I've got a screamer

Oh the screaming. Clark is three and a half, and boy is he a screamer. He's always been a screamer, but I thought somehow he'd grow out of it once he could form a complete sentence that accurately described his desires. But no. Instead of saying, "Sissy, could I play with that when you're done?" he just screams. And when the gum I have is the wrong shape, boy howdy. It's not infrequently that I careen from the grocery with one hand on the cart and one hand on him just to keep him from vaulting out, his piercing scream the 5 alarm kind. People flinch away from me, or start in surprise, or stare unabashedly, or shake their head, or sometimes smile in pity and sympathy. Yesterday he continued screaming well after I'd gotten him restrained in his seat, and still on while I stood outside the car in the freezing wind and snow while I answered my phone, since I wouldn't be able to hear anything from inside the car.

They're not tantrums, just extremely loud wordless complaints. When they go on and on they certainly qualify as fits, but he never loses control. No it's all very intentional.

I just keep waiting for this stage to pass. It will, won't it?

At the same time, when he's not screaming he's unbearably cute. And I'm aware that both are going to go at once. His baby three-year-old cuteness is just the flip side to eardrum shattering complaint. It's a terrible dichotomy.

Written days later:
Maybe it's not all so intentional, Clark's screaming. Perhaps he can't help it as much as I've believed. Not that this changes much of anything. I still have to deal with it, respond to it, help him find other ways to express himself or take control, and he still has to learn what's acceptable here in this dimension we call society. But it does change my internal attitude toward it a bit. It gives me a little sympathy for him.

Sympathy's always a good thing.

sweet siblings

I'm having some computer issues that have made it impossible to download photos onto the existing array of computers in this house. BUT! Yesterday a new harddrive arrived in the mail, and as soon as it's set up I will be on my way. And I will first thing post a picture of Frances with her new purse.

Yes, Frances got a denim across-the-body purse for her birthday that she carries everywhere. In it is: her camera (kids, also for her birthday), cell phone (old one of mine for which we still have the charger, so it "works" though when you call somewhere you get an out of service message, double bonus!), nail file, and chapstick. All of which is so cute of its own accord. Clark is allowed to touch none of it, as you can imagine. Then, the other morning I let Clark get to me with his 3-year-old demands and shrieking, and I yelled at him. While he cried Frances dumped everything in her purse onto the family room floor and said, "You can play with this stuff, Clark."

They both do this, take care of each other emotionally. A couple of weeks ago Frances demanded GUM! GUM! UHUH UUUUHHH!!! not so politely (tired? overstimulated? five?). Her dad and I said we would love to get her some if she could ask a bit more nicely, but she couldn't. She had herself in some emotional spot that she just could not see her way out of. After a few minutes Clark came to the kitchen and said, "Daddy, may Sissy have some gum please?" in the sweetest most charming voice ever. It is so interesting to me that he recognized that Frances couldn't do it herself, that she was unable to get it together, so he did it for her. Sweetness. 

in the garage

I am this minute squeezed into a cushioned kids chair in the garage in the dark with the computer on my lap. I can't turn the lights on because the kids might see me from inside the house, and they think I'm at the grocery or walking the dog but probably not sitting in the garage with a bottle of wine. In fact, I am listening to some impressive music while on hold with applecare. (Who picks their playlist? Sometimes Apple marketing astounds me.) I've spent many an hour recently entertained by their playlist while on hold with applecare. Generally I'm holding while the good spirited front line fella named Jake talks with someone in the back who knows which end is up. Not that Jake doesn't. Just somehow I've dug myself into a digital hole from which only experts can save me.

We had swim lessons tonight, which end later than the kids should be in their pjs, and Mitch is at a work dinner. Sometimes I pressure myself about doing it alone - feel that if I'm a good mom I should be able to put them to bed by myself forcryingoutloud, but other times I'm pretty clear about acknowledging my limitations. Given Clark's incessant screaming and general volatility, my limitations these days come sooner than they have other times. Good Enough Mommy, right? So tonight I have a sitter just for bathing them and putting them to bed. It's someone they love, and whom they haven't seen for a while. Everyone was happy when I lugged my electronics out here.

You may be pleased to know that as long as I don't die from a spider bite I might soon have pictures on a computer again. I have pictures, but I can't get them off the camera. So many I've wanted to post here recently! I have faith in this round of computer support. Maybe it's the wine.

A few minutes ago I nearly killed myself tripping over a trike while unplugging the computer from the wall as requested by Applecare Jake. Besides that, and the spiders, it's rather nice out here. I can hear the rain and smell the sawdust left by the guys who've been working on our house. I can also hear my son screaming absolute bloody murder in the upstairs bathroom. My guess is it's about getting out of the bath, though really, it could be about anything. It's hard to be three. Poor Sitter Liz, but she's a capable human and besides, it's good for Clark to have to receive comfort (and reactions) from people who are not Mommy.

