I am not Father Time

"Hurry up! We've only got 10 minutes!"

"YOU'RE SO MEAN."

This scenario plays out in my house at least three and probably closer to 17 times a day.

While I appreciate the unadulterated power the girls have bestowed upon me, the assumption that the sun rises and sets at my command, I simply do not have control over how fast the Earth spins on its axis--believe me, kids, I wish I did.

Yet, somehow, no matter how many calm sit-downs we have about this where I explain that time moves independently from my personal will and obvious crusade to ruin their lives, they cannot separate the unyielding hands of the clock from my person.

So, on top of having to do the dishes five times a day and make the food and generally take care of these two little things I helped create, hoping to God that in spite of me they end up being good people, I also get to be responsible for the fact that time isn't stretchable.

Awesome.

And to foil my nefarious undertakings, in my house the phrase 'hurry up' now means 'go at an exaggeratedly slow pace while glaring belligerently at mommy because she can go eff herself with her making time go extra fast bullshit.'

Which is frustrating as hell.

Over the past few months, I have made a concentrated effort not to yell at them when this happens. I admit, when this first became an issue, I lost it a few times because how could my intelligent, literate, amazingly quick six year olds not understand the simple concept of minutes always being the same length regardless of our intent?

But apparently they cannot grasp it.

I am sorry to say that the only improvement my not losing my shit at them when they slow down after I tell them to hurry up is that we're not all screaming at each other in a Tasmanian devil paradise as we bust through the front door to get where we're going.

So, while it has slightly improved morale, it has had no effect on our arrival time.

And, yes, I have talked to them multiple times about how "hurry up" is not a moral judgment on their character, and has actually nothing to do with them. That we are all on the same team. That it's me helping them. We've tried other ways to say hurry up. The countdown only makes it worse. Looking at the clock pisses them off. Let's go, let's go, let's go, let's go, sung in the way of Little John used to work 18 months ago, but the novelty wore off and now it just gets an eye roll or perhaps a nostalgic giggle.

I need to figure out why this is so hard. It's one of those super-simple-for-grown-ups concepts that we all just take for granted. Time moves. It moves at the same pace day in and day out and is completely out of our control. It's so natural a concept that we never think about it.

Until a six year old is stomping around in slow motion just to show you what you can do with your stupid time model.

Then all bets are off, and it looks like you'll be getting a late pass.

A Six Year Old Discovers the Power of Now -- Contributor Post

Today, Jerry Kennedy from Choosing the Truth gives another great tale from his time as a step-dude. Very Catch-22.

...

Over the 4th of July weekend, we took a family road trip from Sacramento to Orem, Utah to visit my soon-to-be brother-in-law and his family. It was a short trip: we drove out on Thursday, stayed and played Friday and Saturday, and drove back on Sunday. Almost as soon as we got there, the Man Cub started his countdown clock for when we were going to leave.

“Why can’t we stay longer?” he asked, and with good reason. He was really enjoying his time with his cousins, who he only gets to see about once a year, and was disappointed that we couldn’t stay longer.

“Well, Jerry and I have to go back to work on Monday,” said the Cricket. “We’d love to stay longer, too, buddy. Maybe next time.”

“But I want to stay longer,” he grumped.

I decided to take a stab at re-directing his thoughts by engaging him in a sure-fire, totally age-appropriate philosophical discussion about being present. I know, in hindsight it sounds ridiculous to me, too. What can I say? Sometimes I get carried away in my enthusiasm to impart whatever wisdom I’ve managed to scrape together, especially when I have a captive audience strapped into a child safety seat, safely tucked in the rear of the car, where there’s no danger of me seeing him roll his eyes. Look, I never said I’d got the hang of this parenting thing yet. Anyhow, back to being present.

“Hey buddy,” I said, “can I ask you a question?” This is how I always start the diversionary tactics, and I think he’s starting to catch on; I may not have seen the eye roll, but I’m fairly certain I heard it. He humored me anyway.

“Yeah.”

“Are you having fun, thinking about going home?”

“No,” he whined. “That’s why I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here and have fun.”

“But you’re not having fun right now, are you? Because you’re thinking about when we have to leave, and that’s making you feel sad, and so you’re missing out on the fun you could be having right now, aren’t you?”

