Category Archives: Child Wrangling

Leeches

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Small children, adorable, clever, hilarious, cuddly little humans suck the life out of you if you’re with them 14 hours a day without cease. And when it’s seven days a week, and they’ve sucked the life out of you by Monday afternoon, it’s a long, long, long long long week.

In related news, the debut two-hour stint of our first babysitter is six days away. In other related news, the submission of my novel to the next round of agents will be about eight babysitting sessions from now.

In unrelated news, kale chips are nice. Even better was last night’s Thai sweet potato lentil foil packets. Baked for now, but next time will be grilled. By someone else. From packets I’ve prepped the night before. It took almost three hours to prep a meal that takes someone without small children (who cling, scream, and hit more during meal prep than any other time in the day) about 15 minutes.

And finally, in this abbreviated version of our news hour: people suck. Twice in two days someone turning left almost hit me and my small wards as we were walking in the crosswalk. At an intersection with a green light and a walk sign. No late afternoon glare, no echoing sirens, no tsunami, no excuses. Bad drivers almost killing perfectly decent bloggers and future bloggers.

People suck.
You heard it here first.

Now rejoin your life, already in progress

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Ah, yes. The Mother’s Day pretending.

Advertisements claim it’s a magical day of appreciation and breakfast in bed. They are, of course, selling something.

Spouse pretends it’s going to be a happy day of family and bonding. And so it is. Sort of.

Peanut pretends it’s a day like any other. And so he yells at people for imaginary transgressions, threatens his brother with bodily harm for watching big kid play, sits next to me for long stories, jumps screaming from the furniture, uses enough tape on a variety of projects to seal the Grand Canyon, and smiles and whines and snuggles and orders and dances and sneers and kisses.

Butter pretends it’s a day like any other. And so he squeals with delight, toddles after his brother, cries when walloped by said brother, plays harmonica, parades through the house with prized possessions, unloads the drawers and cabinets he can reach, whimpers to be held, pulls my hair, kisses my nose, puts cold hands on my belly, bites my face, kicks my hands, and twirls my hair while sucking his thumb.

And I find that Mother’s Day is a microcosm of our lives as we’re living them. There are still dishes and laundry, there are laughs and frustrations, there are tickles and tantrums, there is extreme claustrophobia and hopes for the future, fears and silliness and satisfaction and dread and anger and fun.

It is, I guess, what you make of it. Within limitations. So I have a choice: focus on the limitations or make something of it.

“If you focus on results, you will never change. If you focus on change, you will get results.” ~Jack Dixon

It’s….Velcro Baby!

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Oh, dear sweet one.

I know you’re hot. I can feel it radiating off you before I even gather you, sweaty, from your nap. I would take that fever from you and wear it for a week if I could make you feel better for an hour.

I know you’re miserable. I can tell my the way you ball up inside if your feet touch the ground for even a moment. I will keep you with me as long as you need me to, even if I have to ice my biceps later.

I know you hate medicine. I can tell the way you gag when you see the dispenser syringe thingie. I would do anything to make love and milk and good intentions fix this illness, baby, but sometimes we need to bow to the bludgeoning power of Western meds. Because I won’t let big bad germs get you.

I know you want mama. I can tell the way you haven’t left my hip for four days. If I could just zipper you on while you need that, I would. Until then we’ll use slings and arms and wraps. No, of course not backpacks. I know better than that, butterbean.

I know you’ll be too big soon to be a Velcro Baby when you’re sick. Soon I’ll be replaced by movies, then books, then someone else. When you’re sick. When you’re not sick, too.

I hope you won’t ever get sick again. I hope you won’t ever get too sick. I hope you won’t ever completely lose the need for Mama when you’re feeling crummy.

I hope I won’t ever forget the heft and heat and helplessness of Velcro Baby.

You must be joking

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I swear to Neptune I feel like I’m living in a cartoon today. Brace yourself for a long panel.

This morning was a pediatric appt. for both boys. (Aside: One and Five? Holy guacamole, how did that happen?) Predictably, the young one with strong opinions protested the ear check (oh, shocking…ear infection number eight in nine months) and getting his diaper back on.

Also predictably, the older one with strong opinions (and intensity and persistence and resistance to change and sensitivity) refused to get weighed or measured or checked until it was on his terms. I convinced him to see if he was taller than Dad, to see if he weighed more or less without his clothes, and to let the doc probe him by explaining what a liver, hernia, and scoliosis were.

And then, while I was cuddling the baby post-iron-check, the nurse got tired of waiting for Peanut to agree and told Spouse to hold him down for shots. He screamed, used his words, and tried to hit them, but they gave him four shots completely against his will.

That became the topic of the day.

