DAILY SNACK
Well, the Poison Control Centre assures me that a one-time-only overdose of Vitamin D will not harm Young C. If he continues to get into his little sister’s stash on a regular basis, we could be in trouble, though. I hope I can remember to give her the vitamins now, because I can’t think of any handy place where this little monkey won’t be able to reach.
DAILY SNACK
The kids discovered the, “The number you have dialed cannot be completed. Please hang up. Please hang up. Please hang up …” message today. Well, Young C actually discovered it, but he was listening to it on speaker phone with L’il I who just kept laughing and laughing. She probably thought it was me: “Come on C, come on C, come on C …” Ad nauseam.
DAILY SNACK
Young C just refused lemon coffee cake in favour of multigrain crackers. Proof positive that the content is completely irrelevant; the answer is always ‘no’.
Lest my readers mistake my fast and flippant tone for serious criticism, I think it may be time to lay forth some basic
Playground principles. One is that this is not a blog about how to parent well or properly. I don’t pretend the circumstances of my life have somehow landed me at the pinnacle of parenting know-how or that I have any universal knowledge on the topic at all. Most of my understanding of children and child-rearing is drawn from my own personal experience as a mother of two, big sister to three, first cousin to twenty-some-odd, and very brief foray into the world of professional nannies. This is augmented by countless books, articles, websites, and blog posts about pregnancy and childbirth and childrearing. So I speak the language; but put me at the corner of Pacific and Dundas with my own screaming toddler and newborn baby and I have no idea what to do.
This is a blog about how it feels to be at that corner. About what I’ve tried and what works and what doesn’t. About what’s going on in the wider world that might impact our lives as parents. About what kinds of stuff might be worth getting and what’s garbage. I’ll complain about my kids and I’ll brag about them. I’ll bitch and whine and gossip. Blogs are of a transient nature and what’s bugging me one day might not bother me in the least the next.
Still, insofar as all the content is filtered through my perspective it might behoove me to make clear any biases I have. I am not interested in any stay-at-home versus working mom arguments. (Though I thought I might be for a short while; it is all so stupid. Here’s the best rant I could find on the internet on the subject and it’s not even written by a mother.) I think any suggestion that women should participate less vigorously in the workforce than men, for whatever reason, is complete nonsense. But choosing to work at home caring for the children is just as admirable as working anywhere else. I do not have a fulfilling and promising career to return to. I probably wouldn’t even be able to get a job (especially in this market) that pays much more than full-time childcare for two kids costs. I enjoy taking care of the kids and I generally dislike work. But I cannot, simply cannot, bring myself to identify as a stay-at-home mom. For one, I’m almost always working some part-time gig or another to make ends meet. (I even worked full-time throughout the last half of my pregnancy; note the complete lack of blog posts during that period.) But it’s mostly because I want to work. Not full-time for now while the kids are young, and not doing menial tasks for someone else. But I need some external validation and a role to fill when the kids begin to need me less. I am jealous of both worlds: the moms who tuck their children in and fold the rest of the laundry and go to sleep satisfied that their day’s work is done, and the moms who love their children just as well all while contributing to the working world and the family’s finances. There is no right way.
Other biases include a procrastinating perfectionist’s attitude to housework. If it’s not going to be done right, then don’t do it at all, I say. That isn’t working around here so well these days as nothing is really getting done. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then I’m on the highway to hell. There is absolutely no moral rectitude involved in scrubbing your bathtub; if you can afford to have someone else do it, by all means. I tend to be fiscally left-wing, but a social libertarian. I think I might be agnostic, but still identify as Catholic. I have no ethnic identity, though, beyond my Canadian-ness. I drink a lot, a lot, of tea. And I have lately started to wonder if I shouldn’t have kept with the Latin and become the definitive modern voice of the classics. Puer puellae rosas dat. The boy gives the girl the roses. A boy is giving roses to a girl. You see? There’s so much room for interpretation … this will undoubtedly cast the longest shadow across my blog.
dear pc,
I am starting to really hate my new parent groups. I have a preschooler and an 8 week old. I am no longer as earnest as I (perhaps) was with my first and I find the other parents annoying in finding the perfect toy or wondering whether their yoga class feeds their soul or should they switch to a weekly massage. Not to mention the recent suggestion that I stay in bed until I feel rested. WHAT? I can’t figure out when in the next 3 months I can get my teeth cleaned. It’s like a GRE question. A massage is to teeth cleaning as…your life is to…? How is sleeping until noon similar to walking on Mars? Will I ever feel understood as a parent of two or am I doomed to continue to nodding with support to that new mama and considering knocking over her latte on my way out?
