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Cooking with Kids Sucks

I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you this, but the parenting advice books and websites all lie. To be fair, they tend to run the spectrum from vague generalities to downright lies. Traditionally, parents are supposed to find this out for themselves the hard way. You are supposed to find yourself sprawled out on the floor outside your baby’s bedroom at 3:30am, tears streaked down your face, the sound of a disconsolateĀ infant wailing in the background, while you whip that mother effing sleep training book against the far wall. That’s the way it’s done.

Lucky you for you, though, I am here to help. I can’t do anything about the baby sleep issue, silly; you just have to figure that one out for yourself. But I can tell you that all those articles and blogs and helpful friends who counsel you to “just include your children in the kitchen” can go to hell.

Cooking or baking can be okay as an activity in and of itself. Like, if you want to put aside a three-hour block of time to make 20-minute muffins with your three-year-old, that can be a fine way to kill an afternoon. I mean, it sure as hell beats making crafts or getting down on the ground and actually playing with them in my books.

But if you actually, say, just want to make lunch? “Omigod,” you’ll be thinking, “Can you please just go and sprinkle playdoh all over the living room carpet or take a bingo dabber to the wall or unravel a roll of toilet paper? Can you please just do something that will take less time and energy to deal with than this?”

I tell you this because I, too, listened to those so-called experts. Spurred on by my four-year-old daughter’s love for her play kitchen and an increasingly picky appetite, I encouraged her to help me. We went shopping together and painstakingly picked out ingredients. We wore aprons and I talked her through every step. She was in charge of putting vegetable peelings into the organic waste and chopped up veggies into the pot. She sprinkled in seasonings. She watched meal after meal bubble away on the stove. She oohed and ahhed at the final product. She sat down and, as often as not, declared it yucky. “I don’t likeĀ it,” she’d say. “But you helped me make it!” I’d say.

And then yesterday, I was trying to slap together some roast beef sandwiches for lunch and she pulled up her “special stool” (ie. the regular kitchen step stool) to help. Fantastic.

There were two pairs of sliced bread stacked side-by-side on a Ā cutting board.

“Would you like mustard on your sandwich?” I asked.

“Yes, but not that SPICY mustard!”

“Okay, I have some regular yellow mustard here for you.”

I squeezed some mustard on the top slice of bread on the first stack.

“I don’t want mustard on the top of my sandwich!!”

“It’s not going to be the top, sweetheart. I’m going to use this bottom slice of bread on the top, see?”

“No, no, no, NO! NOOOOOO!!!! I won’t eat it! Never, never, never! I’m never going to eat lunch again!”

And that was just the mustard.Ā Learn from my mistakes.

Image credit.

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Poor Irene

Irene’s having a hard time adjusting to life as a middle child. She loves her baby sister, but would like me to put her down every once in a while so I can hug her with both arms. Aw.

She would also like me to drop everything to help her go to the bathroom. But I shouldn’t watch her while she’s going. In fact, could I just stand out in the hall? Now could I help her with the toilet paper — no not like THAT! And she didn’t say pull up her underpants all the way. And, for crying out loud, she can flush the toilet ALL BY HERSELF. And that water is too hot. She’ll get her own soap, thankyouverymuch, but she can’t reeeeach. NO! The stool doesn’t go like that! Not like that either! How can she possibly cope with all this incompetence? She can’t. So down on the ground kicking and screaming it is.

I really don’t know what her problem is.

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Sure, I left her sleeping in the back yard after our walk today. But it was a super mild day and I was right there on the deck. I only popped into the kitchen to top up my coffee and fill up the dishwasher and make a quick phone call and check in with Twitter for a second.

And when I looked out at her as I was getting ready to pick up Colum from the school bus I realized right away that it had started raining. I only stood in the doorway trying to zip my jacket up around Mary for a few minutes after that. What? I had to make sure my precious baby would be properly dressed for the weather. Anyway, that’s totally a rain coat on Irene’s lap.

Of course, once we started out to the bus stop and it really started coming down I was going to cover her up with the not-cheap-to-replace Maclaren rain cover. I had no way of knowing that somehow I’d forgotten that the first rule of Fight Club is keep the fucking rain cover in the stroller basket at all times, woman, you can’t afford to buy another one.Ā  Ahem, yeah, it wasn’t in the basket and she got a tad soggy.

