Tag Archives: attachment parenting

Two Months, just checking

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Okay, so you know I was terrified of having two children. You know I have a super intense first-born, and that I feared for my sanity and his safety if having another baby was as hard as I thought it’d be.

I heard two schools of thought from other parents: “one plus one is twenty”; or “the second is much easier.”

We’ve only been doing this two months, and it will change, but here’s what I’ve found so far: the second has made life in our family much easier.

The obvious part is that I know more this time around, and my bag of tricks is not only full but indexed, cross-referenced, and dog-eared. I know what and why and how…and his particular pat of Butter is delightfully easy to read. He has his own sign language already, and it makes life much easier than my first, squalling, hard to read Peanut did.

But the bigger stuff is easier, too. The shock of having a child is enormous, and I was not prepared for P. I had clothes and car seat and slings, I was not really ready because I had no idea that not one second of my day would be my own for years after having a baby. My mom always said that parenthood means never reading the newspaper all the way through; in our house it meant never getting past the headlines on the front page. I had no idea that having a child meant never thinking a thought all the way to completion, rarely showering, never peeing in peace, and crying of some sort every single day. I didn’t know that having a child led to loss of self and to both love and hate. I didn’t know my day would never again follow my rhythm, but rather someone else’s, which made me feel like I was living on another planet, upside down, with three heartbeats guiding me through the fog.

Well, a second child doesn’t change any of that. Those huge changes don’t get bigger. They’re done. I’m not myself and my day’s not mine; that was already true. I can’t grab my keys and wallet and just GO; that was already true. I don’t have time to read or write; it’s been four years, so what’s another four? I’m up at night; already true. Not much has changed except the number of beautiful, perfect, wonderful, needy, crying creatures in my house.

And I’ll tell ya, since my first is so freaking much, so much more, it seems, than most children, the second is an emotional break. He’s a reason to detach during the big one’s tornadoes, the ones that made me feel like a hostage negotiator. Butter is a sweet little lump of need who gives me the distance to see what Peanut needs versus what he wants. Butter bean creates a triad in which I don’t perpetually put myself second because that’s not possible any more. Instead of being last all the time, now sometimes I’m second, sometimes third, sometimes fourth. But here’s what’s new: sometimes I now come first. Because the new balance allows me to see when that’s possible. Little windows in which I am human again.

I don’t know what I’ll feel next month or next year. And I’m done trying to figure it out. Because having children teaches you there’s almost no point in planning, yet I still tried for four years. Having a second baby is teaching me what I’d miss if I spent all that energy again.

Big thumbs up to having two. I laughed as our friend j from 20 Fingers 20 Toes foretold months ago**, but having this wee lad has made me more mellow and life quite enjoyable—the whole “life not being my own” and whatnot notwithstanding.

** “perhaps the new human is a harbinger of calmness entering your life…” 1/10/2010, j

Don’t judge me…

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Don’t judge that I let my kid dress himself. Of course not, you say. Why would I? It’s an effective way to let them feel in control of their day and their bodies. Well, if you saw him, you’d be tempted to judge. Just know that his new linebacker girth is due to more than a half dozen shirts and several pair of pants. He thinks it’s funny, this month, to wear as many clothes as possible. So laugh if you want, but don’t question my sanity because three undies, two pants, and five shirts equals 15 minutes of peace every morning as he gets ready, without prompting, all by himself.

I don’t think that serving peanut butter and honey for dinner makes me a bad mother. I don’t think that serving it for lunch and dinner on the same day makes me a bad mother. I think, now that we’re on day four of peanut butter and honey, I might be crossing into bad mother territory. So maybe I’ll have Spouse make dinner. Know what he’ll make? Peanut butter and lemon curd.

Hey, I know it’s not wise or thoughtful to stick my baby in the swing so I can take a business call. I never thought I’d be that person. We wore Peanut every hour of every day. Poor Butter is only in arms or sling 23 hours a day. And I feel retched about it. But don’t judge me. It was a quick and productive call (not one thing about parenting is quick and productive) and he didn’t even fall asleep in the swing. Alert little bugger, that one.