Dear LauraMac,
I KNOW! I have stared blankly past a new mom who asked whether L’il I did something in her sleep. Wha? If she’s asleep, then I’m doing other things. Or, another favourite is, how many weeks? Huh? She’s just over four months … you’re not seriously still counting in weeks, are you? No, the truth is that I really only pay close attention to L’il I when she’s squawking. And she already knows that she’s going to have to speak up to compete with big brother for my attention. When I finally snuck out for a haircut (the first one in six months) last weekend, my hairdresser wanted to make sure I understood that everyday washing was not good for my hair. I can only hope that it’s not good for the rest of me either.
There are really three distinct sorts of parents that irk me these days. One is the aforementioned new and earnest middle-class mom who spends her days basking in the love of her baby, pureeing local organic produce, and disinfecting wooden toys. (Really, I have an outlook more akin to the teenage mother who shoves a bottle of apple juice in her kids mouth while she talks on her cell phone. Yes, I did puree local organic produce for Young C, and no, I don’t fill my kids up with juice — from a bottle, no less — but it’s all about the disposition.) I’m just not that worried about that kind of stuff anymore. And, more to your point, LM, who has the time or energy?
Second-time moms with a toddler/preschooler in full-time daycare, that’s who. Now, they do have to juggle the morning and evening and weekend chaos, so they’re not quite so bad. And they have been around this block before and are thus less likely to be overly pained at little Lily’s failure to roll over by precisely three-months. (Oh dear, I just had to check the milestones guidelines for that one. I really should put L’il I on her tummy from time to time.) In my neck of the woods these tend to be working moms who can afford the extra help and also really want/need to hold their daycare spot for when their glorious year-long maternity leave is up. (Yay, Canada!) Still, there seems to also be a desire to replicate their first maternity leave and not cheat little Lily out of any of the maternal attentions that big sib had. And they will have time to do stroller-fit and meet for lattes and take a leisurely stroll through the grocery store and catch up on their reading during nap time, etc. These moms irk me because they think they know what it’s like, but they don’t really have to live it all day, every day. Especially when they have a cleaning lady. (Is that not politically incorrect yet? Cleaning person? Cleaner?)
The last parent group is those who got left behind. They have a preschooler, but haven’t yet had another child. Our kids are friends and we used to share a common outlook. Now they just have to learn to shut up. They don’t get it yet, either. Have you tried counting to three? You know, you just really have to set limits for them. C’mon. I’m living in a dwelling half-filled with toys and laundry and cheerios with a screeching baby and the most obstinate preschooler known to man. Patience and calm are a rare commodity and the only kind of disciplinary tactics I can try need to be executed in under two-minutes, preferably from the next room. Eg. “You get down off that dresser right now or there will be no cookies for you.” Bribery, basically. I loved being told that I might spoil my baby by holding her all the time. If only you knew how often she’s left to cry while I tend to one pressing thing or another. You’d better believe that I’ll hold her when I get the chance.
As Sismadly’s comment suggests, parenting two gets easier with time. I’m only a few months in and I can even attest to that. Maybe we just get used to it … ? But she’s also right that others will have to wait to find out. Your new-mom friends will not be able to understand because their lives have been even more fundamentally changed than yours and they are still struggling to fit into their new identity as parents. You know who you are; you just need to fit some time into your schedule for basic hygiene. (Here’s a mildly amusing comparison of new vs. veteran mom.) I was riding the subway home from work shortly before L’il I was born when a woman struck up a conversation with me. You’ll find yourself unshowered and still in your p.j.’s at 2pm she warned. I smiled. I don’t think that’ll be possible this time around, I said. And I was right. In taking care of Young C and L’il I, I need to take care of myself. (Even if I do a crappy job of it.) I need to get out every morning because Young C needs to get out. I need to commit to a routine for the kids and I know how to do that already. And they get to have each other, too, which is what it’s all about. I can’t believe how much they already crack each other up. Just wait for it, LM, you won’t have to wait long.
And then I see the mother of three or four at the playground who looks calm and happy, if a bit bedraggled. Or the families with kids with disabilities. Or the parents who have lost a child. So I reach for another coffee and sneak out for a little alone time in the evenings and look forward to doing it all again the next day.
Keep your questions coming. Write me at rebecca@playgroundconfidential.com and there’s a very good chance that yours will be featured in the March 30th edition of Dear Playground Confidential.
How can I get my preschool-aged son to cooperate in getting dressed in the morning? It feels like every morning is a great big struggle and I can’t afford to spend all this time and energy fighting with him.
Morning Mayhem
Dear Morning Mayhem,
Funny that you ask. I myself am struggling with the same thing. That kind of coincidence is almost too good to be true. Unfortunately, I cannot draw on my own experience to give you a one-size-fits-all solution because it is only a precarious combination of threats, patience, ingenuity, and the freedom to spend the morning at home if need be that gets Colum into his street clothes everyday.