“Mom, I’m going to kick that nurse if I ever see her.”
“P, it sounds like you’re really angry. We don’t kick when we’re angry. Can you think of a way to say how angry you are?”
“Dear nurse, you’re a fucking nurse.”

He went to school and hung out with the wrong crowd, and I watched him making horrible choices in the yard while I sat in the car with the sleeping toddler.

We went to ice cream with a friend and got several seconds of happy silence.

Went home and he went to wash his hands while I fed Butter. I heard something unusual. Three times. And as I hollered, “What are you doing?” he came crying, terrified, up the stairs.

“I turned on that fire thing.”

I figured he meant the wall heater, which he is forbidden to touch, and which I feared would cause a fire if used. I went into the downstairs bathroom and saw smoke everywhere but no flame or source. I freaked out. And as I whirled to go get the phone to call the fire department, saw the fire extinguisher. Pin removed, covered in white powder. The same stuff floating in the air.

Cue parenting moment…

Charged up the stairs and he ran, face registering that he sensed a beating coming. (NB: we don’t believe in beatings. Or spankings. Or hitting of any kind. But that kid is no fool.) I yelled.

M: Get back here!
P: [terror, tears, compliance]
M: [hugging him gently] I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t ever ever ever ever EVER do that again.
P: [nodding, sobbing]
M: That is dangerous. The chemicals in that can hurt you. That is for grownups in emergencies. Not for playing. Don’t ever ever ever EVER do that again.
P: [nodding, sobbing]
M: Don’t touch things that you don’t know about. There are reasons for rules, reasons for high shelves in cabinets, reasons for locks on doors.
P: [nodding, sobbing]
M: What you did was very dangerous. You could have been hurt. You are not hurt. You are okay. The bathroom is okay. I am okay. Butter is okay. Don’t ever ever ever ever EVER do that again.
P: [nodding and sobbing]
M: I can clean up the chemicals. The very dangerous chemicals. Very hurtful chemicals that are bad for breathing, bad for seeing, bad for bodies.
P: [nodding]
M: Ask before you do new things.
P: [nodding] That fire thing hurt me! [sobbing resumes]
M: Hurt you?
P: Yeah, it hurt my feelings that I did that.
M: Good. It should. That means you know good decisions from bad decisions. And you made a bad choice. Choose differently next time.
P: [nodding]

And then there was soccer. And dinner. And bath. And bedtime. And the poor kid was nice to his brother and calm and fun to be with every moment from 3pm on.

Apparently he needs the sh*t scared out of him, twice, to be an easy little creature.

Worth it?
No.
Cleaning monoammonium phosphate SUCKS. That stuff goes everywhere; burns eyes, nose, and throat; and lingers after sweeping, sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming.

And writing letters to fucking nurses tries my patience.

If Dennis the Menace and Bill Waterson’s Calvin and Eeyore and Yosemite Sam had a love child, s/he might give my kid a run for his money. Barring that…

Superhero powers

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The metamorphosis of a superhero:

Me: Peanut, come up for lunch, please.
P: Can’t. I’m working on a map of Rexington D.C.
M: Rexington D.C.?
P: Yep.
…
P: Here it is. The picture of Rexing D.C.
M: Rexing D.C., eh?
P: No. [articulating as though I’m learning the language] Ruxing D.C.
M: I see. Tell me about this. Looks like you worked really hard on it.
P: I didn’t have to. I’ve seen Ruxing D.C. It’s like kind of a wolf and kind of a coyote. The best kind of dog.
M: I see. Ruxing D.C.
P: No. Rexing D.C.
M: Right. A wolf kind of coyote kind of dog.
P: Right. My friend Rexing D.C. He’s like my superhero powers.

Um, okeedokee. There you have it. A map of  a picture of a canine friend that offers superhero powers.

Maybe my super power could be getting through the rest of preschool with my budding storyteller/coyote/superhero/dog nation’s capitol.

Surviving Rexington D.C.

Coming this summer from somewhere north of Hollywood.

 

Never thought I’d say this. Again.

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Peanut, please stop standing on the toys.

Feet aren’t something to put in people’s faces.

Stop playing with your food.

Baby, no teeth on mama. Teeth hurt. That’s biting. Mama doesn’t like biting.

Peanut, we don’t stand on toys.

Please stop playing with your food.

Stop pretend shooting at me.

If you can’t listen to me, I’ll take that away.

Toys are not for standing on.

Butterbug, You’re frustrated. I know, but biting is not okay. Ow. Biting hurts.

Please eat your food. Don’t play with it.

Stop pretend shooting at me. Pretend shoot at something else.

Please get your feet out of his face.

Get off the toy. Toys break if you stand on them.

Stop playing with your food.

Eat your food.

Food is not for playing. It’s for eating.
Eat your food.
Stop playing with your food.