Don’t judge my late night stupidity, either. I woke after midnight for the first early a.m. feed and found Butter and his little co-sleeper bed soaked. Thoroughly drenched. Confused in part by the dim light and placement of the wetness, grogginess made me absolutely useless. He was wet everywhere, front and back, neck to waist. Did he puke? Wet through his doubled cloth diaper? There wasn’t anything near his face, and his pants were dry. I stripped him down to his diaper and nursed him while pondering. And then I changed him. The diaper was bone dry, except for the waistband. I had apparently diapered him pointing up rather than down, and he peed all over his chest all night. What do I know…I don’t have that optional and ridiculous equipment.

Dearest Butter:

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Want to know how we can tell that you are loved?

Every sling and wrap that you ride in is covered in food stains. We don’t put you down, Butter bean, because you don’t like it. And we’re too selfish to put our hunger second to your comfort. That’s why the pesto on your blanket and the marinara on your Moby and the CheeseBoard crumbs on your Hotsling. You had beans and rice nestled in your neck when you were three hours old because Mama needed a burrito after 47 hours of labor but wouldn’t put you down even for a minute.

Your brother declared today that he’s tired of Mom and Dad being with you, and that he wants you to be just his. So he has plans to move to a house where it’s just the two of you. And even though he refuses to feed or clothe or wipe me, he said he will dress you and wipe your bottom and feed you candy sometimes. And, “if he looks like he’s going to die I’ll feed him something with protein, like a sandwich with almond butter.”

Mama invented something for you. Because the sounds you hear all day—chewing, typing, and occasional yelling—aren’t on the white noise machines available for purchase, she made a loop of the noises that help you sleep. She recorded tortas de aceite and blogging and cursing at your brother to play near your sleeping places. So you feel all comfy. You’re welcome.

You’ve actually had a few baths. Tonight you even had your first experience with Dr. Bronner’s soap-like substance. Don’t know why. You’re not dirty (except for the aforementioned burrito, but Mama dug those beans out of your neck weeks ago when she was in search of a snack). But you are just over the moon for warm water, so we bathe you. More often than we thought we could cram into our crowded weeks.

Tonight you went to bed with chocolate on your head. Not from mama, which is a first. No, tonight you had a small, four-year-old sized chocolatey lip print on your balding melon.

That’s how we know.

Deep Peanutty Thoughts

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Tonight before bedtime stories:

P: Who’s going to die first, me or baby?

M:  Don’t know, P.  We don’t know when anybody is going to die.

P:  I hope we die at the same time.

M:  Why?

P:  Because I really like Butter Babe.

M:  So you don’t want be alive after Butter dies and you don’t want him to die first and leave you without him?

P:  Yeah. And I just don’t want to know he dies.

M: Wow, Peanut. That’s a really important idea you thought about.

Holy F—ing Long Maternal Cry Later (After He Wasn’t Looking), Batman! So sweet that you love your baby brother.  So not going to be that completely pure ever again. And thanks (not) for the reminder of our collective mortality, dude!

Major, major announcements

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1. I have settled on a cyber nickname for the new child. I have known Peanut as Peanut since he was conceived, and can’t change his nickname or cybername now. I adore all the ideas behind Hazelnut, especially our dear TKW, the originator of said tasty moniker. But I have met him and decided, he’s not Hazelnut.

He’s Butter. With all the connotations of rich, delicious, heavy, butterball-y, and even Linda-Richmond-sketch-y. Fact is, he makes everything that much better. What isn’t better with real Butter? Really. So we now have Peanut and Butter.

2.My mother was right.

This is a major announcement, for I have been fighting saying that since the day I turned 17 months. But she was. In the midst of all the Peanut turmoil, the bad behavior and tantrums and general out-of-control, are-you-serious, stop-this-parenting-ride-I want-to-get-off  bullsh-t (I have witnesses, including my mother in law and my local friends, all of whom have ben gape-mouthed at his behavior), she has maintained this argument: Logic isn’t working, yelling isn’t working. When all else fails, cry.

