Dirty Little Secret

Ironflower will be three in December. Tonight as she got into her pajamas she told me this story:

Once upon a time in a land-land far away, a very pretty witch walked down the street. She had a wish. Then her friend came. Her name was Princess Fiona. But she was too sad to play because Shrek pushed her. So kitty had to think, think.

Then Ironflower broke off to request a specific pair of pajamas and that was the end. It took all my self-control not to go all first grade teacher on her and ask leading questions that would make the story cohesive. Or at least give it a conclusion. But since she hasn’t even started preschool yet, I held off.

Still, I’m pretty proud of her. After I wrote it all down so I wouldn’t forget it, she drew an accompanying picture. I’ve had first graders who couldn’t have come up with so much detail, nor could they have drawn pictures to go with their stories. Okay, well, those kids had some problems, but I still think Ironflower’s story is pretty awesome.

If I were a Catholic in medieval times, or a tribeswoman of a pre-literate society, I’m pretty sure I would have the local shaman/priest over here performing an exorcism on Lovebug. The fact that I’m an overly literate Unitarian who’s thinking about it anyway says volumes. Today, Lovebug screamed and fought so hard during his morning diaper change that he got poop everywhere. Then he threw a fit when his turn to brush his teeth was over (he had put his toothbrush away quite happily, but then he saw that Ironflower was having a turn). He threw a fit going down the stairs because I got too far ahead of him. He screamed and threw his orange juice away at breakfast, then got upset when he couldn’t have it.

I know he’s only seventeen months old. I know he’s a boy. But I think this is ridiculous. His tantrums don’t generally work - he still gets changed, his toothbrushing turn is still over - but they’re just getting worse. His next fit was about not being able to fit into his toy truck. That one didn’t work either. It’s not that he gets frustrated a lot. It’s not even that he yells a lot. It’s that he howls louder over not getting his way than over a shot. If you overheard me changing him when he doesn’t feel like it, you’d think I was stabbing him. Normal toddler frustrations elicit not whines and a yell or two, but full blown screaming fits that make me think of demons.

Lovebug is also the most wonderfully affectionate little boy. His smile lights up a room. He can play by himself or share with others with equal joy. He likes to try new foods. He loves to help. I love my son very much, but if he doesn’t mellow out soon I’m going to invite the social worker over myself.

Yesterday I took the children to the library. I thought it would be fun to walk, seeing as we have just spent a week indoors avoiding eyelash-scorching heat. Ironflower happily climbed into the stroller, eager to check out every Todd Parr book in the library. Lovebug handled being put in next to her quite agreeably. We set off on our fifteen minute walk to the cozy and familiar library.

Ironflower and Lovebug were pretty cheerful on the walk over. Ironflower asked enough questions about who lived in the houses we passed that I started making things up. I found all the proper ramps for street crossing, because we own the most awkward side-by-side stroller known to parents (whenever women pregnant with their second child ask me about our stroller I tell them not to even think about it and to refuse it if offered for free). After arriving, I got a whole five minutes in the adult section before we HAD to go to the kids’ area (I used to go to my area after we went to the kids’, but they were actually more impatient that way).

All went reasonably well, especially since the computer was not on and thus Lovebug could move the mouse to his heart’s content. We found lots of fun books and CDs and Lovebug only pulled a few books off of the shelves. I should have known something bad was going to happen when Lovebug volunteered to climb into the stroller. I asked Ironflower if she was ready to go - and she was. Then we checked out and I didn’t even have any fines. It was all too good to be true.

Lovebug began screaming as we walked across the parking lot. He wanted down. I explained that getting out of the stroller was not an option. He screamed and tried to break out of the straps. I told him he could get out soon. He screamed some more. The few people we saw stared at us, but when they saw I wasn’t beating him with a baseball bat they looked away. I kept trudging home and Lovebug kept screaming.

Then, because he is a resourceful child and likes to get his way, Lovebug began pulling Ironflower’s hair. This is the great disadvantage of the side-by-side stroller, not only can they share snacks, juice and conversation; they can also assault each other easily. Lovebug, while not yet eighteen months old, can inflict A LOT of pain with his hair pulling techniques. Ironflower howled and I removed Lovebug’s hand. He did it again and again and finally (not having the option of putting him in time-out on the streets of the Dale or of being able to carry him and push a stroller filled with Ironflower and library books) I smacked his hand away and used my mean teacher voice to yell NO. Since he’d been sobbing the entire time, I can tell you that he didn’t really react to the smack, except that he actually let go of her hair for more than thirty seconds. At this point they were both screaming and I was yelling “NO!” while on the verge of tears myself. Lovebug was only momentarily daunted, though, and returned to hair pulling a minute or so later (while also kicking and screaming - I knew that I’d never be able to carry him and push the stroller). Ironflower screamed in pain and I continued to yell NO.