Sometimes Mommy needs a break. I'm pretty sure I would not have believed you if prekids you'd told me that a satisfying break would involve sitting in my dark garage in a kids' chair drinking wine and listening to music akin to The Shins while on applecare hold. Ah, the poetic twists our lives take. I hope Clark doesn't scare away Liz. She's a great sitter, and she folds laundry and does dishes. What more?

job description, again

I've been thinking lately about my 'job'. It used to be changing diapers and spooning runny food into mouths and nursing and changing diapers and making sure no one choked on the legos, but now it's different. There are times when it seems amorphous to me, when I can't get a handle on it exactly. And then there are other times. Like a couple of nights ago when Clark didn't want to go to sleep. He'd already been read to and sung to and had someone lie down with him and sung to again by multiple people (including my mom, who was visiting), but still he was not asleep. I met him halfway down the stairs and told him he needed to be in bed, and he asked what we grownups were doing downstairs. We were spending grown up time together, I said. "Are you sitting down?" Yes, we were sitting. "I want to sit with you, Mama. Can I pweeeeeesssseee?" Oh my. We were, in fact, watching Dancing with the Stars, which Clark loves. I told him he could come down for two dances, then it was back to bed.

Of course, when it was time to go back to bed Clark was not ready. By now it was an hour and a half past his bedtime, and I was done with negotiations. It was time. So I carried him upstairs shrieking hysterically and I put him in his bed. He climbed out and stood next to the bed. I picked him up and put him back in. He rolled out and stood. I put him back in. He rolled out. Again and again. Every time he rolled out he screamed NO I WON'T and he kept trying to push my anger button. There was a moment when I thought about getting angry, but decided against it. I thought two things: 1) good thing I didn't go to the gym because I'm now getting a great arm and back workout picking him up over and over, and 2) what else do I have to do? I mean, it would have been nice to go downstairs and hang with my mom, especially since it was her last night. But what struck me is that this is my job. This. Standing patiently, putting him back in his bed over and over, however long it takes. I don't have anywhere else to be, anything else to do. I did need to move the laundry to the dryer in the basement, but that could wait. In fact, it all could wait for this.

I thought the same thing last week when Frances had a screaming fit while I was cooking dinner. The end of it found her standing on the stove sobbing down! down!. I lifted her off the stove and she crumpled in my arms, and I just sat with her on my lap, as long as she needed. We could always eat tuna fish and crackers if I didn't finish cooking.

Over and over I learn this same lesson. I don't know why I forget. I slide into thinking that keeping the house is my job, or having things run on schedule, or organizing unruly and amazing amounts of clothes (a feat all its very own): goodwill, pass to friend, next season, too big. And while those certainly are my responsibilities, they are not primary. Simply being with the kids when they truly need me and my attention: that is my job.

Back to Clark, in case you're wondering how that turned out: after a while I started to count how many times I put him back in his bed. My guess is we'd gone about 15 rounds when I started counting, and I got to 32 (he was rolling out much more slowly each time by then though the screaming was just as lively). I was wondering how it would look when he finally gave up, then Mitch came to relieve me. Glad I've been lifting weights these days. 

picky picky picky

My son. My son is a lunatic. An adorable lunatic, but the screaming really undoes me. He'll be three in a week and I know it's typical for this to be an awful age, but - really. Come on.

He won't wear pajamas. Which is fine. He wears to bed whatever he's been wearing all day, which does make bedtime a little sideways because we don't have the ritual of putting on the pjs any more. But whatever.

He agrees to wear a grand total of two pairs of shorts. Shorts. They are long shorts, the longest I could find in the bottom of the box of summer stuff in his closet. When we go outside I require snowboots and socks that he allows me to pull up under the legs of the shorts, and that he pushes down the instant his butt hits the carseat. He does, however, pull them up of his own accord before we get out of the van. As you can imagine, there being only two pairs, the shorts are often dirty. Today I washed one of the pairs out in the sink and dried them on the heater, and then the last bit with the hairdryer (oh what a sweet mama I am), so they'd be ready for bedtime.

And he found a pair of his now-too-small shoes in a stack of things I've been meaning to ebay, and he insists on wearing them all the time. Even to bed. (I've actually finally won that battle. Score one for mom! No shoes in bed anymore, but he does put them right beside the bed so they'll be there in the morning, or, I assume, if he wakes in the night and needs to glance down to reassure himself of the steadiness of the universe.) Although he wears his snowboots outside (spiderman, light up when walking, bought in desperation at Target months ago when he was refusing to wear his perfectly acceptable blue ones), I often have to carry the too small old shoes with me in my bag so he can change into them when he gets where we're going, like our friend Sophia's house or the kid area at the gym. And if dad's home, he can skip the snowboots all together, because he convinces dad to carry him to and from the car. Which his dad agrees to do. Again, whatever.

His puppy eyes are indeed convincing. He's not even three and he's already mastered throwing the sugary bone. Today he hollered "TV! TV!" while shrieking and flailing in my arms on the way to the car from Frances's ballet class. I told him absolutely not; boys who behave like this don't get to watch tv in the car. He stopped immediately and quietly said, "I not screaming any more." A little too late for that, little man. Five minutes later I said that no, boys who hit mom certainly don't get candy. He looked at me so sweetly and said, "I'm sorry I acted like that, Mama," in the most adorable little voice you've ever heard. "Why, thank you, Clark. I appreciate that apology," I said. "Now we can watch TV?" he asked with just as much sugar. Heh. His girlfriends are going to be in trouble.

Have I mentioned how stinkin cute he is?