He eyed me suspiciously. I don’t blame him; I am, after all, only a step dude. I’m also the guy who once tried to convince him that eating his broccoli would make his magic stronger, and that he’d managed to make the clock disappear once he’d cleared his plate. Try explaining that one to the kindergarten teacher when she tells you he tried to turn one of his classmates invisible. And so when I say things that he doesn’t already know to be true and factual...well let’s just say he raises an eyebrow in consideration.

After a few seconds of deliberation, though, it clicked. He didn’t even say anything else, just wandered off to find his cousins so they could play. He grokked it: enjoying his now was more important than worrying about the future.

I, on the other hand, had to take a minute to process what had just happened. I realized that just a few months ago, he wouldn’t have given a flying fuck about leaving until we’d strapped him in his car seat and were driving away. Why? Because up until recently, he had no concept of time. Everything in his world happened now. There was no past, no future, only what was right in front of him. But that was starting to change. Now some old dude was having to remind him to stay present. The same old dude who was constantly telling him “Ten more minutes to bedtime,” and “We’re leaving for school in half an hour.”

I can’t think of any better example of how we screw ourselves up into the giant balls of stress by the time we’re young adults. On the one hand, we preach the value of time and we push deadlines and timelines and schedule every minute of every day, and on the other hand, we tell each other to slow down and smell the roses. No wonder we’re fucked up: we can’t even decide whether to live in the past, future, or present.

Jeez. I hope he’s ready for a discussion about duality and paradox on the drive to school tomorrow.
















 

She Wants a Little Sister...Hah!

So, for the past few days, I have been having a raging argument about whether or not I'll have another baby. Not with my husband, but with one of my kids. She won't give it up, starting in the morning with, "can I tell you a secret? I really want a little sister," going through to after school when she involves other people, "Mrs. R, shouldn't I have a little sister?" and continuing all the way into nightfall when the tiredness overcomes her and she flops on the ground kicking and yelling, "I want a little sister! I want a little sister!"

Oh, the injustice. The unfairness of it all. I mean, clearly, from her actions above, she's ready to take on the role of mature older sister. She's not still a baby herself or anything.

I explain to her how much work it will be.

"I'll feed her!" she says. Then thinks. "But you have to change the diapers," she concedes.

I tell her it takes nine months, and that's after I get pregnant so it could take years.

This is devastating.

Can't I understand that she wants a baby sister, now? How about tomorrow? What if she's really, really good and doesn't cry for the rest of the day? Then can she have a baby sister tomorrow?

I am so cruel.

I tell her I don't want any more babies.

Unacceptable. Moms should have all the babies all the time. They shouldn't have a choice. She'd make a right little Republican, wouldn't she? (Oh, cheap zing, there. Let's move along.)

Finally, she goes to my husband for help.

First of all: Hahaha. Haha. Hahahahahahaha. HAHA. Yeah, right, kid. You'd have better luck getting a puppy from him. The chances of a puppy are at least .0000001.

He tells her no.

She tantrums because she's so ready and mature and can't we just see that? It's very convincing.

Finally, after she calms down, waits a while, and asks again, my husband smiles at me.

"Yes," he says.

And it stops.

And I'm thinking, why didn't I think of that?

But, fear not, it was only a slight reprieve. The next day, she was at it again, looking for her little sister. We went through all the same arguments.

Finally, finally, I decided to stop assuming I knew why she wanted another baby (cuddly, cute, something to help grow, etc.) and asked her.

"N has a big sister," she said.

"Well, yes, but N isn't a big sister," I replied. "There are all kinds of sisters."

"Yeah!" she said. "N isn't a big sister and she has to sit in the back seat like me. But her big sister gets to sit in the front seat. I want to sit in the front seat, mama. So, mama? Can I have a little sister?"

Because in Natalina's world, if big sisters sit in the front seat, then she needs to be a big sister, stat.

Clearly that is the easiest route to the front seat of the car.

Preschooler logic at its best.

Two is enough.




 

Preschool Pointers - 28: You Don't Have to Distract All the Time

Problem:

Your kids aren't being reasonable (again!). You've asked them to do something and they won't do it, and not only that, now they're whining about it (or worse, throwing a tantrum). Or they're throwing a tantrum over over whether or not they get to shut the door, or how red the leaf they picked up is or is not. Whatever. Whatever it is that they're being feisty all over is ridiculous.

