My three guys with their non-toxic nail polish.
(No connection with the company, no endorsement, no freebies or payment given. Just a real photo from a real day)
Monthly Archives: February 2012
In no particular order
My children are adorable. I love spending time with them. I do not love spending 13 uninterrupted hours with them. I love when they play together. I do not love when they fight. I love that when they laugh at the same time, my every cell soars and no finer music has ever been composed. I do not love that they conspire to do terrible things to, near, and for me.
I’m having a hard time reconciling all those love/do not loves.
The eldest is an intense child. Very intense. Highly spirited, in the language of those who have to buy books about how intense their intense kids are just to cope with not harming either the intense kid or themselves. So what, you ask? So I have a dilemma. This intense child is, like many children, quite attached to routine. Bedtime, for example, is dinner, bath, jammies, teeth, books, bed, lights out, songs. In that order only. When we forget teeth and brush them after books, there are tears. When we have time for everything but books, there are major tears.
And the songs are always his choice. From 9 months to 18 months, we were only allowed to sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat and Five Little Ducks. If we switched songs, changed lyrics, or skipped a song, the resulting fit shook the walls. From 18 months to 2 years, we could only sing Wheels on the Bus and Old MacDonald Had a Farm. No variation allowed. From 2 years to almost 3 years we were assigned from a small group of songs that included Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, The Bear Went Over the Mountain, and Rockabye Baby (in which we changed all the lyrics to be about the names of the people who loved him instead of that creepy story about falling babies).
And from 3 years on, we’ve been forced to sing Five Little Ducks and Five Green and Speckled Frogs. Every night. In the same order, without variation. Even the slightest change in tune has him in tears. Varying the lyrics makes him scream. Seriously. Same two song for more than three years. By my math that’s 5480 ducks who went over the hills and far away but eventually returned. And 5480 frogs that ate bugs then jumped off the log.
That’s a lot of fathermucking ducks and frogs, yo.
So I proposed to Peanut, dear, sweet, intense, infuriatingly stubborn little Peanut that, come his sixth birthday, we change songs. He started to lose it, so I said we’d talk about it later. And sang my assignment. The next night I reminded him about changing. He started to cry and I reassured him I didn’t mean tonight, but that soon it would be time. Then I didn’t mention it again.
About a week later I asked him how he felt about turning Six. I expected thoughts on school or skateboards or being older in general. I expected excitement about a party or gifts or privileges.
He said he didn’t want to turn Six. Why? Because, he said, he didn’t want to change songs.
Judas Priest, Internet. I’m tired of these goddamned songs. And I’m only tasked with one of them: when we’re both home, I sing Ducks and Spouse sings Frogs. Always Ducks first and Frogs second and don’t even ask or he’ll cry. If I’m the only one home, I sing both, but Peanut cries through the whole thing because he misses Daddy. That much intense emotion would be tenderly wonderful if it wasn’t driving me to drink. Three years of the same song, yo. Three. YEARS. Every night. Without exception. Ever.
He’s not this stubborn about anything else. We go through stores without fights about buying things. He leaves the playground easily most of the time, and calmly after a discussion even when he doesn’t want to. He accepts change to routine for all manner of reasons and shakes off surprises and disappointment very well.
I’ve moved through the Kubler-Ross stages of hating children’s songs: Fun, Frustration, Renewed Vigor, Resignation. Now I’m approaching a sensation I never felt during the six months of Goodnight Moon, nor the year of Richard Scarry, nor the weeks and weeks and weeks of Blueberries for Sal. I’m getting to the Stage professionals in the parenting game call the Seething Rage of Song Hatred. (Okay, they might not. I haven’t had time to read several books about the parenting dilemma of the week. I haven’t even had time to read the fortune I got in a cookie last month.)
I’ve tried singing in a silly voice, but that makes him cry. I’ve tried changing the words, but that makes him cry. I’ve tried just clenching my teeth and making it through, but I can only be gently nurturing for so long when the script does not vary.
I’m at the point where I don’t want those effing ducklings to come back, ever. I want to introduce a chorus about getting lost or eating poisoned worms or getting shot by a hunter or something, just to break the pattern and end the Ducks’ Reign of Terror.
But I can’t. I’m nice. I want my son’s sleep process to be free from fear or coercion or trauma. There are too many “No” and “stop, please” and “we can’t” in his days. I want songs to be his happy way to end the day.
