Monday, August 30, 2004
School Daze
Boo is fussy. A 102+ degree temperature will do that to you, even if you're a baby. Motrin, liquids and lots of sleep seemed to be helping, and we were limping through the weekend without too much difficulty.
Yesterday afternoon, Max opted for the grocery store rather than a nap. Sometimes, however, the mind is willing, but the body is weak. On the way home, Max fell asleep in the car, and I was confronted with maneuvering a sleeping child from car to bed without rousing him. This challenge is replete with difficulties--carseat buckles, door locks, eager dogs, hard-soled shoes on hardwood floors, window blinds, bed covers, double-knotted shoes on small feet, and so forth. Yesterday we navigated the hazards successfully, and Max remained fast asleep. It was 3:30.
When Max was still sleeping at 6:30, I decided to wake him for dinner. After some jostling, he acknowledged that he wanted to eat, then rolled over and back to sleep. We repeated the process at 7:30. Now Max had been napping for 4 hours. With Boo's condition in mind, I wondered whether Max might be getting sick, too. Shortly after 9:00, I gently worked his limp body beneath the covers and kissed him good night.
At 10:00, Boo awakened, wracked by fever. His neck and belly were so hot that I worried his condition might take a dangerous turn during the night. So Lee and I agreed to put him between us in bed, expecting a relatively easy night with a baby too tired and sick to generate much trouble.
Nice fantasy, but it was pure folly. Boo is a child who adores his father. If he hears Lee's voice at the back door, Boo takes off at a vigorous crawl. When Lee is showering, Boo will scamper into the bathroom and howl beside the shower door until Lee emerges. My efforts to put Boo down can be ruined just by the sound of Lee's voice in the hall. If Lee's in the vicinity, Boo wants to be with his dad. Period.
Last night was no exception. The excitement of being back in our bed was enough to perk Boo up considerably. I might have provided the late night snack, but Lee was the main attraction. Boo pulled himself half way across Lee's torso and rested his cheek on Lee's broad chest like a pillow. Watching them together, the dark outline of Lee's arm draped around Boo's small body, my heart swelled.
We'll never know whether this arrangement might eventually have succeeded, because at 2:30, Max woke up, demanding that I lie down with him. In an effort to broker some much-needed sleep, I went to his room. After more than an hour of pokes, prods and kicks, I gave Max an ultimatum and when he breached it, I retreated to my bed. Max followed. Upon discovering Boo in our bed, Max climbed aboard, too.
Surely it is a testament to our impaired judgment that we actually entertained the possibility of sleeping--all four of us--in our bed. The excitement was way too much for the boys. Lying nose to nose with his brother, Max exclaimed, "I LIKE BABIES! BOO BOO LIKES ME, TOO!" And then they both began to laugh. First chuckles, then chortles, then paroxysms of laughter. That's when it dawned on me that Max wasn't in the throes of his typical "I want you to lie down with me" negotations. Max didn't have a fever. He'd just finished 11 hours of sleep. He was awake. Completely, unfalteringly awake. "Mommy, I want to play with my train tracks." I got out of bed.
And so our day began. First train tracks. Then tunnels. Then trucks. Truthfully, I was trying to remain horizontal as much as possible, but no sooner would I begin to doze than Max would startle me awake with a remark like, "Look, mommy, I've climbed all the way to the top of the closet!" Who knew that he could transform the built-in cabinetry in his closet into an ad hoc climbing wall?
At 5:00 Max announced, "Mommy, I want to go to the kitchen. I'm hungry." He had, after all, skipped dinner. "I want goldfish." In case you think I'm a terrible mom for serving Max goldfish for breakfast, I did supplement it with cold pizza. This morning, I was incapable of adjudicating any kind of gastronomic boundaries; it was all I could do just to be awake. Then came drawing. Play dough. Cutting and pasting shapes. The Wiggles. By the time Lee wandered into the kitchen shortly before 7:00, Max and I had covered a lot of territory. "Are you going to take Max to school this morning?" he asked. "You're damn right I am," I said. "It can't start soon enough."
