Whoa...March 3? That was the last time I posted? Well, look, stuff happens, right? One day Eamon will look back at all these entries and see the giant hole and ask, "What happened there, Mom?" and I'm going to look at him knowingly and say, "Stuff, darling. Stuff. A lot of it."
But now is not the time to discuss any of that stuff. Now is the time to discuss something that I've mentioned before, though I doubt that anyone remembers and might worry just a tad about your sanity if you did: Eamon's toenails.
Eamon has possibly the weirdest toenails. You've seen what happens when people decide to go for the Guiness Book of World Records and grow their nails freakishly long so that they (the nails) curl around?
Well, Eamon's nails do that, even before they've gotten off the edge of the toe. To make matters worse, he screams bloody murder each time you go near him with a nail clipper. Always has. He's generally such a calm, laid back kid that even though I know that nails are made of keratin and have no nerves, I find myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, it really does hurt when I cut his toenails.
I try using logic: "Eamon, it I DON'T cut your toenails and they all get in-grown and that will REALLY hurt." He remains unswayed, as evidenced by his screaming and crying. I've tried singing or making it into a game. I've tried distracting him. There is nothing, nothing, that can make him feel better except for me to PUT AWAY THE NAIL CLIPPER ALREADY.
Perhaps the hardest thing is knowing that I am willfully doing something that is causing my child pain, whether it be physical or emotional.
No one else ever cuts Eamon's toenails. They are more than welcome to, but strangely enough, no one ever volunteers. And I get it. It's a miserable experience. Occasionally I have assistance, but I've learned how to sort of sit on him so that he doesn't squirm and make the clippers slip.
Someday, of course, he'll get it. One day, when he has a child of his own and he's sitting on her as she screams like he's ripping out rather than cutting her toenails, he'll realize that as much as he hated getting his toenails cut, I hated it more and what it took for me to do it anyway.
Because sometimes...you just have to get your toenails cut, Eamon Wolfe.
I love you, kiddo.
Now let's go do some stuff.
03 March 2012
Super-E vs. Germ Warfare
Someone woke me up at 6:24, which honestly isn’t bad for this particular someone. He probably waited as long as he could, but his Nyquil-addled mother had forgotten to put a pull-up on him last night, and this morning he had a tiny accident that he was eager to keep from becoming a big accident.
So I stumbled into his room and we stumbled together into the bathroom and then everything was better except for the fact that now we were both unalterably AWAKE.
“Mommy,” he said, looking at me seriously, “We have to clean the house. Mommy, Daddy, and Eamon made a mess this week.”
Inwardly, I groaned. I had said these words last night right before he went to sleep, in that Nyquil-induced haze. I figured if I took it just before his bedtime, it would kick in right after I put him down, but I severely underestimated its power and its ability to make me hallucinate that I would get a great night of sleep and wake up fully well, refreshed, and ready to take on the world. Instead, I barely slept (again) and woke up ready to shuffle blearily from room to room muttering that we really need more tissues.
It all began Monday when a plague came to settle in our house. Eamon fell first with a runny nose and cough. On Tuesday my throat started to hurt and the air molecules kept pricking and burning my skin. By Wednesday Aaron was coughing and feeling terrible. By Thursday, Eamon had almost completely recovered and literally ran circles around both of us while we coughed and sneezed and passed the tissue box back and forth. The dishes and the dirty laundry piled higher and higher because it took all our collective energy just to make Eamon dinner and put him to bed.
Then Friday, aka last night, Aaron had to go to Alexandria for the night for work. And we both groaned, because the last thing he wanted was long car ride in traffic, and the last thing I wanted was to be left alone with a half-sized human dynamo while I just wanted to crawl under the covers and curl up with my box of tissues.
I always fear that the days when I am weakest—sick and by myself—are the days that Eamon will decide to throw non-stop temper-tantrums or tear apart the house. But I really should know better by now. Last night, he graciously accepted that Mommy was too tired to deal with dinner and acquiesced to dinner at Red Robin. He ate the chicken off my salad, MC-ed imaginary conversations between the 12 different dinosaurs we had brought with us, and afterwards we went to the mall play area outside of Macy’s so that I could sit and let the other kids tire him out as he ran around. Then we went home, I took the probably ill-advised Nyquil, and he went to bed and slept peacefully all night.
This morning, after the first burst of drama, we helped me stay committed to what would have been a laughable goal of cleaning the house to any adult…but he’s a kid and takes these things seriously. Eamon helped me load the clothes into the washing machine. He helped me take the clothes out of the dryer. When I washed the dishes, he stood on his stool beside me and handed each dirty dish to me. I taught him how to turn on the dishwasher, and we went outside to take out the trash together.
We haven’t stopped moving—Eamon because he’s always been a child-sized bundle of energy, and me because I fear inertia: if I stop moving, I might not start again. We wander from room-to-room, putting away clothes, tidying here or there.
I’m not saying it’s been perfect. At one point, after we tidied the den, he took a pack of cards and threw them into the air so they blanketed the ground. He immediately heard my gasp and saw my look of horror. “Oh no, mommy,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll cooperate. Here, I pick up cards.” And he picked them all up and put them on a TV tray.
“I cooperated, mommy,” he told me again. “I am a superhero.”
And I threw my arms around him and told him that yes, yes he was.
So I stumbled into his room and we stumbled together into the bathroom and then everything was better except for the fact that now we were both unalterably AWAKE.
“Mommy,” he said, looking at me seriously, “We have to clean the house. Mommy, Daddy, and Eamon made a mess this week.”
Inwardly, I groaned. I had said these words last night right before he went to sleep, in that Nyquil-induced haze. I figured if I took it just before his bedtime, it would kick in right after I put him down, but I severely underestimated its power and its ability to make me hallucinate that I would get a great night of sleep and wake up fully well, refreshed, and ready to take on the world. Instead, I barely slept (again) and woke up ready to shuffle blearily from room to room muttering that we really need more tissues.
It all began Monday when a plague came to settle in our house. Eamon fell first with a runny nose and cough. On Tuesday my throat started to hurt and the air molecules kept pricking and burning my skin. By Wednesday Aaron was coughing and feeling terrible. By Thursday, Eamon had almost completely recovered and literally ran circles around both of us while we coughed and sneezed and passed the tissue box back and forth. The dishes and the dirty laundry piled higher and higher because it took all our collective energy just to make Eamon dinner and put him to bed.
Then Friday, aka last night, Aaron had to go to Alexandria for the night for work. And we both groaned, because the last thing he wanted was long car ride in traffic, and the last thing I wanted was to be left alone with a half-sized human dynamo while I just wanted to crawl under the covers and curl up with my box of tissues.
I always fear that the days when I am weakest—sick and by myself—are the days that Eamon will decide to throw non-stop temper-tantrums or tear apart the house. But I really should know better by now. Last night, he graciously accepted that Mommy was too tired to deal with dinner and acquiesced to dinner at Red Robin. He ate the chicken off my salad, MC-ed imaginary conversations between the 12 different dinosaurs we had brought with us, and afterwards we went to the mall play area outside of Macy’s so that I could sit and let the other kids tire him out as he ran around. Then we went home, I took the probably ill-advised Nyquil, and he went to bed and slept peacefully all night.
This morning, after the first burst of drama, we helped me stay committed to what would have been a laughable goal of cleaning the house to any adult…but he’s a kid and takes these things seriously. Eamon helped me load the clothes into the washing machine. He helped me take the clothes out of the dryer. When I washed the dishes, he stood on his stool beside me and handed each dirty dish to me. I taught him how to turn on the dishwasher, and we went outside to take out the trash together.
We haven’t stopped moving—Eamon because he’s always been a child-sized bundle of energy, and me because I fear inertia: if I stop moving, I might not start again. We wander from room-to-room, putting away clothes, tidying here or there.
I’m not saying it’s been perfect. At one point, after we tidied the den, he took a pack of cards and threw them into the air so they blanketed the ground. He immediately heard my gasp and saw my look of horror. “Oh no, mommy,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll cooperate. Here, I pick up cards.” And he picked them all up and put them on a TV tray.
“I cooperated, mommy,” he told me again. “I am a superhero.”
And I threw my arms around him and told him that yes, yes he was.
25 February 2012
Apology to About 140 Parents
I know that I am that parent. It was always inevitable, and although I make lots of noises about trying to not be that parent, in the end I just buy Eamon’s teachers superfluous Valentine’s Day presents to make up for my crazy.
Exhibit A is the email that I sent to Eamon’s teacher recently. I debated whether I should send the email for a long time. I finally decided that as an advocate for my child, I had a duty to send such as email because quite frankly we had a problem: Eamon keeps maturing and growing up.
I partially blame the school and their insistence on the children becoming independent in both action and thought. So they had a right to know that I have this horrible, dreadful suspicion that they might want to promote my child to the next class.
This means that he would leave the warm safety of the Toddler Class and jump head first into the controlled chaos of the Children’s House, where he would be expected to (1) Learn Things and (2) Self Monitor and (3) Not Run Around Roaring at Everyone Like He’s a Giant T-Rex.
And as his mother, the person who probably knows him better than anyone, I know that he’s more than ready for the first thing: he can count and has great number sense and can sort of add and subtract with manipulatives; he’s fascinated by the words in the books that we read and has known all his letters and their sounds for about twenty years now.
And he’s getting better with the self-monitoring. Sometimes he even tells me he’s sorry before he does something: “Sorry I threw that, mommy. It was a bad choice.” I then point out that he didn’t throw anything, and he cocks his head as if I am a person of small intelligence. “No mommy,” he says slowly, “because it was a bad choice.” But sometimes he announces that he’s throwing something as he throws it, and then shrugs and says, “Oh, that was an accident. I didn’t do it on purpose,” and then he picks it up and heaves it across the room again.
But the Not Running Around Roaring at Everyone Like He’s a Giant T-Rex? No, that is still very much a priority for him.
At his school, though, they keep pointing things out to me: “He’s doing so well with the toilet-training!” “He does great taking off his shoes and putting on his school slippers, all by himself!” “He’s so good about working with all the little kids!” “He can do almost everything in the classroom for himself!” (A prerequisite for teaching toddlers is that you must speak in exclamation points.)
And I just raise a suspicious eyebrow.
I’m not trying to hold my child back…not really. It’s just that over the last three years, I’ve learned a couple of things: (1) I have this tendency to push myself and everyone around me almost to (and occasionally past) our breaking points; and (2) Eamon DOES NOT do well with being pushed.
Illustrative point: swim class. He had been taking swim lessons since he was 7 months old, so he understood blowing bubbles and kicking and reach and pull arms. He outgrew the baby classes, so they promoted him. And they kept promoting him. And I beamed with pride.
Then they promoted him to group classes, where he goes in the water by himself without a parent, and everything fell apart. He had to sit too long while the instructor worked with other kids. He didn’t understand how to blow bubbles while kicking while reaching and pulling. He didn’t understand the complicated questions the instructor was asking. She was frustrated. He was frustrated. I sat on the side a nervous wreck, unsure when to intervene with my misbehaving child and when my presence was just making it worse.
But three months later, we signed him up for the class again, and he did brilliantly. He understood about sitting still and waiting his turn. He understood about keeping his hands to himself. He realized that he could blow bubbles while kicking while reaching and pulling. He knew the answers to all the complicated questions. His new instructor breaks into a huge grin whenever she sees him and he loves her, too. I watch and clap quietly on the sidelines, beaming with pride.
I am the kind of person who is bored unless things are just a little too difficult. I am only comfortable when I am slightly outside my comfort zone. And I absurdly assumed for years that everyone else was like this, too, even though it is obvious that my husband and his offspring are completely the opposite. And they are both very bright, so it has nothing to do with intelligence…just how we all respond differently to pressure.
Therefore, when Eamon’s teachers talk about promoting him to the next class, I panic. I’ve tried to push him and reaped the consequences, so now I’m probably TOO cautious. I’ve burned my child before.
All this is what led me to write a long and rambling email to Eamon’s teacher in which I argued all the reasons why we should definitely promote him and all the reasons why we definitely should not, because I don’t want him to be bored and I don’t want him to be frustrated, and then lamely conclude that I wasn’t going to push either way and it was all her decision.
I can imagine her rolling her eyes while reading it, because that’s what I would have done when I was teaching.
But that was before I became a parent and realized: it’s hard. You want nothing but the best for your child but sometimes there’s no way to know if something is a good idea until you try it and it works wonderfully (potty-training) or you try it and emotionally scar your child for awhile (swim lessons).
His teacher responded to my email, and not by calling CPS because Eamon’s mother had clearly gone insane, which I thought was generous of her. She just kindly said we'll talk about it in two weeks when we have parent-teacher conferences.
And in the meantime, I need to say: I’m sorry to all those parents of students I taught. I’m sorry if I ever rolled my eyes when you emailed me ten times in one day, or if I was condescending when I assured you that it was just a phase, or if I ever just got annoyed when the “quick conference” you requested rolled into its second hour.
If I could go back in time, I’d give each of you a giant hug and say, “You’re doing great. I know you love your child so much that sometimes you physically ache because your paltry human form can barely fit all the hopes and fears and worries and dreams you have for this tiny person who means more to you than anyone or anything. But you are here and you care. And that’s why it’s all going to be okay.”
Exhibit A is the email that I sent to Eamon’s teacher recently. I debated whether I should send the email for a long time. I finally decided that as an advocate for my child, I had a duty to send such as email because quite frankly we had a problem: Eamon keeps maturing and growing up.
I partially blame the school and their insistence on the children becoming independent in both action and thought. So they had a right to know that I have this horrible, dreadful suspicion that they might want to promote my child to the next class.