Solution:

While many parents distract, distract, distract, I tend to think that by four years old, some of that technique is held over from when the kids were smaller, less verbal, less able to think critically. And sometimes, even at four, you do need to distract, lest the whole public area you're in tumble down in the disaster about to be thrown at you. But sometimes, I think, anyway, your kids need to man up. (Or at least my kids.) I want fully fledged humans, here, and I want them to reason through their problems, prioritize and compromise. I don't want them to be good-natured because someone showed them something shiny to get their mind off their troubles. So, sometimes, I'll throw down. You broke a bit of your ice cream cone? Well, you're just going to eat it anyway, so hop to, and next time be more gentle. No, I'm not going to get you interested in how the ice cream looks at it melts or sing you a song or make you a new one. Just do the things you need to do.

It's not that this should be the only way, but I'm thinking the time has come now to integrate it into the distraction motif, and start encouraging overcoming problems rather than avoiding them.







 

Moment of the Week: 113 - Lollipops Before Breakfast

This week: toddler logic at its best. Dulce makes the case for a lollipop before breakfast.

 

Special Days -- Twins' Style

My twins are four. They know they are different people. They know it. Yet their lives revolve around this fierce competition, a strange competition, in which no one must win or lose, but all things must be equal at all times. At the same time.

I've just recently gotten them to start accepting different snacks if the want different things. Previously, the twin that wanted something, wanted the other twin to also have it, even if she didn't want it, and if that twin wasn't eating it, then never mind, they didn't want any snack at all.

Not having power over the brain and desires of the other twin eats at the girls day in and day out.
 Related to this, one cannot have anything special that the other does not get exactly at that moment. I mean, they can, but they hate it, and it results in some very tactical movements on my part for days.

It's understandable in a way. I mean, they even share a birthday, the most special of days. This is a hard concept for them. But it must be taught. They must understand. It's not a slight to one when the other does or gets something good.

That's something even adults struggle with. When a friend meets with success, we cannot take it as a bad reflection on ourselves. Yet sometimes we do. Doubly so with twins who are only four years old.

Hah! I just told Dulce she was a good girl. Lilly immediately asked, "I'm not a good girl?"

Point.

Anyway, the preschool operates on a system of "special days." These are the days each student is responsible for snack and gets to do things like lead the line and sit in the center of the circle.

Every time our special days come (and they're one right after the other, thank goodness), it is mayhem here all week. The first twin constantly harping on how it is going to be her special day first, and the second twin pitching fits about it.

The entire time we prepare, I have to fend off tantrums and ultimatums, constantly explaining about turns and sharing. Constantly affirming that they are separate girls and deserve their own special day.

Yesterday, we made these:

Why, yes, they are chocolate covered pretzels made to look like pumpkins. Because I am a pinterest master. But that's beside the point.

During the craft, I had a glorious reprieve, in which Dulce finally let up and started having a good time. She accepted that she would go second. Or so she said.

I should have known she meant for that one second, and she'd go right back to complaining about it as soon as the craft was over.

I hope to report that as the year progresses, the girls get used to this. And not for their maturity and grace, but for my sanity.


 

Toddler Tricks - 88: Stop Talking

Problem: You're talking again. And again and again and again. It's not your fault. You've been programmed. You know that why you answer one question, another is coming, and then another, and another after that. You've done this dance so many times that you can even anticipate the odd tangents your child's questions will take. So you just cut them off at the pass. However, the more you talk, the more the kids have as fodder to take issue with. The more you talk, the more likely you are to incur the illogical toddler wrath of doom. And the more you talk, the less likely it is that you'll know which one of your ridiculous statements set them off.

As an example, yesterday, Natalina asked me if we were going outside.

"No, we can't go outside because you're still sick, and  it's kind of smoky out there, from the wildfires in North Florida, not here, so we don't have to worry about fire, but smoke travels a long, long way, and smoke can really hurt your throat and your throat is already sore from the sickness, plus your not feeling well and running around out there will probably really tire you out when you need to recover. Also, it might rain, and if it does that, you'll be wet and miserable, and we can't use our raincoats and rain boots because it's cold out there today, so it's not like in the summer time when we can jump in puddles."

