Elbows off the Table

My kids are currently impossible at the table. Every single meal involves at least five or six occasions of me or David asking them, "Is that good table manners?" and them replying with a reluctant "Noooooo...."

I would like to be able to eat at a restaurant someday, not that we used to eat out all the time or go to super fancy establishments or anything, but we never had to completely abandon restaurants when Jabber was a baby. Sure, we had to bring a lunch from home for him since the odds were extremely high that he would be allergic to everything on their menu, but at least we could bring him places. He would sit, mostly quietly, and color/snack on Cheerios or whatever until it was time to eat, and then he would eat in a way that suggested he was a slightly inexperienced but well-meaning human, and we would clean up, leave a big tip, and go home. No dirty looks or anything.

Now that Monkey has joined us and become mobile, etc., we cannot even handle the most casual of formats for a dinner outside the home. I mean, we can barely keep it together for a meal at McDonald's. Once we went out for a sit-down dinner at a very kid-friendly casual place, and I swear, neither David nor I had a chance to say one word to each other, what with all the trips to the bathroom and the picking things up off the floor and the walking the baby to the windows, etc. That was a year ago, and I cannot even begin to imagine what a restaurant trip would look like today, now that Monkey is firmly entrenched in the terrible twos, so to speak.

Dinner at our home now includes things like constant interruptions (conversation? only if it closely aligns with Jabber's agenda), spitting, tossing, scraping of forks, tipping over of chairs, yelling, funny noises, standing on chairs, food stolen from other people's plates and eaten, food removed from the mouth and placed on my plate, clothing used as napkins, beverages used as fingerpaint, table used as jungle gym...basically it bears little resemblance to dinner.

It's not that we don't value manners; we're constantly trying to show them good manners and enforce/reinforce them. I don't get it, but we've informed them that we'd like to eat out occasionally but can't until we see that they are capable of exhibiting human-like behavior during the course of a normal dinner.

How do you teach your kids manners, or are they just beautiful little darlings who wouldn't ever dream of using yogurt as hair gel?

MINE NUMMIES!

It turns out that two-year-olds are excessively concerned about possession. Not of the demonic type, though I do sometimes wonder as he throws himself into a thrashing heap of screaming, writhing tantrum.

No, Monkey is mostly worried about ownership--specifically, what is, “MINE.” Sometimes he just wanders about the house, listing off his belongings.

“My car. My table. My froggie. My crayons.” He peacefully pats each item as he walks past.

“My monster truck.”

“NO! That’s MY MONSTER TRUCK!” Jabber pushes, shoves, body slams. There is wailing; there are tears. This scene is replayed many times throughout the day, as the toddler and preschooler negotiate ownership of all of the toys and such a million times. It turns out five-year-olds are just as concerned about these things.

Along with this is Monkey’s demand to “SHARE!” which is just a variation on, “GIVE IT TO ME! IT’S MINE!”

Which brings me to the topic of my breasts.

What? You didn’t catch the segue?

So I find myself nursing a two-year-old. All right. I support this. I have been saying since Monkey was born that I’d like to nurse him until he was two, which is a few months longer than his big brother nursed. Jabber gave it up cold turkey at 20 months, after I had something going on for three nights in a row and missed his bedtime session, which was basically all he was interested in at the time. On the third day, he solemnly patted my breasts and said, “Nummies gone bye-bye,” and after that, he wasn’t interested.

Not so with the Monk. Even after I went to Florida for five days, he is still going strong. He’s pretty flexible about nursing if I am not around; he stays overnight with the grandparents without a problem and never asks for it once. However, if I’m around, if I’m sitting down, he wants to nurse. About half the time he crawls up in my lap, showers me with kisses, and then just tips over on my lap and smiles at me sweetly, patting my shirt lightly and asking, “I have nummies pleeeeeeease?” He’s adorable and irresistible, and I have no problem nursing him.

Sometimes he’s downright heart-melting in his nursing bliss, such as several nights ago when David and I were going to bed, and he woke up halfway and made this seriously happy sighing sound. “Ahhh, nummies,” he whispered, followed by a couple of happy sleepy little chuckles. There was nothing to feel but love as I crawled into bed beside him and snuggled.

Other times, it’s not so cute, to be perfectly honest. Back to possession, demonic and otherwise, the two of us have yet to come to agreement about who owns the nummies. My reaction to his terrorist demands of “MINE NUMMIES NOW!” accompanied by shirt-tugging and tantrumming is to shut off supply indefinitely. My heart is hard. I do not negotiate.

“You are being a bully,” I say. “The nummies are closed.”

His reaction to the sudden cut-off is pretty consistent to that of any addict: he cries, he shakes, he begs, he bargains. He tries to sneak a quick slurp as I wash my hair over the tub. He promises to change.

“I be nice nummies,” he says, crawling up into my lap.

“These are Mama’s nummies,” I say.

“No. Mine.” His jaw is set in stubborn baby persistence.

“These are Mama’s nummies. But I may be persuaded to let you share them from time to time, if you are very polite and respectful of them, and if you agree to let go and leave me be the first time I ask. Also, I require you to keep your feet out of my mouth. And no pinching.”

He listens carefully to my conditions, lying across my lap with his hand just barely touching the hem of my shirt. “Okay,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I share.”

“All right then.” We begin to nurse, both of us on our best behavior, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes. It is wonderful nursing a toddler!

Monkey detaches, just a little, just enough to speak. “Mine nummies,” he says softly, and then closes his eyes and gets back to business.

Where's that Instruction Manual Again?

A big topic lately in my interactions with Jabber has been about being proud of himself or happy with himself without having to compare himself to someone else. For example, it’s okay to really think you have a cool toy race car. It is not okay to point out, with an air of irritating superiority, all of the things that are cooler about your race car than your brother’s race car.

It is okay to express how much you love Daddy and be so happy about that. It is not necessary to discuss how your love for Daddy is so much more than your love for Mama.

Obviously this is a life-long lesson--how many of us can ever truly master the idea? We had a little talk (very little) about how sometimes people are tempted to make themselves feel better or more important by making someone else feel lower or less important. Jabber and his little Cute Girl friend at Daycare are so mean to each other like this, and then it trickles down to the Monkey as well. I just hear that snotty little tone of voice, that, “Oh yeah? Well I have even more than you because I got some from my Grandma, and my Grandma is even better than yours…” It goes on and on. And I hate hearing it.

“So can you try it, next time you feel happy or proud of yourself, then? Can you try to just think about how you feel, instead of trying to make someone else feel worse?”

Jabber nods, seriously, and says, “I bet I can do it better than Cute Girl can!”

Uh-huh. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong to even want to get rid of this tendency. Is this just…competitive spirit or something? Is it necessary to compare yourself to others in order to be your best? To really achieve something? I don’t work like that, maybe, but I do remember David talking about how, when he ran track in high school, how he wished that there had been someone to really challenge him, someone who would run nearly as fast as him or faster than him so that he would have pushed himself to beat that person. Maybe if I had had a sibling closer in age, I’d have learned to compete more?

