Another Gray Hair

It’s a Magic Number

Three is a fun age, isn't it? Let's hear it for three. My daughter (an adorable three-year-old) demanded milk this morning. There was no please, no pleasant voice, no question, simply a demand. This might be my most loathed childhood action. I realize that making demands is at the very heart of gaining autonomy but it is the lack of respect that I cannot tolerate. Doesn't, Mommy, can I please have some milk? mean the same thing as, Get me some more milk!? I have zero tolerance for the latter, regardless of whether the child saying it shares my DNA. When my own children make demands such as these I usually respond by refusing to respond. This doesn't always go well. Here's what happened this morning:

Precious Three-Year-Old Daughter: (in a demanding voice) Get me some MILK!

Me: No response

PTYOD: (in a slightly louder demanding voice): Get me some milk Mommy!

Me: No response

PTYOD: (in a loud, shrill, almost unbearable voice): Mommy! Get me some milk! I want milk! Mommy!

Me: No response

PTYOD: (doing her best impression of Axle Rose during that awful scream at the opening of "Welcome to the Jungle"): GET ME SOME MILK! I WANT MORE MILK!

Me: (quiet, calm) I don't respond to requests like that

PTYOD: Mommy, can I please have some more milk?

Me: Sure. I'll get you some

This strategy, although rough on the ol' ear drums, eventually gets me the response I want with my own kids. I don't really feel comfortable using this strategy for kids that are not mine. How do I go about handling these pesky demands in other people's children? Do I ignore them? Submit to their requests? Threaten them with physical violence? What do you do?

Pajama Boy

What do you do when a pajama-clad kid is trying to bite your son? I had to figure that question out quickly yesterday. I noticed the kid in question immediately when he walked into the play area yesterday. He was wearing a camo shirt that was clearly a pajama shirt, probably left over from the night before. His pants were camo as well, a different print but, I’m happy to report, not pajamas. His hair was disheveled and he looked like a force to be reckoned with. I made a mental note of him, sensing trouble, and went back to chatting with my friends.

About an hour and a half later I noticed an altercation between my son and pajama boy. My son’s arms were flailing wildly and he had a look of disbelief on his face. Pajama boy was inches away from my son’s arm with his teeth bared, ready to strike. I ran towards my son, screaming at him to stop fighting, hoping that my pleas would be met with obedience and PB’s teeth would not actually break my son’s skin. I watched my son in what felt like slow motion thinking, “I really need to get that kid in karate or tae kwon do.”

I got to my son’s aid just in time. He was crying but very angry and ready to pound that kid into the ground with whatever spazmatron ninja moves he could muster. I glared at pajama boy and told him to keep his hands and his teeth away from my child. I considered confronting his mother but decided against it, reasoning I might need some karate lessons to engage in a confrontation with the mother of a boy in pajamas at 12:30 in the afternoon. I decided that my glare and harsh words were probably enough to stave off another attack.

So it appears that I am that mom, the one that handles confrontations with the kids instead of the Mom. It’s much easier to intimidate someone who’s less than 3 feet tall than an actual adult. This will all change, of course, when I earn my black belt.

Poverty Schmoverty

Maybe I'll write a book on entitlement issues.  I'll go on a self-righteous rampage about my own strategy to avoid passing on my entitlement issues and those of our Paris Hilton obsessed youth population to my children.  I'll turn my nose up at the Mom who buys her kid a $5 toy to quell his crying in Wal-Mart. I'll pass silent judgment tinged with envy on the Mom strutting through the mall with her $800 stroller, dressed in couture.  Then I'll tell you about how my son cried today as we were leaving Zoo Camp because I told him that we could not afford to buy a boat.

My entitlement-issue-avoidance strategy does not appear to be working. Actually, my strategy is more of a pretentious soapbox that I stand on when I discuss entitlement with others. It has no basis in reality. I rub my own ego with orations (sometimes real, sometimes daydream debates with popular public figures) about the culture of instant gratification and blatant materialism that plagues the youth of America. The righteous indignation billows out of me like smoke from a smoke stack but it has no foundation. My children have not yet started school and they already have entitlement issues.

Exhibit A:  My son had a conniption fit in the parking lot at Zoo camp because I had the audacity to deny his request that our family purchase a boat.