First of all, I don't like talking for ten minutes. Secondly, she didn't ask me any of that, I just am so used to her doing so that I launched into it without giving her the chance. Third, why the heck am I talking about puddles by the end? Fourth, she only asked me if we could go outside again right after a finished talking. Fifth, I was actually quite lucky she didn't pick one of those fragments to tantrum about. I certainly gave her enough to work with.

Solution: Shut up.

No, seriously, your tangential answers may have sufficed in the beginning, but now they're not doing you any favors. Let your kid ask the next question. Maybe she will, or maybe she'll surprise you and accept the first answer. But not only are you talking up a storm of ridiculousness all by your lonesome, you're also stopping your child's creative process. The asking of follow-up questions, as annoying as the 80th one is, shows critical thinking on your child's part. If you circumvent that, they don't get a chance to process your answer and think through their own alternatives. Reaching out and connecting thoughts is important at this age, as is learning how to bargain and think their way out of tough situations. Don't hamper it. It's better to be quieter than to talk for 30 minutes straight.

The Alternate Dimension of the SAHM

It's 8 a.m., and I'm telling my girls that they can switch jackets after lunch if they hate the ones they're wearing so much. I'm arguing with them over who changed out of their nighties first yesterday and whose turn it is to go first today. I'm explaining to them that the toilet flushes at the same speed for both of them.

It's 10 a.m., and I'm trying not to lose my mind over the fact that at 3 and a half, these girls refuse to feed themselves. One of them is sitting in front of the television with a full cup of yogurt just going to waste. The other has painted the couch in the stuff. I contemplate yelling at them and calling them names. But I don't.

It's 10:30 a.m., and I'm trying to explain to them that they can't have candy because they didn't eat their yogurt. I'm wasting too many words. I'm getting met with frustration, antics and yelling. Doesn't matter. No candy.

It's 12 p.m., and we try again with oatmeal. There's no television this time because their reason for not eating their yogurt was that they were trying to watch the video and they couldn't eat and watch at the same time. This does not go over well. The oatmeal joins the yogurt on the couch. Some of it goes down their shirts for good measure. I mull over allowing it to stay in there all day as natural consequence, plus, isn't oatmeal good for the skin? I wash it off and hand-feed them half of the cereal that's left.

It's 1 p.m., and I go back and forth with them about who picks out the stories today. Everything is so intensely important. Then I reason with them about who puts their diaper on first, going back to who put their clothes on first this morning.

It's 3 p.m., and I give them a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It's the only thing they'll eat without a fight. I try to referee as they fight over who gets which chair.

It's 4 p.m., and I'm trying to dry a stuffed bear with a dish towel because one of them has cried on the animal in a fit of rage and is now utterly surprised that it's wet and uncomfortable.

It's 5 p.m., the girls are irate that I will not put a video on for them. I put on songs instead. They've had enough TV today. They cry for 45 minutes. I think maybe they're right, I mean, they really don't want to listen to music. I wait. Five minutes later they've decided they won't win this one and they're dancing their fool heads off.

It's 6:30 p.m., and they're arguing with me about the virtues of eating ice cream before dinner. I take them far too seriously, but in the end I decide that they're mistaken. Ice cream before dinner is a bad idea. This decision doesn't help the atmosphere in the house.

It's 7:30 p.m., and they should be starving. They eat all their broccoli. They say their chicken fingers are too hard to eat. My husband believes them. I do not. They've got all their teeth, and I've seen the marks those teeth can leave on their sister's skin when they're mad. They are three. They can bite off a piece of chicken finger.

It's 8 p.m., and they finally get their ice cream, even though they didn't eat all their dinner. They're lucky they have such a kind daddy.

...

My life is a circus. Having two three-year olds as my only companions skews my view of how life works. They're so convincing, and now that they can hold conversations that actually mean something, I forget that their logic hasn't caught up with their mouths.

I treat them as if they know what they are talking about. As if they give the right weight to the right priorities. Suddenly the kind of shoes they're wearing really is as important as the errand we're running. My emphasis meter is all messed up. I don't even know what's real anymore. And they never knew.