This means that he would leave the warm safety of the Toddler Class and jump head first into the controlled chaos of the Children’s House, where he would be expected to (1) Learn Things and (2) Self Monitor and (3) Not Run Around Roaring at Everyone Like He’s a Giant T-Rex.
And as his mother, the person who probably knows him better than anyone, I know that he’s more than ready for the first thing: he can count and has great number sense and can sort of add and subtract with manipulatives; he’s fascinated by the words in the books that we read and has known all his letters and their sounds for about twenty years now.
And he’s getting better with the self-monitoring. Sometimes he even tells me he’s sorry before he does something: “Sorry I threw that, mommy. It was a bad choice.” I then point out that he didn’t throw anything, and he cocks his head as if I am a person of small intelligence. “No mommy,” he says slowly, “because it was a bad choice.” But sometimes he announces that he’s throwing something as he throws it, and then shrugs and says, “Oh, that was an accident. I didn’t do it on purpose,” and then he picks it up and heaves it across the room again.
But the Not Running Around Roaring at Everyone Like He’s a Giant T-Rex? No, that is still very much a priority for him.
At his school, though, they keep pointing things out to me: “He’s doing so well with the toilet-training!” “He does great taking off his shoes and putting on his school slippers, all by himself!” “He’s so good about working with all the little kids!” “He can do almost everything in the classroom for himself!” (A prerequisite for teaching toddlers is that you must speak in exclamation points.)
And I just raise a suspicious eyebrow.
I’m not trying to hold my child back…not really. It’s just that over the last three years, I’ve learned a couple of things: (1) I have this tendency to push myself and everyone around me almost to (and occasionally past) our breaking points; and (2) Eamon DOES NOT do well with being pushed.
Illustrative point: swim class. He had been taking swim lessons since he was 7 months old, so he understood blowing bubbles and kicking and reach and pull arms. He outgrew the baby classes, so they promoted him. And they kept promoting him. And I beamed with pride.
Then they promoted him to group classes, where he goes in the water by himself without a parent, and everything fell apart. He had to sit too long while the instructor worked with other kids. He didn’t understand how to blow bubbles while kicking while reaching and pulling. He didn’t understand the complicated questions the instructor was asking. She was frustrated. He was frustrated. I sat on the side a nervous wreck, unsure when to intervene with my misbehaving child and when my presence was just making it worse.
But three months later, we signed him up for the class again, and he did brilliantly. He understood about sitting still and waiting his turn. He understood about keeping his hands to himself. He realized that he could blow bubbles while kicking while reaching and pulling. He knew the answers to all the complicated questions. His new instructor breaks into a huge grin whenever she sees him and he loves her, too. I watch and clap quietly on the sidelines, beaming with pride.
I am the kind of person who is bored unless things are just a little too difficult. I am only comfortable when I am slightly outside my comfort zone. And I absurdly assumed for years that everyone else was like this, too, even though it is obvious that my husband and his offspring are completely the opposite. And they are both very bright, so it has nothing to do with intelligence…just how we all respond differently to pressure.
Therefore, when Eamon’s teachers talk about promoting him to the next class, I panic. I’ve tried to push him and reaped the consequences, so now I’m probably TOO cautious. I’ve burned my child before.
All this is what led me to write a long and rambling email to Eamon’s teacher in which I argued all the reasons why we should definitely promote him and all the reasons why we definitely should not, because I don’t want him to be bored and I don’t want him to be frustrated, and then lamely conclude that I wasn’t going to push either way and it was all her decision.
I can imagine her rolling her eyes while reading it, because that’s what I would have done when I was teaching.
But that was before I became a parent and realized: it’s hard. You want nothing but the best for your child but sometimes there’s no way to know if something is a good idea until you try it and it works wonderfully (potty-training) or you try it and emotionally scar your child for awhile (swim lessons).
His teacher responded to my email, and not by calling CPS because Eamon’s mother had clearly gone insane, which I thought was generous of her. She just kindly said we'll talk about it in two weeks when we have parent-teacher conferences.
And in the meantime, I need to say: I’m sorry to all those parents of students I taught. I’m sorry if I ever rolled my eyes when you emailed me ten times in one day, or if I was condescending when I assured you that it was just a phase, or if I ever just got annoyed when the “quick conference” you requested rolled into its second hour.
If I could go back in time, I’d give each of you a giant hug and say, “You’re doing great. I know you love your child so much that sometimes you physically ache because your paltry human form can barely fit all the hopes and fears and worries and dreams you have for this tiny person who means more to you than anyone or anything. But you are here and you care. And that’s why it’s all going to be okay.”
12 February 2012
Superfriends
I haven't been posting as much lately. I'm not sure why. It's not that plenty isn't going on. Something happens, and I think: yeah, that needs to go on the blog. And then I compose the entry in my head. And then I sit down to the computer to write it. And then I spend the next 2 hours looking at all the Captain America costumes with a 3 year old draped over me saying, "That one, Mommy. Try that one."
So I'm going to sift through all the piled up ideas sloshing around in my head, and boil them down to this: Eamon rocks. I always knew I would love my kid, but I was completely unprepared for how much I was going to LIKE him.
Something has happened over the last few weeks in which Eamon has come out of his latest "snotty independence" streak. You know, the kind where everything is "NO!" and "I DO IT!" and "DON'T HELP ME!" The kind where he questions you on everything from why he has to go to bed to why he has to wear shoes to why he can't eat Oreos and bacon for lunch. And the questions aren't the gentle-inquiry variety, either, but a defiant, twitch-inducing, "WHY?"
But we survived that. And now he's still independent, but...sweeter. Helpful. He's now the oldest kid in his class at school (there was one older, but he moved up to the next class), and we've had nothing but great reports about how helpful he's been with the other kids these last few weeks. His teacher was out with the stomach flu for several days, and apparently Eamon stepped up and really helped out with the teaching assistant and substitute.
He's been the same way around the house. If I need to vacuum, he's right there, asking if he can vacuum his room. He helped carry all the Christmas boxes back upstairs to put in the attic. He wants to help make his own meals, is saying "please" and "thank you" without much prompting, and has been randomly giving kisses and cuddles.
And then there's the superheroes.
We are obsessed with superheroes around this house.
And I literally mean "we."
Aaron loved superheroes as a kid, but I somehow missed the boat. And it turns out: they are awesome, and I can't believe it took me until age 31 to figure out how awesome they are. They are like science-fiction soap operas. I marvel at the complexity of some of the issues (for instance, Ironman's "let's-get-them-before-they-get-us" versus Antman's "violence-only-as-a-last-resort"), and the flavorings of mythology mixed with science. And yeah, I know it's not hard science (we're not talking Michael Crichton, here), but some of the ideas presented are becoming less and less far-fetched.
So Eamon and I share this new-found obsession with superheroes. Aaron is slightly more mature about the whole thing, having grown up knowing about the awesomeness. But Eamon and I have the bug hard-core. I'm pretty sure that Eamon only toilet-trained because there was superhero underwear in it for him. I spend Saturday mornings reading Wikipedia articles on superhero characters while E watches the Avengers. Most of our books are about superheroes and I have no problem with washing Eamon's spiderman pajamas over and over so he can wear them almost every night.
(Yes, apparently I have the same interests as a 3 year old boy. What about it?)
All this means that more than ever, I love hanging out with my child. In fact, I need to finish writing this blog, because someone is reminding me that those Captain America costumes aren't going to look at themselves.
So I'm going to sift through all the piled up ideas sloshing around in my head, and boil them down to this: Eamon rocks. I always knew I would love my kid, but I was completely unprepared for how much I was going to LIKE him.
Something has happened over the last few weeks in which Eamon has come out of his latest "snotty independence" streak. You know, the kind where everything is "NO!" and "I DO IT!" and "DON'T HELP ME!" The kind where he questions you on everything from why he has to go to bed to why he has to wear shoes to why he can't eat Oreos and bacon for lunch. And the questions aren't the gentle-inquiry variety, either, but a defiant, twitch-inducing, "WHY?"
But we survived that. And now he's still independent, but...sweeter. Helpful. He's now the oldest kid in his class at school (there was one older, but he moved up to the next class), and we've had nothing but great reports about how helpful he's been with the other kids these last few weeks. His teacher was out with the stomach flu for several days, and apparently Eamon stepped up and really helped out with the teaching assistant and substitute.
He's been the same way around the house. If I need to vacuum, he's right there, asking if he can vacuum his room. He helped carry all the Christmas boxes back upstairs to put in the attic. He wants to help make his own meals, is saying "please" and "thank you" without much prompting, and has been randomly giving kisses and cuddles.
And then there's the superheroes.
We are obsessed with superheroes around this house.
And I literally mean "we."
Aaron loved superheroes as a kid, but I somehow missed the boat. And it turns out: they are awesome, and I can't believe it took me until age 31 to figure out how awesome they are. They are like science-fiction soap operas. I marvel at the complexity of some of the issues (for instance, Ironman's "let's-get-them-before-they-get-us" versus Antman's "violence-only-as-a-last-resort"), and the flavorings of mythology mixed with science. And yeah, I know it's not hard science (we're not talking Michael Crichton, here), but some of the ideas presented are becoming less and less far-fetched.
So Eamon and I share this new-found obsession with superheroes. Aaron is slightly more mature about the whole thing, having grown up knowing about the awesomeness. But Eamon and I have the bug hard-core. I'm pretty sure that Eamon only toilet-trained because there was superhero underwear in it for him. I spend Saturday mornings reading Wikipedia articles on superhero characters while E watches the Avengers. Most of our books are about superheroes and I have no problem with washing Eamon's spiderman pajamas over and over so he can wear them almost every night.
(Yes, apparently I have the same interests as a 3 year old boy. What about it?)
All this means that more than ever, I love hanging out with my child. In fact, I need to finish writing this blog, because someone is reminding me that those Captain America costumes aren't going to look at themselves.
14 January 2012
Potty Love: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Pee
After exhaustive research, I’ve come to a remarkable conclusion: kids are not made in a factory, assembled with interchangeable parts. I know. I am baffled. But all evidence points to the truthfulness of this statement. In fact, one might go so far as to say that every child is unique, and therefore what works with one child might not work with another.
That caveat firmly in place, I will now relate Successful Strategies to Toilet-Train Eamon Wolfe. They might work for your kid. They might not. As I stated in the previous entry, I’m not an expert in toilet-training; I’m just an expert in Eamon…and even then there are some things about him that remain a mystery to me. Mothers looking to potty train in the future: do what you will with this information. It worked for our specific child at this specific point in time.
Strategy #1: Wait Until He’s Ready.
Eamon is very bright, very socially advanced, and very emotionally immature. He’s tall and looks older, but he’s physically immature in controlling his own body. Toilet training at age 2 was never realistically considered. He would use the toilet at school but other toilets scared him. He wasn’t ready.
And Eamon, like his father, puts a lot of pressure on himself. I don’t think I’m going too far when I say that failure probably would have scarred him a little emotionally, and we would have had to wait even longer to toilet-train to get over his fears. So even though it meant cringing slightly at all those Facebook posts from mothers with younger children who successfully toilet-trained, I’m glad that we waited. It was right for Eamon.
Strategy #2: No Pressure.
Eamon is a perfectionist. He always has been. His father is the same way, and I have seen first-hand the defense mechanism that can go along with caring too deeply when you are secretly afraid of failing: the desperation to convince everyone that you don’t care at all, that you never cared, and that you think it’s all a waste of time, anyway.
I didn’t want this to happen with Eamon. Other than the first day in which I allowed him to change underwear if he peed, there were no rewards or punishments for using or not using the potty. I was pretty firm about this, despite the advice of almost everyone. I know my husband, and I know my kid. I also taught a few students like this, and the only strategy that ever worked was to logically lay out their options, explain the pros and cons of choosing each, and leave them to make their own decision. They’re smart enough to realize when they are being manipulated, and it only makes them rebel.
Therefore, when we introduced the potty to Eamon, we explained the benefits: no more sitting around in wet or poop-filled diapers. You will get praise at school. You can wear superhero underwear. There are no superhero pull-ups. Everyone will think you’re a big boy. But we can’t make you. It’s up to you.
There were no M&Ms, no sticker charts, no toys or cars. Ironically, I had been saving up kids’ meal toys since Eamon was born for a toy chest JUST FOR THIS PURPOSE, until I realized this would be the worst possible thing for Eamon. I knew Eamon would do use the potty if he wanted to. If he didn’t, no inducement in the world would make him; in fact, it would offend him to the point where he would dig in his heels even further.
It worked. He cared more than anyone about doing a good job. Without any added pressure from us, he gets upset if even a drop of pee gets on his clothes, and we find ourselves reassuring him that it’s OKAY, that he’ll GET IT, and he just needs to keep practicing. I can only imagine how much more upset he would have gotten knowing that in addition to not being perfect, he also lost a chance at a coveted toy. It would have been too much.
In the end, he used the potty because he wanted to.
Strategy #3: Prepare for the Worst
At first, I was so worried about Eamon being successful that I asked too often if he needed to use the potty. In trying to ensure success, I put more pressure on him. There were a couple of very tightly-wound, unpleasant days in the middle until I learned to just stop asking.
This meant being prepared for accidents. Instead of asking him 50 times if he needed to pee before we left for work/school in the morning, I just got up about 10 minutes earlier so there would be time to clean up/change clothes after an accident. Instead of insisting he use the potty before we got into the car, I just put a towel down in his carseat and packed a change of clothes. Conversations that had been filled with yelling and tears now went something like this:
ME: E, do you want to use the potty before we get into the car?
EAMON: No, no, no!
ME: Okay. The movement of the car often makes people have to pee, but I’ve put down a towel in case you wet yourself, and I have a spare change of underwear and pants here. Come on, let’s go.
EAMON: (thinking) Mommy, I want to use the potty.
