Category Archives: Child Wrangling

Unthinkable

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I am, of course, not writing this post.

Because this post might venture along the periphery of an unmentionable, unthinkable, unseemly, untoward topic.

It’s just that I write in the evening now, after bedtime, and so the topic has raised its head for me to stifle and ignore. After bedtime battles and nonsense and bickering and adrenaline the topic begs and I refuse. I write when Peanut is at his worst and Butter is at his dreamy best but I resist writing this post.

I am definitely not writing this post, in which I might have pondered whether it’s perfectly normal to unceasingly adore a sweet, needy, small being who has a delicious temper and heart melting smile even when he is ripping my hair out at the roots, while at the same time loathing a sweet, high strung, intense, persistent, hilariously naughty, beligerent, sassy, funny, creative, ill tempered medium small being who has a horrific temper and a heart melting trill of “Mommy, I love you bigger than the Universe” even when he’s behaving in ways that make me rip my own hair out at the roots.

So I’m not asking if it’s common to find a growing rift in the desperate love of mother for child as the child individuates and tests limits and boundaries and the laws of physics. Nor am I asking if it’s typical to adore even the tough parts of meeting the needs of the completely needy infant who could, hypothetically, be causing pain or frustration.

Because I would never address the perception that pain and frustration from one child is less painful or frustrating than that of another child. Nor that mild annoyances from an older child are infinitely more infuriating than serious inconveniences from a younger child.

Especially in a blog.

Baby Steps

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SO I told you about renewing our efforts to parent gently and patiently. With empathy. Sans coercion.

Oh my god, it worked. One day, one incident, but it worked.

I picked him up at the preschool the other day and he was, as I arrived, kicking his best friend in the head. Yup. Glorious. Exactly what I was looking for in a carefully and thoughtfully parented child. A teacher was handling it so I took a breath and waited for him. Another parent told me he’d had a rough day. I wanted to read him the code of “we don’t hurt people” but I fought the urge. Someone had already done that.

So I asked what was going on. I got nastiness and barking and snapping. I breathed. We collected his lunchbox and shoes. I asked about his day. Barked nasty snapping. I asked what he wanted for snack. Snapped nasty barks. He had a cut over his eye and I asked how it happened.

“Nothing. My eye just comes this way,” he snapped.
“Honey, that looks like it hurts. Does it?”
“NO!” he barked. “This is how my eye always comes.”
I looked at him, buckled his seat belt and wordlessly, gently, closed the car door. I took a breath in my patented breathing machine (the slow walk around a car when the children are locked inside it).

By the time I sat in the driver’s seat, he said, “Fine, I’ll tell you.”

“In the morning Casey did something not nice—he took from me when we were playing Zingo—and I went away from him to play with Miles but we were playing and [he starts crying] I tried to go in the tunnel but I hit my head and hurt my eye and I didn’t like the snack and nobody was there to kiss my sore and I didn’t have any extra long pants I only had short pants for when I got muddy!”

I looked at him in the mirror. “Babe, that sounds just awful. Do you need a hug?”

He was sobbing by now and sputtered out a “yeah.”

I stopped the car and got out, walked around to his side, opened the door and kissed his eye. I hugged him. He cried. And I told him about how some days nothing goes right. I bit back the urge to talk about Alexander and his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Because some days you don’t want to hear about that. Even in Australia.

But what you do want to hear, when you’re an ass to your friend and your teachers and your mom, is that some days are like that. It’s not that you are a nasty person. It’s the days, hours, minutes that suck. Not you, little guy. It’s not you.

(Only because it was so out of character. If I saw this kind of nonsense all the time, we’d talk about a new way to roll with this behavior. But because I took a breath and a step back and didn’t correct him or diagnose him or try to fix him, he let his guard down and let me see the tiny little vulnerable dude inside. Oh, now that’s the dude I can help. And maybe one day, he’ll help a little vulnerable dude, too.)

