Chicken dancing

Today I had my second tearful breakdown. After playing with the kids for most of the afternoon ( I have this new found enthusiasm to actually sit down play lego and enjoy it!) I helped organise their dinner, supervised feeding and even suggested post dinner playground activities including taking both kids for a swim at 6:15pm. So it came as no surprise, after I'd asked Johnny Drama for the gazillionth time to stop throwing things, that when the pink tea pot came flying across the room hitting Emma on the head I completley lost the plot. I'm embarresed that my helper got to witness my foul mouth and incredibly pathetic air punching but I couldn't stop myself. Yes I know he's only two and yes I know that I should lower myself to his level, talk calmly and then go make a mark on his star chart before banishing him to a naughty spot for five minutes, but at the time shouting horrible swear words and punching the air whilst doing some crazy chicken dance seemed far more appropriate to vent my anger.

My son is no dope. I sometimes think for the age of two he knows far too much. He knows how to count to 20. He knows the difference between right and left. He can count to 5 in spanish. He can name the seven days in the week. He can recite about 10 songs (in tune) and is already learning to write. He knows that blue and yellow make green. Figures I don't have a scrap of patience for him when he plays dumb and throws things, pretends to run into walls (as he thinks that's funny!), won't use the potty or wont listen when I know he understands exactly what I'm saying.

So after his hissy fit this evening I decided to give him the cold shoulder. I dressed him and Emma in silence, prepared their milk, put the TV on for them and sat down without saying a word. He skulked around for about ten minutes before it got to him and he creeped over to me and mumbled 'Sorry Mommy, I love you'. And so we're back to where we started... until the next flying tea pot tomorrow.

I just dont know how to crack the evil in him. I wonder with other mums in Singapore - do you ever feel like you're kids are spoilt? And not only for toys and activities but attention. I remember growing up in South Africa in my back garden with sand and dirt, a great wooden wendy house my dad built us, a green jungle gym and a tire swing. I dont remember indoor playgyms, Royce kids gyms, music class or centre stage at the age of two. Do apartment bought up, city living kids demand more than their suburban small town, playground, dirt eating companions? I hope so. Maybe space, less attention, no helper, a big sandpit and a trampoline might help me calm my crazy child down.

Tonight I'm home alone enjoying the sounds of Singapore's finest construction classics from the building site across our road. I swear to God if I move to suburbia in New Jersey and they decide to relandscape our neighbourhood to build some amazing shopping mall or block of flats - I WILL GO MENTAL!! Singapore building regulations are sh*t. 9-5 people.
Its 21:25 and they're still going for it. I'm sure New York City is no quiet place but at least it's constant noise and only for a month. I laugh writing this- I've just been back to the UK on a parental/ inlaw conference and remember commenting (complaining) on a couple of occasions how quiet it was there. Maybe I'll miss the sound of the cement truck doing its thing. One things for sure, I'm certainly not going to miss Ms Heffalump doing her chicken dance in the flat above us every evening. What are you doing up there that makes so much noise???? #sooverapartmentliving

Tomorrow is Saturday. My last Saturday in Singapore. It also means it's the start of my last full week here. I've been here 4 years and I've only 1 week left. One week to say goodbye to so many things and to so many amazing people.