YOU: stop biting me! And YOU: stop playing with your food. Stop pretend shooting at me or I’ll rip that paper towel tube out of your grubby paws. And stop standing on the motherfucking toys!

I’m starting to feel like her:

Tickets. Get your tickets.

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This weekend, Spouse took Peanut to an arcade museum. Pin ball machines, carnival games, and skee ball. Peanut was in heaven and has, since he came home, forced us to perform feats of skill and chance in exchange for tickets. Tape flags, really, that I gave him to get him to stop raiding my desk and (to my horror) the books I’ve flagged during my ongoing, stunted, stop-and-go research.

But that’s another story for another day.

Anyway. I’ve been bouncing balls across the room into yogurt cups for tickets. Spouse has been coaxing plastic toys through jumping contests for tickets.

And when Butter finally let go and walked on his own, Peanut counted the steps. And awarded Butter tickets for each unassisted step.

We have pages and pages like this.

Peanut is so excited to be in control.

Butter is so proud of himself it’s irresistible.

It’s a good time to be at Casa Naptime.

Mary Poppins need not apply

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Butter thinks he can walk. And he grabs my hand every opportunity he can, and drags me into the kitchen to see the vacuum.

“Gakaah,” he says, signing vacuum.
“Oh, yes,” I answer. “Here is the vacuum.”

He grabs my hand again and drag me into the living room, where we have a throw rug.
“Gakaah,” he insists, signing vacuum again.
“Yes. This is where we use the vacuum. The vacuum goes here. Vacuum is all done and put away.”

He drags me back to the kitchen and shows me the vacuum. Pulls me to the rug, shows me where to use it. Back and forth until he gives up. Clearly, I’m too stupid to understand that we need to vacuum again. Every hour or so.

Poor guy. When Peanut was tiny I totally vacuumed several times a day for him because he liked it. Pretending to be daft is a coping mechanism I’ve built over the past few years. And I fear for poor Butter (and Peanut and Spouse) that it’ll only get worse.

Never thought my highest aspiration would be acting thick. Oh well. It’s nice to be good at something.

Where in tarnation…

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In case you ever wonder why I go so long between posts…

This was screamed by Peanut from his bed at the end of an hour long bedtime battle royale from hell (screamed at his father):

“I want to go tell Mommy that I’m sorry I kicked you and hit you! [long beat] PLEASE! It’s important to me!”

Help me, Obi Won Ben or Jerry. You’re my only hope.

Rose-colored hindsight

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There was a time that a headache would strike at 4pm and I’d go into the corporate bathroom, two doors between me and the bright, loud, engaged world. I’d sit, disengaged, and I’d close my eyes for up to two minutes. Dark, cool, quiet. And if the headache didn’t resolve I’d know that in two hours there’d be peace and quiet at home. Solitude. Food.

Now when a headache hits at 4pm there is no dark, cool, quiet. There aren’t two doors between me and anything. There is no closing my eyes. There is no solitude (and often no food). Because two small people will get hurt and sad if I close two doors and my eyes. Now there are at least four hours before bedtime separates me and the bright, loud, engaged workplace. And those four hours will not be easygoing or peaceful. Those four hours will be escalating screaming and demands and hot, frantic, noisy unceasing tasks.

No sitting for four hours. No breathing or relaxing or closing eyes. That’s a lot of unfettered headache time.

Dinner comes much later, quiet comes much later. Cool, dark, quiet long blinks come much later.

Working is not a picnic. It’s rare to find an ideal work environment, and even when I do there are hard days. There are annoying people or clients or computers or projects. But there are bathrooms. And doors. And closed eyes. And a way to separate at the end of the day.

For people who leave work and come home to small, needy, loud, helpless creatures, it’s a jarring transition. And there are several hours before bedtime for them, too, after a long day of sometimes awful colleagues and awful bosses and awful projects and awful clients.

There’s nothing for me to leave. No “gee, today one job seems easier than the other and I’m glad I have work/home on days like these”. No closing some doors or opening others; no transition except bedtime—that sometimes relaxed and delightful, but usually dramatic and daunting cataclysm.

So 4pm headaches seem as though they’re a much bigger deal than they used to be. And when corporate bathrooms seem a dreamy vacation spot from my current world, maybe I need to reevaluate a few things in my life.

Where’s your dark, cool, quiet, disengaged happen? Is it hourly or daily or weekly? Is your dark, cool, and quiet at the mercy of others? Do you have a room of your own? Do you sit and blink and eat and go to the bathroom as you see fit?

How do you do that?

This week in Peanut early Feb.

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A week of regression and aggression. Let’s just put that out in the baby book right now. This was not a banner week. This was a week of Three all over again. Just before Five, Peanut’s Three all over again.

