Secret Life of Toddlers: Bully For You

Toddlers are a strange breed; their emotions are on a permanently violent swing from one extreme to another. One moment they are creating a caterwaul because upon returning from a pleasurable play in the park, you deigned to open the front door (like you have done a trillion times before) when you should have known that this was the one day they wanted to do it (even if they did not convey this sentiment to you in advance) and the next they appear to be letting a friend's cruel comments wash over them like muddy puddle water on shiny new patent shoes. But what if some of the water starts to seep in unnoticed?

A toddler reaction is never the one you anticipate

You see, my daughter is a four year old whose heart could not be worn more on her sleeve if she were to grow up, go to university and do a combined major in cardiac surgery and fashion design; she feels everything deeply and acutely. This has its merits and its drawbacks. On the positive side, when something good happens, she is elated. Sky high, in fact. She will burn holes in the carpet as she laps the room explaining in a torrent of words exactly why she is quite so delighted with life with the cause ranging anywhere from a prospective playdate in a far flung location with her best friend to an extra chocolate button. However, on the less than positive side, when something happens that can in any way be inferred as a negative event, she will spiral into a world of torment begging forgiveness if she has stepped over a line or pleading for a remedy if it is something beyond her control. So her lack of reaction to her friend’s callous words has got me stumped.

Toddler Fashion

She came home from nursery last week, as happy as the proverbial clam. There was no sign of anything out of the ordinary; her chatter was fast paced, hair wild and unkempt and the handover from the rather weary looking nursery staff was glowing so I was very surprised when two days later she casually dropped into the conversation that her closest friend had been telling her on numerous occasions that she is both fat and has bad breath. I repeat, fat and bad breath. She is four years old. How is this even a thing? Should they not still be slinging insults about being a “poo poo head”, “scaredy cat” and how one sex is infinitely better purely by virtue of not being the other? I knew this was going to happen at some point, I mean teenage girls are cruel. They are vicious; armed with an arsenal of insults that will penetrate, grievously wound leaving permanent scars but pre-schoolers? I was flabbergasted (an underused term but intensely accurate on this occasion.)

Pre-teen toddler

I know that there may be those out there who assume that at their young age they can neither understand nor truly be affected by such jibes; that pre-school friendships are a heady mix of passionate love and loathing interspersed with glitter and mud. I will admit that I thought the same but then I asked her about it. I asked her to tell me exactly what had happened so I could forge a way to help excuse or explain her friend’s behaviour. The tears must have been lurking close to the surface, just waiting for the moment that her guard was dropped and they could be liberated. They poured out. Then they just kept coming.


It would appear that she was not as impervious to the callous comments as I had first believed. It was utterly heart breaking to see her pull at her skin as if it was disgusting and repulsive while tears etched their way down her cheeks but there seemed little I could do to dispel the myth that she was anything less than beautiful. As parents we have worked hard to instil a belief that beauty is far more than facial symmetry and perfect dimensions and is rooted in kindness and joy. We routinely praise her for more than just her cherubic face and winning smile and anytime someone tells her she is beautiful she will happily complete their sentiment with “inside and out!” And yet, all it took was one bored peer whom she reveres to blow her self-esteem to pieces. It was devastating.

Forging her own way

So now I wait. I have taken it to the nursery to deal with as I am making no in roads at home. I hope that having her idol be challenged and, hopefully, reprimanded by a person in authority will show her that her self-worth is not misplaced and she should not let anyone make her think less of herself.

For she is awesome. Fact.

Awesome: case in point

Valentine's Day: Table for One?

So another Valentine’s Day is upon us. Another opportunity to declare how thankful we are that our beloveds chose to be with us. Another chance to shout from the rooftops about everything that is so special about our significant others and the relationships we cherish. Another day of uncharacteristically public and saccharine declarations of devotion. Well, Husband, stand down. For that is not going to happen here.

Husband seeks out affection

This year, the ever looming threat of Valentine’s Day has got me thinking about all of those who are going it alone. All of those parents who are wrangling the beasts without the back up of a partner, some of whom are even cruelly outnumbered whether it be out of choice, relationship breakdown or worse. These people are heroes. These people deserve our respect.

A parent who is cruelly outnumbered

I cannot imagine how it feels to be alone (not lonely which is an entirely different status) at this juncture in my life (i.e. with two high maintenance squatters in tow.) My fears can easily be lumped into two camps:

1.The fear of lone parenting

All single parents out there, I do not know how you do it.

