— navigating the absolute rollercoaster that is toddlerdom —
I am in no way, shape or form qualified to raise a toddler. My emotional capacity to handle the absolute rollercoaster that is toddlerdom is just not calibrated robustly enough.
Some days are heaven-sent, we giggle through life and chase our shadows, tumbling into bed with a tummy-tickling hurrah, as we high five the good times and share some of the sweetest kisses and cuddles anyone could ever imagine.
But on other days, we hurtle from drama to catastrophe, punctuated by tantrums and brain-piercing winges that genuinely tweak my spine from top to toe. We navigate endless staircases with a second-rate pram that barely has a turning circle, negotiate caffeine breaks to keep mama alive amongst the apparent high stakes of swing and slippery dip desires as he bargains for screen time, treats and presents with the deftness of a professional terrorist.
I’ve often celebrated the power of being a “mature mummy”. I don’t have the FOMO my younger mum pals experience. I have lived a full and exciting life, travelled extensively and partied A LOT. But this ol’ geezer is tired. And toddlerdom demands a high-octane energy that can only be tapped from my deepest wells. Fortunately, I’m still strong, both physically and mentally, and my little dude is less than 15kg so I can still manage to pick him up. But holy guac, I’d be lying if I didn’t say the deep reach for patience, calm and equilibrium goes beneath my lava core.
I was first to roll my eyes when women celebrated their children’s birthdays and thanked them for teaching them so much, for changing them. But alongside the real time hectic, being a mummy has taught me so much.
I now understand the power of sleep, the true meaning of mindfulness and the complexity involved with regulating emotions. Not liddle Zig’s, but my own. I see the importance of nutrition, the destructive potential of sugar and I appreciate the benefits of fresh air, exercise and the glorious life-giving power of the sun.
In the middle of eating his lunch, Ziggy slides off his chair, strolls over to the sofa and passes out. We are battling the rocky road of jet lag and his daily naps have returned, albeit so informally as to often include a flat pancake pass out on the floor.
He is the sweetest, most divine of golden princes…when he is sleeping. So quiet, so cherub-lipped, so still.
As much as I enjoy his waking hours, there is nothing more delightful, satisfying and quite simply heaven-sent, than your very own sleeping babe. Cliches exist for a reason, they say.
meloneras, gran canaria : april 2025 (image by clara iaccarino)
Pre-mummy, I worshipped electric dishwashers. These days the satisfaction of completing a task, and slowly, mindfully, drying a beaten saucepan, I am my most zentastic.
Transcendental meditation has kept both me and Ziggy in the land of the living and I now wholeheartedly subscribe to the fact that patience is a virtue.
I love and hate screen time in equal measure, and I froth on doing the laundry more than anyone could ever imagine (NB: this is a deeply inherited Iaccarino trait shared by my brothers and handed down directly from my mum), although to be fair this one was well-entrenched BZ (Before Ziggy).
As we both do the jet lag dance, I see the benefits, challenges, evils and direct explosions of the caffeine train. I relish the healing, refreshing and energising power of music and I note that no matter how hard I try, I can’t stay between the lines, colouring in or otherwise.
I’m so quick to hurtle down the bribery road, offering a treat to sweeten a moment and motivate my lolly monster to keep on trucking. To be fair, our current lifestyle of changing homes every two to three months is more than a little taxing for a toddler, so a lolly here and there isn’t doing too much long-term damage (I hope!), and if anyone else has a better idea of how to navigate a three-hour long customs queue, I’m all ears. And yet, I can’t help the lingering sugar guilt.
It’s 6am. BZ I only ever stayed up this late, I certainly wasn’t rising from slumber to greet the day. But now I love the dawn, the quiet calm of the house/apartment/hotel room (!?) before the tornado rises.
I love spirited kids, individuals, wacky dress-up demons, those with a clear idea of what they want, even at the ripe old age of 3.5. But parenting such spirit sure ain’t easy.
I’ve discovered my OCD is real. I want an independent eater, but the sight of Vegemeite-doused fingers sends me into a frenzy. I’m trying to unleash my inner “craft mum”, but when the supposedly water-based paint stains my favourite dress alongside his little stripey cute suits, the blood pressure rises.
Then there’s the ever-present reality of mirrored behaviour. We’re teaching him to open his fists, not to shout when he wants something, to sit up at the table for dinner. The guilt is that much deeper when our voices are raised, and the travelling life doesn’t always come with a dining room table, so toast crumbs between the sheets are always a possibility.
Here’s to trying not to sweat the small stuff, no matter how much my pits are moistening at the sight of a tipped over LEGO box and the chewed pages of “Captain Underpants”. Deep breaths and namaste forever.