So I tried  it tonight. He was testing me and I just started crying. I said it was so hard when he didn’t nap (yeah, first time in almost two years. shoot me now.) because I got so tired and it made me sad to be so tired. It was a staged reading of the things he should have been saying, but he bought the act. He kissed me and told me he was sorry I felt sad and that he wished I felt better. And then I really lost it. I really cried, telling him I was sorry things were so hard for him and that I wanted us to have fun and not yell at each other. He said he wished it was just Mom and Peanut and Butter and nobody else. That he wished everyone else would stop coming to the house. I cried harder, telling him understand he wants things back to the way things were when I was the only adult telling him what to do, but that I needed help because my body is just too hurt to be doing everything I usually do. I told him soon it would just be the three of us, and he kissed  me and told me to take as long as I want.

My mom was right. P doesn’t need yelling or games or techniques. He needs to feel like he’s helping. And tonight he did.

Potential future careers

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We’ve discussed before that Peanut Cacahuete Naptime wants to be a variety of things when he gets bigger. Letter carrier, worker, cheese maker, architect, nurse, helicopter pilot, fire fighter, homeless person.

I’ve started a list for Hazelnut, which he can ignore when he is older, of potential future careers based on his strengths now:
Professional Rodeo Nurser
Supreme Court Gallery Disrupter
Museum of Modern Art Starer
Long-haul Trucking Sleep Avoider
Medical Resident or Intern (or other unsleeper)
Porcine Interpreter or French Truffle Snuffler
Nude Interpretive Dancer (oh, please, don’t tell your mother about that one, H.N.N.)

The only field for which he seems ill-suited is navigation.
B: Hey, MOM! Come quick! There’s a nipple over here!
M: Um, Baby, it’s right here in front of your mouth.
B: NOOOOOO! It’s South of here! Let’s go! Get out of my way!
M: Hazelnut, it’s right here. Let me…
B: Stop touching my head! You’re keeping me from the nipple down there, somewhere way, way down there…Let’s go!
M: Buddy, the nipple is right here. Move your hands.
B: STOP!! You’re making everything too hard, Mom! You’re ruining everything! I know a nipple when I root endlessly in the pillow for one. See? This milk soaked cloth that’s now saturated because I won’t latch? This is it! I found the nipple!
M: Wow. you’re strong for a small person. But believe me, Babe, it’s right here.
B: Oh, thank goodness I got it. Right here in front of me. Right where I was telling you. Excuse me while I consume enough for three babies in the next four minutes.

If that ain’t rodeo, I don’t know what is.

We’ll be taking back that award now…

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I avoid baby stores like the plague, for they are full of my least favorite things: parents.

Babies have excuses for socially unacceptable behavior. Parents? Not so much.

Example from a recent trip, taken under duress and only because there simply isn’t any way to get a few necessary baby items if one goes to a regular store (by few, I mean one; and by necessary I mean newborn head support for Hazelnut’s car seat. The organic cheese puffs were not the reason for the trip, so don’t judge me. Okay, they were a secondary reason, but the baby superawfulstore is closer than a natural food store. And the head support. I’m trying to support my infant’s head, people. And they are grilled cheese puffs, made with natural chemicals and organic empty calories to taste like crunchy grilled cheese.)

Anyway.

Dad and Mom are shopping with one year old child. Mom is carrying her, but hands her to Dad as she investigates all the useless and lame sippy cup technology available at the baby superawfulstore.

Child wants to hold Dad’s glasses. He gives them to her. She shakes them. Then drops or throws them. He says:

“No. Don’t do that. That is being a bad girl. Do not throw Daddy’s glasses. I do not want you to do that. That is being very, very bad. No, I will not hug you. You do not get hugs when you are very bad. Bad girl.” Her lip is out; she’s sad and trying to hug him. He puts his glasses back on and walks away before I hear whether she cries.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Academy, I want to give this man a parenting award. He didn’t hit her for dropping or throwing the glasses, and in so doing, allowed her exactly one chance to express a totally normal scientific impulse: experimentation with gravity. She needed to see what happened to the glasses if they dropped. Sure he withheld love and told her that she was a flawed person for disobeying instructions he thought but never expressed aloud; but he didn’t beat her as most of the parents in the superawfulstore tend to. And that generous restraint is why she will grow up with stupendous self esteem and be willing to stand up for what’s right in the world. Ladies and gentlemen of the Academy, this man is a Nobel Peace Prize waiting to happen. He’s preventing future wars and genocide by teaching love, patience, and respect.