Oh, and my other lovely parenting issue of the day: how do you get a TWO-YEAR-OLD to stop biting his nails? I mean, gross. Monkey came up to me today, proudly showing me how he can bite off his nails and spit them on the carpet. Nobody does that in my house, and I find it really gross. I really cannot handle him having this habit. I just cut all of his fingernails as short as I could, but he looked so damn proud of himself with his sharp little teeth.

He’s always been a biter…maybe I need to get him some chew toys or something.

(dis)obedience

I've never really found anything to love about the concept of "obedience," unless you are talking about an unruly puppy. Growing up, I was forever being grounded or otherwise punished for what basically amounts to insubordination--usually "talking back" or else using various passive resistance methods to avoid giving in to the authority, whether in the form of my parents or my school authority figures.

Although I'm sure at times it was just childish (like the time I engaged in something of a staring contest with a substitute teacher until she lost control of her temper and sank to levels of immaturity even I was above), I kind of see this trait of questioning authority as a strength of mine.

Except...now I'm the authority. And that changes things.

Is it a little paradoxical for me to believe that it's wrong to blindly obey while insisting that my students never make a peep while I am talking? That I value my own rebellion but just about go ballistic every time my own children refuse to listen?

I have two very different children. Jabberwock never really gave me a moment of trouble until he was three-and-a-half. If I told him that crayons were only for paper, he would stare at me with those big, solemn eyes and nod gravely. He wouldn't even think of drawing on the wall, or the floor, or the table--not even if I wasn't there to supervise. To this day, he holds my hand...well, obediently...whenever I ask him to. He asks for permission before doing just about anything. He feels bad about getting in trouble, as though he has let everyone down.

I'm sure the day will come when he will try his hand at a little rebellion, and of course he tests us even now, occasionally pulling out a defiant little "NO!" when we ask him to do something, but he looks genuinely surprised at himself afterward, like he just doesn't know what came over him.

Monkey, on the other hand, really doesn't care so much about being obedient. He hears us telling him to stop, come back, don't touch, keep that out of your mouth, be gentle, color only on the paper, be nice to your brother. He hears us, and he gives us a nice smile to let us know he heard. And then he does whatever the hell he wants.

This makes most events in public worlds different than they were when Jabber was a baby. I never really understood before how children could keep people from attending events, eating at restaurants, entertaining guests. We brought Jabber with us everywhere--dinner parties, the theatre, concerts--he even regularly accompanied David on business meetings with brides who were looking for our photography services.

The thought of doing any of these things with the Monkey is just laughable. This afternoon we tried to eat out...at McDonalds. We were there for approximately seventeen minutes, and Monkey not only ran behind the counter and tried to make himself a McFlurry but also retrieved a nasty napkin from a dark corner under a booth (it had a smashed fly on it) and played roller derby with all of the high chairs that had been neatly lined up along the wall.

I'm pretty sure it will be Monkey who has all the good ideas in middle school and high school, and he'll convince Jabber to play along with most of them. We already chose the bedroom for the boys whose window does not have access to the porch roof, thinking of future late-night sneaking out and about. I'm just a little bit frightened to think of the conflicts that are surely coming as this little willful one clashes with his mother, who may have a little bit of a willful streak as well. So it is rumored.

I don't want mindless sheep for children. I want them to be critical thinkers, and I want them to value their autonomy. At the same time, though, I want them to follow my very sensible rules. Like, please don't run into traffic. And please don't bludgeon each other with toy trucks.

And quit talking back to me, dammit!

And down will come Baby, cradle and all!

Well, it's official. Monkey has a big boy bed, or, as he refers to it, a "bid bid bid." It's really just his crib, which had been side-carred onto our queen size bed (an arrangement that allowed me to spend many nights curled around a sprawled sleeping toddler with enough of my body in the crib as to make me start worriedly calculating how close I was to exceeding the weight limit of the frame!), but which now has been scooted over like six feet to the foot of our bed.

I really enjoy having the kiddo in the bed with us, mostly because I'm so lazy. Ever since he was a newborn, I was able to nurse him most of the night without ever really waking up--just by rolling over and stuffing a boob in his mouth every time he squawked. I think back to the first couple of months with Jabber, when I lived in terror of nodding off during one of those late night nursing sessions and letting him slip from my grasp onto the cold hard floor.

It was the eczema that brought Jabber into our bed, in the end, which was the only good thing that ever came of those horrible itchers (except perhaps my children's story, "Prince Elliot and the Incredible Itch," which I still have some hope for publishing, once I'm a big hotshot author. hahaha.)

See, when Jabber was about two months old, he suddenly became covered with this itchy, oozing rash, and the only way we could keep him from scratching his face down to a bloody nasty mess is by plunking him in between us and falling asleep on either side of him, each one of us holding one of his little baby hands, with those little baby claws that were sharp no matter how we clipped and filed and clipped and filed.

So we started co-sleeping, although that term always strikes me as sounding somehow deviant. I read The Baby Book by Dr. Sears, who used the term "sharing sleep," and I felt a lot better about the fact that our infant had about as much use for the big fancy crib as he did for a steak knife or a quadratic equation.

Other books told me he should be crying it out, on a schedule, self-soothing, and other rigid ideas that hurt my heart. But in the end, we could blame it all on his eczema--sorry, but we just can't let him cry-it-out or he would gouge his cheeks off. It was a good excuse to do what our instincts told us he needed: cuddling and on-demand nursing. The best thing I ever learned how to do was to nurse him lying side-to-side, both of us sound asleep. Gone were my fears of falling babies. Gone were the exhausted midnight wakings...and one o' clock wakings...and three o'clock...and four-thirty...and six o'clock...and well, I guess I should just get up now 'cause otherwise I'm going to fall asleep and drop him again.

Other people warned us that we'd never get him out of our bed, and yet, when he was about sixteen months old, he began expressing a personal preference for sleeping all by himself in the toddler bed (the same crib converted into a bed that Monkey now sleeps in). At some point, we gradually moved him into the bed in our room, where he nodded off to bed peacefully for the most part, and then when we moved to our new home, he happily slept in his own bed in his new big boy room. He seemed to have little trouble "self-soothing." In fact, to this day, Jabber drops off to sleep without so much as a murmur, if he's truly tired.

So when we were preparing for Monkey's arrival, we just skipped the whole cradle and crib routine and set the bed up for co-sleeping...er, sharing sleep. Those first few nights, when he was so tiny and transparent and floppy, I tried to get him to sleep over on the crib mattress, with nothing fluffy or snuggly or otherwise unsafe. I placed him carefully on his little back. He would sleep. For five minutes. Then he'd wake, gagging on spit-up or startling himself out of his swaddling, bursting into a fit of crying that was sure to wake everyone in the house.

But if I curled him up close to me, within reach of the breast, with my breath on his downy little head and my hand curled around his little bottom, he would sleep soundly and sweetly. And so would everyone else.