Full meltdown tantrums lasting at least a half hour each because:
1) He wanted the baby to watch him play, not touch anything, and not go away to do something else.
2) He wanted to get back in the bath after shrieking “I want to get out” for five minutes during the “wash yourself, please, or I’ll wash you” debate.
3) He didn’t want to go outside at all but he wanted to go to school. I get the problem; I do not get the long tantrum.

Sweet and adorable-to-surly ratio bordered on teen this week.

And when I had a rough day, he walked into the living room and proclaimed, “Mom, I think your brain is breaking. You gave me cheese but no crackers.”

A life, simplified

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Child:
Stop doing that and pay attention to me.
Stop driving and look at me.
Stop eating and do for me.
Stop talking and listen to me.
Stop sleeping and comfort me.
Stop reading and play with me.
Stop thinking and focus on me.
Stop being you and do what I need.

Parent:
I have to give them what they need.
I want to give them what they want.
Only what’s helpful.
What’s helpful?
Only what’s reasonable.
What’s reasonable?
Only what’s appropriate?
What’s appropriate?
Only what they need.
What do they need?
Almost everything they want.
But is it too much?
But is it enough?
But is it too much?
But is it enough?
No. But it’s all I can.
But is it enough?
Is it too much?
Is it enough?
No.

Shell of the person she once was

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Everyone knows children change you. But in my case, I’m ruined. Ruined, I tell you!

Wanna know eight ways in which I am totally wrecked now that I have kids?

8. I can’t do just one thing at a time.
It’s simply not possible any more to just read or cook or go to the bathroom. I have to run over mental to-do lists and gauge how long I have before one of the children loses it while I try to read, and I must dodge in front of the baby to snatch whatever crumbs he finds while I try to cook food for the family plus several special requests for the older child. And the one time this week I went to the bathroom without holding someone, yelling at someone, listening carefully for someone, or preparing to go stop someone, I was done and washed in 30 seconds flat. I used to use the office restroom as my locked-door-where-nobody-can-see-me-close-my-eyes-and-breathe-for-ten-seconds haven. Now I hold my breath and rush through so often that force of habit made me miss this week’s only solo effort.

7. I can’t ignore bugs.
I’m not a bug person. I paid my brother to collect bugs for me when Biology class mandated a bug murder-and-display project. But now that I have children I can’t let a bug go by without stooping down to check it out, point out its details, and wonder about its diet. Sometimes Peanut asks about a bug, but more often I’m distracting one or both boys from all manner of childish b.s. and need to point them to something unusual. So critters who used to make me shudder are now members of my emergency “please-let-me-make-it-through-today-and-I’ll-give-money-to-local-entomologists” toolkit.

6. I have amazing biceps.
Two children with long-term separation anxiety issues equals 5 years of lifting heavy weights. They don’t fit with the rest of my body at all, so I’m freakishly distorted now (aside from the typical post-pregnancy distortions none of which have I escaped).

5. I can’t see a garbage truck without looking around excitedly for a child.
It doesn’t even matter if I’m away from my own children. When I see or hear a garbage truck I get all frenzied hoping I can make someone appreciate this amazing (huh?), unusual (what?), scintillating (who are you?) sight.

4. Slightly more embarrassing is my new, post-child reaction to fire engines.
I grin and wave and talk excitedly about the differences between a pumper, tiller rig, rear-mount aerial ladder, and snorkel truck. Last week I went for a walk without the boys and realized only when I saw the reactions from the firefighters that I was waving and smiling while completely alone.

3. Clients seem a lot more reasonable.
After negotiating cataclysms in which sandwiches were cut rather than left whole, adults removed shoes from a comfortably shod child, protein is poison and little bodies claim to need only sugar to survive, and waitstaff are tipped heavily for the mounds of food on the floor beneath high chairs, clients who want a quicker turnaround or want additional iterations seem downright fair even when they don’t say, “please.”

2. I can’t vacuum without warning the household, even if I’m alone.
Every child goes through vacuum issues. Mine adore the vacuum and fight over who gets to be held aloft to steer with me. If I ever turn on the vacuum without making sure its dance card is properly allocated, I don’t hear the end of it for days. So I warn the cat about the noise and ask who wants to help. Even if it’s 11:00pm and nobody around me cares.

Everything is different now, but the biggest change, the most significant reason I am ruined now that I’ve had children:

1. I cannot pass by even one festive decoration without stopping and grinning. I didn’t even know I had it in my heart that is two sizes too small, but I’m fascinated and entranced by twinkly lights. Glitter makes me giggle. Streamers lighten my day. And its all their fault. As infants they made me look up. As toddlers they made me explain why. And as adults, they’re gonna pay.

Because I’m wrecked. They’ve ruined me.