And if they don’t give him an award, they are very, very bad and he won’t hug them even if they cry. A guy’s gotta put his foot down, after all, with a parenting award committee that’s totally new to this planet and its rules.

Soothsayer

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Parenting dilemma:

We try to be all gentle and attachment parent-y and respectful and non-carrot-and-stick-y here at Chez Naptime, and we’ve found ourselves perched on a parenting dilemma. We don’t do the authoritative parenting thing; it’s really not our way or the highway. We’re here to teach and we’re here to learn. There are some inviolable rules, but most things, when they don’t deal with safety or or treating human beings gently, are open to negotiation. I’ve posted here before about how open we are with language, with profanity, with ideas.

We try to respect our son as a person (no such respect for the soon-to-be child because that bugger will get way more say in our lives than we want, as it is, so for now it just gets giggles for its spleenectomy skills and and is otherwise ignored) and demand the same respect from Peanut. We’re not his servants. We’re people. We respond to polite talk and ignore grouchy talk. We respond to all manner of emotions and honor them without correction, but won’t listen to whining. Cry if you’re sad, ask for a hug if you’re angry, laugh loudly and unabated if you’re happy. Find an alternative to hitting and yelling. And we try to practice what we preach. Try. The yelling part is hard.

Blah blah, blah, Nap, get to the juicy stuff.

Fine. Preschool has been an interesting lesson in other children, a really informative lesson on gentle parenting options (Bev Bos inspired co-op means there are lots of great parents there all the time and I’ve learned from them), and a crash course in crappy child behavior. Several whiners, a few takers, and lots and lots of exclusion and surliness. All age-appropriate, all carefully handled and redirected, all exhausting. Most of which is coming straight home for practice.

So Peanut spent a week or so sticking his tongue out when he was displeased. I didn’t want to make too big a deal out of it (grand scheme of things, a universally recognized sign of displeasure, freaking hilarious, pretty innocuous; but not something I’m gonna put up with long term because I find it offensive and don’t want to be the mom whose kid does that to grandparents.) I mentioned each time that we don’t do that because it’s just not friendly and if you disagree it’s time to use your words. Fine. Tongue is mostly gone.

What we have now is “poopy.” As in “NO! You’re a poopy Mommy!” Or “Get out of here you poopy Daddy!” And my favorite: “Why do we have to have cats? You’re poopy cats and I’m gonna flush you down!”

Now, I don’t care about the scatalogical reference. I’m one of those Moms who plays along when he says he’s making a stew of squirrel eyeballs and whale poop in his pint-sized kitchen. I grab a bowl and pretend eat and tell him how disgusting it is and can we please add worms for texture. I don’t mind honoring his need to tell me off and to distance himself from me when I’m saying something he doesn’t like. he’s allowed to his opinions, even if they’re strong and anti-Mom.

But I don’t particularly like being called poopy. Not in the “I’ve sacrificed everything I am and want to be so I can take care of you, you ingrate, so show some respect” kind of way. Close, though.

I also think I need to manage the beginning of the name-calling phase. Calling people names isn’t nice. It’s hurtful. Poopy is not a big deal, but it’s teaching him about power and language and derision, and I think I need to parent here instead of hoping it goes away if I ignore it.

So, I ran it by my “how would you feel if he did that in front of your sister-in-law” radar, which is a pretty accurate measure of how I judge acceptable versus not acceptable (I can’t use the older generation, because they disagree with just about everything we do, and we don’t particularly agree with their parenting values, either. My s-i-l has a similar parenting philosophy about most issues and a lot more experience, common sense, and patience than I do, so that’s where I go).

And my sil radar is befuddled. I don’t know what she would do. She might laugh (though she’s one of those awesome parents who’s smart enough to turn away or leave the room before laughing so the behavior could hypothetically be corrected at some point). She might casually say there are better ways to tell Mom no and let’s try some. She might ignore it. She wouldn’t yell or punish him, which some of the parents who I respect would. I don’t judge that impulse. I just don’t want to pick this, Battle No. 367 of today’s 928 battles for time out or yelling or general stakes-raising.