There are days when I find myself sitting watching the clock cumbersomely tick round in, what appears to be, slow motion willing Husband to make his entrance unprecedentedly early. I am sure that this feeling was once rooted in passion at a time when our relationship was in its fledgling state but it is now embedded in sheer desperation for him to take over the role of The Ugly Sisters (which he is remarkably good at) or combat the torrent of inane questions that toddlers only ask when they are utterly exhausted and yet refuse to be ignored. For example, “Mummy, why am I 4?”, “Mummy, why is my brother younger than me?”, “Mummy, why is that bunny called Bing?”, “Mummy, where are Bing’s parents?” Well, actually she’s got me there but you get the drift. I swear when Husband opens that front door, after I have had them for the day, it is to the sound of a chorus of angels and he is surrounded by a halo of light while his cape billows behind him. 

Not all superheroes wear capes. Some wear backpacks stuffed with baby wipes.

2. The fear of re-entering the dating game

Again I do not mean to infer that lone parents are lonely and I am sure that there are those who are entirely contented as they are. However, were I to find myself freed from the shackles of matrimony (don't worry Husband, I am not plotting anything) I would like to think that I would find an "other" at some point, a team mate to share my load. Someone to bring me a cup of coffee in bed in the morning, someone to tell me that I am great when I need to hear it the most and someone to love me as I deserve to be loved. (Again, obviously.)

Who will treat me as a Princess?

But how does one go about finding an "other" in today's world? I have been out of the dating game since 2005. In fact, having met Husband at university I don’t actually believe that I was ever in the dating game so much as standing on the sidelines; I would have no idea where to start. Online dating? Speed dating? Blind dating? Dipping my toe in the dreaded work pool (no pooping where you eat and all that, unless you are a toddler then you'll pretty much poop wherever)? I will admit that I harbour a secret desire to exercise the old swiping finger on Tinder but then I don't have the attention span for online clothes shopping so how would I ever focus for long enough to find a soul mate. Plus, how do you verify that they are not an axe murderer, juggling two other families or worse, a budding CBeebies presenter? You know none of their people and they know none of your's. Who vouches for them? And that is before you factor in the offspring. Will they be put off? Will your children like them? Will they be good role models? So many questions and that is before I have swiped to the right.

Considering the perils of online dating as a parent

Whilst these questions seem daunting now as I consider the hypothetical they must be terrifying when the option is before you. For those of you who are out there courageously lone parenting whilst also looking for your other, you got this. If you can do three meals a day, the nursery run, the games, bath time, bedtime and all the tantrums in between you can find your other. You are superstars.

One night of lone parenting is too much for some

As for me, it looks like I shall have to stick with him. This way I can have the occasional lie in and forgo the body hair maintenance for weeks at a time. To be honest, once you’ve worn them in/down they are like a pair of comfortable shoes that you know you probably don’t look your best in but you are such a nicer person to be with when your feet are comfortable.

Like a pair of old brogues

Adult? Who Are You Kidding?

I have many friends who are yet, or who may never, take the plunge into the ice bath that is parenthood and I frequently hear them declare me to be a "proper adult" purely by virtue of the fact that I have two vertically challenged dependents occupying my time like squatters defiling a beautiful Victorian mansion. As a side note, should I ever be so lucky as to actually occupy a Victorian mansion, I am sure they would defile that too.

Anyway, I whole heartedly dispute the accolade/slander that they bestow upon me for I am not an adult. I mean, in chronology terms, I cannot deny the status but in actual terms of managing my life and responsibilities I declare myself resolutely stuck in infancy.

"Adulting"

Here are many of the ways in which I am not "adulting":

1. Maintenance

If anything should go wrong with my house or car my dad is on speed dial. Anything beyond changing a lightbulb (bayonet or screw only) and I need to call in the big guns. At our age my parents were personally renovating the family home, tearing down load bearing walls (successfully I may add) to create open plan living before open plan living was a thing. My father has plumbed bathrooms, tiled kitchens and decorated more living rooms than my toddler has had food related tantrums.