I have to take a step back and remember that as fervently as they feel about any given detail at any given time, they actually don't really mean it. They don't know what they want. They're making it up as they go along. And since they have no reference point, they just assign arbitrary importance to any random thing.

And I'll believe them. Unless I catch myself.

Parenting is hard.

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Little Kids - They're Just Like People, Only Smaller (Part I)

You can learn so much about human nature from observing little kids as they begin to make their way in the world. This morning, Dulce taught me how people argue and why little things can carry so much weight for so long. It's something I knew, anyway, but it's amazing to see it brought to life on a little stage through my children.

Earlier, my husband was getting ready for work upstairs. Dulce was looking for her Bean, a blanket she's carried around since she was wee. She wandered upstairs, in hopes of finding it. (Bean was being stealth washed and dried after an unfortunate accident involving urine. Being a stay at home mom is very glamorous.)

When Dulce arrived in our bedroom, my husband was getting his work clothes together.

"What are you doing up here?" he asked loudly, in an alarmed tone. You see, the iron was on and he was across the room, and the last thing anyone wants is an iron to the face. You can sense the danger. She ambles up, pulls a cord trying to get a better look, and BAM. Emergency room. No thanks.

You can see it. I can see it. My husband could see it. Dulce? Couldn't see it.

She flies down the stairs, crying at the top of her lungs about the injustice of a world that won't let her look for her Bean.

I mean, this was big. She was inconsolable for at least two whole minutes. Then she started playing and all was forgiven and forgotten. Or so we thought.

When my husband made his way downstairs for breakfast, Dulce (with her newly dried Bean, that I had transferred from the dryer to the freezer then out to the chair when she wasn't looking, so that she wouldn't notice the temperature difference) walked right up to him.

"Daddy?" she asked. "Why tell me downstairs?"
"Because it was dangerous upstairs. The iron is hot and you could have gotten hurt."

Makes sense, right? Surely she would see the light now. But she didn't. That explanation did not cater to her mindset. The iron had nothing to do with anything and it was completely boggling that when faced with the straightforward question of why she had been disallowed to continue her search for Bean, her father had, instead of answering with any pertinent information, gone off on some tangent about some iron. Adults, she must have thought, utterly useless.

Then she did what we all do when faced with an answer that doesn't make sense in the box in which we live. She justified her actions and reasked her question, hoping the emphasis would rest on the right part this time, and her father would finally "get" it.

"No," she said. "I just looking for my Bean. Why you yell at me downstairs?"

Sometimes we cannot see the other person's point of view, no matter how obvious it is. We won't work to connect something that seems unattached to our argument or problem, and the other person involved can't see where we are coming from either. The traditional impasse.

She justified her actions and asked us to justify ours, but not in some mumbo-jumbo way. In a way that directly correlated to her specific problem.

My husband and I joked afterward that it was as if she'd come up and said, "Now that we've all had some time to cool down about this, can you explain to me why you're always such an asshole?"

Which is often, more or less, what adults say to each other in that first conversation after an argument, before the sides are given equal play on equal ground. It is the sticking point that loses many friendships, simplified toddler-style.

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A Twin Specialty

Toddlers don't like compromise. This is a shame. Compromise is one of my main tactics in calming the girls, and since they don't like it, well, it doesn't work at all. I keep waiting for the day that they will magically understand how both of them get a little of what they want and it's the best I can do. I'm not sure that day will ever come.

See, when you have one child, if that child requests something that seems silly to you, but doesn't really make a difference either way, you can humor her, thus avoiding any drama and no one is excessively put out. This would work great for small things that don't have much bearing on the overall parenting or parent/child control battle. You certainly wouldn't want to allow the child to run into traffic if that's what she wanted to do, but if she needs to take a bite of sandwich on the couch instead of in the kitchen (in my house) that's a bendable rule, and I'm okay with her making that decision.

Of course, what inevitably happens is that the other twin decides arbitrarily that under no circumstances should anyone take a bite of anything anywhere but the kitchen. Now, I'm stuck. I can't give one a bite in the kitchen, and the other one on the couch. They each get upset that the other is taking a bite where the one didn't decide. I can't give them both bites mid-distance between the couch and the kitchen. Now no one is getting what they want and everyone is angry. I can't say, "we'll take a bite on the couch now, and a bite in the kitchen later." You'd think that would appease at least the couch-wanting twin, but no. She's preemptively upset about the future kitchen bite. Too upset to enjoy the current couch bite. And the kitchen twin is upset about the current couch bite, so that she cannot look forward to the future kitchen bite. They've no understanding of the future. Everything is the present.