There's hidden irony in these words. The school that Max attended last year began at 9:00, but a lot of parents routinely brought their kids in the environs of 9:15. To my way of thinking, it was a very civilized schedule. I had enough time to make the bed, read the paper, and pick up a latte on the way to school (although if I dallied too long, the 9:15 train delayed us even further). While Max's new school officially begins at 8:30, the drop-off time for his extended day program is 8:00. Granted, that's intended as a convenience for working parents, and I may never make the 8:00 carpool line, but as I've contemplated the start of the school year, even 8:30 has seemed a bit punitive to me.
But not this morning. When we arrived at 8:10, Max was sound asleep. I extracted him from the car, taking notice of his appearance for the first time this morning. His hair was tossled and a few crumbs and smudges encircled his puckered lips. The slightly rumpled T-shirt in which he'd slept yesterday was not dirty exactly, but it certainly looked tired. (Didn't we all?) How is it that I managed not to change Max's shirt this morning? I can't even recall my decision-making process. It was not my finest morning as Max's mom. Looking rather ragged myself, I carried Max into his classroom, his head nodding on my shoulder. I explained Max's circumstances to his teacher and told her to call if he was so exhausted that he was disruptive to the class. It took only seconds for Max to join the action. And with a relieved sigh, I left. Last week, Greg said with a laugh that he sometimes thought school was invented so that mothers didn't go crazy. If only it started at 2:30 in the morning.
Yesterday afternoon, Max opted for the grocery store rather than a nap. Sometimes, however, the mind is willing, but the body is weak. On the way home, Max fell asleep in the car, and I was confronted with maneuvering a sleeping child from car to bed without rousing him. This challenge is replete with difficulties--carseat buckles, door locks, eager dogs, hard-soled shoes on hardwood floors, window blinds, bed covers, double-knotted shoes on small feet, and so forth. Yesterday we navigated the hazards successfully, and Max remained fast asleep. It was 3:30.
When Max was still sleeping at 6:30, I decided to wake him for dinner. After some jostling, he acknowledged that he wanted to eat, then rolled over and back to sleep. We repeated the process at 7:30. Now Max had been napping for 4 hours. With Boo's condition in mind, I wondered whether Max might be getting sick, too. Shortly after 9:00, I gently worked his limp body beneath the covers and kissed him good night.
At 10:00, Boo awakened, wracked by fever. His neck and belly were so hot that I worried his condition might take a dangerous turn during the night. So Lee and I agreed to put him between us in bed, expecting a relatively easy night with a baby too tired and sick to generate much trouble.
Nice fantasy, but it was pure folly. Boo is a child who adores his father. If he hears Lee's voice at the back door, Boo takes off at a vigorous crawl. When Lee is showering, Boo will scamper into the bathroom and howl beside the shower door until Lee emerges. My efforts to put Boo down can be ruined just by the sound of Lee's voice in the hall. If Lee's in the vicinity, Boo wants to be with his dad. Period.
Last night was no exception. The excitement of being back in our bed was enough to perk Boo up considerably. I might have provided the late night snack, but Lee was the main attraction. Boo pulled himself half way across Lee's torso and rested his cheek on Lee's broad chest like a pillow. Watching them together, the dark outline of Lee's arm draped around Boo's small body, my heart swelled.
We'll never know whether this arrangement might eventually have succeeded, because at 2:30, Max woke up, demanding that I lie down with him. In an effort to broker some much-needed sleep, I went to his room. After more than an hour of pokes, prods and kicks, I gave Max an ultimatum and when he breached it, I retreated to my bed. Max followed. Upon discovering Boo in our bed, Max climbed aboard, too.