I can't figure it out, really. I've tried several different approaches. My latest is to pretend he isn't screaming at all. I dig my earplugs out of my jeans pocket, where they are the minute I get up in the morning, and I just go about my dish-doing, my straightening, my sweet potato slicing for Yam Spinach Bacon soup. He follows me around the kitchen screaming, and screaming, and screaming, and after about three full screaming minutes, he swats me on the legs. I say, "You may not hit me, Clark," and I pick him up and carry him to the time out chair in the dining room. He continues to scream, which I ignore, and then he screams for his blankie blankie, which I scoop from under the kitchen table or up off the family room floor and throw to him. When the blankie hits his hands he quiets immediately, and spends the rest of time out lounging sideways in the chair and sucking his thumb.

(The blankie is fascinating, isn't it? Its like a drug, a deep inhale, the world's edges suddenly softer, life not such a strain, one foot at a time into a steaming hot bath. Ah. I could use a blankie, come to think of it.)

I have to keep reminding myself, keep reminding myself that this is a stage. One day he'll stop all this madness. He won't still be throwing fits like this when he's sixteen (they'll be a different variety of fit then...) I'll even be able to keep a crayon within his reach without fearing consequences.

But as a stay at home mom, dealing with this all day long, every day, several times a day, ad nauseum, it's hard to keep it in perspective. I feel like I'm forever going to live in a house with someone who screams for extended periods at a time. I really do think the noise level is what throws me off. I didn't realize I was noise sensitive, but on the extremely rare and random day when he doesn't scream, I'm a much happier and calmer and better parent.  Cheers to that.

toddlerland

Lots I want to post about; no time, no time. Which is mostly because I've been spending all my time helping Clark with his outfit changes. Seriously. We go through probably 8 different outfits by 10 am. It's currently the way he's attempting to assert 2-year-old control over his out of control world. I can't remember how Frances did it, though I do remember trying to come up with ways for her, things like letting her choose which sippy cup she wanted. Clark has come up with this all on his own and it's simply impossible (or at least unadvisable) to fight. His clothes, her clothes, doesn't matter. It even extends to pajamas. Last night Mitch put him down and when I got him up this morning he was wearing three shirts and two pairs of shorts over his onesie. We don't have air conditioning; he had to be hot, silly guy. 

Clark is the same age now as Frances was when she was tantrumming in full. There was a stretch months that were very loud and volatile, plus an enormously long couple of weeks when she tantrummed about once every 30 minutes. All day long. Sometimes the tantrums would last 20 minutes, which meant only 10 minutes or so of reprieve between. It was seriously exhausting. 

It's that age where they are so proud to be big (Clark tells us all the time, "I a BIG boy.") but also want to still be a baby. Being big is exciting and wonderful--to realize you have power and are ultimately separate--but they also are frustrated by how little actual power they have. After all, I make most decisions for him all day long: where we go, what he eats, when he eats, when he watches tv, when he gets his diaper changed, whether we get to go see the train in the grocery store though he begs and begs and begs. He wants to make some decisions. His clothes have taken the focus. 

But being separate can also be scary, all exposed and vulnerable in the big world. He's back in his crib now, wanted to be in it rather than the toddler bed, and he wants me to carry him everywhere, from room to room, up and down the stairs, to the car, through the parking lot, which is a problem since he's a full 30 pounds now. "Uppy! Uppy!" he says, and I try to explain that I will hold his hand but I can't carry him, and he loses his mind. It's not just the wail of not getting his way; it's a lament of deep sorrow, keening, stamping his feet, tears. Sometimes I just give in and pick him up, but my back is suffering for it. I can't do it much longer. 

I'm struggling with my headaches again, a thing that puts me out of commission on the blog completely. Hopefully they'll let up soon. I'm trying to post at least twice a week but clearly have not been meeting that goal lately. Yet! Next week Frances starts school! Four mornings a week! Clark starts the week after that--two mornings. Which means I'll have two whole mornings to myself!! It may be a whole new world. 

nightmares and Clark the Menace

Something's up with my girl, and I don't know what it is. Nightmares? Fear of being alone? Simple anxiety about independence? Her terrible hay fever? Here's what she does: goes to sleep just fine, then an hour/ two hours/ the middle of the night later she wakes up whining. I want a drink, or I wanna have a sleepover, or ahlsimfiemthtnelfiibktyy. She seems like a thinking wakeful person, which generally leads me to ask, "What is it you want, honey?" But that is the wrong approach. This much I've learned. Asking her how I can help her only ratchets up the whining until it turns into screaming (4 am screaming is really not pleasant) and then, full tantrumming. Honestly, I don't think she's even awake.

What does work is picking her up and putting her on the toilet (with a guess that having to pee is perhaps what woke her in the first place), then carrying her back to bed. I cannot, as I have learned, tell her to climb on the toilet seat herself, or pull up her own pants, or walk back to her room even though I am right beside her holding her hand. Verbal communication only escalates everything.

Mitch thinks it's her brother. Clark hits her all the time, randomly, not just out of irritation but also out of boredom. I don't know why it doesn't occur to her to turn around and hit him back, but it doesn't. Instead she just gets this pitiful exhausted helpless look on her face and whines, "Mommy, Clarky hit me again."