So I don’t know. Do I ignore being poopy? For, let’s be honest, I’m a grouchy pregnant woman facing her last few weeks of productivity with a list of things to finish a mile long, and am quite often a scatalogical word that he doesn’t even know yet, but that might correspond with “poopy.” Do I use “poopy” as a springboard for discussing how to talk to people and how to disagree in ways that wins friends and influences people? Do I let it run its course without the reinforcement of attention? Do I send him to Grumpa’s house for the beginning of his medieval training in “back in my day”? (Yup. Just called Grumpa several names, but in a way that seems simply delightful. See how much I have to teach a child? I can’t let “poopy” go without teaching Peanut to push real buttons, right?)

I know I don’t want to cut him off and make him think it’s not okay to disagree with me. I want to honor the independence without approving the fecality of this recent phase. I want to stop overthinking the small stuff but want to catch the big stuff early when it’s manageable.

Suggestions?

Still ambivalent after all these years

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Simon and Garfunkel sang that, didn’t they? Before the crazy version, there was being stuck between a rock and a sheer-faced cliff? Thought so.

Since the inception of this blog, I have wrestled publicly with the dilemma that I love my child and rather dislike parenting. Love, love, love the kid. Don’t get me wrong or send angry emails. Love the child. Dislike the job. It’s not a popular riff, and it’s not often said, so I feel like I’m talking to a (rather horrified) brick wall when I explain to people who ask, that I’m experiencing a range of emotions about being a breeder (ooops, there’s my problem right there, because Americans know the correct answers are “Fine” to “How are you?” and “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done” to “How do you like being a Mom?” regardless of how you feel. But I always forget that social rule and actually hear, process, and answer questions as they’re posed. Silly, poorly socialized me.)

So when someone the other day asked if I was excited about the new baby, my initial response was typical for me, caught between the headlights of social expectations and my still unabashed tendency toward truth:

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Don’t make me say the obvious: of course…yes and no…sort of…I think so…absolutely…blink blink blink. Here’s the thing, at least for me. The dive into parenthood, at least the first time, is like asking a solitary, heliophilic (lover of sunshine, not bleeder, though that might work, too), claustrophic acrophobe (nasty fear of heights…bear with me) to live the remainder of their life as a bat.

YES, there are beautiful sights to take in while you’re flying. Glorious smells and sounds and vistas unknown to humans. At…uhem…night. In the sky. Kind of high. Admittedly, there is awesome fruit to be had. A thousand times, yes, I love mangoes. Back at home, though, my small, cramped cave is filled with lots of smelly others who insist I hang upside down from the ceiling and avoid the sun. So admitting having mixed feelings seems less revolutionary than honest and, well, mandatory.

The whole foreign country/alien planet thing I’ve heard from other moms about the upending shock of plunging from independence and coherence into the unblinking and rapid-fire world of parenting implies that the surroundings have changed. Nay. Same place. I’m just living upside down. At night. By new rules with new people whom I simply don’t get. Their way is totally right for them, and it makes sense, and it’s quite lovely. But it’s godawful uncomfortable for me.

And the thought of doing it again really, really soon means less shock and more…upside down, claustrophobic, ceiling-clinging, guano-filled days. I know where to find the fun, but I don’t know how to escape when the not-so-fun threatens to overwhelm. Because you know what? (And I risk being a bit overdramatic here, but I defy you to prove me wrong….) there is no escape.

[Maybe that’s why our culture makes such a big deal about bats. It’s not the three out of, like 400 species of otherwise frugivorous bats who drink blood. It’s the fact that we know, deep down, that I’m totally awesome at similies and metaphors, and that a lot of us are living, at once by choice and against our will, in caves filled with other upside down mammals.]

So I’m learning and I’m flying and I’m having copious amounts of fun. But home isn’t home…it’s claustrophobic and smelly. And going outside is different and new and overwhelming. That sense of displacement, of not just where did I go? but where did the world go? is a little disconcerting.

Once or twice. AND twice.

Consider that next time I just stare at you and blink blink. Blink.

Blink.

Bad, bad, bad

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I knew this would happen, and I knew it would happen once Peanut got to school. He now knows the word “bad.”