Exhibit B: My son is four years old and I paid $85 to send him to Zoo Camp.

Exhibit C:  My two-year-old daughter immediately jumped on the boat bandwagon, yelling “Boat!” at the top of her lungs in a demanding voice continually on the drive home from Zoo Camp.

I’m no idiot. I wear my semi-transparent cloak of righteous indignation but I know where my children’s entitlement issues stem from. They have almost no contact with the poor. As far as they know, everyone in the world lives in their own home, has plenty of food to eat and gets to go on vacations a couple of times a year. My son saw a homeless man once, standing at an intersection with a sign requesting help and he asked me about him. I tried to explain the concept of poverty and homelessness to him but it was not something he could wrap his head around and I dropped it fairly quickly.

My maternal instincts tell me to shelter my children from the realities of society. I want to cushion their lives and make sure that all of their needs and most of their wants are met. But is this a reasonable strategy? Do I really have their best interests at heart? These are questions that I plan to ponder as I begin my new mission: make friends with some poor folks to give my children perspective. Wish me luck!

Black and White Stripes

Female referees are hard to find in the world of professional sports. They seem virtually non-existent. This is unfortunate, as it seems to be a role that females in general and mothers in particular were born to play. I have learned this lesson the hard way in the past two months as I have adjusted to my new role. I tend to be a solid color, peace-lovin’ kind of girl so it has taken me a while to get used to my new black and white striped uniform. I do not wear it well and would most definitely get canned at Lady Footlocker if I ever had the desire to sell overpriced tennis shoes and sportswear to young female athletes.

My children fight all of the time. I am constantly running interference between them, trying desperately to negotiate a peace plan.  It’s not working. My diplomatic efforts have been snubbed by the inability of my two-year-old daughter to communicate effectively and my four-year-old son’s unwavering intolerance of anything and everything outside the realm of what is “supposed to happen” in his grand life plan. It is a really bad combination and I do not know if these two strong personalities will ever be able to coexist in harmony. It doesn’t seem likely in the near future. 

My daughter is an instigator. She likes to irritate my son for the sheer joy of making him angry. I can’t imagine where she gets this quality. Other than the bi-weekly pain tests (pinching of each of his fingers as hard as I could muster while forbidding my brother to utter even the softest sound) and the constant manipulation, I was the perfect sister. I was sweet and loving and fun as long as my brother did exactly what I told him to without question. My son is not quite as innocent and vulnerable as my brother was but he is still a pretty easy target. Making him angry is a very simple task and he always comes back for more. He just can’t seem to recognize the fact that his reaction is what motivates my daughter to irritate him. Will he ever figure that out? Only time will tell.

Right now I need a plan. I need a consistent plan that will give me the power to punish my daughter for irritating my son as well as the power to punish my son for telling on her in the whiny, indescribably annoying voice of a hapless victim. The latter is incredibly taxing. Hearing my son whine and play the victim has become so commonplace that it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to me. I have to put a stop to it. Right now my plan is to divide my living room and the backyard (where we spend the bulk of our time) into two equal halves with a tall, clear plastic, soundproof partition. I realize this may not be the most practical or economically sound plan but for now it’s all I’ve got. I’m open to suggestions.

Zero to Crazy

I welcomed Damien back into my home today. He made a brief (here’s hoping!) but significant return into my life. I’ve decided to blame his return on daylight savings time. My kids are waking up later than usual and have yet to adjust to the new time schedule. Springing ahead seems to be a significant adjustment for them. Thank goodness this week is spring break and, as such, I have unplugged the alarm clock and assigned my son the task of waking up Mommy.  This morning my son trotted up the stairs at 8:55 and announced his presence with a, “Good morning Mommy!” I roused myself out of sleep, made a b-line for the shower and went through my usual morning routine. We came downstairs, got my daughter out of her crib and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. As I was microwaving some mini-pancakes and pouring the milk, my son yelled from the living room, “I’m going to eat my breakfast in the living room Mommy.” I reminded him of our rule that all meals were to be eaten in the kitchen. He asked again, “Please Mommy, can’t I just eat my breakfast in the living room? I promise I won’t make a mess.” Once again, I told him that he could not. Then, as if my words triggered a switch in his brain, my son’s behavior went from zero to crazy in two seconds flat. He took his beloved stuffed dog, threw it at me and said in his almost-forgotten demon screech, “I AM EATING IN THE LIVING ROOM! IF YOU DON’T LET ME I’LL NEVER LISTEN TO YOU AGAIN!”

