Why parents drink ... at least in this house

I believe that whoever coined the phrase the “terrible twos” did so simply to give parents a false sense of relief that when month thirty-six arrived, they would be in the clear. I’ve learned that misconception couldn’t be further from the truth. Two doesn’t have anything on my three-year old. We have been entering uncharted territory, experiencing tantrums, and outrageous conduct that is only acceptable in OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN.

Tonight Kate decided that she did not want to cooperate and eat dinner with the family like a rationale human being. In our typical effort to show her that she doesn’t rule this house, we didn’t concede. Tears were shed and arguments were made, but dammit we were all going to eat together as a family and she was going to learn that this was a non-negotiable rule. Sounds like a peaceful, lovely, family dinner, doesn't it?

What do you do if you are a determined three-year old, not placated by your parents unwavering decision? You do this and then you LAUGH IN THEIR FACE.



Seconds after Kate’s dinner touched down on the dining room floor, she was placed in timeout in her room. Admittedly, taking her away from dinner was her desired end result, so probably not the most effective punishment. But in the moment, it was all we had to work with. After a few minutes of crying, we noticed it was eerily quiet in Kate’s room. We continued to eat our dinner, wondering what discord was happening upstairs. Upon venturing up to check on the banished child, imagine our surprise when she was not visible in her bedroom. Upon closer inspection, she was found, having a grand time, as she hid under her bed.

After a stern conversation, Kate returned downstairs with the directive to pick up all of the food she had so artistically strewn on the floor. She picked up the first chuck of broccoli and raised her hand towards her mouth. “Stop it Kate, we don’t eat food that has been sitting on the floor for 20 minutes. That is disgusting!” I said. Seizing the opportunity, Kate informed me that she wasn’t eating it, she was putting it into the garbage. Perfect, I thought. Within a nanosecond, Kate brought the second morsel of broccoli directly into her mouth. “KATE! Don’t EAT IT, “ I said once again, perhaps a decibel louder than appropriate. “Mom, I am NOT EATING IT,” Kate replied with equal determination.

Then, I watched as she stuffed her mouth with broccoli, ran over to the garbage, opened it, and spit the food in. Spec-freaking-tacular. Not one to be outwit by a mere child, I told Kate that not only could she not EAT the food from the floor, but she couldn’t put it IN her mouth. That lasted about 15 seconds, she did it again, and returned to timeout upstairs.

Awhile later, Kate once again returned to civilization to complete cleaning up the battlefield. Gingerly, she picked up one piece of salmon and placed it in the garbage. On the second move, she brought the piece of food up to her face. “Kate!” I said sharply.

“Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, I am touching my chin, not my mouth!” she said. With every piece of food she picked up, she deliberately brought it towards her face, with a twinkle in her eye, touched it to her chin, and then threw it in the garbage.

Pehaps Honey Would Have Sounded Better?

Craig and I have always been very attentive to keeping our disagreements away from Kate. Not that we would ever fight, but in the event that we ever did engage in such an activity, we would certainly refrain from doing so in her presence. However, that does not necessarily preclude the “looks” or the “comments” that manage to convey frustration in the moment. Because, heaven forbid you actually let something just “go” until later … am I right? Kate has been young enough that those tidbits seemingly went unnoticed by her.

Until now I guess.

Sunday night Craig dutifully obliged to giving Kate her nightly bath, since I would be losing his help for the remainder of the week. After they finished, he brought her into her room, all wrapped up in a towel. As I began to get her dressed, I noticed that her face appeared to be a little bit dirty. How could that be? Isn’t this the child who just got bathed?

“Kate, did you and Daddy wash your face when you were in the tub?”

Kate looks at me with wide eyes and mischievously glances from me to Craig and back to me.

“Kate, did you and Daddy wash your face in the bath?”

Kate starts smiling one of those nervous smiles. You know the one. If I could have read inside her little mind, I am sure the commentary would follow along these lines: Dude, Daddy is going to be in so much trouble! Of course we were supposed to wash my face in the tub, but he forgot and I was so not going to remind him. I wonder what Mommy is going to do. I can’t wait to see what happens. Is he actually going to admit it? Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.

Craig interjects a precautionary, “Oh, I guess we did forget to wash her face. I washed her body though.”

At this point, I admit that I might have possibly given him a look. Yes, the look. The I Can’t Believe You Didn’t Wash Her Face In The Tub look. This of course was exacerbated by the fact that he was seeking exemption under the premise of remembering to wash her body.