He's 21 months, now, and although I'm pretty content with him in our bed, he seems ready for a bit more independence. So far, he's been napping happily in his bid bid bid, crawling up into it and snuggling into his own special blankets and pillows. He seems honored and pleased to be given his own space.

And so far, with a couple of exceptions (that I have to admit have probably been more my fault for not listening to his signals about being tired or not), he has nodded off in his new bed with very little trouble. He likes it.

He still comes into our bed at various times in the night--last night he was crying for nursing at 2:00 AM or so, and I scooped him up, but the night before it was 5:00 AM before we heard from him. I'm so happy with this arrangement, and I'm so glad to have the confidence to choose this sharing of sleep despite the fact that Monkey doesn't have any eczema!

Can't Buy Me Love

A couple of evenings ago, David came downstairs after tucking Jabberwock in bed with a sad look on his face. "Jabber wants to bring a car to daycare tomorrow to give it to Mister Big Kid Extraordinaire," he said.

"He wants to give away his cars?" I was incredulous. If there's anything Jabber loves more than toy cars, I haven't figured it out.

"Yeah. He said he wants to give it to Mr. BK, 'so he'll like me better.'"

This is the same kid who one day made fun of Jabber's "inja turtles" and his choice of clothing--not a mean kid, but a subtle one, with way more experience in the wide interpersonal world outside. He's in maybe fourth or fifth grade, and in the eyes of Jabber, a virtual god. At the very least a substantial hero.

I felt a stab of pain in my heart, thinking about this little boy wanting to give away his prized possessions in order to make some big kid like him better. Growing up is so hard.

So the next morning, he was all set with his car in hand. "Mom, I'm giving this car to Mr. BK," he said.

"Well, why do you want to do that, Jabber? I thought you liked that car."

He told me about how he wanted Mr. Big Kid Extraordinaire to like him, and he thought that maybe the way to do that would be to give him a car. I asked him if he would want someone to be his friend because he gives them things or to be his friend because he's fun to be around. We talked about how friendship was more than just things, and even though everything we talked about was a big heavy concept, I think he understood quite a bit of it. Then he said something that just breaks my heart, because I really wish I could take away all the rejection he'll ever feel, all the scorn of those horrible kids.

"Mom," he said. "I just like Mr. BKE so much. I go and stand by him all the time, and he says to me, 'Can I help you?'"

"And what do you say when he asks that?"

"Nothing. I just tell him that I like him, and I want to be by him because I like him so MUCH!"

I gave Jabber a big hug at this point, my heart aching for him with all his hopeful admiration, his big boy crush. "And what does he say to you then?" I asked.

Jabber shrugged then, like the matter was over, like he didn't really want to continue the conversation. "I dunno," he mumbled.

I pressed him. "Honey, what does he say to you when you tell him that you like him?"

He cried then, and I was glad that I persisted because it's clear he needed to get some love and comfort. And what does Mr. BK say to my sensitive little kiddo when Jabber openly expressed his admiration for him?

"Back off, kid."

So heartbreaking, this business of growing up.

Road Trips and Renovations!

So this is Jabberwock at the beach, on our trip last week to see my friend M. You wouldn't necessarily think, from looking at this photo, that he was screaming hysterically like fifteen minutes earlier, would you?


So I know I've talked about Jabber's fears, his hesitancies. Dogs, heights, the sound of the coffee grinder, public singing and/or doing hand motions. Well, you can add swimming to that list. Before this picture was taken, he was clinging to me with all of his limbs, screaming at the top of his lungs as I carried him out into the water. No, I wasn't throwing him off the end of a dock, and I wasn't even carrying him out where he couldn't touch. No. I was ON MY KNEES in the water, holding him, with his legs wrapped around my neck and his little razor toes (did I mention he's also afraid of the toenail clippers?) clawing for a toehold to launch himself up onto my shoulders, even as I soothed him and whispered to him and eventually even yelled at him a bit.

"Relax, honey, you can put your feet right down on the ground, and the water is only going to come up to your tummy. I won't let you go, Jabber, I've got you, I've got you, I've got you..." Rinse and repeat. Still he screamed. Loudly.

Friend M. smiled and dove in, leaving us to our own devices, while a couple watching the sailboats sat on the bench and looked slightly worried. Jeez, this lady is forcing that poor child into the water when he is clearly terrified. It looks a little like she might be scarring him for life.

They weren't there last week, though, when we did the same song and dance, almost exactly, at the indoor waterpark pool. That was a little more embarrassing because there was a waayyy bigger audience, though. The thing is, it seems like no matter how many times I take him into the water, his first reaction is just pure panic. If I let him be, he will remain panicky, unable to relax for even one minute next to the water. If the water touches his shoes, he will be afraid that a wave is coming to sweep him off and carry him away. I don't know where this fear comes from, really; I just know that if I hold him long enough and soothe him and keep on trying to make a game out of it until he forgets to be afraid for a little while, eventually he gets comfortable enough to have a little fun!

Like this picture, where he and SuperGirl were making an inland sea or something like that. (Notice, E, there are no pictures of you in or almost out of your bikini top...)
Here is a moment of silliness with friend E and well, let's call him HeroBoy, because he is clearly Jabberwock's Hero!
M has this really awesome guest book that is really a slice of a tree trunk that you sign with a woodburner, and here are E and HeroBoy signing in. Even Jabber got to write his name on the book, although we did have him do it on the practice side, since he still writes it awfully HUGE!

And here's a cute one of SuperGirl, just looking so cute. I mean, I can totally see why Jabber clear forgot about his peanut allergy when this lovely one handed him a cookie. He was under her spell!

Jabber's mad photography skillz...apparently I am breaking up a pretty intense fight. Just for the record, when confronted with a situation in which punches are being thrown, I am not all that likely to be in the middle of it. Especially if the punchers/punchees are girls. Luckily, even in the middle school, I am not in this situation all that often.


OKAY. End of fun road trip pictures. However, NOT quite the end of this picture post extraordinaire! The next two shots are perhaps not quite as cute as kids frolicking at the beach and teachers throwing punches, but they make me just as happy. Probably happier.

See, about two years ago, actually a little more, my dad called from Topeka to ask me some questions about my fireplace, which at the time we had been using sporadically for the ambience. Nothing like sitting in front of a crackling fire in the middle of winter. Cozy stuff. Anyway, he was asking for things like measurements and I forget what else. A week or so later, he came to visit us and bought us this fireplace insert thing. Well, it was the middle of winter, and the roof was all covered in ice, and David didn't really know how to install the thing anyway, so we just set it on two 2x4's about five feet to the side of the fireplace.

And there it sat. There were a number of issues, one of them being the fact that we had a second child, and life got decidedly more full. Another was the fact that the insert itself didn't really FIT into the fireplace, without substantial alterations to the chimney or whatever. Everyone had their theories. Grind away at the inside of the firebox and take out such and such. No, just bend the sides of the stove in to match the dimensions. Well, and then there's the fact that the stovepipe thing was coming off at such a weird angle that the insert was going to have to stick out of the fireplace like ten or twelve inches. So then before we could do that, the hearth needed to be torn out and replaced. Did I mention we had another kid?

