Category Archives: Tantrums

Giving spice to every day.

He Screams, He Spits, He Wins!

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My son works in rage the way an artist might work in paint or clay. He has mastered it’s subtle nuances and can often bring it to a level that could only be truly achieved by someone who has years perfecting the art of losing one’s shit. Some people take a lifetime to gain this kind of mastery. My son? Yeah, he’s three. On the rare occasions that I choose to actually go to battle with him, I usually end up losing in a bloody blaze of defeat. Most days, I have learned to do my best to stay out of the way. Like right now? Um, he’s sitting at the table eating a bowl of pesto. Not pesto PASTA, just pesto. The battles I choose only tend to be engaged when someone’s life is in danger. Death by garlic breath is not one of them.

Yesterday I had the lucky opportunity of being beaned in the back of the head with a shoe that was hurled from the backseat, which was the preceding act to completely unbuckling the top half of his carseat restraints and beginning to writhe out of the bottom half. All this was over a smoothie that he said he didn’t want, then decided he did, then didn’t, then did, then didn’t. Then I put my foot down, left the drive-through and drove away. Right about the time that I realized the screaming was actually accompanied by a carseat houdini act, I had no choice but to pull over and engage on a full-on wrestling match with my screaming, spitting, firebreathing child – all within just feet of the cars breezing past me on the freeway.

So, you can imagine my joy and anticipation when Steve announced last Friday that he wanted to take both kids to the fair with him. Out of a sense of guilt duty I offered to accompany him, even though this whole fair thing has kind of been established as his own special kid-bonding experience. I knew that him, alone with both children in this overstimulated environment was a disaster in the making. But hey, maybe I was over-reacting, right?

Let’s just say that $75 and 2 hours later, we emerged from the fairgrounds dirty, sticky, tear-streaked and just barely clinging to life.

I did my best to try and take pictures of the moments when the kids were actually smiling. You know, trying to just remember the good times. After all, Isn’t that rule #1 in the parenting manual?

stella

porter

Warning: Heavy on the caps lock.

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So okay then. Here we are. Again. Us and all that awkward distance between posts. Lets just pretend it never happened, and deal with it in therapy later. See? Now isn’t that easier?

I made the mistake of showing that holiday slide show to the kids, and do you know how many times I had to watch that stupid thing? DO YOU? Like 15. Even when I tried escaping to another room, I could still hear the soundtrack. I may never be able to hear those three songs again. Like, ever. I have decided that I need a special vault wherein I can deposit all the music, books and videos that I have been subjected to endure on endless repeating loops. First would be Mama Mia (she ruined it for me forever), that dorky Tootle the Train book (the story doesn’t even make sense!), and let’s not forget the deliciously annoying Wonderpets Save the Effing Nutcracker. What is it about kids and their borderline inhuman ability to enjoy something just as much the 347th time as they did the first?

As payback we started throwing away all their toys. Ok, not really. But sort of. As we began the yearly holiday toy assimilation process it became increasingly clear that our inaction on ever doing a substantial toy purge was impeding our ability to reclaim our own living space. We did a roundup of clothes, toys and other miscellaneous unused items and donated to Porter’s school, the local thrift store, the local animal rescue shelter and I will shortly be shipping off a gargantuan stockpile of stuffed animals (we actually kept as many as we are giving away) to a contact in the Army Corps of Engineers deployed in Iraq who – with a couple of others – is distributing them to the children there.

It was unexpectedly easy to bring the kids on-board with our plan, considering that – for completely different reasons – this type of activity is not their strong suit. Stella’s inability to effectively process any and all feelings of nostalgia are always a source of contention between us. The conversation is usually one-sided and sounds a little like this: “But Mooommmmm! I love this broken plastic dog cup that I got at that fast food place when I was three years old and remember it was raining and remember we saw that rainbow and remember then we all laughed and hugged. Don’t you remember? How could you ever make me throw this away? I need to sleep with it every night.” This, the toy that has been buried in the bottom of a tote bin for the better part of the last two years.

On the other side of the conversation is Porter. He throws a fit because that is line item number one in his current job description. Porter is going through one of those stages right now where CONTRARY DOESN’T EVEN BEGIN TO DESCRIBE IT. I could offer him a bowl of ice cream and he would refuse it simply on principle. What principle? I HAVE NO IDEA. To further complicate matters, Steve is his unequivocal favorite. Why do I know that? BECAUSE HE TELLS ME. I am not even exaggerating. True story: we were standing in the kitchen last night and Porter comes strolling by Steve and I. As he passes us he nonchalantly tosses out an ‘I love you daddy’ and keeps on walking. I look at Steve, then at him and offer, “I love you Porter” His answer? “No. I like Daddy.” And this happens ALL THE TIME. He won’t let me read to him before bed, he won’t let me put him to bed, and in the middle of the night when he is screaming for someone to come get him because he hates his bed, who do you think ends up dragging in there to rescue him? ME, that’s who – only to be greeted with, “Nooo! I want Daddy!”

New Year’s resolution #1: Win back the love of my son. Use bribery if necessary.
New Year’s resolution #1.a: Devise plan to undermine husband’s appealing nature.
New Year’s resolution #2: Buy a vault.
New Year’s resolution #3: Get more massages.
New Year’s resolution #4: Master the Wii ski jump.
New Year’s resolution #5: Use the Caps Lock key less.

