Julie Jay: My toddler believes the word ‘no’ is an invitation to start negotiating

With missiles flying around my kitchen left right and centre, I feel like Packie Bonner in Italia 90

It’s hard to discipline a two-and-a-half-year-old because they find any chastisement hilarious. File picture: iStock 

MY TODDLER is completely out of control: I say this with the deepest, truest love.

He is a tiny but terrifying nemesis and he is two and a half. While Denmark attempts to stave off an American invasion by increasing its military presence in Greenland, I, too, will be relying increasingly on Nato to protect me from the missiles being fired at me from all directions.

It’s the number of items being launched at any one time that’s the problem. I once stood in goals for approximately four minutes during a PE class in the early 1990s, so I know what it means to be in the firing line of male machismo (I went to a co-ed school, despite my repeated pleas to my mother that a convent was much more befitting my love of Wuthering Heights and gothic architecture).

Still, even Packie Bonner in his glory era couldn’t stop these balls flying around the place. And when I say ‘ball’, I use the term loosely: Cameras, remote controls, shoes, and tablets are all considered fair game for throwing when my toddler is on the loose.

After a week of illness, Number Two has come back more pugnacious than ever, and isn’t averse to throwing a light slap on my arm if I deign to utter the words: ‘I think we’ve watched enough Ms Rachel for now.’ 

As I observe him lift up his Fisher Price farmhouse above his head as if he is a Soviet bodybuilder, I’m convinced his antibiotic must have contained testosterone or some sort of performance-enhancing drug.

It’s hard to discipline a two-and-a-half-year-old because they find any chastisement hilarious and think the word ‘No’ is an entry point for a bit of back-and-forth banter of an evening. 

Number Two doesn’t seem to understand ‘No’ is a full sentence, but, rather, views it as an invitation to start negotiation proceedings.

“If the wrecking of the house doesn’t stop,” I tell him, “I’m definitely going to do something,” even though I still haven’t quite worked out what ‘the something’ is.

Following through

I know I should follow through with some of my idle threats, but it’s hard to do so when he is not just utterly adorable, but also extremely tenacious, especially when it comes to doing things himself. 

I have no problem encouraging a bit of independence, but I do draw the line at attempting to fill hot water bottles and drive the Toyota Avensis, things Number Two seems more than confident he can pull off with aplomb, if only his mother would stop hindering his progress and step out of his way.

Yesterday was a particularly testing afternoon, with numerous breakages, including my sanity, and so I recalled the advice of that television show Supernanny and placed him in his cot as I cleaned up the debris from his latest antics.

The problem with putting him to bed is that he can get out of it in minutes, so attempts at punishment are futile.

That said, it did give us all a bit of a break, if only for the two minutes it took him to trundle out of his cot, down the stairs, and appear at the kitchen door clutching his blanket and demanding I put Ms Rachel back on, which I immediately refused. 

Before anyone thinks my staircase is minus barriers, it has two. 

But, much like Denmark’s warnings to Donald Trump, small details like stair gates and land ownership rights are but minor blips in what is clearly a larger takeover plan.

Moments later, as I wait for the Ms Rachel episode to load (I am weak, very weak), I consider the overturned contents of my cutlery drawer and wonder whether I should start rewatching old Supernanny for tips, that is if I could bring myself to endure 30 minutes of noughties fashion.

As he has got cuter, Number Two has got more out of control. Is it pretty privilege? Is it the knowledge that a few golden curls, big blue eyes, and a bowling-ball disposition are the ticket for getting away with murder? 

As a formerly unfortunate-looking child, I can’t say I relate, but it’s the only explanation.

Already, I am worried about signing him up to a naíonara, for fear he might become the first child in history to be kicked out of Montessori. 

A school dropout before he even starts school must surely be a world record.

As I write, I have just heard a clatter, and I see Number Two has broken a Barcelona ornament that belongs to Daddy.

I am just about to reprimand him when I remember I have never been to Barcelona with my husband, and so this donkey emblazoned with the words ‘Te Amo’ must have been gifted by a previous girlfriend. 

Perhaps not all this destruction is a bad thing.