Julie Jay: My two-year-old is gaslighting me but I have to bite my lip

If emancipating your toddler was a thing, this would have been the week I’d be consulting my solicitor for legal options

It is so important they know who’s boss, and in this case, it is definitely Ted.

Julie Jay

COMEDIAN

As a worldly 13-year-old in the mid-90s, I remember following Macaulay Culkin’s emancipation from his parents with keen interest. Armed with the celebrity case law, I approached my mother and presented her with my plan for divorcing both my parents, outlining how there were no hard feelings and that this was strictly business. 

Unsurprisingly, she did not acquiesce, primarily because even divorcing your husband wasn’t legal then, let alone your mother and father. 

I’m sure she looked at me and thought: “If women can’t get a divorce, neither can you, young lady.” And that was that.

If emancipating your toddler was a thing, this would be the week I’d consult my solicitor and Google annulments quicker than you can say “for better or worse”.

Of course, I knew this moment would come. Having spent most of my other parenting columns raving about Ted’s curls and big blue eyes, the honeymoon was bound to come to a temporary pause. 

All the undying love is still there, but let’s just say things are getting a little testy this side of the mountain.

We start the week, and there are no signs of the storm that is to come. 

Ted asks for toast, and I happily oblige. (The key to good toast is to butter that boy while it’s hot, I mean piping hot, and watch your domestic relationships flourish. You are welcome). I return to the sitting room and present Ted with the toast as requested. He is horrified.

“I don’t want toast. I don’t like toast,” he decries.

I hold my breath because, much like a tornado chaser, I can predict what’s about to happen.

The tears come thick and fast. Ted buries his face in a cushion, railing against the injustice of it all, his tiny little fists flailing in despair.

“But darling, you just asked me for toast a few minutes ago,” I gently prod.

Ted looks up at me, his face red and tear-stained, his nostrils flaring. “That didn’t happen, Mammy.”

He is so adamant I start to question whether I imagined the whole toast exchange. I leave the sitting room confused, defeated, and wondering what exactly just happened.

Then it dawns on me: I am being gaslit by a two-year-old. How’s your week going?

Things only get worse the following evening when presented with what is usually a firm Ted favourite — chicken and potatoes and lots and lots of butter (please don’t tell the crowd over at Operation Transformation).

We sit at the table, and I promise myself I will remove the festive tablecloth any day now (seeing Santa staring up at me every time I munch my Cornflakes during the final week of January is a reminder my homemaking skills need serious work).

Cajoling Ted to come to the table, I ignore what appears to be his reluctance to join us and chat to Darling Husband about really exciting stuff, like how putting a clothes peg on my bag of Cornflakes has helped them maintain a lovely crunch. DH feigns interest when all of a sudden, Ted lets out a wail.

“I don’t like it,” he says, pushing his plate away as if I am feeding him some fresh trout from the waters of Sellafield.

“You do like it,’” I calmly correct him because I am nothing if not persuasive.

Ted buries his head in his hands as much as to say “these people” and I am just about to tell DH to give him a minute when a baby fork comes flying through the air. It lands directly in my mushy peas, a splatter hitting me in the eye (“man down!” I want to scream, but I don’t because I am brave).

Ted looks at me, surprised himself, and my jaw is agape. DH and I exchange glances, and what I want to say is: “Of both your parents, you choose to throw your fork at ME? Et tu, Brute, et tu?”

But of course I can’t say that because one day many years ago an American child therapist suggested parents present themselves as being on the same team. 

Mammies have been burying their list of resentments ever since, only to be aired in the presence of professionals — and by professionals, I mean tapas with the girls, obviously.

“Ted,” DH addresses the little man firmly, and I know he is secretly delighted not to be on the receiving end of a totally unprovoked attack.

I look at my miniature Putin and wonder: Is this how it starts? First, it’s throwing a fork at mammy then before you know it, he’ll be throwing eggs at neighbours (if we had any, which thankfully, we don’t).

“No,” Ted retorts because it’s the only word that makes sense right now.

He retires to the sitting room and DH and I follow him and explain why throwing forks at mammies is unacceptable.

“And daddies,” DH adds.

I make a vague noise of agreement, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered throwing a fork at Daddy on occasion. (Before judging me, he once asked if I had a spare pen while I was breastfeeding.)

The worst part of the fork assault is that I was forced to present the assailant with scrambled egg and toast moments later because even dictators have got to eat.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching Night Garden and hugging Ducky, Ted’s face lights up when he spots the alternative supper option.

“I love toast,” he announces, all smiles as Mammy places his plate on a cushion to stave off spillages.

I desperately want to make a catty comeback — “Well, you didn’t like it yesterday, did you?” — but remember I am sparring with a toddler, and there’s no winning. 

So, as hard as it is, I bite my lip, kiss his head and give him a foot rub while I’m there. 

Because it is so important they know who’s boss, and in this case, it is definitely Ted.