Super P & Princess Clam Boobies

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So you already had a preview of Stella’s confection of a costume, however you’ll notice I didn’t make much to do about Porter’s selection for this year. And if you guess that it’s because he would have nothing to do with THE COSUME HE SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED then you’d be absolutely correct. While Stella was busy wallowing in the glamorous sparkle of her costume, Porter was standing on the other side of the table looking at his spiderman-with-a-cape ensemble as though we were suggesting he dress up as a turnip. Un-uh. The less seasoned Natalie would have been begging and cajoling him to wear the get-up. The Natalie who has been around the block with this a time or two simply shrugged and walked away. Lesson learned: the most unsuccessful way to get Porter to do ANYTHING is to ask him to do it. Better to let him come around to this one one his own.

I have struggled with this a lot with Porter – the epic power struggles. Then, in a momentary vision of clarity, I realized that there are two realities I am stuck between. Pushing Porter to conform to the role I want him to be, or allowing and embracing the role that he chooses for himself. I first realized this with his haircuts – as in the ones he refuses to get. Picture day at his school was approaching and the inclination to force a haircut for the good of the photo began to take over the household. Somewhere in the middle of one of those meltdowns in the middle of the salon, it occurred to me – these pictures are supposed to capture our kids to remember them at that exact point in their life. Why would I want to sanitize the memory by eliminating the pieces and parts that really represent who he is at two and a half years old? A cute little blondie would rather eat glass than get a professional haircut, has reduced his entire wardrobe down to three shirts and two pairs of “working pants”, refuses to wear shoes, and recently insisted that I rub off the pizza-gobblin tattoo and re-apply a new one on the top of his forearm. Almost all of which are fully represented in this year’s school picture. Oh, and there is also the part where he wouldn’t sit for a picture by himself, so Porter’s school picture includes his big sister.

All of this to explain that when you look through these pictures and see Porter wearing street clothes and a pair of swim sandals along with a red and blue silk cape you’ll know why we couldn’t have imagined a more successful Halloween. And not to brag, but guess who actually walked and spoke to people as well? Photographic evidence to follow.

stella and porter
(click photo to see entire set)

Trying

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I have been conspicuously absent lately mainly because it is hard to write with all that screaming. Porter screaming at no one in particular because he wants a hot dog. No, make that oatmeal. No! a hot dog. Nooooo!, oatmeal. NO!!, both. NO!NO!NO!, neither. NO!, a hot dog IN the oatmeal. WHY DID YOU JUST GIVE ME A HOT DOG IN OATMEAL WHEN I CLEARLY WANTED A WAFFLE? Then there is Stella screaming at me for, well, for THE INJUSTICE OF IT ALL! And that over there in the corner? Well, that is me, screaming into my pillow and re-discovering the reason for drinking on weeknights.

There have been so many highs and lows with Stella lately, I could never truly catalog them all. But the recurring theme goes something like this: I ask Stella to do something. She ignores me. I ask again. She continues to ignore me. I huck a shoe at her. Okay, KIDDING! But not really.

Her need to ignore not just my immediate requests, but larger, more emphatic directives like, oh, say, DON’T GO THREE DOORS DOWN TO YOUR FRIENDS HOUSE WITHOUT TELLING ME FIRST. Yeah, ignored that one too. I came out of the bathroom the other day to find her missing – AGAIN. She had bolted across the street, across the intersection to catch up with her friends who were out on a walk. I could hardly see her through the flames shooting from my nostrils.

And so begins the sequence. I do my best to keep it together and not go all Mommy Dearest on her in the presence of other parents, then once I get her home I begin the 5-part lecture series. The one where I begin the long diatribe about L-I-S-T-E-N-I-N-G. I do everything short of thumping her on the forehead with a giant letter L (for listening- get it?)

This, I have realized, is where my inexperience as a mother – coupled with my task-master tendencies – have kept me from finding success with this issue. Firstly, Stella is 4. Try arguing principal issues with a 4-year-old. No actually, don’t. It doesn’t work. In fact, it does quite the opposite, and you find yourself with a 4-year-old saying things like, “Mommy, can we just be done talking about this now?” To which, I usually respond something like, “Yes, if you can tell me what we have just talked about.” This would be an example of mistake #2: expecting a child who cannot listen to a 2-second request to listen (and repeat) a 10 minute conversation. It actually took me a couple of times to figure this one out. I think more and more, the thought of having to sit through another bedroom chat is a far better deterrent than any other punishment I could conjure.

And round and round we go. 1.) Me talking, 2.) her ignoring, 3.) us ultimately coming to an agreement that she will listen better, 4.) repeat steps 1-3 and follow with a strong cocktail.

As for Porter? Well, he’s just a bag of screaming waiting to be opened. Mostly because neither he (nor his sister, for that matter) are all that great at handling disappointment. No, I’m sorry Buddy, we can’t drive to Grandma’s house right now. [screaming]. No Buddy, we can’t go to the park right now. [screaming] I’m sorry Buddy, but your monkey plate is in the dishwasher right now, you’ll have to use another one. [screaming] And then there’s the tractor. Ohhhhh, the tractor. I am guaranteed to get about 30-40 requests every day to play on a tractor, any tractor. We go to Brain and Andrea’s? He finds the riding lawnmower. We go to Sarah & John’s? He finds the riding lawnmower. The boys’ blood, it runs green & yellow and he would step over our cold dead bodies if he thought there was a truck, tractor or car on the other side.

And yet, because parenting is nothing but a persistent rain-cloud of guilt waiting to unleash it’s torrents of regret, I am perpetually blaming myself. Blaming myself for not having more patience, for doing things even though I know they are only making the situation worse (sarcasm, anyone?), for not being able to figure out when to push and when to just back the hell off. Knowing when to just shrug and laugh has been one of my biggest challenges – mostly because it is the least instinctive thing for me to do, yet when I can finally convince myself to do it, it is often the most effective resolution.

I’m thinking you should probably get used to hearing that last paragraph, because over the next 16 or so years, you are going to be hearing it a lot.