Category Archives: Child Wrangling
Thank you, sir. May I have another?
While I tried to make dinner, the boys created a fanciful new game I call “Throw All the Parenting Books Across the Room.” It’s so named because they were throwing all the parenting books across the room.
No, seriously. They left alone the Modernist lit, the graphic novels, and the literary criticism. They threw all the books on practicing patience and being playful and cultivating respect rather than fear.
I gently informed them that, when books get thrown, books get broken. When books get thrown, people get hurt. And when anything gets thrown, I can’t make dinner, so dinner will take longer. The last reason, I was surprised to find, got them both to make eye contact and stop their…how do I put this gently…bullshit. They knocked it off and I finished dinner.
Hmmm. Could this technique work more often?
I was drawing a bath for two-year old Butter and he tried to climb my back and vault into the tub. I told him gently that when he climbed me it made me scared he might fall down. He calmly climbed down.
And got the cat’s water bowl and poured it down my back.
Hmmm. Could this technique perhaps have a blind spot right around Age Two?
As evening called us bedward, I asked the boys to please help me clean up. We had amassed on the living room floor a LEGO collection equal to the task of recreating the Great Wall of China. We all picked up the pieces, depositing them with great mirth and efficiency in the appropriate container. I thanked the boys for their help and told them when we worked together, cleaning up was faster and more fun.
Butter smiled. And dumped out the whole collection right back where it was.
Hmmm. How long does one try a person-management technique before one abandons it for binge drinking and 4pm bedtimes?
Okay
My heart is broken and the sheen has gone off this glorious season of sun and school-less freedom.
Why? Today Butter said, “okay.”
No big deal to you, I know.
But for six months he has said, “Haykoe.” It was an adorable, dyslexic, mirror image of okay that I found so delicious I asked him several times each day if he was okay just to hear that yes, in fact, he was haykoe.
But now he’s just okay.
[sob]
Well, poop. It’s the beginning of the end.
Wordless Wednesday
Cataclysmic panic
Butter is going to walk with us to school tomorrow, and then I’m going to bring him to the playground where I’ll hand him off to his new sitter for a couple of hours.
I’m terrified. I’ve never done this. And I think it’s too late to change my mind.
We never had a sitter for Peanut. We have since found someone who has taken both boys for outings maybe a handful of times. A few friends have read a book in our living room after the boys are already asleep so we can go to meetings or birthday parties.
Otherwise, it’s been all me, Spouse, and grandma.
This is a bigger leap of faith than walking onstage alone. This is a more terrifying leap off the ledge than submitting my novel to agents. This is a bigger step into the abyss than marriage, natural childbirth, or the first few strokes of a triathlon.
This might even be a farther stomach-plummet than watching Peanut line up for kindergarten. My innards fell seventy-two stories that day, and splatted in the basement as he walked into the classroom.
And this feels even worse.
I will hand my baby over to a virtual stranger, fake a smile, and walk away.
And just thinking about it makes me want to vomit.
Remind me again why I said I wanted this?
calling all knock knock jokes
I need some good jokes for keeping the six-year-old entertained at the dinner table.
Our current fave:
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Panther.
Panther who?
Panther no panth, I’m goin’ thwimmin’.
(Credit to a three-year-old friend circa 2000.)
Your turn. Hit me with your best joke.
Mental image
Peanut and Butter each have a toothbrush that plays a minute-long song so they can brush their innocent young enamel and gumlines for the right amount of time.
Because the manufacturer is focused on non-toxic materials and earth-friendly practices, the brushes’ rap talks about turning off the water while you brush and other such lovely green messages.
It also, at one point, says “grab your parents; grab your mom, grab your dad.” I’ve always thought about the families this might alienate, for some have only onehttps://naptimewriting.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post-new.php?post_type=post of those, some are grandparented, some are two-mom parented or two-dad parented.
Either way, I had no idea the kids were really listening until I watched Peanut brush.
