Chaos Control

This posting will likely make little sense, will surely jump around aimlessly from topic to topic, and more than likely will be posted before it’s actually finished. You see, there’s very little I can finish these days – other than feedings and diaper changes.

I realize I’m likely preaching to the choir here – but I seriously don’t remember it being this difficult with the first child. This all-consuming. This exhausting. Of course, I didn’t already have a child when V was born. Now there’s two little ones wanting and needing my attention. All of my attention. All of the time.

More wine, please.

A perfect example … I started typing this over 1/2 hour ago and look how far I’ve gotten. How foolish of me to think I could steal ten minutes of me-time. I did get a shower today – albeit no time for shaving the legs – it’s too bad I’m past my hippie stage. But a shower and computer time? No way, baby … not uninterrupted, anyhow.

Subject change. Let’s talk about push presents. I don’t know how I missed out on this with my first child – but I certainly worked it with the birth of SOF. When some good friends of ours had their first child back in May, they asked my Husband what he got me for a push present when I had V. Answer? Nothing … he’d never heard about the push present. So when the Husband asked me why I never told him about the “tradition”, I told him not to worry as he now had his chance to make it up to me!!

Here’s the link to Betty, Push Present #1. Mine’s the black and pink one. And she’s purrty!!

And here’s Push Present #2. Me-ow!

When I drop V off at pre-school, I always stay and hang out with him until he’s completely comfortable and tells me I can leave. It’s important to me that he never feels like I just drop him and go.

Most mornings, I sit down while he sets his table, grabs some breakfast and then we chat while he eats. Not long in to his meal he decides he’s comfortable and tells me to have a good day at work. My little man just melts my heart.

This morning while trying to decide where to sit for breakfast (each small table only sits 2-4 kids) V eagerly and excitedly said hello to Diego, a little boy with whom he typically runs around with while at school. Scowling, Diego responded by telling V “you’re not my friend”. The mom in me came out quickly, and I informed Diego that that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.

I held my breath for a moment. V didn’t seem bothered – he just kept walking, trying to decide where to sit and eat his yogurt. After finally selecting a spot, he sat down his place mat, his spoon and his yogurt and looked up to me with the saddest eyes.

“Nobody wants to be my friend, Mama”

“That’s not true V. I’m your friend!”, I said while trying not to make a big deal out of it

“But I want kid friends!” he informed me.

My heart broke. While we all know Diego was just being a kid – and V has certainly said these same words to other kids – it still broke my heart just a little.

Just then, Eva came bouncing up to V and started a conversation that made him forget all about Diego.

If my heart gets this heavy over a little pre-school banter, then I think I’m in big trouble when middle school and high school comes around …

Fifteen years ago I was working in the HR department of an insurance company. Being that I have a horrible memory, there’s not a whole lot I remember about that job. A few key people, my amazing boss, and the fact that our mail room clerk was an awkwardly skinny, pimple faced kid that loved to doodle on desks. “Why use paper when you can deface the property of your employer” must have been his motto because the kid was crazy with his sharpie. Oh, and the freaky tech guy who looked just like Steve Buscemi did in Fargo.

There was one thing I learned while working at this job that I have never forgotten. And even though I was only 25 years old and no-where near marriage or motherhood, it was a lesson in parenting. I loved the story, have repeated it many times over the years, and vow to keep it in my arsenal should I need it in about ten years or so.

Being that I already told you about my memory – or lack thereof – I’m sure you’ll find it of no surprise that I recall nothing of the woman who told me this. But that doesn’t really matter. I do remember, in decent detail, what she told me.

She was the mother of a teenager who had recently started lying to her. Her daughter would lie about where she was going, what she was doing, who she was with, her homework, almost anything. This woman and her husband tried grounding, taking away privileges. This, believe it or not, was back in the day before cell phones, ipods and before most people had home computers, so I guess they likely took away telephone privileges, going out with friends, and maybe TV.

Anyway, the afternoon of the school prom they had caught their daughter in yet another lie. Frustrated that she was not learning her lesson, they tried a new approach. After giving her the lying-is-not-acceptable lecture for the umpteenth time, it was time to talk about the punishment. Being that she had been looking forward to prom night for months, had found the perfect dress, and landed her dream date, they figured that keeping her from attending the prom *might* just be the lesson that would finally teach her something. So not surprisingly, they informed her that she would not be attending the prom that night.

