Toddler’s Rules of Possession

Last week was a winter of our discontent. Yes, just the one, for I’m sure there are more to come. I know there will be sunshine as well as rain, but Adoti and I can do sunshine.

It is the rainy days we need to be more prepared for.

One thing is for sure, we are certainly better at it than we were a year ago.

Funny how 12 months can make such a difference in the lives of mother and child.

Adoti used to be all sweetness and light. A year later and she is getting a bit of an edge. There is a lot of grit to her now, so basically, mess with her at your own peril. No jokes.

Sometime last week I read this post on Facebook:

A Toddler’s Rules of Possession

1. If I like it, it’s mine;

2. If it’s in my hand, it’s mine;

3. If I can take it from you, it’s mine;

4. If I had it a little while ago, it’s mine;

5. If it’s mine, it must NEVER appear to be yours in any way;

6. If I’m doing or building something, all the pieces are mine;

7. If it looks like mine, it’s mine;

8. If I saw it first, it’s mine;

9. If you’re playing with something and you put it down, it automatically becomes mine;

10. If it’s broken, it’s yours.

Now if this does not describe my Adoti to a tee, then I do not know what does.

Everything is hers, including me and all my body parts — especially the ones located in the milk factory.

She is particularly drawn to my cellphone and the leather casing I store it in when I am not refreshing my Facebook page, which is not often.

She is like a dog with a bone when she lays her hands on it, trying without success to put the phone in its case.

The child can keep at it for quite a while, and every time I try to reclaim possession of my property, she squeals.

Yes, squeals as if she were a piglet being led into a slaughterhouse.

Her fingers reflexively clench and I am forced to yank on the thing with all my might to wrest the gadget from her grip.

The whole time, she is yanking back with more force than a one-year old should have, squealing intermittently and making it seem like I have a knife to her throat.

“Shhhhh! What will the neighbours think Dots? Give it!” I hiss at her, perilously close to losing the battle to a very determined toddler.

“Nyiiihh!” she squeals, pulling with all her might.

“Mine!” I say, trying to be commanding, but sounding like a toddler myself.

“Nyiiihh!!” she comes back, with renewed vigour. Eventually, I get my phone back.

And invariably, the whole thing ends in tears. Hers, not mine.

Okay, mine too, sometimes.

She is also partial to my shoes. Maybe it is a girl thing, I do not know, but one of her favourite things to do is put the shoe rack in order. In her version of “arranging” she takes every shoe off the rack and makes a trail, like Hansel and Gretel with their breadcrumbs.

As she takes them down, I am usually right behind her putting them back and shrieking, “Stop it! Mine!”

Again, the intention is to be commanding but yeah, you cannot win them all.

We will usually come to a point when all the shoes are back on the rack but one.

One which she is holding onto for dear life. And so the yanking and the yelling and the squealing begins.

We are like two deranged lumberjacks (jills?) holding on to opposite sides of a saw, both trying to hack away at the other’s will power. In the end, the house — Mama — wins but baby is never too happy about it.

MAD, NOT SAD

She scowls ferociously, squealing like her life depended on it, fully expecting me to bow to the pressure and give back her shoe.

When that does not happen, she makes a half-hearted attempts to turn on the water works, but I can see her heart is not in it.

She is mad, not sad. Finally, she raises her chubby little hand and smacks me dead in the face, as if to say, “Nkt!”

And I am left wondering what to do with the little dynamo. Hitting her back makes no sense, but how do you explain to a one-year-old that you can squeal at Mama but you cannot hit her in the face.

In the end, I look at her sternly (this time I manage to come off commanding) and say firmly, “No hitting your mother young lady, you understand?”

For a while, it seems as if she does, because she raises her hand again, but this time she strokes my cheek and softly goes, “Yih?”

With that, we call a truce and live to battle another day.