I try my best to get him to quit this shit but am obviously not being effective. I get down in his face and make him look at me and I tell him that we can't act like that etc etc. (the frown he gives me during this is quite theatrical). Anyway, I do that when I have enough wherewithall not to simply shriek, "Clark, no hitting!" He generally goes into time out which is not such a bad place in the pack-n-play with toys and sometimes even his blanket. Two minutes, until the dinger dings. Then he very willingly (and adorably) says he's sorry, everyone hugs, and five minutes later he's hit her again.

This morning Mitch noticed her tone of voice and facial expressions when she's upset in the night are just the ones she uses when Clark hits her and she feels powerless and frustrated. Hm. What to do?

I've been focusing on trying to get Clark to quit it dammit already, but it occurs to me this minute as I write (a-ha! the intended result of blogging about the stress of being a mom!) that maybe I need to give her some other skills. I've been trying to tell her to tell him how it makes her feel, but maybe I should teach her how to say that if he's going to hit her she's not going to play with him, or going to go into the other room, or whatever. That would be a much more thorny consequence to him (oh he loves playing with her. To him the hitting is just part of that play somehow) than listening to me or going into timeout.

Oh yay! I'm going to talk to her about it tomorrow. I hope it works. Or something works.

grouchy #2

I'm so grumpy I can hardly stand myself. At this very minute both kids are in super needy mommy stages and no one else seems to be able to do anything for them. Things like wash their hair or read bedtime books or hand them their sippy cups off the counter although dad is standing right beside the cups and I am all the way across the room.

Today when Frances was trying to get me to play with her and I was being a stickinthemud about it, I said, "You'll be glad when Katie (her sitter) gets here, won't you? She's a better player than I am."

"No, you're a better player, Mommy."

"Why?" I asked. "How am I a better player?"

"Because I love you, Mommy," she said.

Awww.

But still.

And we've seriously got to get Clark's screaming thing under control. I am that parent in the grocery store parking lot, the one you shake your head at, whether from disdain or sympathy it's hard to say. He's old enough now (2 plus 3 months) that he can understand it's not okay (though I say that very thing a hundred times a day... apparently I need a different approach). The screaming really gets to me and contributes heavily to the grumpiness. It feels so invasive, almost as intrusive as when he climbs me like a jungle gym (which is often). Plus, he's getting really willful. Mitch pointed out that Frances used to say NO a lot, to which you can at least respond, "yes you will". But Clark just acts like I haven't spoken, doesn't turn his head when I call his name, walks off doing the thing I'm hollering for him to stop. To which you can only say, "dammit Clark!"

I'm touched out. I just want to sit by myself in our little woods in back of the yard and have no one touch me. Multiple times a day I find myself carrying them both because neither one agreed it was enough to just hold my hand. "Hold hold!" Clark says. "Uppy!" Sometimes I've got Clark on my hip and Frances in a piggy back and I just hope I don't slip as I'm coming down the stairs.

PLUS, as I mentioned before, Clark's climbing out of his bed and staying up until all hours of the night. It won't be like this forever. One day I'll have time to myself again. This is my mantra.

no nap means Kipper

Things have been going so much more smoothly. That's what I've been telling everyone. Frances seems to have come somewhat out of the horrible awful three-year-old stage and she's a more pleasant human to be around. Then, mere moments ago, I moved the car seats into the babysitter's car and buckled Frances in. She gave me a hug and asked me to go back and get her Ariel doll. I told her Ariel was upstairs (and I wasn't going to go upstairs) but I would go see what I could find. In the toy closet I found a couple of babies, a Kipper stuffed animal, and a singing Elmo. I called her choices out the window and she chose her doll Shaker. I brought it out to the car, gave her one more kiss, then leaned on the driver's window to talk to the sitter about what time to be back.

Then. Frances asked for the Kipper. 

I know this scene; I've been in it many times. She doesn't give a hoot about Kipper. I think it's some kind of way to try to feel in control--she just wants me to do yet another thing for her--or to simply exert control over my actions, as well as the leaving (she didn't particularly want to go, though I know she'll have a lovely time when she's there). I've been fooled into running back and forth, just one more thing, thinking why not if it's going to make her happy, calm, quiet? But it's not Kipper she wants, and if I had gone to get Kipper she would have asked for something else, and a melt down was avoidable at this point anyway. So I said no, said I had given her her choices, that she was delaying and it was time to go. 

She unbuckled her carseat (ah-ha! The downside of her being able to buckle and unbuckle her own seat...) and flung herself to the floor. I had to open the door and wrestle her, screeching, back into her seat, and then threaten the loss of tomorrow's TV time if she undid her carseat again. (Have I mentioned the power of the no more TV threat? Not long ago when I picked her up from a playdate, she unsurprisingly didn't want to go home, and she and the little boy ran off to hide/play/carry on as if I weren't there. I called out "I'm going to count to three and if you're not at the door putting on your shoes then there's no TV today or tomorrow," and there wasn't even a second of quiet before she said, "Gotta go, Leo!" and ran down the stairs.)

All of this also illustrates the late afternoon result of no nap. I thought for sure when she gave up her pacifier she'd give up naps too--she was already napping only some days--but lately she's been falling asleep on the couch, in the car, sometimes at 5pm. I think we have to go back to naps. But the nighttime paci success continues!

the next stage

Things have gotten hard again lately. I don't know exactly what's changed; perhaps several things all slammed together. Clark has certainly turned into a toddler full on. He'll be two in March and my goodness. He just screams and screams and screams and wants things and doesn't get his way and screams. It makes me nutso. He also wants to be carried all the time, all 30 pounds of him, and when my back is bothering me and I tell him he has to walk or I have a basket of laundry in my arms he just falls to pieces. Dire. So that's one thing.

