He gets it from his father!

I have decided it is time to change my relationship with P. I can’t continue to concede to his demands without going insane, and I’ve also started to wonder if I’m really doing him any favours in the long run.

When P burst into our lives we had a system of parenting in place for our eldest which worked very nicely. But P didn’t think much of our system and over the years, regardless of how the others are treated, he has always commanded more.

Of course at first we didn’t panda to his whims, but between his hearing problem and temper tantrums, he has managed to beat me into submission twist me around his little finger.

And now it must stop! Enough is enough.

My hardening heart has come about because he is anal retentive, and I just can’t stand it anymore! If he grows up to be this obsessed with details, he’ll never be able to maintain friends and relationships because he is just so bloody minded and stubborn.

Having said that, here I am, married to his father. And it’s all his father’s fault it could be genetic.

I remember the first time I served the BH toast. He sat and looked at it for several seconds before asking why I hadn’t browned and buttered it properly. There was nothing wrong with that bloody toast! Anyone else would have been quite happy to eat it. But no, the BH insists upon an optimum browning, and the margarine MUST be spread evenly into every itty-bitty corner and edge. He’s pernickety that way, with just about everything. But the big difference between the BH and P, is that the BH is prepared to make his own toast and knows better than to bother me with his detailed hangups.

But back to P, the boys are spending tonight with the grandparents. A treat indeed, and not one the grandparents volunteer for, but are browbeaten into by our eldest. In truth they’d rather not have P too, because they know his habits and moods, but at the same time they realise we’d go insane without an occasional break. And he does tend to behave when my father is about.

All he had to do was get his clothes together. Now I know some mothers do everything for their kids, but I don’t. My excuse is I have four of the little sods darlings, and the upside is, reception class teachers love me because my kids are the ones who can dress themselves and remember their heads.

P got dressed just fine, packed his overnight clothes just fine, even remembered his toothbrush. The fall came when I reminded him he had rugby tomorrow and needs his kit.

First he starts by hitting me with the whining saga again, not wanting to go because it’s too early. HA! The clocks go back tonight, so we all get an extra hour in bed. Won't feel so early tomorrow!

Next he complains he can’t find his socks and shirt. Okay, I can help here. Off I trot being the kind and generous mother I am, and hey presto they’re found! But then he can’t find his shorts. He wants the black ones.

At this point I should add P insists upon wearing trackie bottoms to rugby, even though it’s not that cold, even though no one else wears them yet.

I looked through the laundry. I looked through his wardrobe. I looked around his room. I even checked those dark places where boys hide things. I couldn’t find them.

But not to worry, I gave him his navy blue shorts instead.

Him: I can’t wear them, they’re school shorts!

Me: No one will know, darling. You’re wearing a tracksuit over them; remember?

Him: Yes they will, everyone will know.

Me (breathing deeply): How?

Him: Because they will!

Me: What colour underwear am I wearing?

Him (frowning suspiciously): Pink.

Me: No.

Him: White.

Me: No (well I was, but he didn’t know that)

Him: I don’t care!

Me: P, the point is, underneath my clothes no one can tell I’m wearing green knickers with purple spots! No one will know you’re wearing blue shorts. And does it matter? You’re allowed to wear blue shorts. In fact, you could go without shorts, and no one would know.

Him: I am going to wear shorts! But not those shorts, they’re for school!

Me: No one will know that!

Him: I will.

Me: But it doesn’t matter.

He started getting upset, and I felt bad.

Me: P, you’ve got to try and let go of the detail, darling. Some things don’t matter, and this is one of them. You can’t go through life demanding everything is so exact, you’ll only make yourself miserable.

Him: You’re miserable too!

Me: No. I’m fed up. (Heavy sigh) Look, I’ll make this simple. I’m going out in five minutes. I won’t be here when Nana comes to pick you up, and when she arrives you’ll either be ready, or not. And if you’re not… then you’re not going.

Him: I want my black shorts.

Me: Right, well I’ve done my bit, if you want your black shorts, you go find them.

He didn’t find them, and apparently took the blue ones instead. I consider this a breakthrough, and one day he will have a wife who owes me some gratitude!