhere near my shoulder (he’s as tall as me now). We both said sorry and chatted for a while. All good.
Turns out, though, he’s not feeling well. Headache, sore throat, blocked nose. We didn’t go to soccer. Instead we all put our warm winter pyjamas on and settled in for a cosy snuggle on the couch before their bedtime.
Parenting: sometimes I kick arse; other times, it kicks me in the arse.