I then tucked Lovebug’s offending hand under his stroller seat belt - I didn’t know what else to do to make him stop hurting his sister. Lovebug screamed like I had stabbed him with a hot knife. . . and that’s when I saw the old man across the street. He was stopped dead in his tracks, just staring at me and my charming children. I tried to nod and smile, but he didn’t react at all. I tried to loudly explain what was going on to the children, hoping that he could hear me and understand that I didn’t normally go around hand smacking and yelling NO.

Ironflower calmed down but Lovebug refused to feel better. He screamed the whole way home, even after extricating his hand and being offered snacks, juice and toys. After the last offer was batted away I gave up. I didn’t talk or explain or make silly sounds. I didn’t point out the cars or the houses or the birds. I just concentrated on not yelling.

I don’t know if the old man knows the number for the Department of Children and Family Services, and if they are like the department in the school district where I used to work they will not be very concerned by his story, but I’m preparing myself anyway. I even told Hubby to buy Pampers instead of Target brand diapers, just in case the social worker shows up.

It’s not like I didn’t have good intentions. After a lovely hour and a half at the DMV yesterday, I took the kids to the park. The kids did not actually have a horrible time at the DMV, what with the snacks, the people to play peek-a-boo and exclaim over their cuteness (to which Ironflower responded, “I know.”). I got my new license and the new license plates (better late than never, right?) and we drove to the nearest park.

This park has a lovely sandbox, lots of swings and two climbing areas. One of the climbing areas is adult-sized, I swear to Goddess. Ironflower can climb only parts of it safely, so the deal is that when we go to this park without Daddy we only do the swings, sandbox and toddler-sized climbing structure.

All was fine until Lovebug realized that he was hungry and needed to leave RIGHT AWAY. Snacks would not do. Ironflower could not care less about lunch, so I had to bribe her to leave. I suggested to Ironflower, as a compromise, that she could do a bit of climbing on the way to the car. She took this to mean the super-sized climbing structure. I told her she could climb on the actual climbing wall (since I can reach to the top of it and Lovebug can be entertained at the bottom), but Ironflower had other ideas. She ran to the most dangerous ladder and started going up. Lovebug, seeing his chance to leave slip away, began to cry. I asked her to come down. She kept going. I told her it wasn’t safe and that her brother was upset and I needed her to get down RIGHT NOW!

No dice. So I lifted her off, right before she got too high for me to reach. I tried to explain why I had taken her down as I picked up Lovebug to comfort him. Ironflower charged at me and started hitting.

In two and a half years of parenting (and ten years of teaching), I have never hit a child. I smacked Lovebug’s hand once when he wouldn’t let go of Ironflower’s hair, but that’s it. We don’t hit in our household. Ironflower has never been spanked or even hit by another child (Lovebug is a hair puller and the few playground brats we’ve met have been pushers).

So I did not smack Ironflower when she started hitting me as I held her sobbing baby brother. I did not push her away. I did not start screaming at her. I did pick her up (and not very comfortably, she is too big to grab with one hand and get onto my hip these days) and march out of the park. As I stormed to the car, I repeated that it was not okay to hit and that she was showing me that she couldn’t handle the park. I told her that she was being a bad girl.

In short, I lost it. I can’t believe I said the “bad girl” thing. It doesn’t teach her anything. I feel like all of her future self-esteem problems will stem from this episode. But the other part of me says that my children are not going to grow up thinking it’s okay to hit when they’re angry.

What I can’t believe is how angry I felt. It was gone before I even pulled the car into the garage but it was sure ugly while it was there. I think I need a mantra before this happens again.

parenting

Hubby: That girl was dumb. Don’t ever be dumb, kids.

Ironflower: But Daddy, I’m not dumb!

Hubby: Of course not, I think you’re very smart.

Ironflower: But you’re dumb, aren’t you, Daddy?

Hubby: Actually I think our whole family is very smart.
Ironflower: Even you?

Hubby (looking at me): You’re going to blog about this, aren’t you?

I swear I have no idea why Ironflower thinks her father is dumb. Really. I mean, I may have complained about him “not knowing how to put his clothes in the hamper” in front of her once or twice. And he may have mentioned how difficult it is for him to dress them according to Mommy standards. But I never thought that Ironflower would draw such conclusions from it. She’s only two and a half - she’s supposed to need a lot more repetition before she can draw conclusions.

I wonder when she’ll figure out that I can’t see through walls?

Soon after I had Zoe, a family friend gave me an informative book called The New Basics. It has lots of sensible answers to the questions of every new (and not so new) parent. It is written by a very hip New York pediatrician, Dr. Michel Cohen.