Not surprisingly, as soon as I relaxed, Eamon relaxed. He peed on himself a couple of times, then learned how to tell when he had to pee and hold it until we made it to the potty. I just accepted that I would be doing more laundry, and now he’s almost mastered it.
Strategy #4: Don’t Ask for More Than He Can Physically Do.
As I have said, Eamon is not physically mature. Even though we suspected he was ready to train during the day, no one had any expectations of him making it through an entire night. He can be a heavy sleeper, and wakes up pretty soaked every morning. That would have invited failure and tears on everyone’s part.
Therefore, we just casually slip a pull-up on before he goes to sleep. We don’t even talk about it, so it’s not a big deal. We put his precious underwear on over it.
Interestingly, when we wakes up in the morning, one of the first things he often says to me is that he has to pee. Even though he has a pull-up on, even though it’s already wet, he doesn't want to use the pull-up.
We’ve even seen this at nap-time. The first day he protested wearing a pull-up to nap, and I said that if he could wake up dry from naps for awhile, he could forgo the pull-up. And gosh darn it, he has woken up dry for about 4 days in a row. We will see. Wearing an unused pull-up doesn’t hurt anything.
Strategy #5: Lots of Extra Love and Attention
If Eamon successfully used the potty, we gave him lots of hugs and kisses and told him he should be proud of himself. When he successfully pooped on the potty, there were even more hugs and kisses and phone calls to grandparents to let him know what a milestone this was.
And when he didn’t make it to the potty on time, there were lots of hugs and kisses and assurances that it was fine and that we loved him so much and he was really doing a great job.
It's a stressful time. He needed it. And I'll always take advantage of any excuse to hug and kiss him more.
**
So, that’s it: our no-frills strategies to toilet-training Eamon Wolfe. For anyone else who is toilet-training out there: good luck, and may your training be as successful and seamless, no matter what strategies you use.
That caveat firmly in place, I will now relate Successful Strategies to Toilet-Train Eamon Wolfe. They might work for your kid. They might not. As I stated in the previous entry, I’m not an expert in toilet-training; I’m just an expert in Eamon…and even then there are some things about him that remain a mystery to me. Mothers looking to potty train in the future: do what you will with this information. It worked for our specific child at this specific point in time.
Strategy #1: Wait Until He’s Ready.
Eamon is very bright, very socially advanced, and very emotionally immature. He’s tall and looks older, but he’s physically immature in controlling his own body. Toilet training at age 2 was never realistically considered. He would use the toilet at school but other toilets scared him. He wasn’t ready.
And Eamon, like his father, puts a lot of pressure on himself. I don’t think I’m going too far when I say that failure probably would have scarred him a little emotionally, and we would have had to wait even longer to toilet-train to get over his fears. So even though it meant cringing slightly at all those Facebook posts from mothers with younger children who successfully toilet-trained, I’m glad that we waited. It was right for Eamon.
Strategy #2: No Pressure.
Eamon is a perfectionist. He always has been. His father is the same way, and I have seen first-hand the defense mechanism that can go along with caring too deeply when you are secretly afraid of failing: the desperation to convince everyone that you don’t care at all, that you never cared, and that you think it’s all a waste of time, anyway.
I didn’t want this to happen with Eamon. Other than the first day in which I allowed him to change underwear if he peed, there were no rewards or punishments for using or not using the potty. I was pretty firm about this, despite the advice of almost everyone. I know my husband, and I know my kid. I also taught a few students like this, and the only strategy that ever worked was to logically lay out their options, explain the pros and cons of choosing each, and leave them to make their own decision. They’re smart enough to realize when they are being manipulated, and it only makes them rebel.
Therefore, when we introduced the potty to Eamon, we explained the benefits: no more sitting around in wet or poop-filled diapers. You will get praise at school. You can wear superhero underwear. There are no superhero pull-ups. Everyone will think you’re a big boy. But we can’t make you. It’s up to you.
There were no M&Ms, no sticker charts, no toys or cars. Ironically, I had been saving up kids’ meal toys since Eamon was born for a toy chest JUST FOR THIS PURPOSE, until I realized this would be the worst possible thing for Eamon. I knew Eamon would do use the potty if he wanted to. If he didn’t, no inducement in the world would make him; in fact, it would offend him to the point where he would dig in his heels even further.
It worked. He cared more than anyone about doing a good job. Without any added pressure from us, he gets upset if even a drop of pee gets on his clothes, and we find ourselves reassuring him that it’s OKAY, that he’ll GET IT, and he just needs to keep practicing. I can only imagine how much more upset he would have gotten knowing that in addition to not being perfect, he also lost a chance at a coveted toy. It would have been too much.
In the end, he used the potty because he wanted to.
Strategy #3: Prepare for the Worst
At first, I was so worried about Eamon being successful that I asked too often if he needed to use the potty. In trying to ensure success, I put more pressure on him. There were a couple of very tightly-wound, unpleasant days in the middle until I learned to just stop asking.
This meant being prepared for accidents. Instead of asking him 50 times if he needed to pee before we left for work/school in the morning, I just got up about 10 minutes earlier so there would be time to clean up/change clothes after an accident. Instead of insisting he use the potty before we got into the car, I just put a towel down in his carseat and packed a change of clothes. Conversations that had been filled with yelling and tears now went something like this:
ME: E, do you want to use the potty before we get into the car?
EAMON: No, no, no!
ME: Okay. The movement of the car often makes people have to pee, but I’ve put down a towel in case you wet yourself, and I have a spare change of underwear and pants here. Come on, let’s go.
EAMON: (thinking) Mommy, I want to use the potty.
Not surprisingly, as soon as I relaxed, Eamon relaxed. He peed on himself a couple of times, then learned how to tell when he had to pee and hold it until we made it to the potty. I just accepted that I would be doing more laundry, and now he’s almost mastered it.
Strategy #4: Don’t Ask for More Than He Can Physically Do.
As I have said, Eamon is not physically mature. Even though we suspected he was ready to train during the day, no one had any expectations of him making it through an entire night. He can be a heavy sleeper, and wakes up pretty soaked every morning. That would have invited failure and tears on everyone’s part.
Therefore, we just casually slip a pull-up on before he goes to sleep. We don’t even talk about it, so it’s not a big deal. We put his precious underwear on over it.
Interestingly, when we wakes up in the morning, one of the first things he often says to me is that he has to pee. Even though he has a pull-up on, even though it’s already wet, he doesn't want to use the pull-up.
We’ve even seen this at nap-time. The first day he protested wearing a pull-up to nap, and I said that if he could wake up dry from naps for awhile, he could forgo the pull-up. And gosh darn it, he has woken up dry for about 4 days in a row. We will see. Wearing an unused pull-up doesn’t hurt anything.
Strategy #5: Lots of Extra Love and Attention
If Eamon successfully used the potty, we gave him lots of hugs and kisses and told him he should be proud of himself. When he successfully pooped on the potty, there were even more hugs and kisses and phone calls to grandparents to let him know what a milestone this was.
And when he didn’t make it to the potty on time, there were lots of hugs and kisses and assurances that it was fine and that we loved him so much and he was really doing a great job.
It's a stressful time. He needed it. And I'll always take advantage of any excuse to hug and kiss him more.
**
So, that’s it: our no-frills strategies to toilet-training Eamon Wolfe. For anyone else who is toilet-training out there: good luck, and may your training be as successful and seamless, no matter what strategies you use.
08 January 2012
Amazing Adventures in Underwear
I am suddenly desperately aware of the absence of carpet cleaner in this house. I keep looking anxiously to the spot where the carpet cleaner used to stand, a gaping void of nothingness where there should be something.
And I look at the carpets, which right now are clean and blissfully ignorant of the fate that might soon befall them. The couch, likewise, has no idea of the coming storm.
And then finally, I look at the ticking time bomb: my cherub of a son, happily sipping on milk as he watches The Fantastic Four cartoon, clad only in a pajama shirt and Captain America underwear.
“You can’t pee in this underwear,” I remind him. Again.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because there’s nothing to absorb the pee. It’s not a pull-up. The pee will go everywhere. All over you, all over the carpet, all over the couch…you can’t pee while you wear underwear.”
“Oh," he says, and goes back to watching TV.
I persist. “If you have to pee, you have to tell Mommy, and we’ll go to the potty. And I’ll take you every 20 minutes or so until you go, anyway. But you cannot pee in underwear. You have to use the potty.”
“Oh. I don’t wanna use the potty.”
“But you HAVE to, if you want to be like Captain America and Ironman and Thor. Thor doesn’t wear a pull-up, does he? He uses the potty.”
Eamon shakes his head. “Thor doesn’t use the potty. He flies.”
“Well, yes, he flies, but when he has to pee, he uses the potty.”
Thoughtfully, “Thor doesn’t have to go pee. Ever.”
And I realize with despair: this is true. Never in any superhero cartoon have I seen The Thing or the Black Panther stop mid-battle and announce, “Hold that thought, Dr. Doom, potty-break!” The absence of superhero potty-breaks, just like the absence of carpet cleaner, is tragic.
There are any number of resources about Elmo using the potty. Videos, books, decorative mugs, etc.. But where is the 30 minute special on Spiderman and His Amazing Toilet Adventures? Eamon has gotten to the age where Elmo no longer holds sway, but if only the Human Torch could explain the ins and outs of how little boys use the toilet, Eamon might understand.
I suppose that “experts” would tell me that I shouldn’t be trying to toilet-train a child who emphatically insists that he doesn’t want to use the potty. But just because someone is an “expert” in toilet-training doesn’t make them an expert in Eamon.
Eamon has never felt a sense of urgency about any physical milestone. He has no problem staying at the stage he’s in as long as humanly possible. He rolled over the day before we had a check-up in which the doctor asks if your child can roll over…and if not, you get the “Hmm” and the eyebrow raise. And he didn’t roll over once, but constantly after that.
Then with walking…he liked crawling. Crawling worked for him. He took one step on his birthday, fell flat on his face, and refused to try again. By age 14 months, we were pretty sure he could walk if he wanted, but he didn’t want. My parents finally bribed him with teddy grahams one day, and by the time I came to pick him up, he was running across the room.
I think it might be the same with the toilet. I have a feeling that he’s ready, but he has no interest. And because he’s Eamon, that interest might not come for a long time if he’s not properly motivated. So I’m trying to figure out how to properly motivate him.
First of all, Eamon is not motivated by food. M&Ms don’t do a thing for him. Anything edible is right out.
What he does love is superheroes, so we went out and bought him a ton of superhero underwear. I washed them all last night, and this morning he found them, took them all out of the laundry basket, and surrounded himself lovingly with them. Then he sat on the pile, like a dragon on his precious hoard. I put him in Captain America, but he wanted to wear Ironman. No, Wolverine. No, Thor.
“You can change your underwear…” I said, slyly. “…when you use the potty.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. I had brought his Elmo potty downstairs into the den, so he could continue to play and yet not be far from a “toilet.” Eamon yanked off the Captain America underwear, sat on the potty, and immediately peed.
Success! Feeling like a toilet-training genius, I helped him into some Thor underwear, took the potty apart and washed the inner bowl, congratulating myself on my ability to manipulate a three year old.
Two minutes later he announced happily, “Mommy, I gotta pee again. Yup, I do.” He yanked off the Thor underwear, sat down, and peed a small bit more.
We changed him into Wolverine, then I went and washed the potty, wondering if I was losing control of the situation.
Two minutes later, you know what happened. I helped Eamon into some Ironman underwear, and found myself washing the potty yet again. Yes, by this point it was abundantly clear which of us was being manipulated, and it was the person who was washing the potty for the third time in fifteen minutes, not the little person turning in mad circles trying to see the Ironman picture on the back of his own underwear.
And that’s where we are now, an hour and a half into Eamon’s Amazing Potty Adventures. The carpet cleaner has been a non-issue (so far), I still have no idea if this potty-training this is going to work in the long-term, and the only real conclusion anyone can make is that, without a doubt, my three year old has outsmarted me. Again.
Update: Eamon just had his first accident. He came over and announced, "I peed on Ironman, mommy. Yep, I did." But he had only peed a little, so I put him on the potty, where he preceded to pee...and pee, and pee. So even though it was an accident, he realized what he was doing, STOPPED PEEING, and came over and told me so that he could finish on the potty. That's progress, right?
And I look at the carpets, which right now are clean and blissfully ignorant of the fate that might soon befall them. The couch, likewise, has no idea of the coming storm.
And then finally, I look at the ticking time bomb: my cherub of a son, happily sipping on milk as he watches The Fantastic Four cartoon, clad only in a pajama shirt and Captain America underwear.
“You can’t pee in this underwear,” I remind him. Again.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because there’s nothing to absorb the pee. It’s not a pull-up. The pee will go everywhere. All over you, all over the carpet, all over the couch…you can’t pee while you wear underwear.”
“Oh," he says, and goes back to watching TV.
I persist. “If you have to pee, you have to tell Mommy, and we’ll go to the potty. And I’ll take you every 20 minutes or so until you go, anyway. But you cannot pee in underwear. You have to use the potty.”
“Oh. I don’t wanna use the potty.”
“But you HAVE to, if you want to be like Captain America and Ironman and Thor. Thor doesn’t wear a pull-up, does he? He uses the potty.”
Eamon shakes his head. “Thor doesn’t use the potty. He flies.”
“Well, yes, he flies, but when he has to pee, he uses the potty.”
Thoughtfully, “Thor doesn’t have to go pee. Ever.”
And I realize with despair: this is true. Never in any superhero cartoon have I seen The Thing or the Black Panther stop mid-battle and announce, “Hold that thought, Dr. Doom, potty-break!” The absence of superhero potty-breaks, just like the absence of carpet cleaner, is tragic.