His rage and throwing the toy qualified him for an immediate time-out. He fought me, hitting and kicking while I carried him to the naughty mat. He refused to stay on the mat and was therefore taken to his room. I locked the door (this may sound harsh but when my son is raging it is the only way to keep him confined). He raged and room-wrecked and said incoherent things in his demon screech for the first two minutes of his time-out. I heard many objects hitting the door with a thump.

I made a decision, right then and there, that whatever toy fallout was in his room from getting thrown against the door was going directly into the trash. As I walked into his room to release him from time-out, I said a little prayer that none of his good toys would be on the floor. I got lucky. There were two large toys that had clearly been thrown against the door multiple times and both of them were bought at yard sales. They still had significant value for him but there was no sentiment or major cost involved so it made the trip to the trashcan relatively painless for me. My son, on the other hand, had a conniption fit when I dropped the truck and helicopter in the trashcan. I took him by the hand, led him to his door and let him look at the damage he had done. The door looked like it had been attacked by a rabid tiger. It was covered in scratches and nicks. Thank goodness it is old and made of solid wood. Otherwise it would have never survived my son’s toy assault.

It is 5:00 now and both my kids are napping. We have all recovered from the daylight-savings-time-induced hysteria episode. I’ll have to remember this next time we have to adjust our clocks in the fall. I’ll do a little exorcism the day after we “fall behind.”

Feathers are Falling

My son’s 666 may be fading slowly but the feathers are falling off of my daughter’s angel wings at warp speed. As with my son, I noticed many changes in my daughter's behavior upon returning from vacation. Hers were, unfortunately, not so positive.  I'd love to blame these changes on her Grandparents but, alas, I'm pretty sure they are just coincidental. Gone is the sweet content little girl who smiled all of the time and never needed anything. In her place is a strong willed little girl who knows exactly what she wants and will not stop until she gets it.

I witnessed the first tantrum the day after I returned from vacation. It was a beautiful sunny day and I took the kids outside to play. My son drove his cozy coup up and down the driveway while my daughter, always the mimic, straddled her ride-on toy and shadowed her brother. About 15 minutes into our play session, my daughter decided that she would like to drive the cozy coup. My son was less than thrilled with this decision. He held the door shut with all of his might, saying “No Sissy. It’s mine.” My daughter pulled on the door with a surprising amount of force and stared at me, jogging in place rapidly and producing a combination whine/cry that I can only describe as the most annoying sound in the world. I explained to my daughter (in vain I knew but I had to give it the old college try) that the car was her brother’s and that she would have to wait her turn. I then physically removed her hands from their death grip on the door and walked towards her ride-on toy.

I was in complete shock when, as I was carrying her, she arched her back and screamed in my arms. She kicked and thrashed and cried. It was a legitimate tantrum.  I attempted to put her down next to her toy but her body went limp and she refused to stand. I laid her on the ground beside the toy and let her throw her fit. I sat down and attempted to digest the fact that the terrible twos were right around the corner. My baby wasn’t a baby anymore and, along with the adorableness of toddler-hood, came the irrational behavior and tantrums. Can I really go through this again? Is it better or worse that her terrible twos seem to be starting much earlier than my son's? I ran upstairs (during the kids’ naps) and dusted off my “What to Expect: the Toddler Years” book. I looked up “handling tantrums,” poured myself a glass of wine and thanked God that my son seemed to have miraculously acquired a healthy dose of self control and rationality. It could not have come at a better time. Armed with my book and some wine, I’m ready for battle. Bring it on little girl!

A Farewell to Damien

It is amazing how quickly the tides can change where children are concerned. When I left for vacation I was frazzled, tired and even feeling some desperation about my son’s behavior. I’ve been back for four days now and he has yet to even visit the naughty mat. His manners have been absolutely impeccable and he has been a downright pleasure to be around. I have rediscovered my sweet child and it is such a refreshing change.