Okay. So basically we had this really heavy, really expensive, sharp-edged end table sitting about five feet to the right of our fireplace. Enough is enough. I almost put an ad in the paper last fall--"Come and get it and it's yours!" But life was too busy for me to even get around to that. And plus, it was a gift, a spendy gift, and I didn't want to hurt Dad's feelings, you know?

So, Father-in-law to the rescue! Here is David and his dad going over the plans for the project this afternoon.

And here, TA-DA!!! Is the fireplace insert ACTUALLY INSERTED! Hurray!!! Of course, it's still not connected to the chimney, but we've got a while before the roof is covered with ice. Maybe it will happen? I don't really care; I've got a little more room in my living room now!

(Room to dance with happiness, that is!)

You Think This Is Funny? HUH???

Ack, I feel like the worst mom ever today. So yeah, if you looked at the last post, you probably have figured out that it's been a bit of a challenging weekend with the two little ones.

So this evening, an hour or so before bedtime, which is always the worst time because everyone is at their limit and tired and cranky but there is still like a half hour before the routine is set into motion and things start their smooth wind-down to sleeping, Monkey decides he wants to nurse. Actually, he climbs up on my lap while screeching and trying to pull off my shirt. Tears, snot, the works. Not really endearing, you understand.

So Jabber, I suppose because he wanted some of my disgruntled attention, too, comes over and starts climbing on top of Monkey and I, which I hate. Not only does it hurt, it distracts Monkey from the nursing business and makes the whole process uncomfortable and like I kind of just want to run screaming into the hills. So. There you have us, an hour before bedtime.

In the process of scaling Mt. Mama, Jabber "accidentally" kicks me in the back, hard. My back has been sore all freaking day, and I just go right over the edge. I scream at him about how he hurt me and this is why I don't want you climbing on me blahblahblah.

He laughs. Laughs. Right in my face.

So I teach middle school. Kids laugh all the freaking time when they get in trouble. Does it push my buttons when they do it? Not usually, not unless there were a lot of extenuating circumstances, including but not limited to a certain monthly experience that causes a slight lowering of my tolerance for crap like that. No. Usually, I will say something in a calm tone of voice, something like, "I know you're just laughing because you're uncomfortable right now, but..." and go on with my talk about respect or whatever. I don't take it personally, and life goes on as scheduled.

But my son? For some reason, I am completely and utterly unable to be rational when he is involved. We're like...oil and water, but a better simile, something that has a flash point and oxygen touches it and everything explodes. That's us. Anyway, so he laughs, and out of my mouth comes that line from everyone's mother. "You think this is funny? Huh?" And he's shaking his little head no but laughing harder all the time.

"You kick me in my sore back, and now you think it's funny? You're going to sit there and laugh at me because you hurt me?"

Monkey joins in now, doing the dreaded finger wag and the "NONONONO!" David comes in from the other room, says, "I've heard enough," and scoops up Jabber from the chair and carries him up to bed. No story, no love. Just bed.

The three of us hang out for a while longer, and finally I can't stand it. I tell David that I have to go upstairs and say goodnight to my little Jabberwock, even though I'm afraid he must already be asleep.

So David takes Monkey from me, and I go upstairs to find that Jabber is already sleeping, but I can't help it. I crawl into bed and snuggle up next to him. "Can I snuggle with you?" I whisper. Jabber shakes his head a little, but I'm not sure if it's yes or no.

"Please, can I just cuddle you a little?" He shakes his head, again ambiguously.

"Well, I want you to know I love you. And I'm sorry that things got out of hand down there. I felt hurt that you would kick me in my sore back and then laugh about it. Then I got angry. But I shouldn't have yelled at you."

He whispers something, in a tiny little tired voice, and I have to lean in and ask him to repeat himself.

"I said, I laugh when I get scared," he says. "Not because it was funny."

My heart breaks in fifteen thousand pieces. "You were laughing because you were scared, honey?"

He nods, this time clearly a yes. "I laughed because I was nervous. That you would be mad at me. I was scared that you were going to be mad because I kicked you."

God. And that's exactly what I was, too. Mad and scary.

I squeeze him tight and pray that the next time he laughs at me I will check with him if it's scared laughter or funny laughter. And I hope that someday I actually get the hang of this being a mom thing.

Get Rich via Baby Tornado

So I've decided to embark on a promising, if short-lived, new source of revenue for the Lissnkids family. See, I'm going to rent out my son to people who have a baby or will soon have a baby and are in that process of trying to minimize the bazillion different ways their precious bundle of joy could be injured or killed. He's going to be a Babyproofing Consultant.

Seriously, ten minutes in your home, backyard, or office, and Monkey will have identified all possible and probable risks in the area so that you can barricade, strap down, and dispose of these dangers before your own little one begins exploring.

For a low fee, Monkey will identify all appliance buttons that can be removed and eaten. He will demonstrate the ease with which your marigolds can be removed from their pots. He will show you the easiest method to scale the bookshelves, and then, just to show you he's up for the challenge, he will shove together some impromptu implements such as a stuffed rocking horse and several diaper boxes, clearly pointing out all of the second story windows that need protective bars on them. He'll demonstrate any number of items that will fit easily down each of your drains, with special attention on the toilets. He will help you determine which surfaces in your home will repel various spills and inks, and which hiding places for writing utensils are absolutely useless. He will find that needle you think you may have dropped behind the chair. He will test your abilities to clear the table after a meal in a single trip, since anything left behind is certain to be spilled, broken, or eaten in the fifteen seconds it takes you to deliver your first trip to the kitchen. He will kindly disconnect all speaker wires from their speakers, making it much less likely for your progeny to suffer any hearing loss from the music you may be blaring to drown out the sound of them screaming. He'll also show you all of the ways your hard-earned CD and DVD collections can be scratched, mauled, and devoured, even though you have stored them out of reach and locked up. He will correctly identify all books in need of binding reinforcement. And, as a bonus service, he will enhance your speed-seeking skills (always a plus, since he is also gifted in the art of sudden disappearance) by finding creative hiding places for one half of each pair of shoes you own (which you will discover when you have exactly twelve seconds to leave the house in order to be on time to your destination).

For those with older siblings, don't forget to ask us about our Absolute Annoyance program, which involves several visits and is sure to test the patience of your older child as Monkey snatches toys, bites and scratches, and howls in a high-pitched tone every time your older child looks at him funny. This program is proven to break the spirit of even the most patient of children, readying them for the challenging world of being an older sibling.

I really do try to have a safe environment for Monkey to play in and explore, and it has always been my intention to minimize the amount of things in his daily life that are off limits. Still, he is continually finding new things that are completely unsafe. Tonight, though, he showed me that maybe I need to lighten up a little.