As the song said “Grab your parents” he clutched the seat of his pajama bottoms as he brushed and danced.
Turns out he thought it said, “Grab your pants; grab your mom, grab your dad.”
And now that he knows it’s funny enough to make me shoot water out of my nose, he runs around the house singing, “grab your pants,” as he does so. With little Mini Me following and garbling the lyrics even worse than his big brother does.
It is side-stitchingly hilarious. And I need that at bedtime.
Nature or Nurture
My son’s a genius, and I think it’s because I’m so awesome.
Really.
Look, I’m the first to assert that serial killers, bullies, and medievalists are the fault of their parents. So may I take credit for the following?
Peanut and I were talking last night, in a rare moment of the-toddler-fell-asleep-early-and-we-can-take-a-breath-and-have-a-normal-bedtime bliss. We talked about the Universe’s vastness and how the outrageously ginormous solar system is relatively diminutive. We talked about the SETI Project and ways they’re listening for life beyond the planet. We talked about how life elsewhere might look like germs or octopi or monsters, and my brilliant six-year-old interrupts me.
“Mom,” he says. “If we find something out there, if it’s germs or aliens or fish, they’re going to think *they* are people and that we are aliens.”
My dear, sweet, amazingly empathetic six-year-old: you just surmised, all by yourself, what I hoped to teach you over the course of your young life. Look at the situation with someone else’s eyes.
I marveled at his revelation, and, for good measure, threw in a bit of “that’s why when we think of ‘other’ people from another culture or country or who look different, we need to remember they’re people, too, and we need to see things their way.” But I didn’t need to. Because I’ve already done such a good job that he’s wise beyond his years in such matters.
My work here is done, people. I think I just earned a leisurely evening of confections and John Hughes films for my awesome luck parenting.
You did WHAT to make a baby?
We’ve dodged a bullet on the sex talk so far, and I had been lulled into a false sense of security.
But Kate at And Then Kate has shaken me violently from my fantasy world into a world full of reality and questions and a ticking time bomb in the form of Judy Blume chapter books.
Seriously, I don’t know how we’ve avoided The Talk. Except that I do, because our six-year-old hasn’t asked yet.
He was 3.5 when I told him we had to go to the doctor because either I had a germ making me very very sick or the chemicals from a growing baby were making me very very sick. He eventually asked how the baby would get out and I explained uterus, cervix, vagina. He asked if the baby had a key to open the cervix. I explained contractions. He was satisfied with the answer, though disappointed that the baby didn’t get a key and that, by extension, he didn’t either. Please. Like I’d give that kid the key to my cervix. He’s way too facile with a fire extinguisher and there’s no way I want my cervix opening when I’m least expecting it. Like at Target, when I’m lording my fabulous parenting skills over the people screaming in the dollar aisle. Terrible place to have your cervix flapping open.
He never asked, over the seven subsequent months, how the baby got there or why. We were prepared with a “when two grownups love each other…” but never got to use it.
He did ask that year why his cousin looked different from her family, and I told him about how some families really want children and how other people really want to give a special gift to those kinds of families. We talked about how families come in all sorts of varieties and how great that is. We talked about how some bodies can’t have babies and how some people don’t want to. But he didn’t ask why or how some people get to choose. I was ready. But never used that conversation, either.
At two different points, he asked why he’s a boy not a girl and I said the seed that grew to be him was a boy seed, and how it was full of all the information called DNA to tell his body what to be like, but that who he is—the thoughts and dreams and choices—is not in the seed and that though he can’t choose a lot about his body, he gets to decide who he is. Mostly because I really didn’t need “well, the seed that I grew from just doesn’t eat vegetables/say please/put away toys.”
I didn’t bother with the detail that it takes two half- seeds to make a seed, nor how those half- seeds find each other. Because I’m smart enough to answer the question asked, not insert my own interpretations.
[You know this one? Boy runs into the kitchen and asks, “Dad, where did I come from?” Dad replies with love and sperm and egg and intercourse and gestation and birth. Boy, mouth agape and increasingly horrified, manages to say, “Wow. Jimmy says he came from Los Angeles.”]