Kate’s eyes are playing ping-pong between me and Craig … waiting … appearing to quite enjoy this moment. From me to Craig, back to me, then to Craig. Waiting, watching, anticipating. I didn’t say anything, just proceeded to get Kate dressed.
Finally, Kate couldn’t take it anymore. She looks across the room and in her most exasperated valley-girl voice, says in three distinct syllables CR – AAAAIIIIII – G.

Not proud of the moment, but keeping it real here. I apparently need to work on a new approach. There is nothing like a 3-year old impersonation to make you stop and see yourself from a completely different perspective. Dang.

Kate: Month Thirty-Eight

Dear Kate,

Last week you turned thirty-eight months old. Each month when I attempt to gather fragments that have occurred since my last letter to you, I am amazed at how much one can change in such a short period of time. This month has been turbulent, bringing out some aspects of your character that I just haven’t witnessed before. I sit here thinking how blissful life would be if I had still not witnessed them, but I don’t have that luxury. We have graduated to the knock-down, drag-out tantrum phase. Historically, you’d get a little upset from time to time, bordering on a mini-fit on occasion. I was successful at diverting those tantrums, or reducing their magnitude. In fact, I would have considered myself an expert in this area, certainly worthy of a prestigious award of some type. Just to prove that I am master of nothing, you decided to major in tantrums this month.



In reality, I can relate to tantrums. There are many times in life when nothing feels more appealing than a gigantic tantrum. How I would love to kick and scream at work when things just don’t go right. How I would love to curse obscenities at the current state of our economy and all of the injustices inflicted upon decent, hardworking friends. However, your tantrums don’t seek to right any wrongs, they simply defy logic and reason without fail. I think you broke a record one morning this week with a tantrum ensuing because I didn’t turn the water on quite correctly. The right way eluded me … the only apparent incorrect way whichever one I was currently practicing in an attempt to divert the massacre of my eardrums. This was followed closely by a second tantrum after I failed to hold you and let you stare at the kitchen counter for hours on end while you repeatedly asked me to identify the different objects on it. The movie is still a movie, the book is still a book, and my purse is still a purse. Despite that educational tutorial, you proceeded to wail like I was beheading beloved Baby Kate when I decided that we had been through the diatribe long enough.



These tantrums upset your world, creating a perfect imbalance in all that you wish to control. It astonishes me to witness you reacting with such uncontrollable fury. Your face turns red, enormous tears well up in your eyes, and you scream. Then you scream and scream and scream some more. I have to fight the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Instead I try to see things from your perspective, empathizing with how frustrating it must be to have such little power over your world. I must admit that trying to see things from that perspective is challenging. It is akin to trying to see the positives in a Bin Laden, a sewer leak, or the addition of 10 pounds to your waistline. I suddenly realized that THIS must be the stage those others parents spoke of. A stage we’ve only glimpsed momentarily in months past. A stage that better be vacated quickly, or the thought of ever having a second child will likely be removed from the list of CRAZY THINGS I MIGHT CONTEMPLATE AT A FUTURE DATE.



Amazingly enough, at the same time you’ve signed on to compete for the title of World Championship Tantrum Thrower, you have also discovered and embraced your affectionate side. While I know it has always been there, I simply think you never slowed down enough to find it. You were never one to want to be held or cuddled. Not because you weren’t sweet in your own way, but your mind was all PUT ME DOWN WOMAN, I’VE GOT THINGS TO EXPLORE. I don’t think it is a coincidence that while you are branching out, pushing boundaries, and fighting for your independence, you are equally cautious, seeking comfort, security, and familiarity with us. Nightly you request that I snuggle with you and I happily oblige. Realistically, I know that like every other phase you enter, this will be gone as quickly as it arrived. Before I know it, you’ll be rolling your eyes at me and telling me to get out of your room and I’ll certainly be reminding you that you used to force me to cuddle with you every night before you went to bed.



I am sure I am forgetting some of the highlights of the month. They are lost in between the fragmented, repressed memories of the tantrums and the heartwarming cuddles we share every night. Life doesn’t get any better than this.

Love,
Mama

Deep in Thought

Awhile back, the consensus amongst some unnamed qualified medical professionals was that I should meditate. As someone who cannot sit still, I could not envision a more torturous endeavor than meditation. Sure, it sounds appealing in theory, but in reality it makes my jaw clench and my body convulse like nails on a chalkboard does. Apparently I possess some character traits like perfectionism, over commitment, an inability to say no, and the desire to keep constantly busy. I do not associate all of those with the disdain in which they have been addressed to me, similar to oh, people with homicidal tendencies and crack habits. However, in an effort to maximize my health, I’ve been repeatedly assured that I should meditate, even starting in small increments, and I would notice a significant benefit.

“Well, what do you mean by small increments?”