There are any number of resources about Elmo using the potty. Videos, books, decorative mugs, etc.. But where is the 30 minute special on Spiderman and His Amazing Toilet Adventures? Eamon has gotten to the age where Elmo no longer holds sway, but if only the Human Torch could explain the ins and outs of how little boys use the toilet, Eamon might understand.
I suppose that “experts” would tell me that I shouldn’t be trying to toilet-train a child who emphatically insists that he doesn’t want to use the potty. But just because someone is an “expert” in toilet-training doesn’t make them an expert in Eamon.
Eamon has never felt a sense of urgency about any physical milestone. He has no problem staying at the stage he’s in as long as humanly possible. He rolled over the day before we had a check-up in which the doctor asks if your child can roll over…and if not, you get the “Hmm” and the eyebrow raise. And he didn’t roll over once, but constantly after that.
Then with walking…he liked crawling. Crawling worked for him. He took one step on his birthday, fell flat on his face, and refused to try again. By age 14 months, we were pretty sure he could walk if he wanted, but he didn’t want. My parents finally bribed him with teddy grahams one day, and by the time I came to pick him up, he was running across the room.
I think it might be the same with the toilet. I have a feeling that he’s ready, but he has no interest. And because he’s Eamon, that interest might not come for a long time if he’s not properly motivated. So I’m trying to figure out how to properly motivate him.
First of all, Eamon is not motivated by food. M&Ms don’t do a thing for him. Anything edible is right out.
What he does love is superheroes, so we went out and bought him a ton of superhero underwear. I washed them all last night, and this morning he found them, took them all out of the laundry basket, and surrounded himself lovingly with them. Then he sat on the pile, like a dragon on his precious hoard. I put him in Captain America, but he wanted to wear Ironman. No, Wolverine. No, Thor.
“You can change your underwear…” I said, slyly. “…when you use the potty.”
“Okay,” he said cheerfully. I had brought his Elmo potty downstairs into the den, so he could continue to play and yet not be far from a “toilet.” Eamon yanked off the Captain America underwear, sat on the potty, and immediately peed.
Success! Feeling like a toilet-training genius, I helped him into some Thor underwear, took the potty apart and washed the inner bowl, congratulating myself on my ability to manipulate a three year old.
Two minutes later he announced happily, “Mommy, I gotta pee again. Yup, I do.” He yanked off the Thor underwear, sat down, and peed a small bit more.
We changed him into Wolverine, then I went and washed the potty, wondering if I was losing control of the situation.
Two minutes later, you know what happened. I helped Eamon into some Ironman underwear, and found myself washing the potty yet again. Yes, by this point it was abundantly clear which of us was being manipulated, and it was the person who was washing the potty for the third time in fifteen minutes, not the little person turning in mad circles trying to see the Ironman picture on the back of his own underwear.
And that’s where we are now, an hour and a half into Eamon’s Amazing Potty Adventures. The carpet cleaner has been a non-issue (so far), I still have no idea if this potty-training this is going to work in the long-term, and the only real conclusion anyone can make is that, without a doubt, my three year old has outsmarted me. Again.
Update: Eamon just had his first accident. He came over and announced, "I peed on Ironman, mommy. Yep, I did." But he had only peed a little, so I put him on the potty, where he preceded to pee...and pee, and pee. So even though it was an accident, he realized what he was doing, STOPPED PEEING, and came over and told me so that he could finish on the potty. That's progress, right?
18 December 2011
A Little Peace and Quiet
It happened yesterday on the way to the barbershop.
I was chattering, “You’re going to be a good boy, right? I mean, you’re going to make good choices? Sit still? Don’t cry? Don’t squirm or fidget?”
There was no sound from the backseat. I turned around and saw Eamon staring quietly out the window.
“Because if you’re good we can go to Barnes & Noble and get some Spiderman books.” (Does it count as bribery if you were planning to do it anyway?) “You like books, right? Would you like some Spiderman books? I mean, you can get another superhero if you want, like the X-Men or Captain America or—”
“MOMMY! STOP TALKING!” yelled Eamon suddenly. “You talking too much! I wanna be quiet. YOU be quiet now.”
“Excuse me?” I gasped.
Eamon thought for a minute, and then added, “Please.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. When I was younger, my mother used to ask if I talked just to hear my own voice and tell me I just had to be quiet for awhile because she needed some peace and quiet. Then I had a child, and it was supposed to be MY turn to tell someone they talked too much. I have been anxiously awaiting that moment for almost three years now.
Instead, at his insistence, we drove the rest of the way in silence. He did say "please."
I used the time to reflect that, probably soon, he would also be telling me to clean my room and not stay up all night reading.
(EPILOGUE: He was a good boy, he got the Spiderman books, and later when I was telling Aaron about the incident, Eamon piped up from the back seat, “What you TALKING about, Mommy? You no make sense! You crazy.” Sigh.)
I mean, he LOOKS like the kind of kid who talks a lot, right? And he DOES. Just not as much as his mother, apparently.
I was chattering, “You’re going to be a good boy, right? I mean, you’re going to make good choices? Sit still? Don’t cry? Don’t squirm or fidget?”
There was no sound from the backseat. I turned around and saw Eamon staring quietly out the window.
“Because if you’re good we can go to Barnes & Noble and get some Spiderman books.” (Does it count as bribery if you were planning to do it anyway?) “You like books, right? Would you like some Spiderman books? I mean, you can get another superhero if you want, like the X-Men or Captain America or—”
“MOMMY! STOP TALKING!” yelled Eamon suddenly. “You talking too much! I wanna be quiet. YOU be quiet now.”
“Excuse me?” I gasped.
Eamon thought for a minute, and then added, “Please.”
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. When I was younger, my mother used to ask if I talked just to hear my own voice and tell me I just had to be quiet for awhile because she needed some peace and quiet. Then I had a child, and it was supposed to be MY turn to tell someone they talked too much. I have been anxiously awaiting that moment for almost three years now.
Instead, at his insistence, we drove the rest of the way in silence. He did say "please."
I used the time to reflect that, probably soon, he would also be telling me to clean my room and not stay up all night reading.
(EPILOGUE: He was a good boy, he got the Spiderman books, and later when I was telling Aaron about the incident, Eamon piped up from the back seat, “What you TALKING about, Mommy? You no make sense! You crazy.” Sigh.)
I mean, he LOOKS like the kind of kid who talks a lot, right? And he DOES. Just not as much as his mother, apparently.
11 November 2011
Glimpses
This morning's Facebook status:
The good news is that I took a personal day and get to take E to pre-school this morning. The bad news is that afterwards I get to work on a 20 paper for round 2 of comps. So, yay! And also, ugh.
It's silly, really, that they give me 4 weeks to work on such a paper when I am obviously going to do it over one weekend. This is relevant to this blog post, however, because it means that I am saving every bit of coherency I possess for the paper-writing extravaganza that will begin at 9AM. The blog therefore gets whatever rambling drivel I happen to think about typing while trying to wrestle Eamon into clothes for school.
(Hi, future Eamon! This is my attitude for documenting your childhood! You're welcome!)
*************************
Scene 1
6:15AM: I enter Eamon's bedroom.
"Mommy," he says somberly. "I had a bad dream."
"Oh, dear. What was this one about?"
"Swiper," he says, invoking the name of the wily fox on Dora the Explorer who, well, swipes things. He is the main component of 95% of Eamon's bad dreams.
"Oh, that Swiper. What did he do this time?" I ask.
"He took Daddy's pants."
While the image of a 43-foot long, slavering T-Rex only inspires thoughts of joyful frolicking through a prehistoric funscape, the thought of a small cartoon fox who can easily be defeated by the phrase, "Swiper, no swiping!" is the stuff of soul-crushing nightmares for my 2 year old.
Also...Daddy's pants? Huh? Why?
***************************
Scene 2
4:45AM: I awake to desperate screams of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"
I rush into Eamon's room. "What's wrong?" I gasp, still reeling from the sudden shot of adrenalin coursing through my body.
Eamon sobs, "I lost Zurg. Where Zurg?"
I stare blankly at him. He cannot seriously have woken me up to search for a two inch tall plastic replica of a Toy Story character. I mention as much (or rather, the adrenaline does) then stumble back to bed while he quietly cries himself back to sleep in this now post-Zurg world in which kittens have ceased to gently mew, butterflies refuse to flit softly, and all is dark and only despair can reign from now until the end of our pointless, pathetic existences.
It then takes me about 45 minutes to come down off the adrenaline high and go back to sleep...until 5:30, which is when my alarm goes off. Of course, I ignore it and wake up at 6:15, which means we are now officially Running Late.
I burst back into Eamon's room to wake him up and get the day started. Feeling slightly guilty about my lack of compassion at 4:45, I allot 2 minutes to look for Zurg.
But there is no need. Eamon sits up, smiling, holding the small plastic toy.
"Where did you find that?" I ask.
He laughs. "In my hand. Oops. Silly Eamon." I reflect that one day, this will probably be really funny. But not today.
******************
Scene 3
4:26PM: At Eamon's pre-school conference night, we see another mother. Her daughter is about a year younger than Eamon, so about to turn 2.
The mother confides that every night during their prayers, the little girl always seems really confused.
"I think it's when we say 'Amen,'" Mom explains. "She keeps looking around the room. Finally we realized that she thinks we're saying 'Eamon.'"
I bet she wonders why her parents are so darn obsessed with that little boy from school.
****************************
Scene 4
6:57AM
"Eamon, smile for the camera. I need to post a blog and document your childhood so that one day you we can all look back and remember to laugh about that Zurg incident."
"Eamon! What the heck was that? You look like you're going to be sick. I need a nice smile so we can all look back and think about how nice everything was."
"Eamon! Come on. Please?!"
"Okay, seriously, kiddo..."
"Eamon, come out of the blanket. Please. I promise I'll stop if you just smile once. Just one picture I can use. Please."
"Aw, thank you, darling. And if anyone asks, you did that because you finally saw reason and wanted to help your mother out, and not because I just made barnyard animal noises until you finally started giggling. Okay?"
The good news is that I took a personal day and get to take E to pre-school this morning. The bad news is that afterwards I get to work on a 20 paper for round 2 of comps. So, yay! And also, ugh.
It's silly, really, that they give me 4 weeks to work on such a paper when I am obviously going to do it over one weekend. This is relevant to this blog post, however, because it means that I am saving every bit of coherency I possess for the paper-writing extravaganza that will begin at 9AM. The blog therefore gets whatever rambling drivel I happen to think about typing while trying to wrestle Eamon into clothes for school.
(Hi, future Eamon! This is my attitude for documenting your childhood! You're welcome!)
*************************
Scene 1
6:15AM: I enter Eamon's bedroom.
"Mommy," he says somberly. "I had a bad dream."
"Oh, dear. What was this one about?"
"Swiper," he says, invoking the name of the wily fox on Dora the Explorer who, well, swipes things. He is the main component of 95% of Eamon's bad dreams.
"Oh, that Swiper. What did he do this time?" I ask.
"He took Daddy's pants."
While the image of a 43-foot long, slavering T-Rex only inspires thoughts of joyful frolicking through a prehistoric funscape, the thought of a small cartoon fox who can easily be defeated by the phrase, "Swiper, no swiping!" is the stuff of soul-crushing nightmares for my 2 year old.
Also...Daddy's pants? Huh? Why?
***************************
Scene 2
4:45AM: I awake to desperate screams of "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!"
I rush into Eamon's room. "What's wrong?" I gasp, still reeling from the sudden shot of adrenalin coursing through my body.
Eamon sobs, "I lost Zurg. Where Zurg?"
I stare blankly at him. He cannot seriously have woken me up to search for a two inch tall plastic replica of a Toy Story character. I mention as much (or rather, the adrenaline does) then stumble back to bed while he quietly cries himself back to sleep in this now post-Zurg world in which kittens have ceased to gently mew, butterflies refuse to flit softly, and all is dark and only despair can reign from now until the end of our pointless, pathetic existences.
It then takes me about 45 minutes to come down off the adrenaline high and go back to sleep...until 5:30, which is when my alarm goes off. Of course, I ignore it and wake up at 6:15, which means we are now officially Running Late.
I burst back into Eamon's room to wake him up and get the day started. Feeling slightly guilty about my lack of compassion at 4:45, I allot 2 minutes to look for Zurg.
But there is no need. Eamon sits up, smiling, holding the small plastic toy.
"Where did you find that?" I ask.
He laughs. "In my hand. Oops. Silly Eamon." I reflect that one day, this will probably be really funny. But not today.
******************
Scene 3
4:26PM: At Eamon's pre-school conference night, we see another mother. Her daughter is about a year younger than Eamon, so about to turn 2.
The mother confides that every night during their prayers, the little girl always seems really confused.
"I think it's when we say 'Amen,'" Mom explains. "She keeps looking around the room. Finally we realized that she thinks we're saying 'Eamon.'"
I bet she wonders why her parents are so darn obsessed with that little boy from school.
****************************
Scene 4
6:57AM
"Eamon, smile for the camera. I need to post a blog and document your childhood so that one day you we can all look back and remember to laugh about that Zurg incident."
"Eamon! What the heck was that? You look like you're going to be sick. I need a nice smile so we can all look back and think about how nice everything was."
"Eamon! Come on. Please?!"
"Okay, seriously, kiddo..."
"Eamon, come out of the blanket. Please. I promise I'll stop if you just smile once. Just one picture I can use. Please."
"Aw, thank you, darling. And if anyone asks, you did that because you finally saw reason and wanted to help your mother out, and not because I just made barnyard animal noises until you finally started giggling. Okay?"
07 November 2011
Today was...a day.
I spent most of Friday in the doctor's office or at Lab Corp, therefore today started by waking up early so I could go to work early so I could catch up.