So every day Peanut doesn’t ask, I’m happy. I could handle it, I guess, but I don’t want to.
But soon, the questions will pounce on me and I will die, right there, on the spot.
Except I won’t. Because Kate says this book, available through your local, independent bookseller, will fix everything. My indie bookseller says that the window for that book is almost closed and I might soon need this one. And this one for boys about puberty. [slight panic sets in.]
And Near Normalcy told me how to handle everything.
Except one part. I have boys. Part of my discussion about the fact that some day you’ll think your penis is more than something to grab *constantly* whether you’re awake or asleep, is that you may not do whatever you want with your penis. When you’re alone, you may do what you want with your body as long as it doesn’t hurt. But when you’re with other people, you cannot do anything you want. For one, a penis is a private thing and not for sharing. And even when you’re a grownup and you love someone and decide to share your penis, it is only okay if the other grownup you love says “yes.”
You have to listen to people’s words about their own bodies and they have to listen to your words about your body. Your body is just for you. Sex is not for kids, sex is private, sex is only when you’re a grownup and another grownup you love says yes to you. Until then, remember that your penis is private and only for you. Private, only for you, no means no.
[Holy guacamole. Panic now full blown and I am in serious need of self medication. Easter chocolate already gone. This is too big a job for jelly beans. I need something stronger. Is there such thing as Jack Daniels over jelly beans? An Amaretto Jelly Bean Daiquiri? I think that’s a thing. I think I have a recipe here somewhere and I’m going to…oh, screw it. I’ll just wing it.]
Oh, boy. I am so glad he hasn’t asked yet.
And I’m so glad I just jinxed myself right here on the Interwebs. Good job, Me. Way to freaking go.
World’s Worst Parent *or* Genius
Of course, there are probably shades of grey between World’s Worst Parent and Total Parenting Genius, but I’ll ignore them for a moment. Nuance is not as much fun as hyperbole.
So here’s my bid for the Worst Parent title: We’re not doing Easter.
We had an egg hunt for Peanut’s birthday party last month. And I used up all my non-candy, non-toxic, secular egg-filling ideas back then.
So we’re not having an egg hunt. Or Easter baskets. Or any recognition of the holiday other than a journey to some awesome friends’ party.
I guess that means I’m making our friends do all the work in Easter’s name. And since this is two years in a row, I guess my kids will associate this holiday with someone else’s family and the expectations will be aimed squarely at *them* next year.
This slacker idea is looking better and better.
Terrible? I don’t know…seems that if we don’t celebrate the Jesus part of Easter we shouldn’t get the other stuff. And that if we have three birthdays in March I’m allowed to skate past a holiday I find ridiculous. (The secular part is ridiculous. The religious part is entirely your business and I totally get why you’d celebrate it. I’m quibbling with the bunny who poops chocolate, not with your Lord.)
Awesome? I don’t know…seems as though my entitled, still reeling from the glow of several birthday parties kids are missing out on something magical. Like a springtime festival of…oh, wait, we do that for the equinox. Like a raucous search for plastic eggs…oh, wait, we did that already. Well, certainly they’re being robbed of the chance to…dye eggs? Get plastic grass all over the house? Eat candy?
Doesn’t sound genius, but it sure doesn’t sound as bad as, say, hissing through clenched teeth on an airplane “Please, for the sake of all that’s holy, knock it off and use your inside voices because we’re stuck in this plane for four more hours and I swear to God I’m going to lose it if you both scream one more time!”
Ahem.
I just know I’m not doing any more holidays for a while. Frivolity is all fun and games until…until someone loses an eye? Steps on a wayward jelly bean? I don’t know. I’m just saying “no” this year.
Or, more to the point, I’m not saying anything at all.
[Shhhh…Happy Easter!]