How the mighty fall

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Peanut today declared, “Butter is my best, so he gets three stickers. Mommy, you’re my second best, so you get two stickers. Cat One is my third best, so he gets one sticker. And Daddy is my last, so he gets zero stickers.”

Spouse was miffed about being last until he realized Cat Two didn’t make the list at all. I was honored to come in second to a delicious baby, and knew it was my renewed efforts at being a damned decent parent that got me top billing and a couple of sparkly dolphin stickers.

Then, after lunch, I told Peanut, “Finish up playing, and in a little while we’ll have nap.”

“Daddy!” he called. “You’re third now, and Mommy’s last. Do you want her stickers?”

Open Letter to Alfie Kohn

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Dear Mr. Kohn,

I finally read Unconditional Parenting, which was recommended more than a year ago by a mom I really dig. At the time I was too busy to read it, and we were doing pretty dang well with the whole “respect kids don’t dictate to them; give them choices and empathy” stuff. I prioritized other work because I didn’t need your book at that moment.

Except that I did, because pretty soon after I put your book in my online shopping cart as a reminder to eventually read it, he turned Three.

All our parenting techniques went out the window as we fought to figure out how to get through each day. We started listening to those voices from family and friends who told us to take a harder line; as he got more out of control, we tried harder to control him. We tore out our hair and bookmarked the gypsies’ “going rates” page, and I cried almost every night in exhaustion and rage and terror at the creature who replaced the child we had parented so carefully. We drew the boundaries more tightly and he acted, predictably, as though the walls were closing in on him.

We barely made it out of Three alive. It took everything we could muster to survive. But unfortunately it meant we went from working with to doing to our son. And now that we’re coming out we know we’ve lost our way.

So thank you for the reminder that kids who are given firm rules and punished into following them misbehave just as often as children who are given respect and choices. And that those children who are treated as decent humans turn out to be just that.

Thank you, too, for the reminder that focusing on our long-term goals means both boys need to make as many decisions as possible now so they’re practiced in making good decisions later. That if we want to learn to influence them, we can’t coerce them. Not just because it’s demoralizing but because it doesn’t work.

Thank you for making me write down what I value so I’d remember that if I want these young humans to grow up and stand up for what’s right—to question repressive rules and fight for what’s important—they have to do it now. Gulp. With our structures (which are now more reasonable, generally created with his participation, imposed only when necessary, and flexible).

I feel more in control now that I’m not controlling. My son feels less caged and cornered and is a lot nicer to be around.

And we’ve redoubled our efforts to find an elementary school that refuses to create an environment where punishment and reward teaches kids only to obey, to do things for what their actions will get them rather than how their actions affect others.

Thank you for getting us back on track toward unconditional love and respectful, flexible, mindful parenting.

—The Calmer, Gentler NaptimeWriting Family

P.S. Dearest readers: don’t worry. The snark doled out weekly for most of the residents of this planet remains in all its bloggy goodness. There are only two mushy little dudes who get the aforementioned awesome me. The rest of you get the worn little nubbin that’s left after all the patient, respectful, engaged, long-term-focused defaulting to yes stuff.

Empathy is hearsay, your Honor

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As much as I knew that my words would come back to haunt me, I didn’t realize how they would be twisted.

P: Mom, why wasn’t Emily at school today?
M: I don’t know.
P: Why not?
M: Honey, I don’t know. I’m not in Emily’s family and I don’t live in their house so I don’t know what they are doing today.

This discussion led him, somehow, months later to:

P: I took Casey’s shoes today at school and ran away with them.
M: Oh. Why?
P: Because someone else took my hat and ran away.
M: And didn’t that make you sad?
P: Yup. Sad and angry and frustrated.
M: So why would you do that to someone else?
P: Because someone did it to me.
M: Well, if taking and running made you feel sad and frustrated, don’t you think Casey felt that, too?
P: Mom, I’m not Casey. I don’t know his feelings. I don’t live in his house. He might feel anything at all and I wouldn’t know.