This happens often with videos. One will ask for a video, the other will want a different video, I will say, "We'll watch this one now and that one later," and instead of them both being pacified, they're both beyond upset, fighting valiantly against the other twin's choice, now, ever and in the future.

Another great example happened this morning. They were playing quietly at the base of the stairs, and I almost didn't want to go downstairs because I knew the sight of me would disrupt their peaceful balance and I would have to suffer the consequences of merely existing and having to pass them to make breakfast.

I was right.

I made my way down the stairs and got halfway down.

"Mama comes down with herself!" Dulce shouted triumphantly (which tells me that they had quietly argued over whether they were going to come up to our bedroom to get me.) Dulce's proclamation was obstinate, claiming victory. Natalina would have none of it.

"No, mama, go back upstairs. Let me come get you."

"Well, I'm already halfway down and I wanted to sing Good Morning to you!"

WAAAAAH (didn't work).

"How about I sit right here, I'm half-up, half-down. You can come get me the rest of the way, and Dulce knows I came downstairs."

WAAAAAAH (didn't work.)

I sat there for a moment, until Natalina came up the stairs and grabbed my hand, pulling me back up the stairs. I followed her because this is a big improvement. We've been working on her staying calm and finding other avenues to show her meaning if she feels she's not getting her point across. I was quite proud of this, actually.

She put me back in bed, then immediately woke me up again and we went back downstairs. It was quick enough so that Dulce didn't get upset because she wasn't sure that Natalina had gotten what she wanted and didn't want to make a fuss, in case she didn't.

I got off light, to be honest.

Then they fought about dresses, who fell last in the park, whether or not they'd watch Curious George while I made breakfast, which side of the couch was whose, and whether or not their sister was over the line on the couch.

Having twins is...different.






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Getting Out of Trouble

As my children get a better grasp on conversation, emotion and dare I say logic, they are starting to dictate our movements more and more, wriggling out of tough situations, testing avenues and words to see what will let them do the most damage and get in the least amount of trouble.

Here are a few of their favorites:

They'll do something they're not supposed to do, and I'll tell them not to do that.

Response: "No, I just" (insert bland, non-troublesome activity here, that happens to also be taking place due to their actions.)

Example: "Stop stepping on my computer."

"No, I just reaching the chair."

Now, that's true, but it doesn't change the fact that in order to reach the chair they need to step on my computer.

This is amazing, developmentally. It shows a leap of understanding emphasis and distraction. Good job, kids. Now, get off my computer.

...

They'll start throwing a tantrum (normally because they've said something and have deemed my response incorrect, which is a no-win situation for me.) They'll flop around until I start my count-down, which means time out is near.

Response: "HUG! MAMA HUG!"

Yes, they scream-cry hug at me, as if all they were after in the first place was a little affection from me, and how could I be so cruel as to withhold my love from them? Had I just been reasonable about giving them a hug to begin with, they never would have gotten so upset.

Except their tantrum had nothing to do with wanting a hug from me. They pulled a bait and switch.

And this is particularly genius because not only are they doing the emphasis and distraction thing mentioned above, but what parent isn't going to go hug a clearly distressed child asking for love? You win this time, babies. On the plus side, at least the tantrum stops after that.

...

This is my least favorite. They will do something totally atrocious. Pull their hair, or throw a book at me, or something completely unacceptable. I'll speak very sternly to them, deepening my voice (and I have a deep voice to begin with) and look pointedly at them.

Response: They'll turn around and ask me, just as I'm most annoyed, "You nice, mama? You nice?"

No! I'm not nice! Grrrr.

But you can't do that (often.) So, usually I sigh, defeated, and say softly (or loudly, depending on how annoyed I really am), "Yes, I am nice, but you are not being nice right now." And I go on to explain what I was trying to explain before.

And they smile and nod and plan when they're going to throw their next book.

Three year olds. They're so smart. And so three years old.


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