Increasingly, life has become a string of negotiations. The too-small orange coat wins over the warmer, appropriately sized coat with small orange dogs on. Too-small green wellies over appropriately sized yellow, but yellow wellies with pyjamas. Miffy jumper over any other jumper, but ideally no jumper at all. Waterproof mushroom suit for the garden, but with only a vest underneath. Another mouthful of dinner if accompanied by ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’. Pyjamas on but only if holding my electric toothbrush. I could, and do, say no. But then there is flailing and misery and adrenaline and so we negotiate instead.
It was this kind of thing that meant I didn’t spend Saturday afternoon as anticipated (planting the last of my bulbs - yes, you can do them in January; it’s not ideal but it will work - in the last good crisp afternoon of the month, as he did general garden bimbling) but rather walking the half-mile to the park with a now-desultory toddler, a football and his beloved Miffy.
He can walk, he’s nearly two, but he walks a little like a drunk person with a shoebox-length legspan. He is ponderous and easily distracted. When he spontaneously bursts into a sprint, his pace equals that of a leisurely adult stroll. Trying to get anywhere within a reasonable period of time, without intervention, is impossible.
And so I have stopped with adult deadlines and adopted toddler time instead.