At least, that’s what it seems like. DD could whinge for Australia and I have to admit in a grudging fashion that I am impressed. After all, I was apparently a champion whinger myself at that age.
The supermarket is, AS FROM RIGHT NOW, a total no-go zone for DD. I simply cannot bear the whingeing for chocolate and Easter treats that starts as soon as we enter the supermarket (make that *any* supermarket). I will have to use my brains and any spare time to make sure that any shopping trip is done on my own. Seriously, what sadists would put row upon row of choccy bunnies and sparkly eggs between the dairy cabinet and the freezers? NOWHERE is safe from tooth-rotting sugary sweetness.
I should add that I have already removed the bakery from our list of places to go together because every darn time, DD whinges for a biscuit or something equally sweet.
This morning took the cake, though. While we were sitting in traffic, DD noticed a large motorbike going past in the bicycle lane (yeah, that’s wrong but let me save that for a rant later on). “Oh, Mummy, when I get big I’m going to have a motorbike of my own and I will ride on it.”
“No, darling, Daddy said that motorbikes are unsafe and I totally agree with him. Enjoy looking at them.”
Boy, oh boy. That was the wrong thing to say. The bottom lip quivered, cheeks turned red and tears started rolling down her cheeks like creeks in spring flood. “You’re mean to me. I really want a motorbike.” Etc, etc. She’s good, really good.