I liked it. It stopped me from freaking out over many silly things and doubtless saved us much money and angst. So when the kids got a diaper rash recently, I turned to it. My kids have never really had diaper rashes. A little redness easily cured by vigilant diaper changing and medicated powder. This time that didn’t work. I think the virus they caught, with its bowel emptying germs, was really causing the problem. I tried Desitin and Aveeno cream to protect their skin. Nothing seemed to be working. So I referred to Dr. Cohen.

He suggested “diaper-free” time. Well, I thought, it’s summer. We can play diaper-less time in the backyard. I’ll use plastic bags like the dog walkers. But of course I looked outside at saw the “danger” flags put up by the complex gardeners. I swear that they put poison on our lawns every week. I wonder if we can opt out? Anyway, I knew then that diaper free time would have to be inside.

I covered the couches with towels and rolled up a rug. Then I let the kids go free. Zach had intermittent diarrhea. I spent an hour chasing him around armed with wipes, paper towels and floor cleaner (he didn’t go on the towel covered and easily cleaned couch once, the stinker). Apparently, it is possible for a toddler to run when his bowels are exploding. Just in case you’ve been wondering.

Zoe had no bowel movements, fortunately. Periodically she would yell, “I peed!” in the same tone of voice she uses at the playground, “I climbed to the top!”. At least for her I just needed wipes and paper towels.

After about two hours, I couldn’t take it anymore. I loaded on the medicated powder and put loose diapers back on. That night, I noticed that the rashes looked better. I steeled myself for another session of diaper free time the next day. But my children are tough. By the next morning the rashes hardly even looked like rashes anymore. I didn’t have to host diaper free time again.

But I guess I will if I have to. Although, does anyone know about a cream I could use next time?

parenting
diaper rash

Baby Destructo, aka Zachary, has been having trouble sleeping the past few. . oh heck, he’s always had trouble sleeping. It used to be because he wanted to breastfeed all the time. But he’s fourteen months old now - he’s cut way back. (Did that make it sound like he’s addicted? Good.)

While we went through the whole process of moving (which involved nights at the grandparents’, motels and a new crib mattress) I was sympathetic to his nocturnal plight. He was disturbed by the new environments, by sharing the rooms, by his new teeth.

But we’ve been settled in for over six weeks. And he’s not getting any new teeth. And he needs to stop getting up at 4am. At first, he would at least go back to sleep. Now he doesn’t. He babbles, with periods of intense shrieking and/or crying, until he hears his sister wake up. Then he just babbles.

He’s not getting enough sleep and neither am I. I’ve tried Ferberizing him. I’ve tried nursing him. I’ve done everything short of slipping Tylenol PM into his ravioli. And I’m starting to wonder if that would work.

It’s not that he doesn’t fall asleep on his own - he does. And it’s not that he freaks out whenever he wakes in the night. I often hear him when I go to sleep - he babbles a bit and then settles right back down. And it’s not that we put him to bed too early - he always acts sleepy at bedtime. But come 4 am, he’s ready to go.

I am not a morning person. There’s no way I can get up at 4 am. But I can’t sleep well when I can hear him. I’m thinking ear plugs, maybe. Any ideas?

My daughter is almost two and a half. She is beautiful (no, really, strangers tell me so all the time), spirited and smart. I love her to distraction. But sometimes I really, really wish she would stop talking. Just for five minutes or so.

Last summer we visited my cousin, who has a son about ten months older than Zoe. He was two and a half to her twenty months, and I remember being so glad that Zoe didn’t talk all the time like Gabriel did. I actually thought it was a personality thing, not a developmental thing. Haha on me.

Someday she will be a sullen teenager and I will not be privy to every thought she is having. I will look back fondly at this time, as I try to unobtrusively eavesdrop on the conversations she has with friends. But that time is not here yet. And today I’m rather looking forward to it.

My daughter doesn’t merely have monologues about the Backyardigans and the challenges of putting up with her one year old brother. Zoe likes her monologues punctuated with appropriate one-liners from me. Always reminds me of helping hubby practice lines for one Shakespearean tragedy or another. Miss those one or two lines from the other characters and poor hubby’s practice is all messed up. Zoe, too, feels messed up if I miss a line. If I have the audacity to ignore her (however briefly), she will just get louder and louder until I come up with the right response.

Sometimes I imagine that when my son learns to really talk, he will be able to take over these duties from me. I can see why Zoe isn’t satisfied with ess (yes), uh (up), dada, ice (rice) and ns (nurse). But then I think, what if he likes to talk as much as he does? What if I have to start listening to two toddlers’ monologues ALL DAY?