Okay, counselor. Rest your case and get off of mine.

I did not know that.

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Everyone says babies are different, and I willingly grant that. But I did not know that some babies wake up and play, rather than scream every morning and naptime.

I also did not know some babies actually want to be put down. Peanut never did. He was three before his feet touched the floor. Butter gets to the point where my constant moving and constant talking are too much. He actually wants to be ignored for a few minutes.

I did not know that my love for adult board games would be countered by a raging intolerance for children’s games. But that card games stand the test of four year old play: incessant requests for a game of cards have not gotten old yet. And I have yet to say no to Go Fish. That game rocks.

I also did not know that “Go Fish” can be used outside of the game context. To wit:

Me: Peanut, do you want a sandwich for lunch?
P: Go fish.
M: Tortellini?
P: Go fish

Ah, that’s how it’s gonna be…

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Peanut got better, I got sick.
I got better, Butter got sick.
And now that sweet little pat of dairy-based lipid spread is teething, weathering a sore thigh from a painful vaccination, enduring an impressive ear infection, and tolerating then puking two nasty-flavored sugary pink medicines.

Boo. Hiss. Tears.

Hard not to dislike dirty, germy little preschoolers when your four-month-old is in pain.

It was pretty easy to keep a first, home-based, breastfed baby healthy for a whole year. It’s pretty hard to keep a second baby healthy no matter what you do.

Again I say: boo.

Now THIS I could get used to…

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Peanut was sick today. Poor lamb. Went to school but had them call me an hour in because he wanted his Mommy. Brought him home and he spent all day on the couch, quietly, after telling me “no t.v. because I just need to settle down.”

So he ate quietly at dinner, crawled into his jammies while Butter had a bath, and waited politely for stories. Butter fell asleep during storytime, Peanut didn’t battle us over anything. After bathroom and teeth and songs, he went sweetly to bed. Butter woke up to nurse one last time before…well, before the next time…and I asked Peanut if I could nurse the baby on his bed.

Sure.

So I sang to both boys as I nursed the tiny one. I told the older boy stories about when he was a baby. I changed Butter, put him to bed, and closed the door on two adorable, sweet, quiet, sleepy, well loved children.

Internet: if this was our night every night, I would have dozens of children. I’m not saying I want easy kids, because easy kids scare me. Spunky children plus supportive family equals interesting grownups.

But seriously, I could take one of these nights every week without being worried. As it is, this is a semiannual event. At best.

Garage sale life

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You know those yard sales where someone’s trying to convince you to buy a table with three legs, a jacket with no lining, and a great cassette collection though you have no cassette player?

Well, I’m the neighbor who keeps all that stuff in the house because it’s just embarrassing to drag it out to the lawn.

You might remember almost two years ago an adorable and indignant Peanut ruined my car stereo. It’s been hit or miss each time we’re in the car—sometimes we hear CDs or NPR and sometimes the speakers just won’t work thanks to the quarter still lodged somewhere in the CD player’s nether regions.

I’m getting fed up, though, There were weeks we heard 90% of what we wanted to. It’s now down to 25%, even with the trick Spouse devised where we Fonzie the passenger side of the dash to jiggle the quarter out of whatever contact points are blocked.

And you know what? “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me” is nothing if you hear only 25%. “This American Life” is useless if you hear one sentence out of four. And, most important, “Science Friday” might as well be “Science Monthly” since we hear almost none of it.

Bah humbug.

(btw, spell check allows Fonzie but not CDs. Proof the coders are over 40. Or knows more pop culture than punctuation rules.)

If you can’t beat ’em…laugh at ’em

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The first rule of Parent Club is you must talk about Parent Club. The second rule of Parent Club is never laugh at them, because it will come back to haunt you.