The other major thing is Frances. She's really really testing limits now, trying to figure out where she has control and where she doesn't. She'll just say no. NO.

No.

When she throws a toy across the room and I ask her to pick it up. When I try to get her to use the bathroom before nap. When it's time to get on her shoes or coat. When I ask her to give me the screwdriver. When it's time to come to the table for dinner. When it's time to take a nap or go to bed or get in the car or the bath or the bed. Okay, maybe it's not quite as bad as all that, but it's bad. What's different about this from the two-year-old NOs (which I'm experiencing at the exact same time w/ Clark) is that the things he says no to are things he doesn't have a choice about: changing his diaper, getting his hands wiped after he's plunged them in his yogurt, those types of things. The things she says no to are things I can't possibly physically make her do if she really doesn't want to.

Which makes the battle we're having very interesting.

It also means I have to think through what I want to get out of this and how to go about it. I mean, I could break her will. I could lock her in her room when she won't go to bed. But that's no good. That's not the kind of parent I want to be, not the kind of relationship I want to have with her. I don't want her to think of me as the line in the sand, the rule enforcer, the thing against which she has to push in order to be her own self. Sometimes I have the energy or wherewithall and I get creative and step out of the battle. Night before last at bedtime when she wanted to go downstairs with her armful of babies I suggested that we make a bed for them in her closet so they could get some rest for tomorrow too. She actually turned around in the hallway and came back for that one. It was that same night that, when she got out of bed to start in on her list of delay tactics, I just sort of ignored her. I knew a battle would be painful and certain, so I continued putting sheets on the guest bed, folding laundry, cleaning up the kitchen. I refused to fight her, but I also refused to entertain her. She followed me around and wanted to help but I wouldn't let her... told her it was not time for her to help with the laundry because she was supposed to be in bed. The goal was to bore her to bed. At one point when I was doing the laundry and watching tv she said, 'I'm going to go bother Daddy" which I thought was a fine idea. He was going through bills and was certain to not let her slow him as well. I wouldn't let her take out any of her toys (again because she was supposed to be asleep, not playing w/ toys) but she did pull things out of her dress up bin and decorate herself when I wasn't looking. Of course, she didn't actually go to bed until after 9pm. What to do?

This is what parents mean when they say you have to pick your battles. I could fight with her all day long, about nearly everything. One thing I'm wrestling with is time out. She won't stay in time out anymore. So I've been holding her. I don't know how I feel about physically restraining her this way, but I can't see the other option. I just sit with her, calm, and I wait until the time is up.

Right now she thinks that I'm against her. (Which I sometimes am.) It's made me wonder recently if I say no to her too often, if she feels like I say it to her all day long. No, you can't play with that, no don't put barrettes on the dog's ears that hurts him, please put the yowling cat down, no let's not get out the paints right now while Clark is awake, no don't touch the christmas tree ornaments, no standing on the kitchen table, on and on. Also, she still wants me to dress her and help her go to the toilet and sometimes feed her, all of which she can do very well on her own, if a little more slowly. So two things: perhaps I can find ways to stop saying no so often, and rather than respond in the negative as a reflex, I can think up (before hand) things that she can do that she'll find fun and suggest those instead. Or I can just stop being so anal and let her do some of them. And second, I want to encourage her to do more by herself, want her to feel independent. Perhaps then she won't need to fight me so often to prove how independent she is.

Then I wonder, as I always do, how much of this is just a necessary stage that will occur and then pass no matter now I respond?

ALSO! I'm going to start doing more crafts with them. I know I've said this before, but this time I mean it. Crafts can solve all kinds of problems.

pooping in nature

A few Saturday mornings ago Mitch and I went hiking with the kids. As we were loading kids into kid backpacks Frances announced she needed to go to the bathroom. There was, of course, not a toilet in sight, but there were lots of trees, so I taught her how to squat and pee. She couldn't do it by herself--she would have wet her pants around her ankles, but I was able to sort of hold/prop her while she went about her business. She thought it was grand. There was another time not long after that when we were out in nature and she needed to use the bathroom, so we did it again. Potty training coming right along.

Last weekend my mom was here for a visit and it happened to be the first weekend of the Lilac Festival. We rode a pony, listened to a high school band in the band shelter, then spread out a blanket in the shade and ate some ice cream. After that the kids were romping around in the grass when Frances came over and said, "Mommy, I need to swat." "You need to swat?" "I need to swat." Ah, yes--squat. She needed to pee. I didn't even try to locate a port-a-john; they were far far away and we never would have made it before an accident. "I need to poop," she said. Well. What to do? Okay, I thought. Here we go. Nearby were some scrubby crepe myrtles surrounded by pachysandra--a ground cover that looks a bit like ivy. I walked her over to the pachysandra, pulled down her skirt and helped her balance. I hoped the few people nearby wouldn't be offended by the half naked child, and really hoped none of them would realize she was doing more than peeing. After a moment or two I said, "You done?" "No," she said. "I have to poop more." I waited. "You done?" "No. I have to poop more." More? Really.