Whilst I admit that I am wholly inadequate when it comes to DIY, my shortcomings in life maintenance do not stop there. My housework is sporadic with laundry everest routinely avalanching in the husband's direction (resulting in a range of clean but grey fashion), I fail on a yearly basis to get my annual boiler check and, perhaps worst of all, I had no idea that I had to pay tax on my rental earnings (a brief, paltry income from my first home which was let while I decided whether to commit to the husband in both name and, more importantly, finances). This resulted in both a retrospective declaration following the discovery of my ignorance during a tax lecture in my post graduate accountancy qualification and, therefore, a rather red face.

Housework is best farmed out

2. Money

I know how bad this sounds and I am sure I will get a talking to once my mother reads this but I do not check my bank statement. This is not because I do not need to, far from it, I just can't bear to look.

When standing at the till, I reluctantly proffer the card to the machine like a radioactive explosive device, with one hand over my eyes and my jaws clenched so tightly that my muscles could be plucked like a banjo. When I am not immediately wrestled to the floor or my card grappled from my grip and destroyed in front of me, I am a heady mix of relief, joy and determination. I will take responsibility and I will change my ways. I just need to be more organised.

For I am neither a frivolous spender who surfs the net for luxury items nor do I fritter my money away on disposable clothing. It is my total and utter inability to forward plan that results in items being routinely bought at their most expensive price and location. I will always be the one at the playdate who didn't pack a lunch (or drinks or snacks for that matter), I am always ignorant for my desperate need for petrol until I hit the last fuel station before the motorway and the purchase of a family dinner is often forgotten about until there is a screaming child, a wailing toddler and only an M&S convenience store on the journey home.

My approach to finances

3. Career

I spent six years at university, learning everything there was to learn about the human body both in health and disease. I devoured medical facts like a caterpillar on the day before his big reveal. For I was training to be a doctor; certain that this was my destiny. Well, after four years of actually working as a doctor, my appetite was waning somewhat and I realised that it may well be someone else's destiny as I had had my fill.

Having previously displayed an aptitude for maths I quickly signed up for a post graduate training job in accountancy and declared this to be my new (albeit rather dull) destiny. Well this is what I do today. I am a paid up member of yet another professional body but I still feel like there are so many other things that I would like to be when I grow up: author, columnist, pop star, model (I'd settle for high street, I mean, you have to be realistic) or superhero.

One can dream....

So as you can see, I barely meet the definition of an adult and yet I do bear responsibility for two small children. These two things are not mutually exclusive as there was no test or references required before I took the job; no one asked if I knew what I was taking on, was really ready or, in any way, able and once you're in, you are in. There are no take backs and no restarts. But do you know what? I may not have my own ducks in a row (to be honest I am more like the mother duck who loses all five of her offspring one by one, by doing the same thing over and over again while continuing to expect different results before eventually having to call in help to retrieve them), but my children are the best and hardest thing I have ever done and may just have been the making of me.

"I swear there were more of you this morning?"

By the way the "ducks" are indeed a metaphor And I have by no means lost my children and had to enlist help to find them.

The Parenting Hunger Games

Today I can honestly say that I was one of ‘those’ mums. The one who appears unable to control her feral offspring; the one looking broken, harassed and intermittently bewildered. I was the mum upon whom we bestow the half smile; the one laced with good intentions and heartfelt compassion, the one often accompanied by a conspiratorial nod loosely interpreted as “can’t they all be rascals sometimes?”.

Well I may be going out on a limb here, but I fear that that gesture is often tainted with a mere hint of smugness and a whiff of relief. Oh look, it’s not me today! The gods have spun their daily wheel of fortune, the violent whirring slowed to a gentle rhythmical revolution before ominously click, click, clicking into its final resting place. Today’s parenting ‘tributes’ have been selected.


Well today, that was me.


I should have known. It had been an inauspicious start to the day as, having thrown caution, knowledge and common sense to one side, I had attempted to free my 4 year old from the bind of night time nappies ignoring the fact that they were more often than not full to bursting on her morning liberation. Damn you mumsnet discussion threads! You had led me to believe that there was a chance that my pre-schooler merely needed to have that safety net removed. A little push in the right direction to encourage her to become more "bladder aware" when she is sleeping. It turns out she may need more of a shove.

Having leapt out of bed, awoken from the deepest, sweetest slumber by an anguished scream, I threw myself in her direction, ricocheting off the walls on the way to ambush what was a clearly an intruder trying to maim my first born. On arrival, I discovered that there was no masked man to wrestle but a deluge to wade through.