Mom: Peanut, it’s time to get out of the bath.
P: No.
M: Yup. Time for jammies. Pull the plug, please.
P: No.
M: Peanut, you can have Dad dry you or Mom dry you. Which one?
P: Green.
[Mom and Dad both laugh. Thus begins our downfall…]

Spouse: Peanut, time to put away your toys.
P: No.
S: Let’s see who can put away faster: you or me.
P: [looks right at Spouse and pauses…] Left.

M: Peanut, let’s go for a walk.
P: No.
M: It’s a gorgeous day, Mama wants some exercise, and you can choose to bring a blueberry muffin or a sandwich. Which do you want?
P: Green.

The non-sequitors are not just for defiance, either.

S: Peanut, time to get out of the bath.
P: No.
S: If you don’t pull the plug I will lift you out of the tub. And you will be sad because you like to do it yourself. And you will be cold. And I will put on your jammies and you will be a little cold and still sad. And you will get stories and songs but you’ll still be a little sad.
P: And tomorrow I’ll still be a little sad.
S: Correct.
P: Where did we get this washcloth?

The eighth rule of Parent Club is if this is your first child in Parent Club, you HAVE to parent.

The tragedy of Netflix

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Oh, streaming movies from Netflix is delightful. Spouse and I stream films the one or two nights a month we can find time beyond dishes and errands and food prep. And I found for Peanut both Kipper and Pingu for his movie day, thanks to the recommendations of readers who know my feelings about non-violent, non-menacing, non-commercial age-appropriate, limited-length DVDs.

Movie Day once a week means Shower Day for Mama Naptime. (Yes, that means most other days may not include showers. Show me the mother of small children who showers regularly and I’ll show you a woman with child care or a partner who is home during daylight hours.)

Movie Day with the DVD player also means Peanut gets the remote and watches, pauses, goes to the kitchen to eat a snack, comes back, watches, pauses, runs around, watches, pauses, snacks again, pauses, goes to the bathroom.

And that’s where the tale of Netflix’s wonderment goes horribly, horribly wrong. The remote does not work on streaming Kipper. Peanut is not allowed to touch the computer. Peanut cannot, therefore, stop streaming Kipper and life as he knows it comes to an end when nature calls.

P: Mommy! Mommeeeeeeee!
M: [soaped and NOT leaving the shower unless someone is on fire] Come on in here, Peanut. I know why you need me.
P: MOM! [crying] I need you. I need YOU!
M: Pea, come here.
P: [screaming, crying]
M: Peanut, I know Kipper won’t stop and I can fix it.
P: Mom, I have to go potty and Kipper won’t stop. IT WON’T STOP! [scream in rage, fear, and helplessness. piercing scream. new scream. painful scream.]
M: Peanut, come into the bathroom.
[he does, crying]
M: Honey, I know Kipper won’t stop. That makes you sad.
P: [sobbing]
M: Honey, go potty while I tell you how I’m going to fix it.
P: [sobbing louder, stis]
M: Honey, the remote doesn’t work on the computer. Kipper is playing from the Internet to the computer and the buttons you have don’t work.
P: [nodding, crying]
M: And that makes you so sad.
P: [sobs]
M: I know it’s sad, babe. You’re disappointed. But Peanut? I can fix it. I can make Kipper stop and go back.
P: [sobbing]
M: Honey, I can make Kipper go back so you don’t miss any of the new Kipper.
P: But it won’t stop.
M: Honey, I can make it stop and I can make it go back. I will fix it. You won’t miss any Kipper.
P: [crying]
M: Peanut. Take a deep breath. You’re sad. I will fix it.
P: [crying, wiping eyes]
M: I will fix it, babe.
P: [crying, washes hands, goes back to living room, and I thank heavens, again for Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish. And as he continues to cry, I wonder if the empathy can stop in a while because, for crissakes, I said I could fix it and he needs only wait the ten glorious minutes I need to wash out the huge clumps of postpardum hair leaving my head in a fistful each hour of the day. ]

I rewound the playback to the exact moment he told me tragedy struck. And he watched the rest of the movie, scarred for life and terrified of ever needing to go to the bathroom again.