I waited all day for a phone call from said doctor...which never came.
I was involved in a miscommunication at work, and even though it wasn't my fault, I spent the rest of the afternoon obsessing over how I should have done X or Y to avoid it.
My shoes, which matched my outfit fine in my home mirror, suddenly looked terrible once I got to work.
One of the lights in my office blew out, swathing the entire room in semi-dark dreariness.
It was a day.
And then...finally...at 4:45, I walked into my parents' house and he ran to me, screaming "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" I picked him up and held him as he and clutched his arms around my neck. We just stood there, clinging to one another for several minutes.
"I missed you," I whispered.
"I missed you, too, Mommy," he whispered back.
On the car ride home, we sang the alphabet song. He told me words that start with the letters A, B, C, D, and E. We discussed how funny dogs can be when they lick your face.
We came home, and he put away my shoes, which once again looked just fine now that I was home. We sat together on the couch. He cuddled up against me and we played Super Why together on the iPad, finding letters and singing the AlphaPig version of the alphabet song.
Yes, it was a day. A great one.
I spent most of Friday in the doctor's office or at Lab Corp, therefore today started by waking up early so I could go to work early so I could catch up.
I waited all day for a phone call from said doctor...which never came.
I was involved in a miscommunication at work, and even though it wasn't my fault, I spent the rest of the afternoon obsessing over how I should have done X or Y to avoid it.
My shoes, which matched my outfit fine in my home mirror, suddenly looked terrible once I got to work.
One of the lights in my office blew out, swathing the entire room in semi-dark dreariness.
It was a day.
And then...finally...at 4:45, I walked into my parents' house and he ran to me, screaming "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" I picked him up and held him as he and clutched his arms around my neck. We just stood there, clinging to one another for several minutes.
"I missed you," I whispered.
"I missed you, too, Mommy," he whispered back.
On the car ride home, we sang the alphabet song. He told me words that start with the letters A, B, C, D, and E. We discussed how funny dogs can be when they lick your face.
We came home, and he put away my shoes, which once again looked just fine now that I was home. We sat together on the couch. He cuddled up against me and we played Super Why together on the iPad, finding letters and singing the AlphaPig version of the alphabet song.
Yes, it was a day. A great one.
31 October 2011
Happy Hawoween!
Highlights from our Halloween:
1. Lesson learned: Do not listen when your 2 year old child says he doesn't want to go trick-or-treating. He doesn't know. Force him kicking and screaming into his costume (the costume that, of course, he asked to wear EVERY.SINGLE.DAY since buying it three weeks ago, and suddenly decided he completely hates on October 31). Take him out. Show him how to knock on the first door. Watch his shocked face afterwards, and try not to laugh when he announces, "Mommy! He gave me CANDY. I need more CANDY. Let's go more houses NOW."
2. Eamon is an X-Men fan. Actually, he doesn't even care that much about the cartoon; he really just likes the credits. So when it came time to pick his costume, he chose Wolverine over Woody, Buzz, and Spiderman. I figured, though, that because it was a store-bought costume, everyone would have one. In fact, when we bought the costume, there was another little boy in the dressing room next to us, buying the exact same costume. I worried that maybe it was the costume of the season, but whatever. Eamon picked it out. I wasn't going to bring my neuroses into it.
But then I started to worry--maybe no one would have one, because it's the classic yellow-and-blue-spandex Wolverine from the cartoon, not the cooler black suit from the movie. Who would know that costume? Maybe it was too obscure.
Yeah, I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, and more wrong. I could probably learn something from my 2 year old, who just likes Wolverine and didn't stress about his costume one iota. As we walked along, rarely did we pass by a boy between the ages of 7 and 12 who didn't call out, "Hey, Wolverine! Awesome costume." I lost count of the number of times Eamon had to give high fives as he was congratulated on his costume taste. He seemed a bit bewildered by it all, actually.
And no, we did not see another Wolverine. Not even once.
3. After the candy-getting time, we went back to our house around 7. On the way back, I said, "Well, Eamon, we went trick-or-treating. We did it!"
He then launched into the Dora song, making up his own verse: "We knocked on the doors, and we said trick-or-treat, and we did it!" He then grooved a little just for good measure.
4. Back at the house, Eamon was just as enthralled with the giving of candy as the getting. We sat outside on folding chairs, and Eamon stayed in his Wolverine costume, garnering more high fives and swooning women (best mom quote: "Honey, his six pack is better than yours!") Our neighborhood is big into trick-or-treating, and we live near the front of the neighborhood, so we had a steady stream (often a flood) of trick-or-treaters.
Eamon loved giving out candy so much that during one of the rare lulls, he suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs, "HEY, PEOPLE! I GOT CANDY! EVERYBODY COME HERE!"
Yeah, Halloween was good. I already can't wait for 2012. I think I'll let Eamon pick out my costume.
1. Lesson learned: Do not listen when your 2 year old child says he doesn't want to go trick-or-treating. He doesn't know. Force him kicking and screaming into his costume (the costume that, of course, he asked to wear EVERY.SINGLE.DAY since buying it three weeks ago, and suddenly decided he completely hates on October 31). Take him out. Show him how to knock on the first door. Watch his shocked face afterwards, and try not to laugh when he announces, "Mommy! He gave me CANDY. I need more CANDY. Let's go more houses NOW."
2. Eamon is an X-Men fan. Actually, he doesn't even care that much about the cartoon; he really just likes the credits. So when it came time to pick his costume, he chose Wolverine over Woody, Buzz, and Spiderman. I figured, though, that because it was a store-bought costume, everyone would have one. In fact, when we bought the costume, there was another little boy in the dressing room next to us, buying the exact same costume. I worried that maybe it was the costume of the season, but whatever. Eamon picked it out. I wasn't going to bring my neuroses into it.
But then I started to worry--maybe no one would have one, because it's the classic yellow-and-blue-spandex Wolverine from the cartoon, not the cooler black suit from the movie. Who would know that costume? Maybe it was too obscure.
Yeah, I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, and more wrong. I could probably learn something from my 2 year old, who just likes Wolverine and didn't stress about his costume one iota. As we walked along, rarely did we pass by a boy between the ages of 7 and 12 who didn't call out, "Hey, Wolverine! Awesome costume." I lost count of the number of times Eamon had to give high fives as he was congratulated on his costume taste. He seemed a bit bewildered by it all, actually.
And no, we did not see another Wolverine. Not even once.
3. After the candy-getting time, we went back to our house around 7. On the way back, I said, "Well, Eamon, we went trick-or-treating. We did it!"
He then launched into the Dora song, making up his own verse: "We knocked on the doors, and we said trick-or-treat, and we did it!" He then grooved a little just for good measure.
4. Back at the house, Eamon was just as enthralled with the giving of candy as the getting. We sat outside on folding chairs, and Eamon stayed in his Wolverine costume, garnering more high fives and swooning women (best mom quote: "Honey, his six pack is better than yours!") Our neighborhood is big into trick-or-treating, and we live near the front of the neighborhood, so we had a steady stream (often a flood) of trick-or-treaters.
Eamon loved giving out candy so much that during one of the rare lulls, he suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs, "HEY, PEOPLE! I GOT CANDY! EVERYBODY COME HERE!"
Yeah, Halloween was good. I already can't wait for 2012. I think I'll let Eamon pick out my costume.
02 October 2011
Oh
I wrote this post well over a week ago. In fact, I've written several posts that I've never gotten around to posting because...I don't know. I guess because we've been sick, and I've been dragging myself around the house in the evenings, counting down the hours until I can go to bed and/or die a quiet death, and somehow, managing to take pictures, upload them, put them in the blog I've written, and press Publish Post...it's all too much.
(I have this self-imposed rule that all entries must have accompanying pictures, because I have a feeling that several people who "read" this really just scroll through for the pictures and I really hate disappointing hypothetical people.)
So some nights, I have energy to take pictures, but I can't find the camera. Then another night, I find the camera and take the pictures, but we have a new desktop and no one has loaded the photo editing software on it and HEAVEN FORBID I should post an un-strategically cropped photo and let you all see the coolers that have been sitting out in our backyard for weeks now because...I don't know. Because no one has taken them inside, I guess.
Then I finally convince myself that I'll be less judged for the cooler than for not posting, so I decide to just post the pictures as is...and I can't find the camera. And by that point, everything hurts and my head is stuffed up and I just tell Aaron it's his turn to put Eamon to bed and I collapse in a Nyquil-induced stupor for what seems like 5 seconds before the alarm goes off and I have to get up and get ready for work.
Anyway. Here's a post.
With a picture.
Just ignore the coolers in the background, okay?
*************************************************************************
When the plaintive yell of “Mommy! Mommy!” comes the first time, I don’t have to sit bolt upright because the three pillows I’m sleeping on already have me at about 75 degree incline.
10:00 p.m.
I wait. I cough for good measure. Then I hear heavy footsteps traversing the stairs. Barely awake, I think, ah good, Aaron has this, and I slip back into unconsciousness.
“Mommy! Mommy!” comes another wail.
11:00 p.m.
Ugh. Wait. Cough. Footsteps. Sleep.
12:30 a.m.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Wait. Cough. Blow nose. Wait. Hmm. No footsteps. Aaron has probably fallen asleep on the couch again watching old Spiderman cartoon re-runs.
I drag myself into Eamon’s room. “What?”
And then I hear it. The rattling breath. The stuffy nose. The bleary eyes that match mine.
“Oh,” I say. He coughs. I cough. Too tired and sick to be firm, I jerk my thumb back towards my room and mutter, “Come on.”
He grabs his blanket and Lion and toddles after me.
We take turns through the night drifting into sleep only to be awoken an hour later with violent gasps and coughs. He continues to whimper “Mommy, Mommy” in his sleep. I pat him sympathetically and try to cough as quietly as possible. He tosses and turns, trying to find a position where his nose will draw in air easily, and I keep trying to recover him with the blanket.
It is a long night full of half-conscious dreams.
In the morning, my mom texts. I tell her that we are sick. Again. I don’t write this, but I imply that we’ve been sick a lot lately, and I’m getting tired of it, and I don’t understand why it keeps happening.
“Welcome to pre-school,” she texts back. And she doesn’t write it, but she implies that this…is only the beginning.
Hi, Mommy. Please note that in the morning, I will be wide awake and full of energy like nothing ever happened, whereas your co-workers will start to secretly place bets on whether your sunken eyes and pale skin mean that you are a 19th century heroine dying of consumption or a vampire.
(I have this self-imposed rule that all entries must have accompanying pictures, because I have a feeling that several people who "read" this really just scroll through for the pictures and I really hate disappointing hypothetical people.)
So some nights, I have energy to take pictures, but I can't find the camera. Then another night, I find the camera and take the pictures, but we have a new desktop and no one has loaded the photo editing software on it and HEAVEN FORBID I should post an un-strategically cropped photo and let you all see the coolers that have been sitting out in our backyard for weeks now because...I don't know. Because no one has taken them inside, I guess.
Then I finally convince myself that I'll be less judged for the cooler than for not posting, so I decide to just post the pictures as is...and I can't find the camera. And by that point, everything hurts and my head is stuffed up and I just tell Aaron it's his turn to put Eamon to bed and I collapse in a Nyquil-induced stupor for what seems like 5 seconds before the alarm goes off and I have to get up and get ready for work.
Anyway. Here's a post.
With a picture.
Just ignore the coolers in the background, okay?
*************************************************************************
When the plaintive yell of “Mommy! Mommy!” comes the first time, I don’t have to sit bolt upright because the three pillows I’m sleeping on already have me at about 75 degree incline.
10:00 p.m.
I wait. I cough for good measure. Then I hear heavy footsteps traversing the stairs. Barely awake, I think, ah good, Aaron has this, and I slip back into unconsciousness.
“Mommy! Mommy!” comes another wail.
11:00 p.m.
Ugh. Wait. Cough. Footsteps. Sleep.
12:30 a.m.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Wait. Cough. Blow nose. Wait. Hmm. No footsteps. Aaron has probably fallen asleep on the couch again watching old Spiderman cartoon re-runs.
I drag myself into Eamon’s room. “What?”
And then I hear it. The rattling breath. The stuffy nose. The bleary eyes that match mine.
“Oh,” I say. He coughs. I cough. Too tired and sick to be firm, I jerk my thumb back towards my room and mutter, “Come on.”
He grabs his blanket and Lion and toddles after me.
We take turns through the night drifting into sleep only to be awoken an hour later with violent gasps and coughs. He continues to whimper “Mommy, Mommy” in his sleep. I pat him sympathetically and try to cough as quietly as possible. He tosses and turns, trying to find a position where his nose will draw in air easily, and I keep trying to recover him with the blanket.
It is a long night full of half-conscious dreams.
In the morning, my mom texts. I tell her that we are sick. Again. I don’t write this, but I imply that we’ve been sick a lot lately, and I’m getting tired of it, and I don’t understand why it keeps happening.
“Welcome to pre-school,” she texts back. And she doesn’t write it, but she implies that this…is only the beginning.
Hi, Mommy. Please note that in the morning, I will be wide awake and full of energy like nothing ever happened, whereas your co-workers will start to secretly place bets on whether your sunken eyes and pale skin mean that you are a 19th century heroine dying of consumption or a vampire.
17 September 2011
I Think We'll Give Scripps a Miss This Year
Aaron read the previous day’s post and liked it, but said that I also needed to post another story from the same day. (What can I say? Eamon was just “on” yesterday.)
If you’ve never had the pleasure of watching the PBS show Super Why, I can tell you that’s it just as repetitive as Dora, but better in my opinion because it’s all focused on the alphabet and reading. They mostly use lower case letters, so Eamon now knows all his uppercase and lowercase letters.