Thank goodness my mom was there to keep her eyeballs on Clark because Frances and I were occupied in the pachysandra for much longer than one would think necessary. Afterward I used a plastic bag I keep in the stroller for walks with the dog and tried to clean up as much as I could but it was kind of hopeless. I just hoped no children would come tromping through the greenery. Again: what to do?

A few days ago during Clark's nap Frances was playing in the yard while I gardened a bit. While I yanked dead limbs off the shrubs in back she came over and said she needed to squat. "You need to use the potty?" I asked. "Let's go inside and use it there." "No, I wanna swat," she said. "I have to poop." I tried to explain that we only squat when there isn't a potty around, that it's much better to poop in the potty because poop is dirty and then we can flush it down the toilet etc etc. She was insistent. I ran inside and brought her little potty into the yard. "Here, Frances, If you want to poop in the yard you can do it here on your potty." I actually got her pants and undies around her ankles and was gesturing to the potty when she completely fell to pieces. "I WANT TO SWAT I WANT TO SWAT! SWAT SWAT SWAT!" Screaming, flinging herself on the grass. My retired widow neighbor came around the fence, gardening gloves on, a distressed look on her face. "What's wrong?" "Being two is hard," I said. Frances was still screaming, still on the grass, her butt still naked. "I've never seen her behave like that," my neighbor said. "That's because it usually happens inside," I told her. My neighbor never had children and really doesn't know what to do with them, how to interact with them. I think she believed Frances never threw tantrums. I could see her adjust her opinion of what kind of kid Frances is. You know, the troublesome tantrum throwing kind.

Just so you know, she pooped in nature again yesterday just as we finished a hike. Again, not a toilet in sight. I wonder if she holds it until just the right time?

bubblegum is more than bubblegum

For months now gum has been Frances's shining symbol of what it means to be a Big Girl. "When I get to be BIG I can have bubblegum." It's like a mantra. Anytime we see anyone chewing gum she stares, and from her sitters she demands repeated bubble blowing. I told her she wasn't old enough because, of course, I was worried she would swallow it.

Then last week she found some gum in the house and asked me for it. And asked me for it. And asked me for it. She wanted me to chew it, wanted me to give it to her, wanted to unwrap it and look at it. Finally I thought that perhaps she could indeed chew it without swallowing it, and if she did swallow it then I would simply know not to give her any more. So I told her she could have some.

You'd think I would have learned something from the Big Girl Bed Incident. (She's still in her crib, by the way.) She really needs emotional preparations for these changes in her life. I just wasn't thinking, didn't consider that gum has been THE symbol for her of what it means to be Big. And I don't think it was simply being allowed the gum that was so traumatizing, but also that I simply decided--just like that--to give her some.

There was an abundance of excitement. Oh, the joy. It was great to see that kind of joy.

"Mommy, I have bubblegum."

"Want to see my bubblegum?"

"I'm bigger so I have bubblegum."

"I can show you my bubblegum."

"Do you have bubblegum?"

"Big girls have bubblegum, and I'm a big girl."

"I like my bubblegum."

Not only did I not prepare her for it, tell her that soon she could have gum, have her look forward to it, explain that she's gotten much bigger and can now do things she couldn't before so maybe she's big enough for gum, but I also didn't explain any of the gum rules, which I of course hadn't yet figured out. So that night as we were getting ready for bed she wanted another piece. Just before teeth brushing. We told her no, it was too late for gum.

And there was a meltdown.

Seriously.

I'm pretty sure it lasted more than 45 minutes. At first we tried to explain. We tried to talk with her. We told her we'd be over here when she was done shrieking and we'd be happy to hold her then. She was naked, by the way--we were just getting pajamas on when it started--and twice I tried to get her dressed but man she's gotten big and strong. So I checked my email, checked facebook, read a blog or two. I began to think that we'd just have to put her in her bed naked and crying and let her scream until she passed out. Later I could come in and dress her sleeping. Mitch is great and he sat her on his lap and talked about being a big girl and waiting until tomorrow for more, and he tried to explain the rules for gum. He said that we only got 2 pieces per day; one in the morning and one in the afternoon.

Mitch and I hadn't talked about this, the rules. The next day I stuck to the rules but things were tragic. Bubblegum, bubblegum, oh how she wanted more bubblegum. I was really torn and began to take a poll of my friends--who thought I should have a rule like this, or who thought I should give her 3 packs (or something) and let her chew as much as she wanted until it was gone. In the end I did the latter. I couldn't figure out what holding to the rule would accomplish--it's sugarless gum, and I can't see what it hurts if she wants to chew it all damn day long. By doling it out, did we think we were teaching her temperance? Patience? Delayed gratification? It felt controlling to me--like we were asking her to be someone she's not. That's a bit dramatic, I know--it has to do with the crossroads I'm in with my parenting philosophy in general. I mean, what is my role anyway? In what ways am I trying to guide her? And while I of course want to guide her, I also want to accept who she is--bubblegum obsession and all.