But I’m getting close to going postal on those ducks. And that’s saying a lot, because I’m kind of a bleeding heart vegetarian type.
Kind of.
If by “kind of” you agree we can mean 128%.
Oh, dear gawd, that must be where he gets it.
Please.
I don’t have much power in this world, but I need something. I don’t have fame or fortune or a huge readership, and I don’t know what to do. I need help.
I need your hope. Because I need my friend to be okay.
He’s been through enough. He’s had a whole lot of shitty thrown his way, and each time he’s bested it. He’s finally with the woman absolutely meant for him. He has three amazing kids. He has hundreds of friends because he’s a miraculously good person. The type who gets a raw deal time and time again (and again and again) yet still smiles and makes people feel that they’re special. Makes us laugh and cry and appreciate being alive.
The motherfucking cancer that tried to kill him didn’t. And he had one blissful year after the torture of chemo and radiation and surgery.
And that stupid fucking no good cancer is back.
I don’t really have the power to do anything, and, of course, it’s not about me. Except I hurt just hearing that he’s in pain. That he’s scared. That his family is upside fucking down with fear.
So I want to get every single person I can thinking good thoughts. I can turn the Universe, right? Heartfelt pleas for good thoughts mean something, right?
Pray if you do. Hope if you will. Send him some good wishes if you please. I know there are lurkers amongst you, those who come out when it’s important.
He desperately needs something, and I want to give everything I can. So please. Send him a few thoughts or prayers or wishes. Type him a few words, would you, even though you don’t know him. Please.
The world needs him.
Cuteness currency
Oh, what adorableness will buy these days.
After we dropped off Peanut at kindergarten, Butter and I wandered the streets of our delightful town. About half a block from the school, a woman was leaning toward a car and talking and laughing with someone inside. She walked away laughing heartily. Presumably, someone she knew and liked was inside the car. As we got close, Butter walked right over to the car window and peered in.
A man looked up from his phone and smiled. “Why, hi there! I’m Jeff. Who are you?”
I answered for the almost-two-year-old and smiled. Jeff pretended to have a conversation with Butter for a few lines, asking him about the weather and his day. And Butter waved and said, “bye bye.” Then, just as the woman did, he walked away from the window laughing. A big, hearty, fake laugh. I waved to Jeff, beaming because he was so tolerant of a toddler’s curiosity–behavior that Jeff would not have enjoyed from someone older.
Later, we walked past a florist’s cart. Butter stopped to look at the flowers. The florist, who always watches him as we walk by, swooped over with a rose. “This is for you,” she bowed to my tiny son. He smelled it. It was a gorgeous, thickly petaled red rose, the kind where the petals’ backsides are meaty and creased, and their faces are glowing velvet. I’m guessing the stem had broken and the florist kept it despite its obvious unsaleability.
Butter sat down with his flower, right near her cart, and ripped every single petal from the flower’s head. He studied the remaining stem, stamina, and carpels. He tossed these aside, gathered the petals into his empty water cup, and left his generous friend without a second glance. I offered her a thank you and an explanation that Butterbean likes rose petals in his bath, but she didn’t care what I had to say. She had eyes only for him, forgiving him instantly for behavior that would seem horrifying out of a school-age child.
Both of these incidents had me thinking, “you sure get away with a lot because you’re cute.” Humans, in general, are willing to cut small people some serious slack on the whole Social Expectations thing. When Butter lies down in people’s driveways to feel gravel on his face (swear to Penelope it’s one of his favorite things to do), nobody calls the cops. When he twirls around parking meters and signposts, people smile rather than shying away. His behavior in and adult would portend serious mental issues.
But when my toddler screams bloody murder because he can’t figure out how to open a bag, passersby just smile at me, knowing full well I’m doing my best and Butter is, too. Kind of makes up for all the difficult things about being a toddler, doesn’t it, Butterbug?
They treat him, in short, like a guest to our planet. And their largesse makes me reciprocate to other adults, because I would have much more fun on our planet if we all treated each other like guests.
Oy. No Vey. Just Oy.
Peanut, your favorite central character from this blog since 2008, is growing into quite the middle-aged man.
He’s almost six, and everything exasperates him.
Not really, you say. Surely climbing trees and drawing and controlling a surprising amount of his time is fun for him, no?
Um, maybe. I guess. Sure. But when he’s with me, he’s exasperated.