Because the show is so repetitious in form, Eamon feels comfortable “playing along.” When they ask him to say his name, he does. When they ask him to read the next letter, he can. He points to the “a” when they ask him to, and shouts out the letters in the words.
But most importantly, it’s teaching him that WORDS are made of LETTERS. Letters make sounds, and sounds make words. This is a huge concept, and I know that he’s getting it because of this incident yesterday:
From the backseat of the car, Eamon suddenly shouted, “MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!”
“Yes, Eamon?” I wasn’t worried. He’s terribly dramatic, and will often shout like that just to let me know he’s seen a school bus or a stop sign.
“I can spell, Mommy!”
Well, that's something new, I thought. I didn't even know that he knew the word "spell."
And then, Eamon began. “B.”
I thought to myself, it sounds like he's actually going to do it. He's actually going to spell a word. Maybe he’s going to spell “bed.” Or “bath.” Or “bat.”
Eamon continued, “R.”
Uh, okay. Maybe “brain” or “branch?”
“E.”
Okaaay… “bread?” Did we watch an episode about bread?
And last, “D.”
Wait, what?
He then announced triumphantly, “B-R-E-D spells ‘Presto!’”
Okay, so I guess we need to watch a few more episodes.
If you’ve never had the pleasure of watching the PBS show Super Why, I can tell you that’s it just as repetitive as Dora, but better in my opinion because it’s all focused on the alphabet and reading. They mostly use lower case letters, so Eamon now knows all his uppercase and lowercase letters.
Because the show is so repetitious in form, Eamon feels comfortable “playing along.” When they ask him to say his name, he does. When they ask him to read the next letter, he can. He points to the “a” when they ask him to, and shouts out the letters in the words.
But most importantly, it’s teaching him that WORDS are made of LETTERS. Letters make sounds, and sounds make words. This is a huge concept, and I know that he’s getting it because of this incident yesterday:
From the backseat of the car, Eamon suddenly shouted, “MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!”
“Yes, Eamon?” I wasn’t worried. He’s terribly dramatic, and will often shout like that just to let me know he’s seen a school bus or a stop sign.
“I can spell, Mommy!”
Well, that's something new, I thought. I didn't even know that he knew the word "spell."
And then, Eamon began. “B.”
I thought to myself, it sounds like he's actually going to do it. He's actually going to spell a word. Maybe he’s going to spell “bed.” Or “bath.” Or “bat.”
Eamon continued, “R.”
Uh, okay. Maybe “brain” or “branch?”
“E.”
Okaaay… “bread?” Did we watch an episode about bread?
And last, “D.”
Wait, what?
He then announced triumphantly, “B-R-E-D spells ‘Presto!’”
Okay, so I guess we need to watch a few more episodes.
16 September 2011
I Think from Now On We'll Just Call it a Yoo Hoo
I debated whether I should put this story on the blog, but my mother made me promise that I would. Here’s my warning: this story acknowledges that my son, Eamon Wolfe, is indeed a boy with all the requisite boy parts. There is nothing graphic, but if you find yourself easily offended by medical terminology, you might want to skip this entry.
***************************************************************************
Eamon is two years old. He’s talking more and more, and wanting to know what everything is called. I’m the daughter of a nurse practitioner, so we have a rule in our house that we use the correct names for all body parts. I always thought this was a mature and responsible parenting choice, and never regretted it. Until today.
Another thing about having a two year old is that Eamon desperately wants to be independent. He’s a Big Boy, and as such he thinks that he deserves all the privileges afforded to Big Boys, like the right to eat only Frosted Mini-Wheat cereal for days on end, drive the car, or at least not have to constantly hold my hand in public places.
It’s the last privilege that often becomes a struggle. Eamon does not WANT to hold my hand. But he also doesn’t often want to stay where I can see him.
Today we got into our age-old argument in Subway.
It started innocently enough. Eamon walked in holding my hand, sweet and amiable as could be. But the man in front of us was ordering 3 subs…and apparently had never heard of the various meats, cheeses, and vegetables before because he had to have everything explained to him.
Eamon got bored.
Then he spotted it.
A Lion King poster.
He desperately wanted to go see that Lion King poster, across the restaurant, by the door, where I couldn’t keep an eye on him while also ordering my sub. He pulled away from me and started to run to the poster.
I told him to come back. Reluctantly, he did so.
But in protest, he then lay down on the floor and refused to move as the line moved up.
I hissed at him to get up.
He ignored me.
So I played the I'm Bigger and Stronger Than You card, and picked him up so that he was sitting on my hip. Even though he struggled, I held onto him and explained quietly to him that he made a bad choice so now he had to put up with the consequence. But he’s a big kid, and the more he struggled, the tighter I held him to keep from dropping him.
“Wanna get DOWN!” he protested.
“No,” I hissed again, repeating my mantra about choices and consequences, holding him tighter.
And that’s when he played a card I quite frankly never expected, and no parenting book or blog had prepared me for it.
“OW!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “MY PENIS! MY PENIS HURTS! MOMMY, YOU HURT MY PENIS!”
Everyone in the restaurant stared at us.
I put him down immediately.
We paid and walked quickly out the restaurant, one of us far more mortified than the other.
But he held my hand and walked nicely the rest of the time.
So I guess we both learned a very important lesson.
We'll call this one a draw.
***************************************************************************
Eamon is two years old. He’s talking more and more, and wanting to know what everything is called. I’m the daughter of a nurse practitioner, so we have a rule in our house that we use the correct names for all body parts. I always thought this was a mature and responsible parenting choice, and never regretted it. Until today.
Another thing about having a two year old is that Eamon desperately wants to be independent. He’s a Big Boy, and as such he thinks that he deserves all the privileges afforded to Big Boys, like the right to eat only Frosted Mini-Wheat cereal for days on end, drive the car, or at least not have to constantly hold my hand in public places.
It’s the last privilege that often becomes a struggle. Eamon does not WANT to hold my hand. But he also doesn’t often want to stay where I can see him.
Today we got into our age-old argument in Subway.
It started innocently enough. Eamon walked in holding my hand, sweet and amiable as could be. But the man in front of us was ordering 3 subs…and apparently had never heard of the various meats, cheeses, and vegetables before because he had to have everything explained to him.
Eamon got bored.
Then he spotted it.
A Lion King poster.
He desperately wanted to go see that Lion King poster, across the restaurant, by the door, where I couldn’t keep an eye on him while also ordering my sub. He pulled away from me and started to run to the poster.
I told him to come back. Reluctantly, he did so.
But in protest, he then lay down on the floor and refused to move as the line moved up.
I hissed at him to get up.
He ignored me.
So I played the I'm Bigger and Stronger Than You card, and picked him up so that he was sitting on my hip. Even though he struggled, I held onto him and explained quietly to him that he made a bad choice so now he had to put up with the consequence. But he’s a big kid, and the more he struggled, the tighter I held him to keep from dropping him.
“Wanna get DOWN!” he protested.
“No,” I hissed again, repeating my mantra about choices and consequences, holding him tighter.
And that’s when he played a card I quite frankly never expected, and no parenting book or blog had prepared me for it.
“OW!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “MY PENIS! MY PENIS HURTS! MOMMY, YOU HURT MY PENIS!”
Everyone in the restaurant stared at us.
I put him down immediately.
We paid and walked quickly out the restaurant, one of us far more mortified than the other.
But he held my hand and walked nicely the rest of the time.
So I guess we both learned a very important lesson.
We'll call this one a draw.
03 September 2011
Sometimes I Think We Are Secretly Playing Mad Libs and He Forgot to Tell Me
Outside the car, the sun twinkled its merry smile in the sky. Inside the car, however, a mystery began its churning rumble.
“How was school today?” I asked, still beguiled by the bright rays of the celestial golden orb and oblivious to the fate about to befall me.
“School’s fun!” shouted Eamon from the backseat.
The first answer giving me confidence, I immediately, and unknowingly, fell into the trap. “What did you do in school?” I asked.
“I pway with giraffe! I pway with elephant!” came the sing-song chorus.
“What ELSE did you do?” I continue to probe.
“No pway with giraffe! Sarah* pway! Eamon wait! Hmph!”
“Oh, Sarah wanted to play with the giraffe, too? You had to wait your turn?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Did you wait nicely?”
“Eamon, sit down!”
“But you are sitting down, sweetie…oh wait, you mean someone told you to sit down?”
Silence.
“Or that you were a good boy who sat down when he was supposed to?”
“The boy…the boy…the boy, Mommy.”
“What boy, Eamon?”
“The boy…he…tickled…me! Eamon!” (Another mystery to be solved: why Eamon feels the need to clarify his pronouns, in case I was unsure who he is referring to when he says “me”).
“A boy tickled you?”
“No tickling!”
“You told him no tickling?”
“Nooooooo…” he announces with a devilish smile.
“Miss Lauren told him no tickling?”
“Mmm hmm. No tickle, Eamon!”
“You mean she told YOU no tickling? Did you tickle the boy?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“You tickled each other?”
“Owie, Mommy! Owie!”
“You got an owie?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Were you inside or outside?”
“Yes.”
“Well, which one?”
Suddenly silence draws a veil over his expression. “Shh, mommy. People working.”
“There are people working?”
“Uh huh.”
“You mean when Miss Lauren took you on a tour of the school, you had to be quiet because people were working?” I feel a bit proud, because finally, THIS strange fragment of a memory I understand thanks to an earlier mass email from Miss Lauren.
“Mmm hmm. Cwackers, mommy! Eamon eat cwackers!”
“Oh, I bet that was yummy. Did you eat anything else?”
“No, Mommy. Cwying! No cwying! Be okay…”
“You cried? Why would you have cried when you haven’t cried all week?”
“No Eamon cwy. Mark cry. Be okay, Mark. No cry.”
“Oh, Mark cried again?” (Every day I hear about poor Mark crying).
“Mmm hmm.”
“Did you tell him it would be okay?”
“Giraffe, mommy! Eamon pway giraffe!”
And that is how our wrap-ups about school go every day. I sift through these strange, half-remembered fragments and out-of-context phrases, desperately trying to piece together what the heck Eamon did for 3 and a half hours besides play with a giraffe (he seems most sure about that particular piece of information. He definitely plays with the giraffe every day. He and the giraffe are tight).
And Aaron has told me that I need to CHILL on grilling his poor teacher (not in a mean way! just in an interested, what the heck do you DO with 11 toddlers all morning because I can barely handle the 1 toddler I have! kind of way). So I am trying to be content with the assistant, Miss Savannah's, brief reports to my mother each day when she picks him up, which are always, "Eamon had a great day! He's such a good boy!"
Well, only a month until parent-teacher conferences.
*All names have been changed to protect kids whose parents probably aren't as obsessed with documenting every moment of their children's lives on the internet.
AND NOW FOR SOME COMPLETELY UNRELATED PICTURES...
Hellllllllo, Ladies.
What? Oh, this is just me...on my stump. You know. Some people might think it's hard to get up on a stump all by themselves, but I don't know, I've just always found it really easy. I guess you could just call me...naturally talented.
Yeah, I'm pretty modest, too.
And this is me, just kickin' back with muh dog and muh football. I like to do athletic things in my spare time, and I enjoy being kind to other creatures. Some people might say I'm quite a...catch. Get it?
Why, yes, people have told me before that I am super suave. How kind of you to notice. I don't suppose you'd be interested in playing with some small plastic dinosaurs sometime, would you? Or maybe a giraffe?
Excellent.
“How was school today?” I asked, still beguiled by the bright rays of the celestial golden orb and oblivious to the fate about to befall me.
“School’s fun!” shouted Eamon from the backseat.
The first answer giving me confidence, I immediately, and unknowingly, fell into the trap. “What did you do in school?” I asked.
“I pway with giraffe! I pway with elephant!” came the sing-song chorus.
“What ELSE did you do?” I continue to probe.
“No pway with giraffe! Sarah* pway! Eamon wait! Hmph!”
“Oh, Sarah wanted to play with the giraffe, too? You had to wait your turn?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Did you wait nicely?”
“Eamon, sit down!”
“But you are sitting down, sweetie…oh wait, you mean someone told you to sit down?”
Silence.
“Or that you were a good boy who sat down when he was supposed to?”
“The boy…the boy…the boy, Mommy.”
“What boy, Eamon?”
“The boy…he…tickled…me! Eamon!” (Another mystery to be solved: why Eamon feels the need to clarify his pronouns, in case I was unsure who he is referring to when he says “me”).
“A boy tickled you?”
“No tickling!”
“You told him no tickling?”
“Nooooooo…” he announces with a devilish smile.
“Miss Lauren told him no tickling?”
“Mmm hmm. No tickle, Eamon!”
“You mean she told YOU no tickling? Did you tickle the boy?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“You tickled each other?”
“Owie, Mommy! Owie!”
“You got an owie?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Were you inside or outside?”
“Yes.”
“Well, which one?”
Suddenly silence draws a veil over his expression. “Shh, mommy. People working.”
“There are people working?”
“Uh huh.”
“You mean when Miss Lauren took you on a tour of the school, you had to be quiet because people were working?” I feel a bit proud, because finally, THIS strange fragment of a memory I understand thanks to an earlier mass email from Miss Lauren.
“Mmm hmm. Cwackers, mommy! Eamon eat cwackers!”
“Oh, I bet that was yummy. Did you eat anything else?”
“No, Mommy. Cwying! No cwying! Be okay…”
“You cried? Why would you have cried when you haven’t cried all week?”
“No Eamon cwy. Mark cry. Be okay, Mark. No cry.”
“Oh, Mark cried again?” (Every day I hear about poor Mark crying).
“Mmm hmm.”
“Did you tell him it would be okay?”
“Giraffe, mommy! Eamon pway giraffe!”