Thanks for the tragicomedy, Netflix.

Why Parents Hate Parenting

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Oh, boy. There are a big steaming bundle of quotes in this New York Magazine article on the huge pile of crap that is contemporary parenting. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

Did someone say their emotional life is “a high-amplitude, high-frequency sine curve along which we get the privilege of doing hourly surfs”?

Yes, yes she did.

Did somebody remind us of the research that shows “Most people assume that having children will make them happier. Yet a wide variety of academic research shows that parents are not happier than their childless peers, and in many cases are less so”? Yup. Same article.

Hmm. “As a rule, most studies show that mothers are less happy than fathers, that single parents are less happy still, that babies and toddlers are the hardest, and that each successive child produces diminishing returns,” you say? Tell me more. Despite believing firmly in attachment parenting, in offering a supportive, firm, and respectful environment, despite being on top of the current child development research on how discipline means teaching and therefore must be gentle, this article sings the refrain of how much parenting sucks.

The article mentions that people seem skeptical of this data, seem to pity those “for whom” this is true. Those must be the lying liars on facebook who claim life is always a bowl of cheesy-poofs.

Or, did I mention, they’re lying liars. Before Spouse and I had Peanut, my OB said, “avoid anyone who tells you parenting is bliss, wonderfully rewarding, or a blessing. Parenting is rarely joyful. Children can be delightful. Parenting is a hot steaming bowl of stress thrown on your favorite couch. While you’re on it.”

Some people, as one researcher notes, want children and think they’ll be happy, only to find that offspring “offer moments of transcendence, not an overall improvement in well-being.” The moments of bliss are opiate. And the rest of the day is 23.5 hours of drudgery.

Because, as the article quips, as industrialization led to sheltered childhoods (rather than apprenticeships and farm labor at a young age) children “went from being our staffs to being our bosses.”

I bristle at the suggestion that it’s organizing projects and scheduling children that makes parenting difficult. Luckily, the article clarifies that it’s actively paying attention to children rather than ignoring them that is so freaking exhausting. Soccer and ballet aren’t the problem. Knowing that discipline means teaching gently and consistently, listening and responding empathetically teaches emotional maturity, attachment leads to independence, and subverting your desires to help your children become model citizens is simply way more work than any paid job.

And this parenting job sucks the life out of parents who work at home or who work outside the home. “Today’s married mothers also have less leisure time (5.4 fewer hours per week); 71 percent say they crave more time for themselves (as do 57 percent of married fathers). Yet 85 percent of all parents still—still!—think they don’t spend enough time with their children.”

Not surprisingly, those societies (I’m looking at you, Holland) that value nurturing children, that pay for a parent to stay home with babies for over a year, that support breastfeeding, that pay for good education and health care, and that offer quality childcare to all workers means parents are less exhausted, stressed, and angry. “Countries with stronger welfare systems produce more children—and happier parents.” But we’re buying Baby Einstein crap instead of lobbying for social changes that will actually produce smarter, healthier, more self assured children.

This article makes me want to shake every person pining for a child and show them that: “Children may provide unrivaled moments of joy. But they also provide unrivaled moments of frustration, tedium, anxiety, heartbreak.” Parenting is not all buttercups and rainbows. And it’s not just the vomit and the late nights and the filthy carseats. It’s soul DRAINING, emotionally WRENCHING, personally EXHAUSTING bullshit day in and day out that leaves icky stains on life.

And yet we smile for the ten seconds each hour that our children are joyful, those crazy-making little monsters for whom we sacrifice what seems like everything.