Yesterday, he was playing with his food, and I gave him the unreasonably calm lecture I’ve been giving for four years:
Me: Honey, food is for eating. Please don’t play with your food. Eat your food. Play with toys. No toys at the table, so no playing at the table. Just eat.
P: Oy.
[blink, blink, blink]
M: Did you just ‘oy’ me?
P: Yup.
[blink. blink. blink.]
The next day, he was reading on the couch and Butter climbed up with him, handing his older brother a book to read. Peanut looked at the cover, looked at me, rolled his eyes, and said, “Oy, Butter.”
I asked if his displeasure was based in the book selection, the interruption, or something else.
“Just oy,” he answered, and opened the book.
When the toddler throws a fit, Peanut “Oy”s. When I ask him to help clean up, Peanut “Oy”s. And yesterday, when told this weekend was busy with birthday parties and activities, he heaved a sigh and gave me his best “Oy.”
I don’t stop him, and I don’t indulge the laugh that bubbles up every time he says it. I just can’t imagine where he gets this.
Okay, Listen up.
Seriously. You have to listen to me this time. I am a parenting genius for today only, and I must share.
I found the secret to ending a tantrum. More specifically, a two-year-old’s tantrum.
Both my kids have very strong opinions. [Shocking.] The eldest used to yell at people at the supermarket if they looked at him. “THAT LADY NO LOOK AT ME!” Every person in the store. Screamed at them. I learned to shop at 10pm by myself when that kid was Two.
One of his longest, most intense tantrums was in the car. He started yelling “That car no on road! MY ROAD!” He yelled and screamed and sobbed for almost an hour that the cars and trucks on the road must get off his road.
And I talked nicely the whole time. I patiently explained how roads worked, and taxes. I explained that he could use his money, as a grownup, to buy his own road, but for now we had to share. “I understand,” I said. “I want them gone, too. But they have rights.” I told him about rights.
Not one single word worked. Not even the taxes part. [Again with the shocking revelations. I’m on a roll.]
[Wait, you’re rolling your eyes, aren’t you? You would have ignored him, I’ll bet. Yeah, aside from my inability to go that route, this kid was un-ignorable.]
Cue the tantrums of the youngest. Wow that kid has lungs. And opinions. And the helplessness that launches a thousand tantrums.
Yesterday we drove past a front-end loader. And an excavator. And a backhoe. (I know, right? Why the backhoe if you have the other two? Why have the two standalone tools when the backhoe is all things to all projects? Why the redundancy? Dunno. Wish I did.)
All three trucks were stopped. We paused, we looked, we evaluated. We let the little guy give the cue to move on. (We’re not crazy. We wait ’til he says “bye-bye” to a construction site or we’re Dead.In.The.Water. Even the kindergartener knows this.)
After we leave, the Almost-Two starts demanding more trucks. Loudly. A tantrum is a-brewin’.
“That’s all, Butterbean. You want more trucks but I can’t make more trucks.”
“YES!” he shouts. “More!”
The older one just shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No more.”
Well, that’s it. Little guy is gone. In his place is a raging sobbing machine who will not rest until he sees more trucks. Especially since his brother said “no.”
So I try my favorite tantrum technique—empathy—but ratchet it up seven hundred fold.
“Aaaaaargh!” I yell. “I want more trucks!”
He calms down to listen.
“I like trucks” I shout, “and I want more!”
The Almost-Six protests. “Mom. You don’t even like trucks.”
“I know, buddy. But watch this work.” I continue. “I LIKED those trucks and I want MORE! And I’m mad there are no more trucks. ANGRY!”
The littlest gets it. He joins in a bit, he adds his two cents. He calms markedly. Finally, as I repeat that I’m angry, the toddler yells his sound for “angry”. All three of us bellow a barbaric yawp.
And the tantrum is done. I feel great (though hoarse). The older guy is relieved. The younger guy is satisfied.
So all I’m saying is: don’t ignore and don’t explain. Join in. It feels good, they feel heard, and all is happy and good in no time.
If you’ll excuse me, I think TED might want this lecture now….
[Update: one hour after I posted I got emails that this genius invention of mine is already a thing. In a book. By some parenting expert person. Figures, of course. The one moment I have parenting success could have come earlier and more frequently if I read a book, an event that happened before kids but hasn’t since.]
Hey, lookit!
This article on the data that online companies have on us, and how they use it, is super creepy.