Surely it is a testament to our impaired judgment that we actually entertained the possibility of sleeping--all four of us--in our bed. The excitement was way too much for the boys. Lying nose to nose with his brother, Max exclaimed, "I LIKE BABIES! BOO BOO LIKES ME, TOO!" And then they both began to laugh. First chuckles, then chortles, then paroxysms of laughter. That's when it dawned on me that Max wasn't in the throes of his typical "I want you to lie down with me" negotations. Max didn't have a fever. He'd just finished 11 hours of sleep. He was awake. Completely, unfalteringly awake. "Mommy, I want to play with my train tracks." I got out of bed.
And so our day began. First train tracks. Then tunnels. Then trucks. Truthfully, I was trying to remain horizontal as much as possible, but no sooner would I begin to doze than Max would startle me awake with a remark like, "Look, mommy, I've climbed all the way to the top of the closet!" Who knew that he could transform the built-in cabinetry in his closet into an ad hoc climbing wall?
At 5:00 Max announced, "Mommy, I want to go to the kitchen. I'm hungry." He had, after all, skipped dinner. "I want goldfish." In case you think I'm a terrible mom for serving Max goldfish for breakfast, I did supplement it with cold pizza. This morning, I was incapable of adjudicating any kind of gastronomic boundaries; it was all I could do just to be awake. Then came drawing. Play dough. Cutting and pasting shapes. The Wiggles. By the time Lee wandered into the kitchen shortly before 7:00, Max and I had covered a lot of territory. "Are you going to take Max to school this morning?" he asked. "You're damn right I am," I said. "It can't start soon enough."
There's hidden irony in these words. The school that Max attended last year began at 9:00, but a lot of parents routinely brought their kids in the environs of 9:15. To my way of thinking, it was a very civilized schedule. I had enough time to make the bed, read the paper, and pick up a latte on the way to school (although if I dallied too long, the 9:15 train delayed us even further). While Max's new school officially begins at 8:30, the drop-off time for his extended day program is 8:00. Granted, that's intended as a convenience for working parents, and I may never make the 8:00 carpool line, but as I've contemplated the start of the school year, even 8:30 has seemed a bit punitive to me.
But not this morning. When we arrived at 8:10, Max was sound asleep. I extracted him from the car, taking notice of his appearance for the first time this morning. His hair was tossled and a few crumbs and smudges encircled his puckered lips. The slightly rumpled T-shirt in which he'd slept yesterday was not dirty exactly, but it certainly looked tired. (Didn't we all?) How is it that I managed not to change Max's shirt this morning? I can't even recall my decision-making process. It was not my finest morning as Max's mom. Looking rather ragged myself, I carried Max into his classroom, his head nodding on my shoulder. I explained Max's circumstances to his teacher and told her to call if he was so exhausted that he was disruptive to the class. It took only seconds for Max to join the action. And with a relieved sigh, I left. Last week, Greg said with a laugh that he sometimes thought school was invented so that mothers didn't go crazy. If only it started at 2:30 in the morning.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Ask a stupid question....
Several days ago I asked Max how he spelled his name. I wish I could recall the context for asking him this; perhaps then it wouldn't seem like such a ridiculous question. After all, Max does know how to spell his name; he can even write his name. Nevertheless, I asked.
With a straight face, he responded, "M.A.W." I laughed and said, "Max, that's silly. How do you spell your name." He replied, "M.A.X.Y.Z." And then he burst into song: "Now I know my ABC's. Next time won't you sing with me!"
Can you spell "PRECOCIOUS?"
With a straight face, he responded, "M.A.W." I laughed and said, "Max, that's silly. How do you spell your name." He replied, "M.A.X.Y.Z." And then he burst into song: "Now I know my ABC's. Next time won't you sing with me!"
Can you spell "PRECOCIOUS?"
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Anticipation
Max got a haircut yesterday. From Max's vantage point, Andre's is full of small pleasures. Spray bottles are really cool. The big powder puff that Leslie uses to dust small hairs off Max's neck tickles. Best of all, there's lots of chocolate.