We were lying in bed cuddling and nursing, and Monkey popped off and sleepily began shaking his finger in front of him. "No no no no no no no no NO!" he said, wagging the finger. Then he moved the finger to his lips and said, "SHHHHHH! SHHHHHH!" He nursed a little more, and then repeated this process, his tired little voice sliding into a monotone: "nonononononoshhhhhhnononononononoshhhhhhh!" and his little finger tsk tsk tsking away.

Mom, I just ate a peanut!

I went back to work when my oldest son was eleven weeks old--tiny, vulnerable, floppy-necked. It was terrible and heart-wrenching to leave him, even though I was leaving him in the capable (if nervous) hands of his wonderful Daddy, who cut his schedule down to half time and picked up little Jabber from my school every morning just before classes began.

At the time I started back, Jabberwock was still nursing hungrily every couple of hours, and I had not had very much luck with the pump in between feedings. So we had very little milk in the freezer for him when I started working, but I was determined and pumped for most of my prep time and through my lunch for the first few weeks back. I eeked out just enough so that if I nursed him right before David came to get him and just as soon as I rushed home after school, he was mostly satisfied. Then something happened; I can't remember if it was a normal growth spurt, a bad day of pumping (sometimes it seemed like no matter what I did I couldn't get much milk, especially like when some kid was having a tantrum/screaming fit in the special ed room that my tiny pumping bathroom was located in, or if I had to, say, write a test and get copies made before I could be ready to teach my next class), or what. We ran out of milk.

No problem, we thought. We had been given free cans of formula, and although I knew all the dangers that supplementing can cause, I didn't really see any other options. I already was waking up in the middle of the night not only to feed the baby, but an additional time to pump, and I couldn't see any way around this. So David fixed Jabber a bottle one day while I was at work.

I remember I was teaching a class of seventh graders that was particularly challenging. The bright side of this is that they had just spent three months terrorizing my sub (so sorry, Lisa!) and were so delighted to have me back that it was still a honeymoon period when I got this panicky call from my husband.

Jabber, it seems, had taken about a half ounce of the formula bottle before David noticed some strange red bumps forming around his mouth. He took the bottle away, and before long Jabber's whole head was covered in hives, his ears were swollen, and he looked pretty sick. David called the emergency room or maybe 9-1-1, I'm not sure, but they told him to take Jabber in to the ER. Instead, he called me in the middle of class. I started to cry, and agreed that David should bring the baby into the hospital. I was beside myself with fear for this tiny little guy.

Something like five minutes later, there was a knock at my classroom door. By this time, I had explained the situation to my students, and they were suitably worried for me. David was at the door, with Jabberwock in his little bucket. His ears and mouth were still red and funny-looking, but he wasn't crying anymore, and he seemed alert and breathing just fine. David said he had improved so much in the last few minutes that he thought maybe they didn't need to head to the hospital. I agreed, although nervously, and instead he called the family doctor.

He pronounced a likely allergy to milk proteins and advised us to keep Jabber away from all dairy. Then he said probably we should keep him away from wheat, too, since that's another common allergen.

Okay, no big deal. We also got a sample of soy formula. Except that Jabber won't take even one sip of the soy.

So eventually we got him allergy tested, and we found out that he wasn't allergic to wheat (YAY! No more rice flour!), but he WAS allergic to soy and eggs, in addition to the dairy. The doctor didn't test him for peanuts, since it takes too much blood to test for multiple things, and we weren't planning on feeding him peanuts at that stage in his life anyway.

A year later, we got the news that peanuts were also on the forbidden list--in fact, his numbers were high enough for both peanuts and dairy to warrant an epi-pen to carry around. The first thing I did, of course, was research peanut allergies in children on the Internet.

Not a good idea. The very first article I found was all about this incredibly high percentage of children with peanut allergies who died withint an incredibly short period of time that the study was carried out. I began to cry with a kind of paralyzing panic. Instantly I remembered all the times I had eaten peanut butter toast or a big tasty handful of roasted peanuts right before kissing him or handling his food. I could have killed my son!

My mind raced forward to daycare, preschool, and oh, god, real school, where his ever-present epi-pen would be locked up far away in the nurse's office instead of in the backpack next to me ready to spring into action at the tiniest sign of respiratory distress. I was (and still am, to tell the truth) terrified of letting my son enjoy the simplest of pleasures--eating.

I became an expert label reader. We carried food for him everywhere we went. We had to ask a million probing questions at every restaurant we ordered at, and usually found them unwilling to say anything beyond, "Well, we can't guarantee that it doesn't have any of that in it." I banished all peanut products from our home. We began baking with oil and vinegar instead of eggs. I became an expert on cross-contamination, examining the jelly jar at other people's homes with a skeptical eye. I carried that little epi-pen backpack all over.

One story I read made me go cold every time I thought about it. It was about a boy who died on a class field trip after accepting a peanut butter cookie from a classmate. My husband and I drilled it into Jabberwock's head that he must never, ever, ever, EVER accept food from anyone without asking us first. And if we weren't around? Then he should not eat it. Period. No chances. I was convinced that he wouldn't ever do what that poor, poor boy did. The grandparents, other adults I know, even other kids have commented about how wonderfully aware Jabber is about his allergies, how he always double-checks, asking questions about the "ingweedients" of food he is given.

And for the last year, he has been cleared of all allergies except the peanut one. He has still not ever had an actual reaction to peanuts, and I hope to God he never does, since we have no idea what form that reaction could take. Hives? Stomach ache? Anaphylactic shock?

So because we have been so careful, and because we have explained his allergies so fully, he never puts anything in his mouth without asking first.

Until today.

Tonight we were hanging out with Mary at her summer home, many miles away from my hometown and hospital and husband, and Jabber walks into the room in a bit of a panic because he just took three bites out of a cookie that my friend's daughter offered him. She didn't know about his allergies. He took the cookie and didn't ask me. I can't really figure out why he didn't, except that he was just so comfy with her and that he really loves cookies. The cookies were made with peanut butter chips in them.

I quickly gave him a dose of his prescription antihistamine, which we carry around with the epi-pen. He didn't have any kind of reaction that I could tell, but my heart has been all constricted and crazy ever since it happened, several hours ago. What if he had taken a different bite, one with a chip in it? What if my friend hadn't seen him, hadn't known about the allergy and said something? He didn't give it a thought, my little boy who always thinks about this. What happened? And how can I keep it from happening again?

God, that was scary.

You are my favorite...warden? dictator? demon spawn?

Jabberwock and I like to go on walks around our neighborhood together. Sometimes he'll even hold my hand. Yesterday, as we were walking along, I told him (as I often do) that he is my favorite Jabber.

Me: I love you, sweetie. You are my favorite Jabber in the whole world.
J: (squeezes my hand) And you are my favorite...uh...my favorite...hmm...
Me: (remembering all the arguments of the day) Your favorite mom?
J: (very quickly) No. Not my favorite mom. My favorite...person who...
Me: I'm not your favorite mom?
J: Nooooo...you're my favorite...person who tells me...
Me: (nervously) Your favorite what?
J: You are my favorite...person who teaches me. You're my favorite teacher, Mom. 'Cause all mom's are teachers, you know.