We're near the end of her last pack. I keep it out of reach so Clark won't get into it, which means Frances does have to ask for it even though I give it to her pretty much whenever. This morning when she threw out a piece she'd had in for 5 minutes and wanted another, I pointed out that she only had 2 pieces left. "Okay. I won't cry, Mommy," she said. We'll see. I think she won't, actually. I think she's (finally) prepared.

tantrum awareness

Last night we'd finished the arduous brushing of teeth before bed and I was trying to get Frances to focus on which books she'd like to read when she started asking for juice. It was a delay tactic--I'm familiar with them. Bedtime in general is one exercise in delay tactics after another, and a test at how savvy mom and dad are about heading them off. The rule is water only after brushing teeth, as she knows, but she was insistent about juice and off she went down the stairs. I came down after her and got her a cup of water and that's when she fell apart. So I picked her up, screaming, and carried her and the cup of water back upstairs. When we were in her room I sat her on my lap and she finally calmed down and drank the water and said, "why I so upset, Mommy?" "You wanted juice," I said. "Oh yeah, but why so upset?" It must be really confusing for her to have her emotions get so out of control. She even talks about times in the past--a couple of days ago we were talking about one particular babysitter we haven't seen in awhile and she remembered when the sitter was here and Frances cried for mommy mommy mommy. This was last FALL when she was in full tantrum mode. She said to me, "I wanted YOU, Mommy. But why I get so upset?"

(I thought I posted about this issue before, about her awareness and confusion about her tantrums, but I just scanned previous posts and couldn't find anything...)

A couple of weeks ago she had a COMPLETE meltdown at a neighbor's when it was time to go home. She was having so much fun that she was simply overcome with emotion and could not get it together at all when I said it was time to go. The neighbor is six and has headbands and strawberry shortcake dolls and Frances' joy about it all was palpable. We were downstairs by the front door trying to get on shoes and coats and she was screaming. Huge tears. I had Clark and snacks and diapers so I couldn't simply pick her up and walk out the door. I finally wrestled her coat on her but she flung it off and would not let me put her shoes on. She was screaming "paci! paci! paci!" and I kept telling her that she could have her paci at home, we didn't have one there, but to get to her paci she needed to put on her shoes. She was leaning up against the wall and finally I put my hands on the wall on either side of her and got her to look at me. I said, "I'm trying to help you. I know you're really upset.You can have your paci at home but to go outside you need to put your shoes on because it's cold and the ground will hurt your feet if you don't have shoes." Now, maybe the tantrum was just wearing itself out, but I don't think so. I think my telling her I was trying to help got her attention. I said again, "You're really upset, aren't you?" and she said--in the middle of the tantrum--"Why? Why I so upset?" Fascinating.

Sometimes I wonder that about myself when I get really worked up. Mitch just likes to point out that she is my daughter. It's probably true.

holiday madness

Well, we left early--between storms--for our crazy christmas travel chaos. Over 14" on the ground and snow coming down as we pulled out. I know my neighbors probably think I'm nuts to say this, but I'm sort of sad to miss all the piles of snow. I'm told there will be more. Now we're in NC and I've been without wireless for a few days so haven't blogged though I've been wanting to.

The kids have been troopers. Several nights running we've had them up hours after their bedtimes and mostly they've done well. The night we opened presents in Virginia at my dad's was kind of traumatic--Clark had gone down for the night before we even sat down for dinner since he missed his afternoon nap, but we kept Frances up for presents. We thought she'd be all right, but it was too too much. She had a full melt down complete with floor kicking, taking swings at mom, trying to rip her clothes off, refusing to put on pjs. We had to pin her down and forcibly dress her. It was exasperating, but, again, not emotionally hard for me, even with the possible embarrassment of having other family members to witness such excesses. I wasn't embarrassed, just felt bad that they were having to listen to it.

Two nights later she was up late again--this time in NC at my Aunt Judith's house--and she did really well. We put her pjs on her before we loaded up in the car to go home and as we dressed her she said, "I not upset. At Peepaws I upset." It was so interesting to me that she remembered and made the connection--that perhaps she chose not to throw a fit. (Not that she chose to throw one at my dad's--I feel certain she was completely out of control and didn't choose much of anything at the time...) In any case, she felt proud of herself for holding it together.

She really is cute.

Another interesting tidbit: we went for a walk at my dad's house and she brought her stuffed puppy with her. At one point there was a loud barking dog that frightened her and as we moved past the yard she said to her stuffed puppy, "It's okay, puppy. Don't be afraid." She was able to soothe herself by using the puppy as a stand-in. I love watching this developmental stuff.

And Clark--Clark is attached. I think I've said that before, but it's become apparent in a new way. He didn't do quite as well at my aunt's house; poor guy was tired when we got there, before dinner even started. He wouldn't fall asleep though I tried to put him down in the crib in the back room, and as he got more and more sleepy he didn't want anyone but me to hold him. He'd holler and holler, not crying, just complaining loudly, and when I finally took him he'd pop his thumb into his mouth and snuggle down on my chest. Yesterday at the moravian love feast service he was the same way. I was the only thing he wanted... Mitch tried to relieve me for a bit but Clark was having nothing to do with that idea. "I have to go get your brother," I say to Frances, "Do you hear him hollering?" and she nods like she understands and relinquishes me.

This is all new, a new level. Generally he'll go to anyone and smile big jolly smiles at them, at least for a bit. It's overwhelming to have him want only me, but it's also sweet to have him be so snuggly. It's a stage I know. Frances never went through it which was a surprise to me, but then I wasn't her only caretaker. She had Mitch 3 mornings a week and her sitter C 3 afternoons. For Clark I'm always around and have always been.

