My Toddler is Feral and I Don’t Know What to Do

I’ve raised five kids. Five. You’d think by now I’d have seen it all — tantrums, fights, meltdowns, you name it. But then came child number five. My feral toddler. My screamy-tit, head-butting, snack-demanding dictator. And honestly? I’m out of my depth.

He’s three years old and somehow has already mastered the art of making teachers fear him. Teachers! Grown adults with degrees, training, and years of experience — reduced to nervously whispering, “He had a *bit of a day today…” while handing him back to me like he’s a live grenade.

What the actual f*ck, mate? How is a pint-sized human causing this much ruction? We’re talking full-scale violence: smacking the shit out of adults, yanking hair like he’s auditioning for WWE, even spitting. Spitting. At three years old. What the hell.

So last night I had to go full Military Mom on his ass. Forget soft parenting — this was boot camp.

• No Ninja Turtles movie.

• No snacks.

• Straight home, dinner, bath, and into bed.

He sobbed so hard my heart cracked in two. But I stood firm. I had to. Sometimes you’ve got to be the “bad mom” to stop your toddler turning into a future crime boss.

The thing is… how do I manage this kid? I can’t afford to keep him off nursery and run a toddler boot camp when I’ve got work to go to. And soft parenting? Nah. Doesn’t touch the sides. I could sit there validating his feelings till I’m blue in the face, but he’ll still be drop-kicking the cat five minutes later.

What I want to say to his teachers is: “Tell him off! Put him in time out! Take his toys away!” Because in my house, you earn nice things. Nothing is free. Not even snacks. And especially not TV. But apparently the school doesn’t quite roll that way — so instead, I’m sat here wondering how my toddler’s managed to unionise a bunch of adults and bend them to his will.

Honestly, it’s terrifying. And impressive. But mostly terrifying.

Mom Truth

I don’t have the answers. Not yet. What I do know is that I love this feral dictator more than life itself — even if he leaves me wondering whether I’m raising the next prime minister or the next prison inmate. Either way, I’ll keep laughing, keep going Military Mom when I need to, and keep hiding the snacks.

Because not only am I a mom to five — I’m also human. And if I can’t make jokes about my three-year-old running his nursery class like a mafia boss, then what the hell am I even doing?

Moms — please tell me. How the hell do you handle a feral toddler? Because clearly, I’ve lost control of mine.