We avoided that word for the first four years of his life, because he doesn’t need it. There are few really “bad” things in this world, and those are so off-the-charts horrible that he doesn’t need to know about them. We’ll spare the discussions about terrorism, homicide, and even theft and greed until later. Most people are basically good, but some can make better choices. When we say it that way, everyone has a chance, you know? Someone at school who has a grumpy day and takes toys or hits needs to know there are better ways to be angry. But she’s not bad. Most cats expressing themselves with feces are frustrated and need understanding and training. They are not bad. Their actions are frustrating and disgusting and won’t be tolerated, but the cat, himself, is not bad. In our house, fruit rots; it’s not bad. We feel ill or crummy; not bad. I’m not saying that this approach is right; I’m just explaining why it was weird to hear my child use the word “bad.”

Just as I tried hard to teach P that I love him and I don’t like hitting, so he knew that the person and the action are not the same thing, we tried to teach him that some things were good choices and some were not good choices. We never needed the word “bad” and we liked it that way.

So when he came home last week and asked what “bad” meant, I said it can mean a lot of things; where did he hear it and I could tell him what the person meant. “Big bad wolf tried to get in some pig houses.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I know that story, and I guess, in that case, they mean bad because the wolf ruins the pig houses and scares them and doesn’t listen to their words. So in that case, bad is kind of like ‘not being nice’.”

So, predictably, for the next few days, he tried out his new condemnation on a variety of subjects. The cat is bad, Mom is bad, Dad is bad, this macaroni is bad…I’m going out of my mind. Because I want to let him try it, and not call attention to it for all the reasons parents *know* not to call attention to behaviors they don’t like, but that word KILLS me. It’s like a 1950s black and white world where we judge people and count them out because of one poor choice.

Spouse and I don’t say “good boy” because it makes him seek praise for any action, laudable or otherwise. Labeling a child good makes them second guess their every move to see if someone else will tell them they are good, instead of finding their own sense of self worth and justice. And being a “good boy” or a “bad boy” implies a permanence. There are no all good or all bad children. There are people who need better parenting and time to learn and help finding better choices. Even those people don’t have “bad” parents. They have parents who don’t know better or who don’t try hard enough.

Anyway. I’m miffed about the “bad.” Other parents freak when their kid comes home spewing four-letter words and I’m thrown at just three.

Wit’s end

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Well, we’re on Day Four of absolutely unacceptable behavior at Chez Nap. In the past six days we’ve had four days of unbelievable, out of control, unreasonable, tantrum and violent outburst horseshit. And I’m running out of ideas for not beating my kid.

This morning Peanut played by himself for about 20 minutes, then asked for help making a fort. I tried several different ways of helping and each time he screamed at me that I was doing it wrong. So I offered to sit back and watch, and he agreed but told me to leave the room. When I sat in the next room and watched, he yelled at me to come play with him. I told him if he could speak nicely to me, I would play with him, but that I wouldn’t respond to yelling. He asked nicely. He pretended to fix his bike, and asked me to join him. Every tool I touched, every bicycle part I looked at, he screamed that I was doing it wrong. Mind you, we never tell him there is such thing as wrong. Everybody does things differently. Everybody has different ideas. Blah blah kumbaya.

So after being yelled at three times I told him I was going to go read in another room. He sobbed he needed me. I told him I’d try one more time but if he told me I was doing it wrong or if he yelled, I was leaving. Tried. Yelled at me to stop doing what I was trying. Left.

Now he was screaming, sobbing. Not having any of this, I calmly told him I would respond to nice requests for play but i don’t play with people who yell at me: not at home, not at work, not with my friends, not with my family. He screamed at me to go out in the pouring rain and 50mph winds to get him a cookie. Amazingly, I didn’t laugh. I’m open to having a cookie with breakfast, and we have two varieties in the house. But I’m not leaving in this weather to get you a different cookie. (I held back the “You freaking maniac weird-ass hostage taker.”)

He lost it. Screaming, throwing. I calmly said I didn’t tolerate this and would be in my room when he was ready to talk calmly. He threw child-sized furniture at my closed door. (No joke. Wish it was. Little chair, little step stool, little doll bed.) I was tempted to open the door and correct that behavior, but I knew I’d manhandle the little f—er and am trying really hard to model better anger choices. Like hiding in my room taking deep breaths.

