Toddler Group Survival Guide

Motherhood, parenthood, is a battlefield and I am usually on the losing side. But there’s one place where it literally is a battlefield; toddler group.

When Xavier was tiny and we went to baby groups it was great. He would either sleep, or sit in a ball pit or play on a mat while I looked on, drinking coffee and gossiping with friends. But then something happened. My baby was no longer a baby, we graduated to toddler group and those words imbue fear and have me quaking in my nice shoes.

So, to be brief, why should a room full of toddlers be scary? Not just because toddlers are scary, not just because of the noise levels, but it helps to have studied Sun Tzu’s ‘The Art of War’ before venturing inside.

One Toddler group I went to was particularly terrifying. Not only were there a number of thuggish toddlers (they made the Mitchell brothers look soft), but some of the parents were particularly good at not noticing. I didn’t expect these little girls and boys to be well behaved. Goodness knows mine isn’t. He went through a phase of relentless hair pulling. He was like the slickest hair puller ever, managing to pull hair where there didn’t even seem to be any. But the point was that if he did it before I could stop him, I would tell him off. And I was mortified at him making another child cry.

Typical Toddler group: a child was pushed from the top of a slide while the mother watched; a couple of little boys had a full on fist fight over a train and a gentle voice piped up, ‘don’t do that, that’s not very nice,’ from the sidelines, whilst not actually parting the fighters; one boy threw things at my friend’s little girl, while his mother wasn’t watching, and she managed not to watch for nearly the whole two hours;  a bigger girl came up to Xavier and deliberately shoved him sending him flying. I heard myself saying, ‘why did you do that?’ to her, and her mother came over, picked her child up and shot me a filthy look, as if I was the devil. Of course I apologised profusely.

Interestingly, there was a sign up at this group saying ‘No stilettos or spurs to be worn.’ I had accidentally worn stilettos, but at the time I wondered what parent would wear spurs to a toddler group; in hindsight they could have come in handy.

Back to the point, toddlers are toddlers and are learning, testing boundaries; they don’t understand sharing (actually thinking about it I’m not sure I do either), but of course they aren’t inherently bad. I’m hardly the poster girl for the perfect mum but when it comes to teaching my child right from wrong I have tried to do it from the word go.

Now we go to a less hazardous toddler group. There is no need for a sign banning spurs that’s for sure. Here my child happily plays while I drink coffee and gossip with my lovely friends.  The problem is that although it is still noisy and there are incidents, it’s kind of made me put my ‘Art of War’ to one side, in favour of an extra cup of coffee and a chocolate digestive.

Last week we went there as usual. I was wearing a black and white striped dress; Xavier was in his new red and white striped Ralph Lauren polo shirt. This place has a craft area with a little sink. Xavier loves the sink but doesn’t really seem interested in the craft. Anyway, I kept a bit of an eye on him and when he went off to the craft area I dashed off after him. He was just standing at the sink trying to turn the taps on, but I took him back into the main room where I could see him. However, he kept going back and I kept getting him and to be honest, I was getting a little fed up.

‘Don’t worry, drink your coffee for five minutes,’ my friend said. So I did and started to talk about something or other when I heard a mother call for me to come. I bolted over, (wearing wedge heels); worried and feeling like the worst mother for leaving him alone for two minutes. Then I saw what he’d done.

He stood at the sink, covered, head to toe in red paint that he had managed to get from a sponge. It was in his hair, on his face, all over his top, even in his mouth. Oh and on the walls and floor. I grabbed him and started the clean up; the mother who had called me helped. We cleaned the wall, got the worst off him, (it was on his feet for goodness sake), and sponged down his clothes. By now the red paint had also transferred itself to my dress. I finally carried him back round the corner, having severely learnt my lesson. Sometimes coffee just isn’t meant to be drunk and Ralph Lauren isn’t meant to be worn.

‘Look,’ I said, to my friend.

‘Oh if I’d known he was wearing Ralph Lauren I’d never had told you to leave him,’ she replied. I laughed at the absurd sight we both made.

We got home. I put Xav in the bath. It took a few days before the red was completely gone from his tummy. And as for the clothes, well the red and white polo shirt is now red, white and a bit of pink and my black and white striped dress has met the same fate. I’ve learnt my lesson; I will never leave him even for a minute, and I might not attend the thuggish toddler group anymore, but the battlefield will follow me wherever I go.