I assumed at some level that if I searched ideas for fiction or client work that Google would collect those searches and assume I was deranged. Turns out, they’ll also sell that information to Deranged Stores R Us to try to sell me some stuff that deranged novelists and branding types like. And that my credit card company may take the search information and say “that’s it. You’re cut off. You haven’t sold the last novel; why would we give you credit while you write the next one?” I knew it was probably happening, but now I’m really creeped out.
Read more about how your online “likes” and purchases are shaping what Corporate America sells you, who employs you, and how companies treat you. Then take your anti-SOPA energy and go advocate for data mining and sales laws.
For Kristin
Our regular reader Kristin at Going Country asked me a question I hear a lot:
I know you wore both your babies, in various carriers, approximately 14 hours each day. So what baby carrier do you recommend?
Ooooh, that’s a good question. With wonderful, cuddly answers. BABIES! Kiss them and cuddle them. And eat their cheeks. And fingers. Their sweet little chubbsy fingers!
Where was I? Yes. Advice. Photos and videos at the bottom of the post. I make no links to stores because I don’t have strong feelings about where you buy. Check craigslist (not for Kristin, though, whose neighbors are sheep and horses and goats and can I move there soon?) Or search the name of the carrier with “clearance” and see what you get. Some of the best deals I got were from the manufacturer on their “sale” or “outlet” sections.
For an infant and newborn, I love love love Moby Wrap. Did I mention I love it?
It’s soft, it’s comfy, and it’s the only way you can nestle baby where they prefer: high or low, upright, diagonal, or almost sideways. It holds them in firmly without squishing them, it allows nursing, it fits regardless of how swollen your belly or breasts are. It’s cooler than other carriers in summer because it’s a light, stretchy cotton fabric) and warmer (because it covers so much) in winter. Babies don’t really outgrow the Moby because you can wrap it so many ways. As newborns, they cuddle in little lumps on your front, feet tucked under them like they’re still inside. As they age they can be more upright or face out (carriers like the Bjorn do this, but put too much weight on baby’s tailbone and are too structured for my taste). You can carry an older baby on your back with the Moby, but my kids are so active I could never get it wrapped before they ran into the next room, cleared the shelves, emptied the cabinets, stripped naked, and peed on the cat.
The only problem with the Moby Wrap is it takes a good minute to get on. Practice now, with a doll, and it’s easy as pie. There are videos and diagrams to help (see end of this post). It’s really easy once you’ve done it even one time. But with a toddler or older child (Kristin’s is Two-ish and will be under-Three-ish when baby comes), you can’t be putting it on and taking it off several times a day. The Moby is a “put on once and leave it on all day” kind of carrier. Put it on at home before you go anywhere. Baby can be strapped safely and securely to you all day if you want (comfortably without any pressure on shoulders or neck) and taken out easily for diaper changes. Baby can be in and out several times an hour if you need, once you get that thing on. But you need two hands free for a full minute to wrap it properly. And with a toddler that’s hard.
I cannot say enough how valuable the Moby is. I’d send mine if a desperately loved baby cooking RIGHT NOW in New York wasn’t getting our Moby this week. Ooooh, she’s gonna love it.
Ahem.
Also for newborns and infants is my favorite all-’round-until-they-hit-20-pounds carrier: the Hotsling. With baby in your arms you can pop it over your head and gently place baby into it. They can hang out in the Hotsling for HOURS as newborns or get in and out as needed when you need your hands for sandwiches and toys and plows and whatnot. If you bend over, as with potty learning tasks, put one hand on baby. They won’t fall out, but pouch slings aren’t as secure as the delicious Moby is. With the Hotsling, they can graduate to sitting and face out as infants (my favorite is this Buddha sit from about 4 months on), and it can hold them securely on your hip beyond seven months or so. I love these pouch carriers *if* you can get the right size. Ideally, try a few on. (Kristin, I guess you check to see if the chickens have a spare for you to try?) We bought two: one in a smaller size for infant and Mama and larger size for Papa and baby and Mama and toddler.
[Photos courtesy of HotSling and SlingStation; totally not photos of me.]
After 20 pounds, the pouch slings just hurt too much on your shoulder and neck. The weight is on one side only, and 20 pounds for one mile is my limit. Spouse can still use the pouch with a 25 pound toddler going two miles. But he has a higher pain tolerance than I do. Or rougher neck skin. Or something.