Whew! I'm not sure if he was thinking philosophically, like how the role of motherhood is one of teaching and guiding, or if he just thinks that all moms teach school in their spare time, but it was sweet, either way.

And much better than what I thought he might say!

I knew an old lady who swallowed a fly...

...and what a great song to sing to your four-year-old who has been having some issues with being afraid of bugs and also who has been asking a lot of questions about death and dying. Way to go, Liss.


I don't know why she swallowed that fly. Perhaps she'll die.


"Why, Mom? Why would she die? Is she dead in that picture? Would you really die if you ate a spider, Mom? What happens when you die? What if I swallow a bug, Mom? Will I die?"


Short blog post 'cause there's crazy stormishness coming through, and I don't want to lose this old computer, since I found out today that my beautiful new laptop is not going to ship until June 23. Sadness.


Just one quick question before I shut this thing down for a bit:

Why is it that I can never find the scotch tape when I really need it, but both children can find it anytime they feel the urge to pull about four feet of tape off a spool and stick it to, say, several pages of our photo album?

Bungling the Playful Parenting...or am I?

Have I mentioned I've been reading Playful Parenting by Lawrence Cohen? Heh. Well, there are an awful lot of really insightful things I'd like to write about my thoughts on this book, and I hope I'll get to it later, but currently I'm having a little tiny bit of difficulty, since I'm simultaneously blogging and singing along to Thomas and Friends: Songs from the Station, Play-a-Song book and trying to keep Monkey downstairs long enough to allow David to take the trap out of the bathroom sink to remove a medicine dropper that Monkey just threw down the sink. I think it's funny that Thomas sings the song we sang every week in Girl Scouts, "Make New Friends." I don't remember this last verse, though, so maybe it's a special train verse?

Make new friends,
But keep the old.
One is silver
And the other is gold.

A wheel is round,
It has no end.
That's how long
I want to be your friend.

Oops. I just let Monkey slide through my grasp, and now he's up there "helping." I just heard David sigh. This is why I cannot write while the boys are awake, I guess.

Still, I'm going to tell a couple of things I've been doing to try to implement some of the ideas of Cohen's Playful Parenting. It's not easy, and I think I'm still only a slightly more playful parent than your average wicked stepmother or evil sorceress or ruler-wielding nun, but I'm making progress.

First, if you don't know me in person, I'm a pretty nice person overall (and those of you who do know me, you just keep yer mouths shut!) I have a lot of patience usually with people, especially with hordes of hormonal middle school people who are, to say the least, very trying on the patience. Sure, there is a definite line that can be crossed, as any of my students could tell you (but they won't, if they know what's good for them!), and I have my days where I'm feeling pretty cranky and pissy (no comments, please, Mom!), but overall, I'm nice.

Nice, nice, nice. Minnesota nice. Please and thank you nice. Jabberwock, sweetheart, please stop spinning the chair into the wall for the thousandth time nice. Gentle hands, Monkey, nice. Use your polite voice to ask me nice. Please don't unplug Mama's computer and lose all her work for the second time, baby nice. Please, pretty please with sugar on top, help me to pick up all these toys nice.

That's when it happens. Jabberwock looks at me and says, "No. You pick 'em up."



I'm still mostly nice. A little annoyed, my arms full of scattered toys, but I just give him a look and say, "Why is it that you get to do all the playing, and I have to do all the cleaning up?"

And then he trips my trigger, just like that with these sassy little words: "'Cause you're the mom. That's your job."

I then learn that I am not a playful parenting master. I am not even an apprentice. A playful parent would have giggled then. "Oh was that on the job description?" Maybe bumbled the job really badly, like trying to put the matchbox cars in the freezer and the package of Go Fish cards in the aquarium, until the giggling little Jabber would have stepped in to help out this foolish idiot adult who cannot even clean up properly.

Nope. That occurs to me now, in the calm sea of my mindspace once the children are tucked into their beds and Mama has had a good workout and a nice, hot shower. (Yes, I took a little break from writing in the middle there.)

In the moment, I make ridiculous idle threats ("Maybe I'll just throw them all in the garbage then!") and do a lot of scary yelling. David shushes Jabber to keep him from poking the tiger while we all clean up the house, and then I decide to try again for connection by taking Jabber out for a walk. My original plan had been to give David a break by taking both boys to the playground, but at this point, even with some deep breathing, I am not mentally able to accept that challenge, so it's just the two of us.

I'm still pissed, though, and having a lot harder time "reconnecting" with Jabberwock than he is. His mouth is going a mile a minute, oblivious to my anger or trying to smooth it over the best he can, but I am seething, stomping down the sidewalk, still thinking about how unappreciated I feel. Grrr.

Then, it hits me. Ohhhhhh, yeah. I am tired of being like this. I was reading a book. Yes, yes, it's all coming back to me. A parenting book about being playful. Well, shit. I guess I screwed that one up.

"Hey, Jabber," I say, taking his sweaty little hand. "I'm still having a hard time not being upset with you."

"Oh."

"I don't want to feel like this."

"OK."

Hmmm. This isn't quite working. "Let's pretend that you're the Daddy and I'm the little girl, and I keep misbehaving."

Jabberwock looks up at me quickly, his eyebrows raised. He starts to skip a little. "OK! I'll be the Dad, and you're my daughter. And...you wouldn't clean up your toys."

"So what should we do about it?"

"We should go to the playground!" He's giggling as he speaks, unable to believe that he's actually getting to be the grown-up, that he's going to bring us to the playground, despite all the chaos in our wake.

"But I was misbehaving, so I don't know if I should go to the playground." I drag on his hand, acting ashamed of myself.

"But, Daughter," he says, playing along beautifully, "that's why we have to go to the playground!"

"Because I wasn't being very nice?"

"Yes! Because there will be all kinds of things to play at the playground, and you'll be able to run around and get all those misbehavings out of you. So then you wouldn't have them anymore, and we could go home and be nice together."

Wow! I'm fairly certain that I could ask him why he was being stubborn about picking up his toys or why he was rude to me or whatever at least seven thousand times, and he would never in a million years be able to tell me that it was because he was bored and restless from knocking around the house all afternoon. I knew he needed to get out and run; that's why it was my plan to go as soon as the dishes were done and the house put back together again.

Now if only I could see all this when it was happening, instead of here in my bloggy sphere of peacefulness.

The best part, though, and proof that I'm at least on my way to being that lovely PP apprentice? When we got to the playground, Jabber went down the twirly slide, one that usually makes him a little nervous. He wants someone to catch him at the end, but he doesn't want to feel like a baby who needs someone to catch him at the end, so I always hang out at the end of the slide and say, "I'm going to get you!" kinds of things so he knows I'm there. He came flying down the slide, and I tagged him, yelled, "You're it!" and started running all around the playground equipment. A little boy said wistfully to his sister, "I wish our mom was like that." Ha! So the next time around, I tagged him!

