My mother – the wise one – told me the other day on Skype, “Enjoy it – they’re small for such a short time, you know.”
Nod away, please – because I know it’s true. I know this is a fleeting part of my children’s lives, and one day we’ll be looking at photos in the knowledge that this phase of cheeky, dimpled, non-stop little boyness was merely a snapshot in time.
Like my parents must wonder how the blonde-haired, shy little girl with pouty lips in their photo albums turned into the mum-of-two in Dubai.
But could someone please tell me: when, oh when, does the whining stop?
Today my four-year-old whined All.Day.Long. In fact, he’s whined pretty much all week.
It’s like I’m a conductor and the mere act of turning my attention elsewhere signals to my son’s vocal chords that it’s time to strike up a racket louder than a Katy Perry concert.
And his older brother – seemingly oblivious to the clanging, deafening decibels – has been egging him on from the wings, with cymbals.
I’d like to be able to tell you that I get down on LB’s level and calmly explain that whining won’t get him what he wants, but I’m about a hundred miles beyond that.
Instead, the constant wa-wa-wa-ing in my ears has driven me to distraction and I’ve started fantasising about lying down for a very long sleep – not-to-be-disturbed until my youngest is at least 8.
But I know what my mother – if I can catch her between aqua-zumba, bridge sessions and Med cruises – would say: “Just you wait til they’re teenagers, dear!”