“You can just start by using a small portion of time in the morning to meditate. Relax and focus on your breathing, do not even try to do anything else - just breathe. Clear your mind and breathe.”

“But how long should I do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just need to know how long I should try it for. I want to make sure I am doing it correctly.”

“Lyndsay, the fact that you need to apply your perfectionism, organization, and time constraints to meditation means you need it more than I initially thought,”

With that decree, I agreed to try meditation the following day. I woke up early … I normally wake up at 5:15, so I am not sure that early is the appropriate terminology for earlier than that. I drug myself out of bed and positioned myself to meditate.

Okay, focus on your breathing. In and out. In and out.
What happens if I fall asleep right here? My alarm is already off and I will be late for work. Work, what do I have to do at work today? I think financial statements are distributed today. Ugh.
Okay, stop thinking. Focus on your breathing. In and out. In and out.
That sundried tomato hummus we had last night was so good. I should pack some of it for lunch today. Oh, it would make a great appetizer for the baby shower too. The shower! I only have a couple of weeks until the shower and I haven’t even ordered a cake. I wonder if I would be breaking meditation rules if I opened my eyes long enough to write a note to remember to order cake today.
Shut up mind, shut up. We are supposed to be focusing on nothing, just breathing and relaxing. In and out. In and out.
I wonder how many minutes I have left. I don’t think I put the clothes in the dryer last night, so I can’t wear the pants I planned to wear. What should I wear instead? Is it supposed to be warm today again, or freeze your ass cold? Maybe we really should think about moving somewhere warmer. I’m totally going to develop Seasonal Affective Disorder if winter does not go away.
Okay, loser, you can’t even meditate right. Shut up. Breath in and out. In and out.
Wait, I’m not supposed to insult myself, am I? I think that defeats part of the purpose of this meditation business.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Is meditation supposed to make you crazy? Now that would certainly defeat the purpose.
Pay attention and breathe. Think about nothing and focus on breathing. In and out.
Okay, this has got to be ten minutes. If not, close enough. I’ve made it through one day of meditation. What, three minutes? Three freaking minutes?
Okay, maybe I’ll shoot for five minutes today instead of ten. Close your eyes and breathe. In and out.

Now, wasn’t that relaxing?

Stop the Madness

A few interesting occurrences have happened at our house over the course of this week. These serious situations have wreaked havoc on my conscious, leaving me floundering and feeling like an imposter in my own body. A few rungs on my socioeconomic status ladder have broken, catapulting me down to unfamiliar territory. These are some lofty disclosures that should not be used against me in a court of law. However, if they cause you to question my character, I completely understand.

The first incident occurred while grocery shopping on Sunday. Kate had been banished to the car with her father, after the show she put on, titled I BET YOU’VE NEVER SEEN A KID MISBEHAVE THIS BADLY IN PUBLIC, subtitled And my parents thought they were the ones running the show around here. Amazingly, after her exile, the shopping trip was pleasant. In fact, I deliberately walked at a slower pace, debated my purchases, and leisurely admired the produce. It is rather pathetic that this uninterrupted shopping trip felt like a luxury, but it did. Besides, they were in the car and I was in the store and I was in no rush to alter that peaceful (for me) arrangement. As I was wandering the wine aisle, I remembered my bloggy friend Cate’s disclosure that not only did she drink wine from a box, but she actually enjoyed it. I looked at the shelves of boxes, utterly confused, feeling like a stranger in a foreign land who doesn’t speak the language. I realized that this is exactly how a man must feel when he is sent to buy tampons for his wife. Ultimately, I just chose one and added it to my cart. Later that night I tried it and realized it wasn’t all that bad. That explains how I’ve evolved into being a woman who drinks wine from a box. Which is only one step ahead of a woman who drinks Boones Farm, right?

I hadn’t even had time to recover from the first character-questioning incident when the second incident occurred. If you can’t appreciate bathroom humor, then you might as well exit stage left right now. As I was saying, Kate went into the bathroom to use the potty and proudly declared that she had to poop. I sat her on the toilet and waited. She looked up at me and proudly exclaimed, “I am going to STINK UP this bathroom!” Often I wonder whose kid Kate really is as she says and does things that are so different than me. But at this specific moment, I stood dumbstruck and thought OH MY GOD – you’ve turned into your father.

So come on over, the boxed wine is great and my daughter will entertain you with proud assertions from the bathroom. Any class we had has been bottled up and thrown in the trash, or flushed down the toilet. Next thing you know, I’ll be shopping regularly at the Walmarts, storing inoperable vehicles on blocks in my front yard, and trying to rationalize that even though my uncle married my cousin, but its okay you know because they don’t plan on having any of dem dere chitlens.