He looked at me kind of indignantly and said, "Hey! No fair!" But then he got up and chased me, giggling hard. Pretty soon the two siblings and Jabberwock were playing and hanging out and I could go collapse on the sidelines, sweaty and breathing heavily but thankfully no longer angry.

more playful parenting

So it's going to sound like my son Jabberwock is kind of a mess, but once again, the best word I can think of for him is "intense." He's smart, witty, wildly imaginative, and he has a flair for the dramatic. He can be "shy," which mainly means that he takes a little while to get used to new situations and people before he jumps right in, but just when I think I've got that figured out, then he gets in a crazy mood and strikes up elaborate conversation with perfect strangers. He seems to have quite a bit of fears and anxieties, but at the same time he can be extremely brave. It's a mixed bag with him, and you just never know what the surprise will be.

So like I said yesterday, I've been reading Playful Parenting by Lawrence Cohen, and I've also been telling all the relevant (in my opinion) parts to my husband, David. One thing that often frustrates me about Jabber is that he's a perfectionist. If he cannot do something perfectly right, he will not try. This may be why he did not start walking in earnest until he was almost a year and a half. He's always been a bit better at the verbal and intellectual stuff than the physical, and one thing that has been a big challenge to him is throwing and catching a ball. (And kicking, hitting with a bat, you know, all that athletic-type stuff.) I'm not a superhero athlete by any means, but I kind of think that when I was a kid I was influenced to believe that I wasn't athletic by poor phys. ed. teachers and such, and personally it kind of bugs me. So I really want to be encouraging to Jabberwock when it comes to learning how to play sports.

"Hey, Jabber, do you want to play catch?"

"Yeah!!!" He jumps up and down spastically and then runs to find a ball.

"OK, here you go, are you ready?"

He says yes but is holding his arms out ridiculously stiff. He will never catch the ball like that, so I go over there and show him how to relax his arms.

"Now are you ready?"

"I can't do it. I don't want to play." And he goes away.

This is how it has gone for much of the last year or two when it comes to throwing and catching. I try not to over-direct, but it doesn't seem to matter. He always feels like he's not good enough to even try. So in reading Playful Parenting, I find a section about children learning new skills, and how even though we may see them doing an awfully good job for a beginner, what they see is all the mistakes they make in comparison to other people they see doing it. Cohen suggests acting a bit incompetent to make the child feel better. What he actually suggests doing is completely abandoning your dignity and making a fool of yourself until the child is laughing so hard he forgets to worry about his own lack of skills.

So, to set the scene, Lissnkids backyard, half hour before bedtime. Both kids are covered in mud and mosquito bites from emptying buckets of rainwater in the sandbox. Monkey found an old toothbrush we had been using in a Matchbox car wash about a week ago and was dipping it into the "toothpaste" (mud) and "brushing his teeth" (eating the mud). Enter Daddy with a big bouncy ball.

We form a triangle, with Monkey sort of bouncing around inside like a pinball on the loose. I suggest that Jabber throw the ball to Daddy, and then Daddy throw the ball to me, and then I throw the ball to Jabber. You know, the usual triangular set-up. Except, unlike the usual, both Daddy and I are suddenly hugely clumsy oafs when it comes to catching and throwing. Jabber is so busy laughing he forgets to hold his arms out all stiff-like and actually catches the ball most of the time. We all laugh a lot, like when I keep chasing the ball all over the yard, but every time I bend over like I am going to pick it up, I simultaneously kick it farther. These antics go on for about twenty-five more times than my back is happy with, but the laughter was worth it. And I honestly do think that Jabberwock was learning more about catching and throwing AND getting a lot more confident at the same time.

Sheesh. I haven't even had a chance to sneer at this book yet. What a let-down.

marinating motherhood

Been having an urge to do some reading about parenting lately. I don't really know why; I've never really read anything about parenting with any kind of seriousness, mostly just the odd magazine article, which mostly I sneer at, to tell the truth. I read The Baby Book by Dr. Sears once upon a time, maybe not cover to cover, but poked around to see if my first little precious was normal or to identify the strange rash on his face (eczema--big sigh), but I've never felt like, "Hey, I have some extra reading time and I want to devote it to reading someone else's idea of being a good parent."

I've always parented mainly from instincts, and it worked out pretty well for the infancy and toddlerhood of my oldest, as well as the infancy of my youngest. Even the earlier preschool years of Jabber, I felt like I pretty much knew how to figure my way through the tantrums and the neediness without anybody else's advice, thankyouverymuch. But lately I'm starting to feel like my bag of tricks is running low, and I'm relying instead on the reactive parenting strategies of someone whose buttons are repeatedly being pushed. I can blame it on the stress of working full time, but that's not likely to change any time soon (even with this eight week furlough from the front lines), and with a possible new job opportunity on the horizon for Mr. Lissnkids, it sounds like we are only getting busier.

So I did a little looking about, asked a few questions on the gentle discipline forum over at MotheringDotCom, and came up with a pretty good list of books that might be worth a little bit of my summer reading time. I stopped at the library today while on lunch break from writing curriculum with my friend mary'slist, and I picked up three of them. So now I've decided to read all three of them at once, 'cause that's how I read books. And maybe, if any of these wonder books of parental wisdom happen to make me stop and think about anything of consequence, I'll write about that here. And if I feel like sneering a little, I may do that, too.

The books are, in no particular order:

Playful Parenting, by Lawrence J. Cohen (with a little Ph.D. for good measure)

Positive Discipline for Working Parents by Jane Nelson (Ed.D., sorry, what is this?) and Lisa Larson, (M.A.): This is a skinnier book than just plain old Positive Discipline, I suppose because working parents have less time to read?

the no-cry discipline solution, by Elizabeth Pantley (without acronym). I've read some about her book, the no-cry sleep solution, but I admit I've never read it. My no-cry sleep solution has always been to stick a boob in his mouth, so yeah.

So anyway, that's my parenting strategy for the next couple of weeks: a blitzkrieg of gentle discipline books and hopefully a lot of time outdoors. Maybe if we're really lucky the weather will cooperate. Either that or we'll at least stay busy building our ark.

Jabber is afraid of what these parenting books might teach me!

She Isn't Still Nursing, Is She?

I love my husband. This weekend he got the very first "She isn't still nursing, is she???" comment for this child, and David handled it flawlessly. He smiled at Grandma and answered, "Why, yes she is. Monkey still enjoys nursing, though he doesn't do it all that often. He eats full meals of normal food and drinks regular milk, but he likes to nurse, too."

And he does, too, even though sometimes it's literally only a minute. Sometimes he's just cranky as all get-out, really having a tough time of things, easily frustrated, battling with everyone's wills, and all it takes is three minutes of nummies to make him all back to smiles and calmness. Jabber was just a little bit older when he weaned, and David and I were talking on the drive home about how the Jabberwock didn't seem nearly as connected to nursing as Monkey is at the same age. But I guess I should start expecting the comments to sneak out here and there now.