When he calmed down I came out to talk. And he hit me. I used my words and he hit me again.

So I dissembled the fort. I kept responding calmly that we don’t treat people this way. That angry is okay and that hitting is not okay. That angry feels like too much but that cuddles or talking or breathing help. He hit me with his stuffed monkey and I put the monkey in timeout. And he lost it even more. I restrained him in my lap while he raged, but he sunk into a slump of sobbing after a few seconds. He cried in my lap for probably ten minutes.

After the bodysnatchers replaced the angry shell of jerk they had filled with nonsense and crazymaking with my son, I fed him, I talked to him, I played with him. And when the whole series started again an hour later, I just picked him up, kicking and screaming, and put him in the car. Because if we stayed home I would have beat him. We drove around for half an hour. And when he said he was ready to find new ways to be angry, I took him home. We ate lunch, we played Candyland, and we napped.

And I’m telling you, readers, I will not take another day like this.

This is not about me not entertaining him enough…there is a tidy house with a new project and lots of old, well loved toys available every morning. I help when asked, stay away when asked, and offer suggestions when asked. And if he’s at a loss, I initiate something fun and invite him to join me.

I’m doing my part. Now what the hell do I do with him?

Seriously. What do I do? What are the patient, gentle, respectful options? I will not be an emotional martyr in my own house.

Every evening at dinner we go around the table and ask each other: What made you feel happy today? When did you feel sad? Frustrated? Angry? Surprised? Excited?

And when Peanut asked me tonight what made me happy I burst into tears.

Babies are cute and cuddly…

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…but they grow up.

Awoke yesterday morning to a small child climbing onto our bed. Cowboy hat, cat mask, and Mardis Gras beads which he was swinging over his head and cracking like a whip. I greeted him sweetly as I got smacked with beads and mentioned that necklaces are for wearing, not hitting. He said, “But that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m in the mood to hurt somebody.”

He’s nothing if not self aware.

It got much, much worse from there. I offered to take him to a playground to get out his energy (at 7am. Because I know how these days go.) He refused and tried to antagonize me by throwing clean laundry from the basket onto me. I refused to take the bait and offered to brush his teeth for breakfast. He took of his socks, threw them, then SCREAMED “Go get my socks!”

Um, no.

For the next 30 minutes, he kicked and sobbed and screamed at the top of his lungs that I should get his socks. I calmly replied, each time, that he took off his socks, he threw them, and he could get them if he wanted. After he screamed even more loudly, I left the room, explaining that I don’t stay in the same room as people who act this way, but that I’d be happy to play with him or talk to him when he’s calmed down. He slammed doors and began to throw books. I escorted him out of my room and told him he could not be in my room if he was unable to control his anger. I told him asking for a hug was a great way to help get some calm when your anger feels like too much. He hugged me and clawed at my back. I stood up and told him I wouldn’t hug someone who tried to hurt me. He asked for another hug. I squatted to give him one and he pulled my hair with his teeth.

This went on and on and on for almost an hour, with me calmly removing myself and him escalating. I had more patience in reserve because the day before I had screamed at him when he bit me, and had grabbed him so hard (to tell him that hurting people when you’re angry is not okay), that Spouse noticed abrasions under Peanut’s armpits at bathtime. Carrying luggage on your shoulder through the whole Denver airport kind of broken capillary marks. Peanut said they didn’t hurt, and there were no bruises, but I was horrified and mortified and guilt ridden. So the next morning my remorse allowed one full hour of bullshit to get only calm, measured, parental responses. Because I’d rather teach him that freaking out doesn’t have any benefit, and that controlling anger is a useful skill. But I’m a terrible role model. Awful. Horrible. Trying to reform. Feeling penitent when small person has trouble with anger because he has two quick-tempered, often angry parents. Who have vowed never to hit or hurt him for all the reasons that wielding violence and fear do not work. One of whom just totally failed.

And then he stopped. After an hour of shouting at me and holding me emotional hostage he asked, “‘if I get my socks would you please put them on?”
Yes, I will.
“Thanks. Can I please have a blanket so I can lie down on the couch? I’m exhausted.”
Ya think?