And that is how our wrap-ups about school go every day. I sift through these strange, half-remembered fragments and out-of-context phrases, desperately trying to piece together what the heck Eamon did for 3 and a half hours besides play with a giraffe (he seems most sure about that particular piece of information. He definitely plays with the giraffe every day. He and the giraffe are tight).
And Aaron has told me that I need to CHILL on grilling his poor teacher (not in a mean way! just in an interested, what the heck do you DO with 11 toddlers all morning because I can barely handle the 1 toddler I have! kind of way). So I am trying to be content with the assistant, Miss Savannah's, brief reports to my mother each day when she picks him up, which are always, "Eamon had a great day! He's such a good boy!"
Well, only a month until parent-teacher conferences.
*All names have been changed to protect kids whose parents probably aren't as obsessed with documenting every moment of their children's lives on the internet.
AND NOW FOR SOME COMPLETELY UNRELATED PICTURES...
Hellllllllo, Ladies.
What? Oh, this is just me...on my stump. You know. Some people might think it's hard to get up on a stump all by themselves, but I don't know, I've just always found it really easy. I guess you could just call me...naturally talented.
Yeah, I'm pretty modest, too.
And this is me, just kickin' back with muh dog and muh football. I like to do athletic things in my spare time, and I enjoy being kind to other creatures. Some people might say I'm quite a...catch. Get it?
Why, yes, people have told me before that I am super suave. How kind of you to notice. I don't suppose you'd be interested in playing with some small plastic dinosaurs sometime, would you? Or maybe a giraffe?
Excellent.
30 August 2011
The First Day
So...this Hurricane Irene thing happened. It took out some trees and generally wreaked havoc, though it was nothing like Isabelle a few years ago. At our house, it only knocked out the power for about 30 hours, and destroyed some branches. The worst was Hurricane Eamon, who unfortunately ingested apple and spent the majority of those 30 hours ridding it from his system in the most expedient, but messy, ways possible. We went through a lot of diapers, to say the least.
BUT. It was nowhere near as important as what happened today.
Because today, Eamon Wolfe went to school.
That's right. Today was the first day of many, many years of academia to come. Heck, I'm 31 years old and still trying to finish my doctorate, and already looking at programs for instructional technology, or maybe Spanish, or possibly curriculum with an emphasis on teaching mathematics when I finish (Shh. No one tell Aaron this. He might divorce me.)
We decided awhile ago that we wanted to get Eamon into a Montessori school. Aaron and I are huge fans of their child-centered approach and focus on individualized education, critical thinking, and inquiry. Luckily, just when we were considering putting Eamon in some sort of daycare/pre-school, the Hampton Roads International Montessori School about 8 miles from here started a Toddler Program (I'm not saying that they started it just for Eamon. I'm just saying that it's an awfully big coincidence).
Yesterday, Eamon went to meet his teacher, Miss Lauren, and her assistant, Miss Savannah. They are both young and pretty, so predictably, Eamon fell in love with each. He's out an out-going little bugger, so we weren't too worried...but then again, he has never separated from family for long period of time. So Tuesday was met with some anxiety. Of course, it was all mine.
The Montessori school has a rule that you drop students off promptly, then just...leave. When you pick them up, you sit in your vehicle and they bring the child to you. Which is great...if you have a kid who can accurately verbalize what went on between pick-up/drop-off. Toddlers, as it happens, do not particularly excel at this skill.
My mom dropped off Eamon. She said that he looked ambivalent about the prospect: excited to see his new soul mates, Miss Lauren and Miss Savannah, but wary because another little boy was crying so loud you could hear him from the front of the school. My mom tried to follow the rules, so she gave Eamon a quick goodbye kiss and walked briskly away once Eamon had taken Miss Lauren's hand and walked off to look at some toy animals.
I picked Eamon up at 11:45. He ran out the door holding the hand of another assistant. She was not the assistant from his class, so I couldn't even ask her how his day went. He was smiling and shrieking, "My mommy! That's my mommy!" and pointing excitedly to our car. He almost jumped into the car.
Tentatively, I asked, "Eamon, how did it go?"
"I pway with animals, Mommy! I ate crackers! School's fun!"
I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I suddenly breathed out.
(But do you see what I mean? I kept trying to ask him about other parts of the day, but he just kept repeating about the crackers and the animals. If I didn't know better, I would think that school was just a big zoo that sold Saltines at their concession stands. When I asked him if he cried, he said proudly, "I stopped crying." Because he's no Shakespeare when it comes to the English language, though, I had no idea whether he understood that to "stop crying" one must first "start crying;" therefore, I had no idea whether he cried or not.)
Later that day, after she finished with the kids who don't have grandparents to watch them for the rest of the day, Miss Lauren dutifully called Eamon's over-anxious, borderline crazy mother as I made her promise the day before.
"He did great," she said. "He helped cut the strawberries for snack. He played nicely with the other kids. He played with the animals and had a great time."
"Did he cry?" I asked.
"Nope, not a bit."
So, there you go. First day, over. I've promised Aaron that I'll be a little less crazy now that I know that his adjustment period...well, there was no adjustment period. Eamon loves school.
Wait...where are we going?
School, huh? Hmm.
And you're saying that even though there will be two pretty young ladies there, I have to share them...with other kids?
Eh, all right.
School, huh? Hmm.
And you're saying that even though there will be two pretty young ladies there, I have to share them...with other kids?
Eh, all right.
On my way to SCHOOOOOOOL!
Wait, what do you mean I can't bring my plastic dinosaurs?!
Oh well. I'll just play with them in here.
Oh well. I'll just play with them in here.
All right, let's do this. Let's go to school.
18 August 2011
Toys Story
At some point, Eamon came to the realization that there a finite number of small, plastic dinosaur sets available in his own personal Nirvana (Toys R Us), and he owned just about all of them.
At first, trying to convince everyone that he needed MUTLIPLE sets of each amused him…but really, how many squishy ankylosaurs can one person have before the novelty just wears off?
In an awesome feat of deduction, Eamon came to a startling and life-altering conclusion: the more interests you have, the more merchandise is available.
And thus ended the reign of the dinosaur in the Wolfe household.
Don’t get me wrong. He still LOOOOOVES dinosaurs. He would still rather wear dinosaur t-shirts and sleep on his dinosaur sheets and look at his dinosaur flashcards (who needs stinkin’ phonics when you can memorize 40 different DINOSAUR SPECIES?).
But when it comes to toys and tv, his interests are starting to diversify.
So up there, next to dinosaurs on the pantheon of I AM TWO AND THIS IS COOL, comes Toy Story. He specifically loves “Toy Story Number 2” for reasons I cannot actually determine (I like to think that it’s because of the Star Wars references; even though he has never seen and has no knowledge of Star Wars, I really want to believe that it’s just in his DNA to love anything related to it). He wants to sleep with his Woody doll and his new favorite phrase, which he will utter at absolute random moments, is “Go Infinity and Beyond!” (I know he has the words wrong. Again, I am inferencing here, but I suspect that the sentence fragment “to infinity and beyond” simply offended his burgeoning grammatical sensibilities).
Just below those two things are the X-Men. Eamon suddenly LOVES the X-Men, specifically the cartoon. Although, he doesn’t really seem to care about the plotlines as much as watching the opening credits and getting to name all the characters, which yes, he has memorized right along with his dinosaur flash cards.
My child still doesn’t understand exactly how he goes pee, but he can tell an iguanodon from a velociraptor and Gambit from Wolverine.
(Favorite moment from the last few days:
I show Eamon a flashcard at his request. “Eamon, can you say pachycephalosaurus?” I ask him.
Eamon blinks several times, stares at me, then finally says simply, “No.”
“Fair enough. Here’s a picture of T-Rex.”)
Eamon is also branching out into traditional 2 year old obsessions. He’s decided that he mildly likes Dora, or at least enjoys her admonishment of Swiper and his nefarious Swiping.
He also likes some Curious George, which I find delightful because in my opinion, Eamon looks just like Curious George: round, big head atop a thin, long-limbed body. They even have the same brown eyes and brown hair. Moreover, they both chatter constantly and are well-intentioned but into everything. In fact...they are so alike, it occurs to me...I have never seen Eamon AND Curious George in the same room together. Have you? COINCIDENCE?
Anyway.
The upshot of all of this is that we have plenty of options for Halloween costumes this year.
And plenty of new toys to trip over.
And if it means I get to watch less Land Before Time, well, that’s just awesome. Bring on the Dora.
At first, trying to convince everyone that he needed MUTLIPLE sets of each amused him…but really, how many squishy ankylosaurs can one person have before the novelty just wears off?
In an awesome feat of deduction, Eamon came to a startling and life-altering conclusion: the more interests you have, the more merchandise is available.
And thus ended the reign of the dinosaur in the Wolfe household.
Don’t get me wrong. He still LOOOOOVES dinosaurs. He would still rather wear dinosaur t-shirts and sleep on his dinosaur sheets and look at his dinosaur flashcards (who needs stinkin’ phonics when you can memorize 40 different DINOSAUR SPECIES?).
But when it comes to toys and tv, his interests are starting to diversify.
So up there, next to dinosaurs on the pantheon of I AM TWO AND THIS IS COOL, comes Toy Story. He specifically loves “Toy Story Number 2” for reasons I cannot actually determine (I like to think that it’s because of the Star Wars references; even though he has never seen and has no knowledge of Star Wars, I really want to believe that it’s just in his DNA to love anything related to it). He wants to sleep with his Woody doll and his new favorite phrase, which he will utter at absolute random moments, is “Go Infinity and Beyond!” (I know he has the words wrong. Again, I am inferencing here, but I suspect that the sentence fragment “to infinity and beyond” simply offended his burgeoning grammatical sensibilities).
Just below those two things are the X-Men. Eamon suddenly LOVES the X-Men, specifically the cartoon. Although, he doesn’t really seem to care about the plotlines as much as watching the opening credits and getting to name all the characters, which yes, he has memorized right along with his dinosaur flash cards.
My child still doesn’t understand exactly how he goes pee, but he can tell an iguanodon from a velociraptor and Gambit from Wolverine.
(Favorite moment from the last few days:
I show Eamon a flashcard at his request. “Eamon, can you say pachycephalosaurus?” I ask him.
Eamon blinks several times, stares at me, then finally says simply, “No.”
“Fair enough. Here’s a picture of T-Rex.”)
Eamon is also branching out into traditional 2 year old obsessions. He’s decided that he mildly likes Dora, or at least enjoys her admonishment of Swiper and his nefarious Swiping.
He also likes some Curious George, which I find delightful because in my opinion, Eamon looks just like Curious George: round, big head atop a thin, long-limbed body. They even have the same brown eyes and brown hair. Moreover, they both chatter constantly and are well-intentioned but into everything. In fact...they are so alike, it occurs to me...I have never seen Eamon AND Curious George in the same room together. Have you? COINCIDENCE?
Anyway.
The upshot of all of this is that we have plenty of options for Halloween costumes this year.
And plenty of new toys to trip over.
And if it means I get to watch less Land Before Time, well, that’s just awesome. Bring on the Dora.
06 August 2011
Epic
Daylight lazily begins its saunter through the blinds, dancing teasingly on the brow of The Angel. The Angel blinks his eyes once, then twice, merging slowly into Reality from dreams of riding a brachiosaurus bareback.
Tentatively, The Angel asks, “Mommy?”
He waits, then gaining a stronger foothold on wakefulness, calls with assurance, “Mommy!”
Mommy enters, a tall and stumbling tower of bleariness, and murmurs, “Hey, baby.”
The Angel smiles. He leaps from his bed, and as she crouches down to catch him, throws his arms joyfully around her beck. “I wuv you, Mommy!” he exclaims, the light from his heart mirrored in the shine of his bright brown eyes.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” says Mommy, her voice still thick with sleep but obviously deeply enamored with this darling, this cherub of sunshine and delight.
Together, The Angel and Mommy clasp hands, animatedly chattering of the possibilities of the day. They pause for a moment on the top of the stairs.
That pause is their downfall.
For in that moment, The Shadow creeps in through the window, into the hall, and into the heart of The Angel.
It starts when they reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Milk?” asks The Angel…the last sentence he utters as himself, before The Shadow takes full possession.
“Sure,” says Mommy, still elated with this seraph of joy she calls her offspring. She fills a cup with milk, only to turn and offer it…not to her little Angel, but the angry, defiant Shadow.
“NO MILK!” roars The Shadow. He attempts to slap the milk from her hand. The Shadow is not Evil itself, but it sees Evil everywhere. It is angry, and hurt, and frustrated without cause. It is paranoid and desperate against all reason.
Mommy takes a deep breath. She has seen this before. “No hitting,” she reminds, trying to maintain calm in the wake of the upcoming torrent of doom.
But the Milk is now The Shadow’s sworn enemy. It is Evil and needs to be Destroyed.
Or at least Refrigerated.
“PUT AWAY, MOMMY!” commands The Shadow. “Put milk in fridge!”
“Say ‘please,’” Mommy says gently.
“PUH-WEASE!” comes the banshee-wail.
Careful not to react, Mommy puts the offending milk back in the refrigerator.
This is not enough for The Shadow. Mommy, the person who brought him this accursed nectar of Satan, she is a treacherous fiend who deserves nothing but his contempt and vengeance. “GO AWAY, MOMMY! WEAVE ME AWONE!” Thus follows the desperate wail of betrayal and hopelessness. The Shadow throws himself onto the floor in a swirling, imagined agony of despair, while Mommy stands and looks on, feeling, but trying not to show, her helplessness.
This is a new but not unknown enemy. The Shadow, it is whispered, is hungry. It is hungry for power, desperate for control. But more specifically, it literally HUNGRY, and needs sugar in its bloodstream in order for the helpless rage to subside.