So, my question now is, what happened? Did his grandparents, unbeknownst to me, put him through some sort of old school behavioral boot camp while I was away? Did I need a break from him so that I could relax and refocus my energy on the positive instead of feeling exhausted and focused on the negative? Did he just need a break from me? Or, is it possible that he has turned a corner and grown up a little? I’d like to think that it is the latter but I am well aware that my frustration level with him was palpable and that a vacation from being a constant disciplinarian was just what the doctor, and my son, ordered. Perhaps, though, we are on the tail end of this difficult phase.

Maybe my son’s self-control is starting to kick in. Could it be that his room wrecker days are behind him and holes in the walls are no longer a legitimate concern? I need to check under the hairline at the base of his neck to see if the “666” has faded. If it has, perhaps I will be ready to retrieve the heavy object from their random hiding places throughout the house and move them back into his room.

Noise Pollution

I love watching Supernanny. It always makes me feel much better about my own children. When I watch the five year old kick and hit his Mother so hard that it makes her sob, I feel better about my son’s tendency to kick, hit, and bite when he does not get his way. He’s never made me cry (at least not in front of him). When I see the little girl who dislikes her fish sticks so much that she throws her plate across the room in a fit of anger, I feel better about my son’s nightly response to his dinner plate: dramatic arm cross, deliberate thrusting of the bottom lip and a whiney serenade of phrases like, “I don’t like this.” This behavior usually continues for some time but, nine times out of ten, he follows our two-bite rule and comes through at the last second with two feverish bites before the egg timer goes off and he fails to get a token for “Eating” on his responsibility chart. At least his dinner stays on his plate. It rarely ends up in his stomach (except for the two bites) but, if it isn’t going to make it to his stomach, I’d prefer it not make it to the wall either.

In my opinion, the Supernanny's greatest assest is her English origin. For some reason, when parenting advice comes from a stout British woman it is extremely convincing. Thanks to Jo Frost, we now have a naughty mat in our house. It is a brightly colored striped rug that sits in our hallway. I bought it a couple of years ago at a yard sale and immediately had buyer’s remorse but I have, thankfully, put my $5 to work.  Not only is the rug irrefutable evidence of my ample abilities as an interior designer, but it is also a very functional piece of room décor. Who knew I could be so clever? This is where my son serves his time-out sentences. It has worked fairly well so far and is a vast improvement from locking him in his room (this still happens on the rare occasion that he refuses to stay on the mat).

Thankfully, my son’s Room Wrecker phase seems to have dissipated quite a bit. Granted, he has found other ways to be destructive. He is now an expert noise polluter. Because he is confined to the naughty mat and there are no loose objects within his reach to propel, my son has decided to serenade me with vicious sounding screams the entire duration of his time-out. It’s a joy, especially when it happens during dinner. We sit at the table attempting to convey an air of normalcy while my son screams, “Get me out of time out! It’s been 45 minutes! I WANT OUT NOW! Mommy!” He says it over and over as if it is on some sort of tortuous loop. I guess I should be grateful for these dinner serenades. I definitely prefer noise pollution to holes in the walls.

Choking and Poking

“No hitting. No kicking. No choking. No poking. No yelling. No telling.”

These are the Hale family house rules. The choking and poking portion (rhyming, for some reason, is a necessity) were a recent addendum. Unfortunately, they were not added arbitrarily. We had a choking incident in our house recently and it was an ugly one.

Last Saturday night we had some friends over for dinner. We went all out with a traditional turkey dinner complete with stuffing, green bean casserole (my friend Alyson is knocked-up and this is the only vegetable she will eat so I took it upon myself to nourish her poor, nutritionally-challenged baby), potato casserole and a delicious dessert that the lovely folks at the Fresh Market prepared with tender loving care. The night went really well. We had five kids total and they were all playing well together. There were a few minor incidents but nothing to write home about until Camden (Alyson’s son) had the audacity to ignore a request made by my son. Before I even knew there was a conflict, my son had his hands around Camden’s neck and was yelling like Fidel Castro and strangling him right in the middle of the living room for all eyes to see. Ugghhh. What a nightmare. I immediately removed him from the situation and took him to his room to talk to him. Here’s the conversation that took place:

Me: Choking your friend is completely unacceptable. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?

Son: Yes.

Me: Why did you do that?

Son: Because I asked Camden to please give me the train he was playing with and he didn’t answer me.

Me: Being ignored does not justify choking. Nothing justifies choking. We do not hit, kick, choke, poke, tell or yell in this house. EVER. This was when I decided to make an impromptu addendum to the rules. I’m pretty clever with my poking and choking rhyme aren’t I?