Very interesting
I’m not going to judge, blogo-world. I’m not going to label or name or do a Michel Foucault Order of Things kind of categorization. I’m just noting a few things. For your information or enjoyment. Or blackmail, later.
1. Toddlers who don’t sit down, ever, do not do well on airplanes.
2. Toddlers who like to scream “No!” at everything do not go over well with strangers. On airplanes.
3. Rescue Remedy pastilles work Every. Single. Time. Even if it takes half a tin to calm a Screaming Toddler on a Plane. And even if I don’t remember them until hour 4 of Screaming Toddler on a Plane.
4. There are things way more scary than Snakes on a Plane. See #3.
5. Toddlers who like to scream “No!” are particularly amusing when they bellow at the ocean. “No!” does not seem to keep toddler-piled dry sand safe from waves.
6. My six-year-old is really fun to be with.
7. It has been a long time since I was alone, playing, in the silence, with my six-year-old.
8. My toddler is really fun to be with.
9. It has been a long time since I was alone, playing, in the silence, with my toddler.
10. Aforementioned bouts of silent play, at least one hour with each child, brought to us by LEGO.
11. I will now buy stock in LEGO, despite my anger about their gender-ghetto pink and purple manicure salon and beach-lounging LEGO sets.
12. Kids do believe several servings of ice cream per day is just right.
13. Children kept to very regular sleep schedules at home are wildly wakeful on vacation.
14. Your own kids playing in the pool are the cutest thing ever.
15. Other people’s children playing in the pool are not cute. Ever.
16. Every kid playing in the ocean is adorable.
17. In public, women tend to look at children, especially babies as they go by. And often smile. Men almost never look, no matter how adorable the children or behavior are.
18. All of the above still shock me.
Peanut Is Winning
I’ve been working hard on not yelling. I’m not a patient person, I’ve found more patience than I ever though I possessed in my parenting journey, and I still occasionally lose it and bark at my children. Especially the older one. And I could sound all apologetic and acknowledge the damage I do when I raise my voice, but I have to tell you, I’m kind of over the judging myself thing. When I feel like a terrible parent I go to Target and watch other people parent. Then I pat myself on the back and go back to doing my best.
I don’t like yelling. And saying something gently three or four times in a row, then yelling, is not a pattern that’s working for us. So I don’t get to three and I don’t yell after four. I change my approach after the first try doesn’t work.
So I’ve worked hard on the rekindling the techniques I busted my ass to cleave to when Peanut was Two: making eye contact, getting down on his level, speaking softly in concise, simple sentences.
But this older Peanut is always on the move, and rarely wants to make eye contact with someone trying to tell him what to do.
So lately I’ve seen a lot of his back, to which I calmly say, “Peanut Cacahuete Naptime: look at my face.” When he’s looking I know he hears, I can use a quieter voice, and the process of getting him to turn around defuses my anger. As Mommy Mantras says, the pump is already primed. When pressed, if I can find a release valve for the top 20% of my frustration, I can get a restart on a tense situation and behave like the parent I want to be.
Yesterday before bath I needed him to hear me about a politeness issue. “Peanut,” I said to a hastily retreating boy. “Look at my face.”
He turned and looked in my eyes. “What is it, Too Serious Mother?”
He knew he had me. His eyes held mine and absolutely danced with his impression of his cleverness. I chuckled and told him quickly what I needed to say. He scooted off down the hall to do what I was going to ask anyway, because the little bugger *does* hear me. He just often doesn’t want to.
Bio of a toddler
Meet Butter, our resident two-year-old.
His favorite activity is dumping things. Water, sand, popcorn, sun lotion, jars of pricey spices, salad dressing, rice milk, liquid soap…if it responds to gravity, he will watch it fall to the ground. Intermediary stops (such as a bucket, bowl, or sink) are tolerable for a few dumps, but then wholly unacceptable surrogates for the Mother of All Dumping Grounds: The Floor.
His idea of cleaning up is shoving things under the couch. He does this without being asked, but when prodded to help clean up he shoves fistfuls of anything he can reach under the nearest furniture.
