Great expectations

Sometimes I expect adult behaviour from my daughter. I don't wake up and expect her to engage in a long and considered discussion, quietly watch the ABC news on television, entertain a group of friends or clear up after the evening meal. I'm not entirely deluded. But, occasionally, I find myself anticipating a level of composure that frankly I've got at least a decade – possibly two - before she is likely to achieve.

These expectations are subconscious. They inevitably arise when we've been in the car too long, she's waiting in her highchair too long, she's been in the supermarket trolley too long. You know? When she is grumpy and irritated and acts accordingly. And then I get grumpy and irritated too. I wish she would be more patient and realise order will soon be restored. I mean, does she think I like sitting in traffic or waiting at Woolworths, anymore than she does?

At the time, I don't really verbalise these thoughts. Not even inside my head. I just become a bit agitated and mentally will her threshold to stretch a bit further. It's only when I later reflect that I realise it's my threshold that needs to stretch a bit further. Because, unlike her, I'm an adult. Technically* I'm not entitled to behave childishly, but for Miss I childish conduct is totally and utterly her domain. And will be for quite some time.

She is within her rights to tire easily, become frustrated quickly, flip between ecstatically happy and hysterically sad within minutes, voice her every discomfort, have no concept of time and certainly have no appreciation for her mother's patience. And more. Most of which sounds pretty self-explanatory. And yet it seems to slip my mind in the crucial moments when I need to remember it most.

When I do manage to remind myself that she is a small child and adjust my expectations accordingly, we're both far better off. If I remind myself before we arrive at a café, that unless she is asleep, I cannot reasonably expect her to sit quietly and enjoy a hot beverage without throwing cutlery, knocking glasses, racing for the door and emptying sugar bowls, I'm nonplussed when it occurs. Likewise, if I expect a meltdown at the cash register, when it inevitably transpires I'm less irritated than I am prepared. And so on. Having realistic expectations really seems to be the surest way to enjoy my tornedo toddler.

I suppose it's one of the big lessons – and small tragedies – I'm learning about parenthood. Maturity and patience are two of my greatest allies. If I want to maintain my sanity and have any hope of instilling these qualities in my daughter, I need to live them. Which means there's not a whole lot of room for impulsive conduct on my part anymore. Which, frankly, gets a little tiring. The good thing is she goes to bed at 7pm after which I can be as impulsive and immature as I like. The bad thing is there is another member of our household who also expects rational behaviour from me. Being an adult really is a full time job.

*Technicalities have always bothered me.