With this breadstick...

I dub thee Sir Whingealot. For thou hast whingest verily for hours without end. Aaaarrrrgghhhhh.

I go to Slingmeet. He is fine. There are Other People there. I come home. The whinging begins. And it does not stop until bedtime, apart from a brief interlude when I throw him out in the rain to splash in the puddle on the sandpit cover. Sounds cruel but I think it was the highlight of his day even if he did end up trouserless afterwards.

He has whinged because he wanted a third (!) satsuma. He has whinged because I stopped him going in the cupboard again after he smashed a jug. He has whinged because I wouldn't let him in the fridge, wouldn't let him play with a sharp pencil or a pair of scissors, wouldn't let him grab my glasses or pull my earrings. He whinged to be picked up. I picked him up, he hit me in the face, I put him down and he whinged some more. He whinged when he poured his cup of water down his front. He whinged when he tried to climb up the clothes airer a second time despite it falling on top of him the first time.

It was just One of Those Days. There are various options for what might be wrong with him. The return of the teething nightmare after one week's respite. Still tired after our trip away. Sore bum from three dirty nappies today (and he wanted a third satsuma?!). Sore head from climbing up, then falling off, pretty much any structure he sees. Fed up of being back home with just mummy for company after having lots of playmates. Who knows? All I know is that his frustration with whatever is bothering him is way ahead of his understanding or capacity to communicate. Just like his physical ability to climb is way ahead of his mental ability to learn from falling.