As you might imagine, there was a melt down of massive proportion. Tears. Screams. Doors slamming. You’re-ruining-my-life-and-I-hate-you. The whole thing. In a desperate attempt to save herself, their daughter resorted to negotiation. “If you just please let me go to prom tonight, I promise never to lie again. And in exchange, you can ground me for two weeks with no telephone”. After about an hour of back and forth negotiation, the parents agreed to allow their daughter to go to prom in exchange for a delayed punishment.

Several hours later, their daughter’s girlfriends arrived and frenzy ensued as they all gleefully got ready for their big night. At 5:00pm sharp, the doorbell rang. The boys were at the door, the limo poised behind them.

Coming down the stairs with a smile the size of Texas, their daughter was beaming with excitement.

“Where are you going?”, asked her mom.

“To my prom!”, she answered.

“No. You’re not. I’m sorry”

Her voice cracking and showing signs of panic, “What?? What are you talking about”?

“I’m talking about the fact that you’re not going to the prom tonight”

“But, you said I could go! We agreed!!”

“I lied”

Three and a half years on-the-job training as a parent so far, and there’s still so very much to learn. I am absolutely fascinated with what I am learning not only about myself, but about the Husband, friends who have children, and virtual strangers met on play grounds, in pre-school, etc.

Recognizing that we have a long, long way to go on our journey through parenthood, I am thrilled with the ride so far. The Husband and I, remarkably, are on the same parenting page. This realization has come as a surprise. After all, we raised two puppies together and nearly killed each other in the process. I was a huge proponent of positive reinforcement and he basically used scare tactics with the dogs. Although our dogs have turned out to be the envy of the neighborhood, and friends are always asking me to refer them to our dog trainer (which was the Husband), it was a long and bumpy road for us so it should come as no surprise that the mere thought of raising children together had me running for the bottle of wine.

When I was pregnant with V, we had long and involved conversations about a variety of parenting subjects, the most heated of which was on the subject of spanking. We were both spanked as children and although neither of us have any emotional or physical scars from it, I do not believe in spanking. The Husband was a proponent .. it didn’t matter how many articles I emailed him, how many passages from parenting books I read to him, his mind was set.

The moment V was born, however, something inside of the Husband clicked. V is his pride and joy – his little buddy – and he would never, ever raise a hand to him. He has been able to see that alternative ways of discipline have worked like a charm with V – and his mind has been changed.

We have always encouraged V to try. If something was out of reach on the coffee table, rather than scooting the item closer so he could reach it, we let him figure out a way to get it by himself. And he did. By the time V was 18 months old he was setting the kitchen table, dishing food on to his plate, and pouring milk out of a bottle in to his cup. He showed an interest in trying these things. We encouraged it. Simple as that. He dropped things. He spilled milk. But he tried again, and his coordination developed very quickly. I remember one afternoon having lunch with two other mothers I’d met and their sons. V was the youngest of the three boys, at 2 years old. I was struck by the fact that these mothers fed their sons lunch. Spoon fed. Like they were babies. Both of them. And just like they spoon fed their sons, they essentially followed them around the yard like a shadow ready to catch them if they fell. The mere sight of the hovering moms made me vow to myself that I would never. Ever. Hover.

At three and a half, V is starting to learn a thing or two about playground politics. After our softball game last week, we all gathered for a celebratory bar-b-que at Coach Nick’s house. There were two other boys there – a five year old and an eight year old. V was in heaven playing with the big boys. The big boys, however, weren’t all that thrilled to have a little one tagging along so they would ditch him whenever they could. Lots of hide and seek, lots of disappearing when V wasn’t looking. It was so obvious that several other women there mentioned it to me. The mom in me wanted so desperately to reach out to V, to tell him that I’d play with him, that he didn’t need those big boys. But V didn’t see it that way. He had no idea that they were trying to ditch him. It was all a game to him, and he was having a blast. Had I hovered, he might have thought something was wrong with him. Or that these boys didn’t want to play with him.

We talk often about our role as V’s parents. We believe that, among other things, one of our jobs is to be a soft place for V to fall. The key word being fall. We have no interest in stopping all of the falls, just the big life-threatening ones. V must learn to fall. And get back up, dust himself off, and try all over again. We want him to learn not only the joy of victory, but the agony of defeat. Yes V, there are winners and losers in the game of t-ball, just as there are in the game of life. We care only that you tried your best.