Julie Jay: Why throw tantrums when you can throw cutlery?

Of course, the law of Murphy dictates that this will not be a marker of the friendly, washable variety, but rather the more permanent heavy-duty kind, as one of these top-shelf pens has somehow migrated from your glove compartment to not just inside the house but is now also to be found on the inside of your new cream blouse.

My house is currently getting ransacked daily because, whether it is a container of your old christening clothes or your parents’ marriage license, anything can constitute a toy when you are at the height of toddler terrorism. All you need to transform that rather fetching make-up brush set into toilet cleaning equipment is a little imagination and a mother who is so tired she’s willing to green-light any game that doesn’t involve toxic substances.

Before I had kids, the adage ‘boys wreck your house, girls wreck your head’ used to have me rolling my eyes at the Victorian-esque gender stereotypes of it all, but now I can say with full confidence that not alone is this statement sexist, it is also a moot point. Because the reality is, if your house is wrecked, your head is wrecked, so either way, as a parent of small children, you will be living in chaos for the foreseeable.

To compound this toddler mayhem, Number Two is now walking, and though it still tickles my ovaries seeing him waddling around in his tiny Uggs, my swelling heart is not the only thing pressing on my ribcage as I watch him in full flight. Now, it is accompanied by a sense of impending dread, knowing that my neatly folded washing will soon be turned upside down by this tiny harbourer of chaos.

In the last few weeks, my bathroom shelves have been repeatedly emptied. Fake tan is now stored overhead atop wardrobes to keep it away from tiny, pasty paws, for fear Number Two fancies a summer glow for spring. Similarly, expensive night creams are kept under lock and key in a money box. Yes, I have now resorted to locking away moisturisers and carrying tiny keys in my wallet to keep my precious fancy serums out of his reach.

Number Two is so mad for moisturisers that he is either not happy with his own youthful appearance or wants to teach his mother a lesson about the vices of vanity by tipping all her bits down the loo. My money — in my locked moneybox — is on the latter. I will do anything for my child, but I draw the line at embracing the ageing process, so I am hiding all go-to tubs anywhere and everywhere away from little people.

I know I am not alone in this because toddlers wrecking gaffs appears to be an epidemic if my friend group is anything to go by. My Number Two is particularly enamoured with presses of any description, especially if they contain breakable gravy boats and glass vases, which he sees fit to smash with the rage of a rock musician on tour in the 90s. And like rock musicians throwing TVs off balconies back in the day, my little guy throws pots and pans around for no other reason than the craic of it. Equally, much like the rockstars of yesteryear, he knows it’s somebody else’s job to clean it up, again adding an extra layer of fun to proceedings.

Friends have told me of their continued battles with unloading and loading dishwashers in the vicinity of their babies, who, no matter where they are placed, always seem to get their paws on the Finish tablet quicker than you can google ‘what to do if your child ingests dishwasher powder'. Secretly, I have absolutely zero sympathy for these friends since I don’t own a dishwasher. Despite wanting to care for their daily dishwasher battle, I can’t, as even announcing it in the first place is little more than a humble brag.

My biggest fear, in the event of a home invasion, is that I will return home post-burglary and fail to notice anything untoward has taken place, given that the place is in such a perpetual state of disarray these days.

Don’t get me wrong, I am trying hard to stay on top of the endless trail of destruction, but at the moment it’s like trying to put a Hello Kitty plaster over a gaping wound. There is simply no stopping this onslaught of mess, so as long it’s not placing them in harm's way and doesn’t involve permanent markers, it’s a case of 'let go and let God'  as I try to convince myself that the inverted compost bin is giving a bit of Tracey Emin vibe. Perhaps this could even serve as a first installation in my new confessional artwork series, which will also contain capsized laundry baskets and discarded fridge contents.

At the end of the day, if it keeps the toddler occupied for ten minutes, let them ransack, upturn, and knock over anything they want. They love it, and so, by extension, we love it because it keeps them happy, if just for a moment. After all, why throw tantrums when you can throw cutlery?