So we've done 4 christmases and tonight we're done. We've already told everyone that we're not traveling next year; all are welcome to come see us if they'd like. I wish I had some pictures to post but I haven't downloaded them from the camera yet... Maybe soon.

Frances the tantrum tornado

We have entered a new dimension: tantrum world. She's been having tantrums for ages, of course, but this is all together a new level. It's not the intensity so much, though the pitch has changed and the upper register is operatic. (It's so bad that I simply can't hold her when she's screaming like that. My ears can't take it. She also fluctuates the pitch up and down, like a siren--a new sound for us.) Rather, it's the frequency. They are constant--all day long. About everything. Literally. This morning it was changing her diaper, then putting on her clothes, then what kind of juice she wanted, then having to turn the tv off, then wanting her paci, then when we got in her crib where her paci is allowed it was the color of paci. We had a brief reprieve while Clark was napping--we went outside for a lovely walk in the wind. (It's really windy here.) Last night before bed it was wanting some "medicine" (damn the makers of tylenol for making the stuff so yummy), then another book, and on and on until she passed out in her bed.

I'm not talking about crying fits; these are tantrums. She loses complete control and shakes and flings herself and can't stop. I feel bad for her; they've got to scare her. It could be just her age and all, but Mitch and I suspect the problem was that she was sick this weekend and we let up on all kinds of rules like how much tv she can watch, how often she can have the paci, etc. Now she doesn't know where the boundaries are, so she's testing them all. From what I understand (the little bit of toddler psychology I've read) the tantrums come from a lack of feeling in control, from feeling unsafe. Toddlers want boundaries so they can feel safe. And the lack of control she has during the tantrum mimics the lack of control she feels in her life.

So today I'm reinforcing boundaries. That's about all I'm doing. We have enough leftovers in the fridge for dinner so I'm not cooking, not doing laundry, not accomplishing much of anything except boundary reinforcement. It's interesting--although the screaming is tiresome and loud, I actually find this easier than usual. I mean, it's very clear to me how to deal with this. (Not that everyone should operate this way, or that it's effective for every kid, but it seems Mitch and I have figured out how to deal with her in this struggle.) When she's screeching I tell her I'm going to put her on the floor and that once she's calm I'll come back. Then I go and do some dishes or straighten up or whatever, so she can still see me--I haven't completely abandoned her--but I don't give her any attention until she quiets down. I want her to be allowed her feelings, but she needs to learn that this behavior is not okay. She can pitch a fit if she wants, but she can't have my attention while she does it.

Usually when she's in some new place I struggle with whether I'm doing the right thing, how I should respond, and often I feel like a bad parent. Maybe because this time it's so constant I'm more prepared for it, or maybe it's just deciding ahead of time how I'm going to deal with her so I'm not questioning it in the moment, but I just don't have the self-doubt I usually have in these situations. I'm exerting much less emotional energy and the tantrums don't actually seem hard to deal with. I'm actually calm, not riled, and she's not pushing my buttons. I find this quite ironic. It makes me think that when Clark gets to this stage it won't be so hard on me because I'll have more confidence about how to do this parenting thing...

It could also be the prednisone. Yesterday morning I was still in a lot of pain and called the doctor on call out of desperation. He prescribed another round of steroids since I discovered the last round was half the dose that I'm usually prescribed. No wonder they didn't work. So I'm headache free to deal with tantrums (which makes the screaming much more tolerable), and maybe have a kick of energy to boot! Still, I'm going to nap as soon as I finish this post, since both babes are sleeping. Oh, I hear the girl awake in her room. Onward I go.

job description

Sometimes I forget why I'm here. I forget that the reason we're on this planet is to love each other, to give our love, to connect. I become confused and think my job is not love, but management. I manage tantrums, hunger, naps, trips to the grocery, amount of tv watching, sharing of toys, the rationing of candy. I manage laundry, and dinner, and preschool drop off. I manage babysitters, baths, bedtime, tylenol for teething, and night feedings. I'm always on alert to what might drive the ship aground. I am always prepared to act, and I forget to just be. I forget that in the middle of baths and bedtime, even in the middle of tantrums, I can relax. I can get done what needs to get done and be relaxed about it. I can look fully at my children and give them love while we're doing these other things. What happens instead is that I turn my focus inside and lose sight of what's going on around me, save the necessary. I forget that while these busy things do help the ship run more quietly and smoothly, they are not what's important. They are not actually my job. My job is to give love so that these children grow up feeling safe and valued and protected, so they don't struggle with the same anxiety and fear and uncertainty that plagues me.

I think this is what that woman at church last year was talking about when she said her "third was her blessing". She said it was after the third was born that she realized what was important, and that she could no longer hold everything together, so stopped trying. As long as everyone was fed and clean, that's all that mattered. At the time I thought she was nuts, but I think I understand now. It would be a blessing if I could let this go--I would feel blessed to see what's truly important, essential.

This isn't just about me. I notice that when I'm most distracted by trying to get things done, Frances slowly becomes a crazy person. But when I slow down and look straight at her without my agenda, she calms down. She feels safer. I don't just want her to feel safe in this house or community, I want her to feel safe in an existential way: safe on the planet, safe in her skin. Is that too much to hope?