Pre-schooler bedroom at 0430

If you are yet to enter the toddler years, let me warn you, dealing with them when they have been woken abruptly is like dealing with an over amorous drunk, oscillating between uncontrollable giggles and inconsolable weeping with intermittent declarations of undying love thrown in for good measure. Having stripped everything that could possibly be stripped (child and selves included) we stumbled back into bed just before 5am dog tired and yet annoyingly awake.

Needless to say, this did not set me up for the day.

Sleep, why have you forsaken me?

The morning was a battle of wills, not so much with my eldest who was clearly fatigued from her nocturnal exertions, but with my near two year old. He is on the brink of being able to string together coherent sentences but will babble incessantly like every syllable is of paramount importance and then emit a blood curdling shriek when he realises that he is not being understood. This noise is also often accompanied with some act of defiance. This is not a fun stage.

I fear this is not the last time I will see him in striped overalls trying to break out of confinement

To top it all off we were being summoned back to the optician as my 4 year old had declared an inability to see the last line of the eye chart that was conveniently accompanied by an urgent desire for some spectacles which were uncannily similar to her best friend's. Odd how these things happen together. Still, we were to return for a reassessment to ensure that my child was merely a time waster but on this occasion I was to be outnumbered on the childcare front.

We entered the shop like a whirlwind with my son slipping his sweaty paw from my grip and running like he had stolen something. He was pulling all the frames available to him (at knee height) from their display before casually discarding them at his feet and moving on to throwing the meticulously piled leaflets into the air like oversized confetti, while I followed behind trying to rectify the situation and whispering "sorry, sorry, sorry" like an apologetic bridesmaid. I finally managed to bundle him under my arm in the classic rugby ball hold while I let the startled looking girl behind the desk know we were here. Just in case she missed our opening number.

Shame. Face.

We were ushered to a bank of seats at the back of the shop to await the optician but as soon as I loosened my vice like grip on the small one in order to remove my daughter's coat, he was off again, ducking and diving through the labyrinth of customer's legs. This time, a member of staff took pity on me and gallantly bestowed the gift of balloons on my offspring. Not just balloons though, but balloons on sticks. These are weapons in the hands of an unruly toddler and sure enough soon the elderly, poor sighted population of Edinburgh were being whacked in the face with an accompanying "BOOP!" resulting in instant transformations from looks of affection to utter bewilderment. As I wrestled the offending article from his sweaty hands I could see my saviour walking towards me, shrouded in a halo of light (which in retrospect could have been a loose light fitting). He was here, the optician, soon this hell would be over and I could manhandle the toddler back into the buggy.

Shame. Face.

No sooner had that sweet relief started to diffuse through my bloodstream than I heard a muted whisper of "Mummy I need the pot pot". My face fell as I slowly turned my head towards the source of such a wholly inconvenient declaration. Unlike her initial eye test, her appearance was so earnest and she had started to hop from foot to foot to demonstrate a sense of urgency.

The optician looked terrified. Clearly he was more used to dealing with the octogenarian population and was pre-child rearing in his personal life.

"Really sorry, but do you have a customer bathroom?"

"No, but there is a Gregg's a few doors down."

My face must have filled with instant contempt. I gestured to the hopping child at my feet and the kicking legs of the small one who remained bundled under my arm and he was off to ask the manager if we could use the staff one. She was clearly consumed with either compassion or an urgent desire to get us out of the shop as we were soon ushered to the employee's area. On a side note, why are the staff areas of shops quite so depressing? Is there really no where else to stow the mop than the communal bathroom? Is there no left over paint from the front of house that they could recycle to make their employees feel just a little appreciated? Anyhoo, I digress. There we were, in the downtrodden bathroom with me having to relinquish the toddler to expedite the toileting of the other but trying to maintain some parental control by intermittently shouting:

"DO NOT TOUCH THAT!"

"DIRTY, DIRTY!"

"DO NOT EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!"

As I help my daughter dismount and rectify her multiple layers of clothing there is an undeniable high pitched whine and I am aware of a stampede of footsteps running down the corridor in our direction. I stand up and turn to see the toddler gripping a red piece of string with a wide smile and an evil glint in his eye.

"Mama! I did it!" Clear as a bell...

Toddler free to a good home.