Most parenting experts will stress the need for consistency and routine, and they are right to a degree. But so much of this is developmental. Two and three-year-olds will push their boundaries and see how much they can get away with. They are, in effect, experiencing an existential crisis in which they are grappling with their new-found independence and personal agency. It’s not even about whatever it is that they don’t want to be doing half the time. It’s just that they don’t want us telling them what to do and doing stuff for them all the time. So, we should pick our battles and let them do things on their own whenever possible. For the most part I find that if I give Colum the choice between doing something himself or having us do it for him, he will choose the former. Even if it’s something he’s resisting, he’ll reluctantly go along with it as long as he can do it himself.
But then there are those things that they cannot control: like getting dressed every morning or departure times or what’s for dinner. That’s when you need a firm and consistent approach that can see you through. Some variation of a time-out and positive reinforcement system will help encourage good behaviour and discipline acting out. There’s lots of literature out there on the subject, but I think that as long as your approach is consistent and expectations are clear, it doesn’t matter what the exact repercussions are. (I use an armchair in the living room for “time out” — though we just call it a punishment — and also take away favourite toys and activities if the behaviour persists.)
There are times when nothing seems to work — or nothing you can think of, anyway. Often, those times are in public and will result in a meltdown. Apart from calling in the Supernanny, conventional wisdom claims we just have to grin and bear it. Try to avoid a scene and get through them as best you can and remember that this too will pass. And if you do lose your temper (as we all do from time to time) and you feel badly, then I think it’s best to apologize to your child. By treating your child as an individual worthy of respect you are modeling appropriate behaviour and at the same time teaching them that everyone gets frustrated and upset and needs to work on staying calm.
So make clear your expectations, MM, and hold to the consequences you have laid out. It won’t be easy, but eventually your child should respond and your mornings will get easier. I’ll let you know how it works for me.
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I’m trying something new, dear reader. In addition to my regular posts about the minutiae of my daily life and any larger ideas that I find time to explore, I would like to try my hand at an advice column. The above question (in case you couldn’t tell) is a fake in that I made it up. But I would love to hear from you and offer up some parenting advice, or direct you to someone who can, or at least have some fun at your expense. I plan to post these “Dear Playground” columns every second Monday, so you have over a week to get your questions in. And remember, there is a very good chance that your question will be the one I choose, given the vast expanse of emptiness that is my inbox. In fact, hypothetical scenarios will also be considered in a pinch.
Send your questions to rebecca@playgroundconfidential.com.
(Image courtesy of Larry Jones Illustration)
Let me always remember this time when Colum thinks hugs and kisses should be kept in a first aid kit alongside the band-aids.
For months now, I’ve been hesitant to say that Colum is toilet trained. He has been “night trained” since he was 18-months, long before he had any clue during the day. I just noticed that he could and did hold his pee all night and no longer had a wet diaper in the morning. So I did away with any diaper or Pull-up over night and, as long as we remember to sit him on the toilet at bedtime, things were good. During the day he also has impressive control and can go for several hours. As long as I put him on the toilet every couple of hours, there was no problem.
Except for number 2. If I caught him in the act, there was a chance we could make it to the toilet. Otherwise forget about it. The result is that my two-year-old boy has been happily running around in underpants without being quite toilet-trained. Sometimes he would ask to go to the toilet, but mostly I had to put him there. There were lots of accidents when my timing was off and he pooped in his underwear almost everyday for a long time. He wouldn’t sit down, though, which made for an easier clean up.
But now … he has actually been running to the nearest toilet and sitting down and pooping all on his own. (He still won’t tell us, mind you, so it’s not always a total success.) And I even had to put a pair of his underwear in the dirty clothes hamper just because he’d already worn them — not because he soiled them! Today at lunch he suddenly said, “I don’t want to go pee. No, I don’t want to go pee.” Which let me know to get him on the toilet pronto. Of course he was bursting. So … toilet trained? Maybe.
(Image courtesy of bedwetting.com.)
I feel pretty vindicated on the food front after Colum devoured his lunch today. A couple weeks ago I had a hankering for some chili and made an enormous amount. I know that Colum’s not especially big on the meat, but chili is tomato-y and he does like beans. Still, I served it Cincinnati-style over some whole wheat spaghetti to make it Colum-friendly. We sit down at the table and he announces, “I hate chili.” Wow. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard him use the word hate before. And I had chili for at least two more meals that week and some for the freezer. Just then, my brother (who was joining us for dinner) rang the doorbell. So I said, “Shane’s here now and he really loves chili. He will be upset if you don’t like the special dinner we cooked for him. I’m going to go let him in and you should just start eating.” I don’t know how I came up with that, but it worked! He started eating, and even though he ate mainly pasta and left the chili, I was satisfied. We had it a couple more times and he would grudgingly eat enough of his dinner. Today I cracked out a small frozen serving and heated it up and served it over spaghetti and topped it with cheddar once again. And he loved it. So there you go: repeated exposure, and some trickery, and a good dose of hunger really do work wonders. And man am I sick of chili.
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.)