And after Spouse got back from his morning track meet I left the house for the rest of the day. I had several projects to finish this weekend, including a reread of a book I’m editing, and I just couldn’t bear another day of anger and screaming and nonsense. It felt so good to sit in the car reading, to wander a grocery store slowly and without having to explain/correct/process/direct anybody else, it overwhelmed me. Why do I never get any time to think or be alone?

This…THIS…is what happens after I get a week of really impressive fun and tolerable behavior from my intense, persistent, sensitive, shy, empathic, high energy kid. An hour of screaming and biting and hitting. Most days are a mix of wonderful and terrible. If I get more than one day of wonderful, I pay in spades. [All the people who are impressed with his behavior on trips? THIS is what we get when we arrive home and he needs to decompress from all that “being good” (which we never label or praise it but which members of a different generation can’t seem to resist endlessly extolling).]

Gee, after mornings like that, why do I seem so scared to have two?

Full of surprises.

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The days I expect to go by without incident are constant battles of spirited-intense-intelligent-feisty small-person will versus spirited-intense-intelligent-feisty parent will. Hell on wheels trying to be gentle and only rarely succeeding is the baseline around here.

But when I think things *should* be tough Peanut makes me laugh and relax (as he did last year when we spent eight hours shopping in a holiday marathon totalling more than the rest of the year combined, and today when we needed extra supplies for tomorrow’s bake-fest of multiple goodies) He’s patient when I least expect it; giving, sweet, and loving not necessarily when i need it, but when I really appreciate it.

I laughed at several proclamations in the car and stores today, surrounded as we were by people trying their best to cram 4,000 things into their day, and doing a pretty poor job of holding it together—including “I want to have pfefferneuse every day if it has protein!” and “don’t worry, Mommy, if they don’t have healthy rice cereal we can make the cookies out of healthy oatmeal.”

My favorite, though, which had other people in the way overcrowded supermarket laughing:
P: I see candy corn!
M: Yes.
P: I think I want some.
M: Not today.
P: Well, for Halloween.
M: Halloween is 10 months away, so we’re set on candy corn for now.
P: 10 months?!?!?
M: Yup.
P: I can wait.

Wax on, wax off

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I have twenty posts, or so, to write, and myriad other things to tackle, but I have to say this…
Why, since we got home from our five-day vacation in the snow (which went almost perfectly, considering the trouble we could have had flying into the high desert in December with an almost four-year-old and a whiny pregnant lady to drive into the middle of nowhere for fun in the snow with family and vegetarian posole) has my return home felt like the reverse of the Mr. Miagi clap-and-rub? All energy sucked from me by the cold hands of incessant, useless, endless repetition of rules and basic social tenets, greeted with surly and defiant nastiness. Wax on, wax off. Wax on, wax off. Paint the fence.

At least Daniel got valuable skills in the film, and the chance, eventually, to kick the crap out of the nasty guy. I get the skills but no violent outlet. Mr. Miagi got the pride of being a fabulous coach AND he got his whole to-do list taken care of by someone else.

I get to do all the work and may, MAY someday get to smile as my kid uses his guts and skill to kick the crap out of someone else. For a change, please, kick the crap out of someone else.

Take that, parenting experts

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Let’s not bandy about the word precocious. Let’s not say anything about the apple falling from the tree. Let’s just say you parenting dorks and your stupid games are making me feel like an ass.

Me: Hey! I just heard that all the animals in the zoo are out roaming around and they’re hiding in someone’s mouth! Let me use your toothbrush to check your mouth to see if they’re in there.
Peanut: Mommy, we don’t put animals in our mouths because they have germs that can make us feel crummy. And did you know this? We use our eyes to look and sometimes a telescope.

Next day
Spouse: Gee, I can’t remember how to brush my teeth. Peanut, can you come in here and help me? I don’t know how to do this.
Peanut: Daddy, you went to college. You know how. And I saw you brushing today. Are you telling me a true story?

Next day
Me: Hmm. I’m feeling pretty fast today. I wonder if I can brush m teeth faster than you!
P: Mommy, we don’t brush quickly. We brush carefully. Are you feeling careful today?

Good luck, my friends who are in labor even as we speak. This might be genetic.