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Sharing a Life: A Tale of the Modern Day Family

I was reading this lesser known Julia Donaldson number to my pre- schooler the other evening when I realised that the story is very much in keeping with the magical/horrific first year of parenthood where everyone is very much in love but mostly with the new baby and also a little bit lost in themselves. Thus, another parody was born:

Look! A girl- with low self esteem,
Flirting with all the wrong men.
Tap, tap, tap
"You can't come in!"
You can't share a life with them

Or them
Or them
Or them!

Look! A cad, full of false promises
Run for your life, girl- hide!

At last, a flat, a space of your own!
Quick, girl! Scuttle inside.

Nightclub dancing (obviously)

One girl, safe in her flat,
When all of her dating is done,
Roaming all over the nightclubs
Then back to her home for one.

Look! A boy, a kind handsome boy.
Who can this nice boy be?
"Go away, Boy, whoever you are -
You can't share a life with me."

"I'm pretty awesome, not just nice.
Please let me share your life.
Give me a chance to prove that I care,
And perhaps you will soon be my wife."

The Wedding Day

Look! A job, a career moulding job.
A long distance move- here goes!
He flits to join her, puts a ring on her,
Their life together just flows!

Two friends, sharing a house,
Feeling happy and new,
Romping all over the house parties
Then back to their home for two.

Look! A child thing, trying to get in,
Wiggling and making a fuss.
"Go away, child, whoever you are -
You can't share a home with us."

"I'm not a child, I'm YOUR offspring.
Please let me in - don't be mean,
I love causing chaos; I'll keep you from sleep
You'll know your house used to be clean."

Three friends, sharing a home,
Tired as people can be,
Rollicking all round baby groups
Then back to their wonderful home for three.

But look how they've changed! The home feels too small.
"You're not doing washing" says Wife
"I'm fed up with being stuck in here.
It's time that I found a new life."

Grumps

"Really!" says Boy. "How ungrateful!"
Here I am, slaving away,
Working to feed our whole family.
If that's how you feel, I won't stay."

"Stop!" cries Child, but nobody hears.
The other two have a grump.
Wife empties a full ice-cream tub.
Boy finds a pub for his rump

Look! A scare, a terrible scare,
Giving everyone a fright
Two people look at each other
Know they were stupid to fight

But, look! A truce, a mutual truce.
Wife and the Kind Boy stare,
Too shy to speak to each other,
Too proud to say, "I was unfair"

Listen! A voice! And out comes a word
From the child wrapped around their necks
"Mama", "Dada" and everything's good
They might even consider some .... special cuddles?

Cuddles

Grandparents: Heavenly Sent or Hell's Angels?

As per the www.gov.uk website top grandparent facts (who knew) include:

• 1 in 4 working families and 1 in 3 working mothers use grandparents for childcare (that's me)
• 63% of all grandparents with grandchildren under 16 help out with childcare (also me)
• 1 in 5 grandmothers provide at least 10 hours a week of childcare (oh come on!)

I am guilty as charged. I use, abuse and yet am still terrified to lose my mother as my primary childcare giver. I am eternally grateful for the countless journeys she endures traversing Scotland's central belt, for every Tuesday night sleepover and Wednesday of work. I will never be able to convey the relief I feel when leaving my treasured progeny in the care of someone I know, love and trust. Neither will I ever be able to repay the sleepless nights suffered, remove every worry line sustained nor repair every glorious garment blighted by sticky hands. I will forever be in your debt (both emotionally and financially.)

The Mothership taking a turn on the tram

HOWEVER, and here's the thing, I think there is underhanded parental sabotage going on. I suspect someone has been playing the long game, counting the days until they could exact their revenge. Their time is now.

Oh yes, I am on to you mother. 

I know your game. 

The Mother playing the long game

You may have camouflaged your subterfuge in selfless acts, endless affection and the deluge of presents which you rain upon myself and my offspring but don't think me fooled. I can see through your smoke and mirrors. 

Smoke and mirrors

I have charted every misdemeanour and am here to reveal your underhanded ways to the masses:

1. THE RECORDER

My mother bought my daughter, at a mere 14months of age, a recorder. Not a flimsy, disposable, free-with-a-magazine type that only makes noise when you manage to expel air at the speed of light but a robust, school issue type that easily emits a shriek so painful that dogs within a 5mile radius will start bleeding from the ears. 

Shame on you.

Shame. On. You.

