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Twoberty Has Got Nothing on This

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I don’t know how I’m going to get through this. It’s going to be massive. My stress levels are going through the roof, and there’s not enough gin in this world to keep me sane.

She only blew out the trio of candles on Peppa’s fondant face the other day, but already it’s happened.

Livvy’s become a Threenager.

She’s grumpy and argumentative and gets angry when I say absolutely anything.

She tells me off all the time: for not making her breakfast crumpet into a Christmas tree, for singing the wrong words to Mr Tumble, for not dancing properly, for it being the wrong time. Whatever the sod that means.

And if gets really angry, she storms off upstairs and shuts herself in her bedroom. Or, if she is feeling less inclined to make the journey, she just launches herself on the floor screaming her bloody head off.

She won’t eat without a fight, unless it’s those Harribo fried egg thingmys. She’ll end up with rickets or scurvy or something and I’ll be known as the wicked mother of the poor, malnourished child who’s got matted hair and nits because eventually, I’ll give up on the daily battle to wash and brush it.

She’s up all night and tired all day. She only speaks in the negative: NO! DON’T LIKE IT! I’M NOT GOING! I just don’t know what’s happened to my lovely little girl.

I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming. Everyone else goes through it, so it was daft to think I’d get out of it. But it’s just taken me surprise. It was like one minute she was telling me sweet little stories about the octopus and the mermaid and the king and the free legs and the next minute she was screaming at me because she wants the sunshine and not dark. She hates Winter. She doesn’t want a bath. She WANTS A BATH. IT’S NOT BEDTIME. I DON’T LIKE CHEESE. I WANT DADDY.

And then, the put down of all put downs…YOU’RE A HORRIBLE LADY LIKE THE ONE OUT OF SLEEPING BEAUTY. I hadn’t even done anything.

I don’t get it. She’s completely coo-coo. Actually, that’s not the right word. She’s so angry.

She’s almost fourmonal, the threenage stage is so advanced. She’s an absolute horror. I miss my funny, happy little friend. She was lovely.

Maybe it’s just a growth spurt. Or maybe a virus? She did have a bit of a sniffle the other day. Or perhaps she’s had a funky Harribo fried egg thingmy? Maybe she’s not a fournomal threenager after all.

I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. Please. Help me. I’m on my last case of wine. My nerves won’t take any more. When will this get better?

Tormented,
Grosvenor Close.

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