Interview with Butter

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Welcome, readers, to today’s feature interview: a discussion with the newest reason I can only write at naptime. Without further ado, I give you Butter.*

Me: Good morning, Butterbean.
B: Thththththeeee.
M: Really? Is that what you’re planning to do today?
B: Aaaaaaaaaaah. Glue.
M: Glue? Glue what?
B: Aaaahhhyyyyy noodle.
M: Glue noodles? That’s very crafty of you.
B: [smiles]
M: Where did you learn pasta arts?
B: Ggggggggerhard.
M: Gerhard Schroeder? Is that what he’s up to these days?
B: Aaaaaaaah. Thhhhhthhhtheeee.
M: I think it’s Angela Merkel, but a lot of world has passed me by lately.
B: Ghee.
M: That’s right, Butter. You happened.
B: Ghee.
M: Mmmm-hmmm. Clarified butter. Ghee.
B: Aaaaaaaah ghee.
M: Let’s not get too full of ourselves, here, B. You’re new.
B: Kkkkkkkkglue.
M: Right. Thanks for the course correct: onto projects. I had you scheduled for tummy time, music time, chewing stuff time, staring at shadows time, and napping, but if you want to glue, I can roll with that.
B: Ghee. Aaaaaaah ghee.
M: Yes, well, you’re cute, but let’s not go overboard. You’re a baby. Babies aren’t that interesting.
B: Aaaaaaaahhhhhyyyyyyy.
M: You are? Maybe.

*Posts such as this are why stay-at-home mom writers should not be given Internet access. I’ll probably delete it later, out of sheer embarrassment. But the fact that you read this far means at least that you’re as desperate for entertainment as I am.

Also? This is the actual conversation we had this morning, Butter and I. So now who’s a little desperate?
Oh, yeah. Still me.

Contrarian. Rhymes with Librarian.

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Me: Peanut, please don’t climb on the furniture.
P: Why?
M: Because you could get hurt.
P: No I won’t.

M: Pea, please leave the trash in the gutter.
P: Why?
M: Because it’s germy.
P: No it’s not.

M: Peanut, honey, please sit while you eat.
P: Why?
M: Because if you wiggle all over you’ll spill.
P: No, I won’t.

M: Honey, we don’t throw in the house.
P: Yes we do.
M: No. The rule is no throwing in the house.
P: Why?
M: Because whatever gets thrown could break something.
P: No it can’t.

M: Pea, please help me by carrying your lunch box to the car.
P: Why?
M: Because I can’t carry too many things at one time.
P: Yes you can.

M: Sweet thing, next time, please wait one minute until I finish on the phone.
P: Why?
M: Because I can’t hear two people talking at once.
P: Yes you can.

M: Peanut, please use a smaller voice.
P: Why?
M: Because it’s early morning and nobody is ready for a big voice yet.
P: Well, I am.
M: I mean that Mom and Dad and the neighbors can’t take it.
P: Yes you can.

M: P, please clean up for bath.
P: I won’t.

M: Pea, please don’t point that at me, I don’t like it.
P: I will point at you because I like it.

M: Babe, please bring that shirt to the laundry.
P: No.

M: Peanut, do me a favor, please, and use your inside voice.
P: NO!

I can’t wait to teach this kid to drive.

Dream job

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Peanut: Mom, when I’m a grownup I’m not going to work.
Me: Oh, yeah? What are you going to do?
P: I’m gonna sit around. Maybe read books. And sit around.
M: Hmm. Well, how are you going to get money to pay for heat and water and a place to live and food?
P: And a car.
M: And a car.
P: Well, I’ll just take the money.
M: From whom?
P: Who?
M: From whom?
P: From stores.
M: Oh. Then the stores won’t have money to buy things to put in the stores, and won’t have money to pay the workers.
P: I won’t take all their money. Just some.
M: Oh. Well, maybe you should have a backup plan, because taking is not okay, and a judge will put you in prison if you take money from stores.
P: …
M: So what’s your plan for after you get out of prison?
P: I know. You know when sometimes people drop money and don’t know they dropped it and it’s okay to take it if nobody knows whose money it is?
M: Yup.
P: I’ll just find money like that.
M: …
P: Then I won’t have to go to work.
M: Pea, you might want to have a backup plan for that one, too…