2. THE ENCOURAGEMENT OF IMAGINATIVE PLAY
 
Many is the time when I have been summoned to join a conference under the dining room table, where I am instructed to inhabit therole (a la Daniel Day Lewis) of Captain Hook to my preschooler's Wendy and toddler's Peter Pan. When I try to interject citing my sheer size, age and inflexibility as a barrier to joining them, I am duly met with the curt response of "Well [your mother] does it!" And there my argument dies (much like my soul).

Inhabiting her role (which one is unclear)

3. THE BAKING
 
When my daughter is not treading the imaginary boards or sprinkling the world in pink fairy princess dust she likes to bake. I do not bake. My mother bakes. Now, my daughter is not baking with aspirations of being a modern day Mary Berry nor does she find the process particularly soothing. No, my daughter does it so she can lick every utensil, vessel and digit that may come into contact with chocolate based goods and then enjoy the non-fruits of her labour. 

Should you have had to reason with a highly strung and emotional pre-schooler chasing the icing sugar dragon then I know you feel my pain. 

Mother, how could you?

Preparing her "line"

But "why?" I hear you ask. Why would she do such a thing? She is your mother. She loves you and cherishes your children. She was your own protector in infancy and childhood caregiver.  

And there we have it. 

For she has been where I am now. She too, has tried to tame the tyrannical toddler, wrangled with the recalcitrant rebel and valiantly vowed to avenge the vegetable. But where my nemeses are them, I was hers. 

 
I was the one who deprived her of sleep every night, crawling in to her bed under the cover of darkness and wedging myself between my parents like a teacher at a high school dance. I was the one who picked off an unsightly chicken pox scab and left it floating around the bath for her to fish out like the last bran flake in the breakfast bowl. I was the one who was so overcome by rage at the incessant teasing of a prepubescent persecutor that I stabbed him in the back with a compass leaving her to explain my behaviour to my, rather shocked, primary school teacher. 

How could that face be trouble?

Oh yes, she has suffered and she has waited. Her time is now.

So friends, parents and fellow captives, bide your time, stay strong for one day we shall rise!

But can we be sure to make it at a leisurely hour?

I am a Bad Parent

Today I am a bad parent. Today I let my toddler down. Her best friend, the one she turns to for guidance and for explanations that her parents clearly cannot give her; the one from whom she seeks counsel and self worth, had a birthday party. And I got the day wrong.

If you don't have children you won't understand this. If you have children and they have multiple interchangeable friends you will feel I am being over dramatic but if you have a child who is so raw with emotion that she cries at the sight of anyone looking anxious or disappointed or, heaven forbid, sad then you may be able to empathise.

I write this knowing that as she sleeps, she is gathering up her energy, dreaming of a day which she thinks will be filled with friends, fun and celebration (read cake) and I have to break the news to her. I need to tell her that it isn't going to happen and you would think at the grand age of 4 that she would have experience with this but I cannot give you another example. I am rootling, scraping and poking around the recesses of my brain for a time when she has had to deal with something similar.

Oh wait.

I remember.

It was the summer of '17 (not as catchy as '69 but just as disappointing) and my daughter was given an unprecedented starring role in the nursery summer show, despite being a mere 3 year old. She had been discovered. She was a star and this was her moment to shine. She was to be the straw-seller in the 3 little pigs show and despite routinely refusing to be clad in anything involving an inner seam she was willing to don a pair of denim dungarees in order to inhabit this role. This was a big thing.

The night before the show I picked her up from the nursery and took her home. She was her normal, chatty, delirious self  relaying all the excitement of the dress rehearsal they had participated in that day but as she took the last bite of her apple (read biscuit) I noticed some red, unsightly bumps on her forehead. I lifted her top, one hand over my eyes, dreading to reveal what I already knew was there. The chicken pox.

I felt sick.

I broke the news, explaining that she was poorly and highly contagious and therefore would not be able to take to the stage. She argued back that it was merely pink dirt and that she would be sick after the show. This was everything she had dreamt of for as long as she could remember, which in toddler life is about a week. She was desolate.

But that wasn't my fault. Sure, I felt keenly for her. I always do. Her heart is like an open wound with every struggle acting like a strong dose of salt, so when I see her crumple it pains me. I feel her pain acutely and curse anyone who is responsible. This time though, I did this. I was responsible. There was an invitation which I misread in haste. No one else was involved and there is no one else to blame.

Tomorrow I have to crush her little heart. I am not looking forward to it.