I guess between Colum’s school and hockey schedule and Mary’s round-the-clock needs Irene might possibly sometimes get a bit shorted. So the least I can do is let her freak the hell out when I cut her sandwich the wrong way. I’m going to try to remember that.

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Hey Rebecca: Anger Management

Hey Rebecca,

What do you do when your child throws her plastic stool when angry? She’s got a little temper!!

Radioactive Mamma

Well, RM, I know my gut reaction would be to snatch that stool away and whip it across the room myself. But that wouldn’t be “modeling appropriate behaviour,” would it? Getting a grip on our emotions is something we all struggle with from time to time, but there are clearly some extra-sensitive stages. Toddlers. Teens. Post-partum moms with a screaming four-week-old and a tantrum-y toddler? Definitely.

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Snowy Day Meltdown

During the first few weeks of my being a mother of two (Irene is three-months-old now), I did go on quite a bit about how good and even-tempered Colum has always been and how demanding and irritable Irene was. I was unwilling to label my new infant daughter as colicky or to make any sweeping judgments about her character, though. In order to make clear the difference in temperament, then, I shoveled the praise on Colum and his innate goodness, exalted him to angelic status and really started to believe that my son was the epitome of a perfect child. He really hardly cried as a baby and remained in good spirits no matter how much I monkeyed with his sleep routine and was a reasonably well-behaved and charming toddler. He showed nothing but love and affection for his baby sister, and was developing a great sense of humour to boot.

Imagine my surprise, then, to discover that he is actually the devil incarnate. He has, recently, begun fully freaking out and completely losing it over the most routine activities. (And this is not due to a complete lack of discipline on our part, I assure you. We have enforced boundaries and limits and been reasonably consistent in doling out the appropriate consequences.)

Let me take you back, dear reader, to noon-time today. We strove forth into the snows and winds and made the one and a half block walk to the Annette Library for Toddler Time. Irene was bundled up in the Moby Wrap under my oh-so-stylin’ massive gray coat and Colum was on foot, it being too snowy for a stroller. We arrived late, but enjoyed a story and some good action-songs. (And lots of new kids books at Annette, too!) We then went upstairs to the main library to return old books and check out new ones and hang out with Gracie and her mom in the kids’ section. Then it was time to go.

I gave a two-minute warning. I tried counting with the threat of “no story before naptime” if I didn’t get co-operation. I tried hugs and words of comfort when all the afore-mentioned tactics just led to more tears and tantrums. I then handed Irene (who has been all sweet smiles and coos and cuddliness lately, btw) to Gracie’s mom while I wrestled Colum into his snowpants. Pretty sure that wasn’t the way to go, I tried taking Irene back and bundling us up and pretending to leave with hopes that he would quickly help get his boots and coat on. Nope. Enter my mom friend again to shove his boots on and wriggle him into his coat while I held him. (Note that little Gracie is waiting patiently in her snowsuit this whole time.) I then had to carry him, Irene strapped to my front, kicking and screaming out of the building. He let me put his mits on outside before throwing himself down in the snow and refusing to budge. Fine. I carry him kicking and screaming across Annette St. and let him stand crying on the corner while I start walking home. I am sure he will follow eventually. Wrong again: he starts running into the street as a massive dump truck rounds the bend. I run after him screaming and catch him just in time. I finally acquiesce and accept Gracie’s mom’s help as she carries Colum all the way home and I pull her sweet little girl in her sled. I then leave him to cry at the foot of the stairs (thankful, again, that it’s not a shared entryway) as I get lunch started. He eventually makes his way upstairs still riding waves of despair when Irene starts joining in. I end up turning on the TV while I feed Irene and put her down.

I return to find a co-operative and cheerful little boy who turns off the set himself when his show is over and gobbles down his lunch and eagerly brushes his teeth and even consents to half a story before nap because his sister has woken up screaming. We did talk about how his behaviour was not acceptable and why over lunch. I got an apology from him and an admission that his tantrums are no fun for anyone, not even him. Punishments of any kind seemed too far removed from the scene at this point, and I’m going to have to figure out a better way of dealing with these meltdowns while we are out. At least he napped.

(Image courtesy of www.ninocka.com.)