And you know what? Let 'em comment. I will just smile and say yes, we are still nursing, and I was thinking about how maybe when he goes to college I'll pump for him and send him little care package coolers of breastmilk, since the follow-up question always seems to be, "Well then when ARE you going to wean???" as if there's a magic cut off date, and if you miss it, well, you're screwed. Whatever. With Jabberwock, I was a little more eager to cut him free, since I had to eliminate dairy from my diet while he was nursing. But with Monkey, I'm happy, and he's happy. So what's the big deal?

I was thinking about how much more confidence I have in my parenting decisions with number two than I had with my first son. With Jabberwock, I knew that there were things that made sense to me--like breastfeeding or "co-sleeping" (though I hate that term)--that weren't always supported in mainstream reading material or from family and friends. But I was hesitant, too, unsure. What if he never was able to soothe himself to sleep, like the books said? Am I going to still be nursing him when he's six years old? It helped, though, that everywhere I went, people mentioned what a nice kid he was, how well-adjusted. It helped that he was so happy, that because I had tried above all to foster a secure attachment with him, he feels like he's on pretty solid ground today, at age four. All of this helps me to feel sure of myself and my methods with Monkey now on round two.

I know that Monkey will sleep just fine in his own bed someday, that he'll wean without trauma, that just because I carried him in a sling for much of his babyhood doesn't stop him from venturing out into the world to bravely explore. And beyond just feeling more at ease with defending myself from other people's judgment, I feel like I should also be an advocate for others who may have interest or need support to parent in a way that is a little off the beaten track.

Right, Mama? Right? Right?? RIGHT???

In my quest to become a better and better mother (I'm not looking for perfect, but I am kind of vying for the most improved award sometime in the next twenty years...), I think the principle that is most important to me when raising children is to treat them at all times with the same respect I would treat another adult. In short, treat them like real people.

I am amazed and awed by those who take this principle to the farthest extreme and practice non-coercive parenting all the way, those mothers who will simply not go anywhere if their toddler doesn't want to get into the carseat or who will let their kids choose what to eat and when from some kind of all-you-can-eat, always-available snack tray that the mother has painstakingly prepared and miraculously kept fully stocked. Seriously, there's gotta be some real harmony in those families.

I can't quite take it that far. For one thing, I am honestly somewhat of a control freak. I'm laid-back about things like the kids not needing to have a bath every single night and encouraging free exploratory play and (usually) not having too big of a hissy fit when the kids make huge messes. I do a great job of speaking to the kids in a way that isn't condescending, asking their opinions and letting them make decisions. (Granted, the 17-month-old does make some pretty questionable ones, like repeatedly eating handfuls of the sandbox dirt, but that's a whole 'nother blog entry, there!)

However, this evening as I was shoe shopping yet again, this time much more successfully with only The Jabberwock along, I realized that I seriously need to work on my listening skills. To be fair, he often asks about seven gazillion questions in a row, not leaving nearly enough time in between for adequate responding. And often, the questions are just plain bizarre. But there were about four times during our trip this evening where I noticed that Jabber was saying something like, "Right, Mama? Right? Right?" and finally he actually sighed in an exasperated imitation of me and said, "Are you even listening to me, Mama?"

I thought, good grief, would I treat an adult this way?

If my neighbor or a parent of one of my students or even my husband were asking me a question, no matter how inane and well, let's face it, boring, would I ever just tune that voice out simply because I'm entertaining a more interesting thought inside my head? Or because I was trying to listen to something really intriguing on NPR, for that matter? I have my social failings, but no, I'm pretty sure I would not.

David said once that something he liked about me was that there was always a whole lot going on inside my head, and it's true that it's pretty crazy in there. In this busy balancing act of mother, wife, teacher, accountant, housekeeper, and wishful writer, I do struggle with finding that time, that space to really enjoy my thoughts and reflections. But I need to remember that my children are people, too, and deserving of my attention. After all, better to answer a couple of questions (fifty million times in a row even) now than to face whatever they come up with later to get that attention another way.

Notes from a Knew-It-All

(If you clicked this link looking for virgins, you are out of luck...all you'll find here is an exhausted mother of two and a reflection on the realities of motherhood!)

Tonight I was put solidly in my place by someone whose head barely clears my sternum.

There was shouting, there were tears, there were threats and bargains and even a guilt trip or two. There was throwing of toys. There were exasperated sighs. There was a kindling of anger so hot it nearly burned me as it poured out through my dagger eyes, my dragon's fire breath.

"You know it might make things better if you'd apologize," advised Dad.

"I'm sorry!" Little Man shouted, insincere of course, as he flung his small body across the bed.

And then it happened. Words, not mine but my mother's, and her mother's most likely, made their way out of my mouth. The words themselves aren't important. It's the sound of them that matters--that bitter, angry sound that shows my son I am Out. Of. Control. Over what?

Before I had children, I knew so much about them. Teachers always think they know it all about parenting, anyway, but I was especially sure. I always treated my students with respect. "You can't take it personally, no matter what," was my standard advice to student teachers and substitutes, and it's true. Keep the emotion out of it, keep your tone respectful, offer choices, de-escalate, no blaming, focus on the desired behavior. I was smug as I held and snuggled my oldest child as an infant, knowing I'd be so much better at parenting than other moms. My child would never be yelled at, never spanked, would only know love and attachment.

And it's true that most of his life has been just that. We do have a lot of conflicts. He's four, and willful, intense, and dramatic. I'm thirty-two, and willful, intense, and dramatic. Plus I have a messy house, which makes me irritable. For many of our conflicts, I'm so grateful for all my teaching experience, for all the books I've read about how to talk so my kids will listen, for all the hours I carried him in a sling, breastfed him on demand and snuggled with him in my bed. All these things that I have determined will make me the greatest mother ever actually work.

And then there are times like tonight. Faced with my four-year-old son, who is throwing himself on the floor in a frenzy of thrashing and wailing because I sent him to bed early for dumping a basket of books on the floor while I was trying to get him to clean up (yeah, it was really that mundane), I would rather be standing in front of a whole classroom full of rowdy eighth graders ten minutes before bus call. There's no way to keep myself from taking it personally when my own child screams at me that he doesn't like me anymore, even when I know on an intellectual level that he really does. Or even if he doesn't, it's for his own good. Heh.

All I can say is, thank God that at that moment, with my mother's words streaming out of me and my whole brain telling me that what this kid deserves is a "damn good spanking," my son suddenly started crying in a whole different way. This was an "I'm in pain" cry, and instantly my anger evaporated into concern.

"MY EYE!" he shrieked, hopping up and down on the step-stool. I examined him and found that one of his long, beautiful lashes was stuck in the corner of his left eye. My voice was calm and soothing as I carried him into his bedroom, where there is better light. By the time the eyelash is removed, we are both calm enough to share a story and an apology, a goodnight kiss and a lullaby.

I used to know it all. Then I had kids. Now I just apologize a lot, and try to remember.

C'mon, could you be angry at this face?