The Sunday Roast Tantrum

There’s something about kids — some sixth sense they all share. When the house is quiet, they’re off doing their own thing, leaving me in peace. But the second I start doing something useful? Boom. Chaos.

Today I was cooking a Sunday roast. Within minutes they were circling me like vultures:

• “Mom, what’s for dinner?”

• “Mom, when’s dinner?”

• “Mom, can I have a snack?”

Jesus Christ, snacking is all you’ve done all day. Just wait one bloody hour. But no, patience isn’t in their vocabulary.

Cue the toddler. The tantrums had been brewing all afternoon, but the final one? Chef’s kiss. A masterpiece.

Because I wouldn’t let him have a snack before dinner, he unleashed his inner Hulk. Toy boxes emptied, cushions flying, the full meltdown package. And me? I just stood there thinking: Fine, wreck it. They’re your toys, and I’ll happily black-bag the lot straight into the bin.

Well. That went down like a lead balloon.

Before I knew it, Buzz Lightyear was airborne. And not in the cute Pixar way. This little bastard came straight for my head and smacked me right in the face. Turns out he really can fly, but only when launched by a furious three-year-old with the arm of a professional pitcher.

In that moment of pure rage, throbbing forehead and all, I bellowed at my child about how his behaviour was “unkind.” And because unkind children are not allowed in this house, I did what any sane, loving mother would do: scooped him up, marched him to the back door, and lobbed him into the garden.

Not literally lobbed, before social services start sniffing around. Although, I’ll admit, the mental image of holding him by the scruff of the neck and booting him over the fence into next door’s untouched jungle garden did cross my mind. Tempting. Very tempting.

Anyway, I slammed the door, left him to scream, and told him he wasn’t coming back in until he was ready to be kind. He marched himself into my eldest son’s log cabin at the bottom of the garden like he was serving hard time. Stayed there, sulking, until he eventually waddled back up to the door, sobbing, “Sorry, Mummy.”

We picked up the toys, had a cuddle, and then he buggered off to my eldest’s room to watch PlayStation.

End of tantrum.

Wild.

Absolutely wild.

Mum Truth

I don’t know how to stop toddler tantrums. Nobody does. You survive them, you laugh about them later, and you make a mental note to duck the next time Buzz Lightyear takes flight.