[NB: In *my* day pouch slings were not adjustable. I didn’t know until I searched for images for you that apparently enough people whined about this that Hotslings has an adjustable pouch. Meh. I like the sized version because there’s no adjusting and less material. I’d find an old school “classic” Hotsling if I were you. Their old sizing included special instructions for larger breast sizes, too. The new adjustable hotslings look as annoying as the models wearing them (Sorry, attractive teenage models. I’m a “judge Moms by their appearance” kind of Mom, and you look rested, showered, fit, and made up. In other words, like no mom I know.)]
For babies five months and older, I like a mei tai or an ErgoBaby. With a mei tai you can carry baby front or back, facing in or out.
Photos courtesy of meitaibaby.com
Wrapping is pretty easy, but as with the Moby, you need two hands free for at least thirty seconds, and you might never have that when you need it. Plus, the straps are long and dangle on the ground if you’re putting it on again) outside. Near the chicken coops, this will be an issue.
With the ErgoBaby, you have clips for your waist and shoulder straps (think more conventional backpack).
Both mei tais and ErgoBaby carriers easier on baby’s spine than a Bjorn. Ergo makes an infant insert so baby can cuddle in close (with knees up and feet tucked against you) to make it extra safe. WHY, though, when there are Moby wraps that are perfect for everything including nursing, hiking, and tractor rides? Mei tai has a slight edge with the 5-12 month baby because baby can face out while riding in front, which the Ergo does not accommodate. But Moby gives you that feature up to 12 months. ErgoBaby has an edge past 12 months, because toddlers want to get up then down then up then down then up again, and a mei tai’s shoulder straps are not fun after the third time. Mei tai is more versatile for baby is you don’t have a Moby; Ergo is more versatile for you.
If I had to choose, I’d get a Moby Wrap and probably, later, an ErgoBaby carrier. If you’re not going to have the Moby on all day every day for quick tasks. Get a pouch sling, too. I know that’s a lot. But all three on sale will cost less than a stroller and will be useful for every moment inside and outside. Plus no parking them or fighting to get them into the car.
Now. For the most awesome hot dad video instructional video I’ve seen. (Sadly, it’s not a video on how to be a hot dad. It teaches humans to put on a Moby. But “hot dad instructional video” has a nice ring to it.) This is only one way to wear a baby in the Moby. Since he’s not worried about nursing he can put the teeny bean a bit highter…search for more videos. But I love this one. I posted it on facebook long ago and my babywearing posse loved it. Now you can, too!
[Spouse wore Peanut in a Moby everywhere we went. He’d pace the back of the breastfeeding support group while I cried to strangers about thrush and Reynaud’s of the nipple and nerve damage and sleep loss and pumping and…and every one of those women ignored me and watched Spouse pace with a sweet lump nestled on his chest.]
Nauseating
I had no idea how stomach churning it would be to get a letter from the teacher saying my kid was being rough with another kid. Repeatedly. Playing the chase-and-grab game with someone who really didn’t like it.
Last week he told me about the game and said he tried it on this other child and decided to stop when she didn’t like it.
I just heard today it happened at least four other times. In the past two days.
Each day, when I pick him up, I let him get settled then ask, “what part of your day was fun,” and “what part of your day was sad,” and “what part of your day was exciting,” and “what part of your say was frustrating,” and “what part of your day was boring?” Today he told me there was something really fun that he couldn’t tell me. I asked if he couldn’t tell me because it was so good or because it was bad.
Bad.
But it was fun?
Yes.
Oh, dear child, are you a sociopath? Are you normal? Are you going to be a bully? Are you reacting to our bad parenting? Are you just a bad person out of the box? Are you going to learn when I tell you things that should be obvious but seem missing from the Child 1.0 programming? If you haven’t yet, when will you?
Where did we go wrong? And which, of those, was the worst? And is it reversible?
Little boy, no matter how a person says it, stop it means STOP IT! It doesn’t matter if you like someone; you have to respect them and listen to their words. Always. Not just because you expect that of other people. Because it’s the decent thing to do.
He wrote a sorry note. He drew a sorry picture. He promised.
And I’m sick to my stomach. I emailed the child’s parent and the teacher, explaining how I’m dealing with the issue and how I wish I could apologize for my child.
We can’t apologize for our children, world. It’s beginning to seem that all the modeling and talk are totally wasted…is this true for all kids or just mine?
Wordless Wednesday
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The runner is mine
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NaptimeWriting 