But The Shadow does not want to subside. It does not want to eat. It wants to stay in its dark pit of misery and drag everyone down with it.
So Mommy must act carefully. The Shadow thrives on negativity. You can yell at The Shadow. You can threaten it, you can bully it, you can beg it, you can scream at it—but all of these make only it stronger. It glories in the apparent Evil of your controlling ways and fights harder, thrashing the little body it inhabits wildly, flinging tears and hurling cries at anyone it sees.
No Mommy can defeat The Shadow. In fact, nobody can defeat The Shadow.
Nobody, save one.
The Angel.
But to regain control, the Angel needs strength, he needs sustenance, he needs…food. Food that The Shadow will not accept.
So Mommy takes another deep breath…and walks away. She leaves her darling, her beautiful boy, a sobbing, heaving mess on the floor. There is nothing she can do for him now, except be quiet, be gentle, and be firm. She reminds him with a whisper and a quick hug that no matter what, she loves him so very much; and even though he struggles wildly to escape her embrace, she knows that somewhere inside there the Angel is fighting to come back.
She walks into another room, sits down and reads a magazine. Of course, she is not really reading, only giving the appearance of it so that The Shadow will not sense her anxiety. She tidies a bit. She checks her email. The Shadow screams on in the kitchen.
Then all at once, the screams stop. The air is still.
Mommy resists the urge to run into the other room. He’s okay, he’s okay…she tells herself. She knows what this means. The war is not over, but it has moved inward. The Angel must fight his own battle.
In another minute, a small figure will enter the room. His face will be red from screams and stained with tears.
He sees Mommy, who offered him the original offending milk, who still is trying to offer him…a Clif bar, toast, bacon, berries, potato chips, jelly beans…ANYTHING if he will just eat and get sugar back into his system.
And sometimes, The Shadow rears in defiance and throws himself back on the floor, kicking and screaming again. He bats angrily at any attempt to feed him. The world is full of darkness and deserves to be punished in as mighty a fashion as his two-year-old self can muster. So Mommy continues to wait, continues to be patient.
Because eventually, sometimes after a minute, sometime after an hour, the Angel wins. The Angel always wins. And the little boy comes and sits quietly next to Mommy on the couch, takes the Clif Bar and begins eating. Five minutes later, he ventures a little smile. Twenty minutes later, he is off the couch and playing eagerly with his toys, politely saying “please” and “thank you” and sometimes just running over to his Mommy to throw his little arms around her neck again and say, “I wuv you, Mommy.”
And like that, this battle is over.
There will be others, of course. Battles caused by fatigue, battles over un-purchased dinosaurs, battles because the sky is blue and the grass is green. For awhile, they were a constant, never-ceasing barrage. But each day, there are fewer and fewer.
Because slowly, The Angel is winning the war of the Terrible Twos.
One day at a time.
Hello, Angel. Welcome back.
Tentatively, The Angel asks, “Mommy?”
He waits, then gaining a stronger foothold on wakefulness, calls with assurance, “Mommy!”
Mommy enters, a tall and stumbling tower of bleariness, and murmurs, “Hey, baby.”
The Angel smiles. He leaps from his bed, and as she crouches down to catch him, throws his arms joyfully around her beck. “I wuv you, Mommy!” he exclaims, the light from his heart mirrored in the shine of his bright brown eyes.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” says Mommy, her voice still thick with sleep but obviously deeply enamored with this darling, this cherub of sunshine and delight.
Together, The Angel and Mommy clasp hands, animatedly chattering of the possibilities of the day. They pause for a moment on the top of the stairs.
That pause is their downfall.
For in that moment, The Shadow creeps in through the window, into the hall, and into the heart of The Angel.
It starts when they reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Milk?” asks The Angel…the last sentence he utters as himself, before The Shadow takes full possession.
“Sure,” says Mommy, still elated with this seraph of joy she calls her offspring. She fills a cup with milk, only to turn and offer it…not to her little Angel, but the angry, defiant Shadow.
“NO MILK!” roars The Shadow. He attempts to slap the milk from her hand. The Shadow is not Evil itself, but it sees Evil everywhere. It is angry, and hurt, and frustrated without cause. It is paranoid and desperate against all reason.
Mommy takes a deep breath. She has seen this before. “No hitting,” she reminds, trying to maintain calm in the wake of the upcoming torrent of doom.
But the Milk is now The Shadow’s sworn enemy. It is Evil and needs to be Destroyed.
Or at least Refrigerated.
“PUT AWAY, MOMMY!” commands The Shadow. “Put milk in fridge!”
“Say ‘please,’” Mommy says gently.
“PUH-WEASE!” comes the banshee-wail.
Careful not to react, Mommy puts the offending milk back in the refrigerator.
This is not enough for The Shadow. Mommy, the person who brought him this accursed nectar of Satan, she is a treacherous fiend who deserves nothing but his contempt and vengeance. “GO AWAY, MOMMY! WEAVE ME AWONE!” Thus follows the desperate wail of betrayal and hopelessness. The Shadow throws himself onto the floor in a swirling, imagined agony of despair, while Mommy stands and looks on, feeling, but trying not to show, her helplessness.
This is a new but not unknown enemy. The Shadow, it is whispered, is hungry. It is hungry for power, desperate for control. But more specifically, it literally HUNGRY, and needs sugar in its bloodstream in order for the helpless rage to subside.
But The Shadow does not want to subside. It does not want to eat. It wants to stay in its dark pit of misery and drag everyone down with it.
So Mommy must act carefully. The Shadow thrives on negativity. You can yell at The Shadow. You can threaten it, you can bully it, you can beg it, you can scream at it—but all of these make only it stronger. It glories in the apparent Evil of your controlling ways and fights harder, thrashing the little body it inhabits wildly, flinging tears and hurling cries at anyone it sees.
No Mommy can defeat The Shadow. In fact, nobody can defeat The Shadow.
Nobody, save one.
The Angel.
But to regain control, the Angel needs strength, he needs sustenance, he needs…food. Food that The Shadow will not accept.
So Mommy takes another deep breath…and walks away. She leaves her darling, her beautiful boy, a sobbing, heaving mess on the floor. There is nothing she can do for him now, except be quiet, be gentle, and be firm. She reminds him with a whisper and a quick hug that no matter what, she loves him so very much; and even though he struggles wildly to escape her embrace, she knows that somewhere inside there the Angel is fighting to come back.
She walks into another room, sits down and reads a magazine. Of course, she is not really reading, only giving the appearance of it so that The Shadow will not sense her anxiety. She tidies a bit. She checks her email. The Shadow screams on in the kitchen.
Then all at once, the screams stop. The air is still.
Mommy resists the urge to run into the other room. He’s okay, he’s okay…she tells herself. She knows what this means. The war is not over, but it has moved inward. The Angel must fight his own battle.
In another minute, a small figure will enter the room. His face will be red from screams and stained with tears.
He sees Mommy, who offered him the original offending milk, who still is trying to offer him…a Clif bar, toast, bacon, berries, potato chips, jelly beans…ANYTHING if he will just eat and get sugar back into his system.
And sometimes, The Shadow rears in defiance and throws himself back on the floor, kicking and screaming again. He bats angrily at any attempt to feed him. The world is full of darkness and deserves to be punished in as mighty a fashion as his two-year-old self can muster. So Mommy continues to wait, continues to be patient.
Because eventually, sometimes after a minute, sometime after an hour, the Angel wins. The Angel always wins. And the little boy comes and sits quietly next to Mommy on the couch, takes the Clif Bar and begins eating. Five minutes later, he ventures a little smile. Twenty minutes later, he is off the couch and playing eagerly with his toys, politely saying “please” and “thank you” and sometimes just running over to his Mommy to throw his little arms around her neck again and say, “I wuv you, Mommy.”
And like that, this battle is over.
There will be others, of course. Battles caused by fatigue, battles over un-purchased dinosaurs, battles because the sky is blue and the grass is green. For awhile, they were a constant, never-ceasing barrage. But each day, there are fewer and fewer.
Because slowly, The Angel is winning the war of the Terrible Twos.
One day at a time.
Hello, Angel. Welcome back.
30 July 2011
Why, I Oughtta...
Eamon Wolfe has learned to Count, and the world is his oyster. Nothing is beyond his grasp, because with the skill of the Counting comes the power of the Negotiation.
ME: Eamon, would you like a pretzel?
EAMON: No, THREE pretzels.
ME: How about TWO pretzels?
EAMON: No, FIVE pretzels.
ME: Points for moxy, but no dice, kiddo. Here are your two pretzels.
(Be quiet. If I never talk to him like that, he’ll never grow up to become a 1930s movie gangster with a heart of gold, and then what was the point?)
With great Counting comes great Responsibility.
Of course, with less than great counting comes…great amusement. Well, for me.
EAMON: Wake up, Daddy! Wake up, wake up, wake up!
AARON: Ugh. Five more minutes, Eamon.
EAMON: Okay, Daddy. One, two…
AARON: I didn’t mean literally.
EAMON: Fwee, five, six, seben…
ME: What happened to four?
EAMON: Four, eight, nine, ten, eweven…uh…eweven…um…eweven…WAKE UP, DADDY!
ME: He went to eleven. That’s more than fair. You said five.
AARON: Everyone go away.
I was amused, anyway. One out of three ain’t bad.
Now that he has learned the art of the Negotiation, Eamon cannot help but extend it beyond the Counting into the most important realm of all: Toys.
EAMON: Where go now, Mommy?
ME: We’re going to Target.
EAMON: Why go Target?
ME: You need more diapers.
EAMON: Okay, more dippers. And pants.
ME: Pants? You need pants?
EAMON: Yes, okay. Pants.
ME: Okay, pants.
EAMON: And toys.
ME: You don’t need any more toys. You have a ton of toys.
EAMON: Yes, right, toys. Go Toys R Us, Mommy.
ME: No, we’re going to Target.
EAMON: Okay, Toys R Us.
ME: No, Eamon. TARGET. Not Toys R Us.
EAMON: (large sigh) Okay, Mommy. Target first. Then Toys R Us.
ME: No, no Toys R Us. Just Target.
EAMON: Right, Target. (quietly) Then Toys R Us.
We went to Target. We bought diapers. We bought some pajama pants. And afterwards, as we drove from the parking lot:
EAMON: Mommy! Toys R Us!
ME: We were never going to Toys R Us.
EAMON: (crossing arms) Hmph!
Aw, chin up, kiddo. Today was a tough break, for sure, but keep your nose clean and in no time, you’ll be running the show. Just a few years. Maybe eweven.
In the meantime, I have this great James Cagney movie we can watch.
My, what an innocent looking piles of blankets and toys (See?! He has a ton of toys!)
Oh my goodness! Could it be...?
Nope, it was just my imagination. Just an innocent pile of blankets and toys after all. (It's not my fault he was disappointed. I never said we were going to Toys R Us.)
Hey! It is! It's Eamon Wolfe! (Okay, so we bought a toy at Target. Who am I kidding? He already runs the show. Hmph.)
ME: Eamon, would you like a pretzel?
EAMON: No, THREE pretzels.
ME: How about TWO pretzels?
EAMON: No, FIVE pretzels.
ME: Points for moxy, but no dice, kiddo. Here are your two pretzels.
(Be quiet. If I never talk to him like that, he’ll never grow up to become a 1930s movie gangster with a heart of gold, and then what was the point?)
With great Counting comes great Responsibility.
Of course, with less than great counting comes…great amusement. Well, for me.
EAMON: Wake up, Daddy! Wake up, wake up, wake up!
AARON: Ugh. Five more minutes, Eamon.
EAMON: Okay, Daddy. One, two…
AARON: I didn’t mean literally.
EAMON: Fwee, five, six, seben…
ME: What happened to four?
EAMON: Four, eight, nine, ten, eweven…uh…eweven…um…eweven…WAKE UP, DADDY!
ME: He went to eleven. That’s more than fair. You said five.
AARON: Everyone go away.
I was amused, anyway. One out of three ain’t bad.
Now that he has learned the art of the Negotiation, Eamon cannot help but extend it beyond the Counting into the most important realm of all: Toys.
EAMON: Where go now, Mommy?
ME: We’re going to Target.
EAMON: Why go Target?
ME: You need more diapers.
EAMON: Okay, more dippers. And pants.
ME: Pants? You need pants?
EAMON: Yes, okay. Pants.
ME: Okay, pants.
EAMON: And toys.
ME: You don’t need any more toys. You have a ton of toys.
EAMON: Yes, right, toys. Go Toys R Us, Mommy.
ME: No, we’re going to Target.
EAMON: Okay, Toys R Us.
ME: No, Eamon. TARGET. Not Toys R Us.
EAMON: (large sigh) Okay, Mommy. Target first. Then Toys R Us.
ME: No, no Toys R Us. Just Target.
EAMON: Right, Target. (quietly) Then Toys R Us.
We went to Target. We bought diapers. We bought some pajama pants. And afterwards, as we drove from the parking lot:
EAMON: Mommy! Toys R Us!
ME: We were never going to Toys R Us.
EAMON: (crossing arms) Hmph!
Aw, chin up, kiddo. Today was a tough break, for sure, but keep your nose clean and in no time, you’ll be running the show. Just a few years. Maybe eweven.
In the meantime, I have this great James Cagney movie we can watch.
My, what an innocent looking piles of blankets and toys (See?! He has a ton of toys!)
Oh my goodness! Could it be...?
Nope, it was just my imagination. Just an innocent pile of blankets and toys after all. (It's not my fault he was disappointed. I never said we were going to Toys R Us.)
Hey! It is! It's Eamon Wolfe! (Okay, so we bought a toy at Target. Who am I kidding? He already runs the show. Hmph.)
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