Peanut Is Winning

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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

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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.

Once in a while

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Every once in a while, the day opens its gaping maw and tries to swallow you whole.

Every once in a while, both kids wake up two hours before dawn and cannot be coaxed back to sleep.

And they spend the morning bickering, screaming, and returning every effort at engagement or conciliation with a vengeance.

And pulling the orange juice out of the fridge to make a smoothie knocks a lid-askew jar of salsa onto the floor. And the toddler wants to help clean up with a patented finger painting technique.

And the eldest child responds to every question, request, or statement with a surliness worthy of a teenager forced to get up at 6am on a Saturday.

And you leave for school without lunches or water. And return, cheerfully, but find that the cat has vomited in front of the fridge.

And the toddler doesn’t want to walk or be carried or ride to school. He wants to lie down and watch traffic. From the edge of the curb.

And your phone didn’t charge the night before.

And the landlord wants to raise your rent and talk about it right as you’re dropping off the eldest and convincing the youngest that he can’t stay on the playground after the bell rings.

And your resident Cynic and Critic and Brain Voice come visiting with a slew of arguments against your worth as a human being.

And it’s right, at least, about your clothes not fitting any more.

And the toddler falls several times, reacts apoplectically to every situation, but refuses to nap.

And screams himself into a rage because you a)need a shower, b)dare to take one, and c)protect him from climbing into the sink for his favorite soap squirting project by bringing the stepstool into the shower with you.

And the walk to lure him into the stroller (and a default nap) fails because he refuses, REFUSES to get in but instead, every time you say “walk, please, or sit”, he gleefully sits on the ground.

And so your compromise of stoller-nap and exercise is shot to hell.

And your eldest greets you at pickup with a sour puss and a demand for variously outrageous things.

And the toddler and his brother spend the afternoon screaming “no” at every suggestion or game or dance party or knife-throwing contest you offer.

And they both want to help with dinner but spill so much on the floor you banish them from the kitchen, against your principles and heart’s best intentions.

And you realize you’ve become your mother.

And the toddler drags the stepstool over to the counter where you’re using 1)a kitchen knife, 2)a cheese grater, and 3) boiling water.

And you cry.

And he knocks down a bottle of soy sauce.

And runs into the living room and pees on the rug.

And you serve dinner that everyone refuses to eat.

And bath lasts 20 seconds because they’re both crying that they’re hungry.

And the knock at the door is a college student selling a cause you believe in but whose website you will now hack and occupy in righteous anger.

And there’s no yogurt in the house. And the toddler throws the container of hummus against the wall with the grandparents’ pictures.

And you sit patiently as they both take over an hour to fall asleep.

And your favorite show is not on. No reason except, presumably, that the networks have been listening to your resident Cynic and Critic and Brain Voice, and, as a result quite reasonably hate you.

Now, I’m not saying I’ve had one of these days. I’m just saying they happen. Once in a while.

Can’t be sure

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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

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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.

Did you know about this?

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One of my New Year’s Resolutions was to plan more activities for the kids. Not because they need to be scheduled and not because they can’t find things to do. But because games and projects are awesome. For everyone.

So after using Unplugged Play to plan Peanut’s birthday party and The Toddler’s Busy Book to keep Butter from scaling the drawers onto the kitchen counter spice up Butter’s mornings, I tried to find more options.

Did you know about Funology? Go play there. Lots of nifty ideas. Games and projects and whatnot.

Did you know about StarChild, where you can learn about the Universe and all its awesome bits?

Did you know about Build Your Wild Self? You and your child get to take different animal parts and build a cartoon version of yourself.

Wild Peanut

Wild Butter

There stuff on those sites for goofballs of all ages, so have fun playing!

Sixth birthday edition

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There are no words to express my surprise that we made it to age 6.

I have two thoughts for you, in honor of the many things my incredible child has taught me. Ready?

Plan activities for birthday parties that assume you will only get useful participation and energy for 7 minutes. That means a two-hour party needs *at least* fifteen planned activities. This time I achieved that planning goal, and we had a fabulous party and only one leftover activity. (I got lazy after decorate your own cupcakes and let him open presents. I know some parents say no way to opening in front of other kids, but I say “that’s seven minutes right there.”

And?

Kiss your kids every day that they’re here. A wonderful six-year-old friend was just diagnosed with leukemia and I don’t even want to think about things like that. So I’ll work on my patience and work on playing even more with my kids than I already do, and I’ll kiss them every single day they’re alive.

How’s that for a little party-planning and mortality blog post? At least you know you’re in the right place.

Naptime Writing, where our motto is “making things the opposite of easy for at least six years.”

In like a Liamb

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I can only suppose that the cross between lion and lamb is Liamb. Or a Throchee, if it’s trying to be significantly jarring.

I love March. So very much.

It’s giddy-makingly warm here and everything is so adorably excited to be growing. Maple trees ruddy themselves with shocking overnight growth, flowering bulbs dance in the breeze, plum and cherry blossoms toss petals everywhere, and color creeps into every unexpected corner.

Both my boys were born this month. I take special care every day of March to watch them just be. Inhabiting their bodies in ways no adult remembers how to do. Experimenting with the world in ways that produce amazing reactions that teach them the same Earth-bound lessons that thousands and thousands of humans before them have learned. Gravity’s plops and mud’s splats and water’s wily ways.

But these scientists are mine to care for, nurture, prune gently and judiciously, March reminds me.

Spring is one of the few times I feel I might be able to do that. Maybe even well.

Have a favorite month? Have a time of year that offers as much to you as Spring Festival and Nowruz and birthdays and a preponderance of green and white and yellow and pink and purple and blue? Prefer summer’s garden delights or fall’s brisk days or winter’s stark beauty?

March is magical in my little world.

How do you mark the year, dear reader? What makes you pause and appreciate all you have?

Listen to Your Mother

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Last weekend I stole away to San Francisco for a bit of heaven.

I started at the Ferry Building and picked up my favorite cheese (ask The Kitchen Witch how good it is) and a sourdough baguette from my favorite baker for breakfast and walked the length of the Embarcadero to an audition at Fort Mason.

Decommissioned military bases make me wildly nostalgic, as though I were part of a cozy military family in the brief post-war period of the 1920s. Every time I pass through a no-longer-guarded post gate I want to pause to adjust the seams in my no-longer-rationed stockings.

The day was magically sunny and cold, the tourists were sparse, and the audition went just okay. I’m questioning the piece I chose and my pacing, but I got a fabulous cup of coffee afterwards and walked back along the beach.

The good news, since I’m doubting I’ll get selected for the highly competitive show cast full of awesome Mamas, is that the San Francisco show in May will benefit 826 Valencia, my favorite resource for students and writers and my absolute favorite pirate supply store in the whole world. The latter is, I promise, one million times better in person. Their New York Super Hero Supply and Los Angeles Time Travel Mart are also riveting purveyors of awesomeness desperately needed in the superhero and time traveler communities, respectively. If you want to learn more about the genesis of the organization that serves school communities *and* pirates, check out this TED clip and marvel at what we can all do—every single one of us—to make writing something every child feels good about.

In no particular order

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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.

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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

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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.

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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.