Tuesday, June 08, 2004
The Library
Yesterday I decided to borrow a page from mom's playbook and take Max to the "library" (a.k.a. the bookstore). After Max recovered from his disappointment that I, not Babee, was taking him, we had a wonderful time. We primarily canvassed the children's section for books about dinosaurs, with occasional detours to look at horse books. Then Max wanted to see a book that he and mom had discovered, a charming Caldicott Award winner about a mischievous rabbit and his misadventures. We eventually found it, much to Max's delight.
At the beginning of our outing, I had told Max that he could choose one book that we would buy. I gave him a choice between the book about the rabbit and one of the dinosaur books. That's when a Wiggles book caught Max's eye. Thinking it might stanch his interest, we read that one, too. Then Max announced, "I want to buy the Wiggles book." THAT I was not going to do.
And so the tantrum began. Yelling "I want the Wiggles book," Max made a dash for it. As fast as he was able, he ran from the children's section to the other end of Barnes and Noble, clutching the Wiggles book like a diminutive half-back headed for the endzone. I was still laughing as I chased him the length of the store. But when I picked him up, the screaming began in earnest.
Books on childraising are very clear about what you are to do in this situation: leave immediately regardless of the degree of sacrifice on your part, like abandoning the shopping cart, heaped with the week's groceries, in the checkout line. I had every intention to do just that. But Max had such a viselike grip on the Wiggles book that I couldn't leave the store without shoplifting.
I walked to the checkout counters and sat Max on the one closest to the exit. My goal was to extricate the book, then promptly dash out the door. Max was in high gear by now, face red and contorted, tears streaming. I pried and pried. No sooner would I get one hand off the book, he'd grasp it with the other. If I managed to get both hands off the book and take hold of his writhing body, he'd twist around and grab the book again. Round and round we went, all four hands flailing. All the while I was talking in calm tones, the way a horse whisperer might sooth a spooked horse. I might as well have been whispering to a voracious lion at feeding time.
Unfortunately for Max, size does prevail. As I carried him, still screaming, out of the bookstore, the relief of the patrons queued up to buy their books was palpable. I was relieved, too, to mop up the remains of the tantrum in the relative privacy of the parking lot. I used to think that pressure was giving a presentation to the bank's Board of Directors. Oh, no. Pressure is dealing with an hysterical toddler in public, under the scrutiny of a dozen tense strangers. After he was safely in the car, Max wailed for several more minutes. And then, like a fleeting thunderstorm on a summer afternoon, it was over.
At moments like this, I wonder whether Max has been putting me to a test. Often as some struggle between us subsides, Max will say spontaneously, "I love you, mommy." What I choose to hear in those words is, "Thanks, mom. I needed those limits." Yesterday, I had to content myself with, "Mommy, I want to play with Karen in the pool." Not as emotionally fulfilling as "I love you", but a signal nonetheless that he had moved on.
This morning after breakfast, Max asked if we could go to the library. I think I'll let Babee take him next time.
At the beginning of our outing, I had told Max that he could choose one book that we would buy. I gave him a choice between the book about the rabbit and one of the dinosaur books. That's when a Wiggles book caught Max's eye. Thinking it might stanch his interest, we read that one, too. Then Max announced, "I want to buy the Wiggles book." THAT I was not going to do.
And so the tantrum began. Yelling "I want the Wiggles book," Max made a dash for it. As fast as he was able, he ran from the children's section to the other end of Barnes and Noble, clutching the Wiggles book like a diminutive half-back headed for the endzone. I was still laughing as I chased him the length of the store. But when I picked him up, the screaming began in earnest.
Books on childraising are very clear about what you are to do in this situation: leave immediately regardless of the degree of sacrifice on your part, like abandoning the shopping cart, heaped with the week's groceries, in the checkout line. I had every intention to do just that. But Max had such a viselike grip on the Wiggles book that I couldn't leave the store without shoplifting.
I walked to the checkout counters and sat Max on the one closest to the exit. My goal was to extricate the book, then promptly dash out the door. Max was in high gear by now, face red and contorted, tears streaming. I pried and pried. No sooner would I get one hand off the book, he'd grasp it with the other. If I managed to get both hands off the book and take hold of his writhing body, he'd twist around and grab the book again. Round and round we went, all four hands flailing. All the while I was talking in calm tones, the way a horse whisperer might sooth a spooked horse. I might as well have been whispering to a voracious lion at feeding time.
Unfortunately for Max, size does prevail. As I carried him, still screaming, out of the bookstore, the relief of the patrons queued up to buy their books was palpable. I was relieved, too, to mop up the remains of the tantrum in the relative privacy of the parking lot. I used to think that pressure was giving a presentation to the bank's Board of Directors. Oh, no. Pressure is dealing with an hysterical toddler in public, under the scrutiny of a dozen tense strangers. After he was safely in the car, Max wailed for several more minutes. And then, like a fleeting thunderstorm on a summer afternoon, it was over.
At moments like this, I wonder whether Max has been putting me to a test. Often as some struggle between us subsides, Max will say spontaneously, "I love you, mommy." What I choose to hear in those words is, "Thanks, mom. I needed those limits." Yesterday, I had to content myself with, "Mommy, I want to play with Karen in the pool." Not as emotionally fulfilling as "I love you", but a signal nonetheless that he had moved on.
This morning after breakfast, Max asked if we could go to the library. I think I'll let Babee take him next time.
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