No such luck this time, though, and in the absence of any sign of either side capitulating or even conceding ground, Small Child and I have taken to the trenches over... a trophy. The trophy in question is a trophy only in name and shape: it's a worthless piece of crap that caught his eye at the checkout in Giant, the World's Worst Supermarket (TM), where everything rejected by Poundland goes to die. Piece of crap this trophy may be, but the plinth on which the plastic cup rests is emblazoned with the worlds 'WORLD'S GREATEST' and as a consequence Small Child, who seems genuinely (and sometimes quite touchingly) to believe that he is in fact the world's greatest everything, could want absolutely nothing more in the entire universe. And so this fucking trophy has been the beginning, middle, and end of Every. Single. Conversation that I have had with Small Child in five long days. And I should probably mention here that Small Child talks a LOT. In fact, he never stops talking. So I have heard a lot about the trophy. Enough about the trophy. Far too bloody much, in fact, about the damn trophy.
Obviously he talked non-stop about it after he first spied it on Saturday, but I opened my eyes on Sunday morning to find his little face literally inches away from mine, willing me with every fibre of his being to wake up. "Mimi", he said. "Mi. MI. When are we getting the trophy?", while I speculated (not for the first time, nor, I am quite sure, the last) whether it is ever appropriate to tell your six-year-old to bugger off. On Monday I got home from work and he ran to greet me. "What a lovely moment", I thought. He looked up at me through narrowed eyes. "Go to Giant and get me the trophy", he said, "and THEN I'll give you a hug". *Oh*. In a voicemail I received from him yesterday, he informed he that he would tell me about his day when, and only when, he was presented with the trophy. By this point it was evident that the trophy issue would not be going away any time soon.
It's not about the money (a whoppingly overpriced $4.90, which would however be a paltry amount to fork out for even a moment's peace). It's the principle of the thing. I will willingly admit (see above) that I do on occasion (ahem) give in to the war of attrition that he puts up when he wants something. Usually, though, it's ice cream, or biscuits, an in-app purchase, or something on the TV - something transient, that calms the waters and then is gone, out of sight down the shitty parenting drain where it will never be seen or spoken of again. But if I give in on this one, this trophy will sit there, screaming 'WORLD'S WORST MOTHER' to me and 'YOU CAN ALWAYS WIN IF YOU'RE IRRITATING ENOUGH FOR LONG ENOUGH' to him, like a toxic horcrux of bad parenting, for all eternity. And clearly I cannot have that.
So I have reached a deal with Small Child, who is, after all, the offspring of two lawyers and whose irrepressible impulse to negotiate is doubtless buried somewhere deep in his genetic coding. The trophy will be awarded on a daily basis, in return for him telling me each day five new things, none of which can be how many points has has managed to score on the latest level of Candy Crush. I had hoped that this way, perhaps I might get even a fleeting insight into how he spends his days, which (for once in all seriousness) as a full time working mother I really do feel like I miss out on - particularly since Small Child has a severe case of that almost universal form of infant amnesia which every day wipes their mental slates spotlessly clean on the bus home from school.
On the basis of this agreement, yesterday the trophy was finally purchased and I got home to a beaming Small Child. To say he was thrilled with his new four inch high made in China piece of plastic (FOUR DOLLARS NINETY!!! Jesus.) would be an understatement of epic proportions. He could barely stand still he was so excited. He looked like I did the first time I walked into the shoe department of Bergdorf Goodman. "Come on then," I said. "Tell me five new things." He cocked his head, looked at me in a considered way for a moment, then trotted off to the table before returning with a slim volume. "I got a book out of the library today, and it's full of new things I can tell you." He showed me the cover. It had a cow on the front. It was a book about... milk. Twenty pages filled with fascinating facts about milk.
I didn't really have much of a response to that (other than what six year old takes a book about MILK out of the library?!?! In fact, why is there a book about milk in the infant library?! And, while we're at it, who the fuck WRITES a book about MILK for infant age children?!?! The mind boggles) so we read the milk book. We read the milk book twice, in fact. And then we played a game where everybody had to name as many things as they can that are made from milk... all of which actually wasn't as bad as it sounds (particularly since I won, ha! Take that Mr. H and your inferior knowledge of dairy products). And which may not have been exactly what I had in mind (quelle surprise - when does that ever come to pass?!) but which I guess, after all, was better than being slumped mindlessly in front of Paw Patrol for the five thousandth time with Smaller Child concernedly inquiring "Mummy sleep? Mummy dead? Mummy sleep?" over and over in my ear.
Still, it's hard to surpress the feeling that once, just once, it would be nice if Small Child didn't win.
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