His favorite place to sit is in gravel.
His favorite place to lie down is in gravel. Second place: sidewalk.
His favorite animal is a cow. He will gladly tell you about the time he was feeding a calf celery and forgot to let go and the calf bit his finger. Gently. But it hurt. But it got better. And now he likes big cows not baby cows.
His favorite color is yellow.
His favorite game is “Where’s Butter?”
His favorite snack is cream cheese. Right out of the tub. Thanks for the whipped organic option, Trader Joe’s, since regular cream cheese is hard to eat with a tiny Green Toys yellow spoon.
The only utensils he’ll use are tiny Green Toys yellow spoons and polka dot handled cheese spreaders.
The only comfort he wants when psychically wounded is draped on his mama with both hands entwined in her hair. Like an orangutan baby.
His favorite word is “no.” His favorite reply is “no.” His favorite shout is “NO!” His favorite question is “No?” And his favorite whisper is “no.”
His favorite outfit is naked. Gloves, hat, and oven mitt are optional.
He likes his food slightly colder than room temperature. Hot’s no good, warm’s no good, fresh from the fridge is no good. Even popsicles are asked to wait until they are two minutes shy of a puddle.
His favorite number is TWO!
Everything is two.
And now he is, too.
Happy birthday, you crazy delicious goofball love bug.
Can’t be sure
Because taking a woman out of her element and letting her parent two amazing baby humans is akin to stringing her up by her ankles and asking her to live with bats, I’m not always sure what I’m doing. It’s hardly my fault. I’m a diurnal, visual biped forced to hang upside down and fly around echo-locating by night.
So I was surprised when our two-year-old decided his outfit for the week would be just socks. On his hands. And nothing else.
I shouldn’t have been shocked. His brother did the same thing for one whole month, four years ago. Also in the winter. It’s as though winter nudity with impromptu mittens/puppets is in the toddler manual.
Wait, is it?
The week of rain at the end of a rainless winter did not surprise me. Neither did the frenetic and borderline sociopathic cabin-fever behavior during the same time. What did shock me was how planned activities totally took care of everything. One part dance party, one part playdough party, one part playdate, one part role playing goodness. Who knew? (I did. I had just forgotten. We’ve had a dry winter and I haven’t had to do this for over a year.)
And I was taken aback when the six-year-old decided it was time to use his words, react calmly, and speak in a normal tone of voice.
For the first time in six years.
Who knew that there was a phase during which children were reasonable, interesting, and fun to be with?
Oh, yeah: Me. Because it happens at least once an hour.
Sucked in by the cute
Butterbean is trying his hardest to get sanctioned by the U.N. Security Council. Dude, he is pushing our every button and flagrantly violating every toddler rule of international conduct.
So why are Russia and China refusing to approve an official sanction? Their evidence, entered into the official Cuteness Registry of Adorable Guerrila Warfare:
He yells, “Mama, pee!” and runs to his little potty and sits. With his pants on. And as I come rushing over to help, he grins, gets up and says, “nah, no” and runs away.
His favorite game is Yes-No. I ask him if he’s ready to get out of the tub and he says, “Yeah.” So I stand to get him and he changes his mind. “Nah,” he smiles. So I sit. Then he says, “Yeah” and I start to stand and he says, “Nah.” He can do this, honestly, 30 times before he plays something else.
He waits for me to go to the bathroom, then climbs the drawer handles to the kitchen counter, unscrews the spice jars’ lids, and dumps each into the stock pot. Then waits…*waits*…with a spoon and asks if I want some soup. When I say yes (through clenched teeth) he puts on the lid and signs “wait.”
He stands in the door to the kitchen and counts on his fingers: “Two, two, two; GO!” and runs through the house. Then back to the starting line and “two, two…”
I think if I can just get Portugal and Columbia to vote with me on their way out, I might get the council to approve a Yogurt Embargo until he cleans up his act.
NaptimeWriting 