Son: Yes.

Me: Now you will march back in there and apologize to Camden for choking him.  Are we clear?

Son: Yes. (Runs into living room) Camden, I’m sorry I choked you.

Shortly after that Alyson and her husband left. I was reeling for days about the incident and still feel terrible. What in the world was my son thinking? What caused him to react that way and, most importantly, where did he learn to strangle? My husband and I rarely have verbal disagreements let alone down and dirty fights. I can say, with complete certainty, that my son has never seen my husband choke me, or vice-versa. The only explanation that I could come up with was that he either witnessed a choking incident at school or on T.V. The latter is definitely the most likely answer as he goes to a Baptist preschool and his teacher, from what I have seen, has a great deal of control in the classroom. Jimmy Neutron and Sponge Bob are the likely teachers of the fine art of strangling. So, in order to prevent future incidents, I have decided to closely monitor and limit my son’s television viewing.  I am also giving serious thought to enrolling him in Karate. I’ve heard it provides an excellent medium for teaching self-control and confidence. Plus, I’ve always wanted a reason to do my Mr. Miyagi impression.

Cold Spaghetti

As the holiday season quickly approaches, I find myself perusing the endless supply of toy catalogs that appear in my mailbox each week. I search for things that might appeal to my children feeling, despite my cynicism, a little giddy about Christmas morning. Christmas has taken on a whole new meaning since my son became old enough to understand it. There is a great deal of anticipation and excitement that adds so much to the allure of the holiday season. I cannot wait to see his face on Christmas morning and all I want to do is make his every wish come true. And then I have a night like tonight that gives me a skull-shaking bitch slap back to reality.

Long story short, I made spaghetti for dinner. We sat down and my son looked at his food disapprovingly and said, “I want something else” in a very demanding voice. I had already prepared myself for this inevitable scenario and decided that I was up for battle tonight. My son would eat his spaghetti. After all, he always ended up eating it after being coaxed into the first bite by his Father or myself. He would put the spaghetti in his mouth with a look of horror that almost immediately changed to surprised pleasure when he dug his teeth into the pasta. He likes spaghetti. He just refuses to eat it.

I told him calmly that we would happily provide him with other food items but that he must eat his spaghetti first. We have coddled him entirely too much where food is concerned and we usually end up preparing him an entirely different meal from the one that I cook for the rest of the family. It is absolutely absurd but I created this monster. I have to deal with the consequences. My son sat at the table staring at his food without making any effort to eat while the rest of us ate and discussed our day.  He asked for a piece of garlic bread (a favorite of his). I told him that I would save a piece for him but that he must first eat his spaghetti. Now, before you pass judgment, understand that the bowl that my son’s spaghetti was in was the size of a small ramekin. The spaghetti that I insisted that he eat was the equivalent of three average-sized adult bites. I was not asking for much. He was stoic and resolute and absolutely refused to eat.

I decided to ignore his behavior and put the piece of garlic bread in a Ziploc baggie. I told him that I would save it for when he was ready to eat his spaghetti. He decided to take a different approach and told me that he was not capable of getting bites on his fork and needed help. This stems from the fact that, on spaghetti nights, his father tends to use all means necessary to get my son to eat, including actually spooning the food into his mouth. I disapprove of this wholeheartedly and it came back to bite us tonight. My son insisted that he could not be expected to eat the spaghetti when he could not get any on his fork. I told him that he was a big boy and that we would not be feeding him. I reminded him that he could eat applesauce with utensils and that spaghetti was a breeze in comparison. He continued to insist that someone help him get the spaghetti from the bowl to his mouth. We continued to refuse. It did not go well.

My son spent a great deal of time in his room tonight. He threw fit after fit, room wrecking, screaming, jumping, and throwing things. He desperately wanted that garlic bread and I desperately wanted him to have it but, after nearly two hours, he was not giving in. His bedtime rolled around and I poured him a glass of whole milk and got him ready for bed. In the end, I lost the battle. My son did not eat his spaghetti.  He lost his battle too, though. That garlic bread is sitting in a Ziploc bag on top of the refrigerator calling my name. I’m stressed out and frazzled and dreaming about how good it will taste with a glass of red wine. Yum.