Max had been in the chair for about 30 seconds when he asked for his first piece of chocolate. He polished off three Hershey's kisses in rapid succession and was lobbying for more. I gave him an ultimatum: one more piece. I told him that he could have it after his haircut was over, and that until then he could anticipate it. I asked Max if he knew what "anticipate" meant, and he said no. I told him that it meant to look forward to something, and that if he cooperated (to which he said, "That means working together") with Leslie, he could anticipate enjoying his piece of chocolate at the end of his haircut.
This seemed to make sense to Max. He asked if he could just hold the chocolate. When I allowed as much, he asked if I would unwrap it for him. I said yes, but I reminded him that this was his last piece. Now holding the bare chocolate in his hand, he opened his mouth very wide. I waited and watched, fearing that if the chocolate disappeared, we might be en route to a meltdown over another morsel.
Grasping the chocolate between his thumb and forefinger, he put the chocolate between his open jaws and froze. Several seconds elapsed. Then he pulled the chocolate back out, and burst out laughing. For the duration of his haircut, he repeatedly positioned the chocolate just over his tongue, tempting himself again and again and resisting each time. Max had discovered something about anticipation and was milking it for all it was worth.
When I relayed this story to Lee's mom this afternoon, she picked up on an aspect of this that I'd missed. A psychologist by training, Nancy pointed out that one of the best indicators of how well a child will do in life is his or her ability to delay gratification. So while I may not see self-control from Max as often as I'd like, there's hope for him yet.
When at last Max's hair was neatly trimmed and we were heading home, he popped the chocolate into his mouth. Mmmm...it appeared to be worth the wait.
Max had been in the chair for about 30 seconds when he asked for his first piece of chocolate. He polished off three Hershey's kisses in rapid succession and was lobbying for more. I gave him an ultimatum: one more piece. I told him that he could have it after his haircut was over, and that until then he could anticipate it. I asked Max if he knew what "anticipate" meant, and he said no. I told him that it meant to look forward to something, and that if he cooperated (to which he said, "That means working together") with Leslie, he could anticipate enjoying his piece of chocolate at the end of his haircut.
This seemed to make sense to Max. He asked if he could just hold the chocolate. When I allowed as much, he asked if I would unwrap it for him. I said yes, but I reminded him that this was his last piece. Now holding the bare chocolate in his hand, he opened his mouth very wide. I waited and watched, fearing that if the chocolate disappeared, we might be en route to a meltdown over another morsel.
Grasping the chocolate between his thumb and forefinger, he put the chocolate between his open jaws and froze. Several seconds elapsed. Then he pulled the chocolate back out, and burst out laughing. For the duration of his haircut, he repeatedly positioned the chocolate just over his tongue, tempting himself again and again and resisting each time. Max had discovered something about anticipation and was milking it for all it was worth.
When I relayed this story to Lee's mom this afternoon, she picked up on an aspect of this that I'd missed. A psychologist by training, Nancy pointed out that one of the best indicators of how well a child will do in life is his or her ability to delay gratification. So while I may not see self-control from Max as often as I'd like, there's hope for him yet.
When at last Max's hair was neatly trimmed and we were heading home, he popped the chocolate into his mouth. Mmmm...it appeared to be worth the wait.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
I Am The Walrus
Several months ago Max began to...um, let me think how to say this...explore his nostrils with his index finger. This indelicate habit seemed to emerge from out of thin air. Then one day I walked into his classroom to find all of the boys with their fingers in their noses. The mystery was solved.
I have tried to strike a balance between admonishing Max not to do this and reacting with enough nonchalance that it doesn't become more appealing to him. The approach I tend to take is to say, "Fingers don't belong in noses!", which usually takes us on a playful verbal adventure about where various other things do belong.
A few days ago when mom was holding Boo, I realized how many pictures I have of mom with Max and how few I have of mom with Reed. To make a dent in this imbalance, I pulled out my camera. It didn't take long for Max to join the photo shoot. When I asked everyone to smile, Max put his index finger in his nose. I told Max that I wasn't going to take his picture with his finger in his nose. He laughed, but didn't budge. I thought I'd give Max a creative alternative: I suggested that he put his finger in his ear. And that's exactly what he did. Grinning broadly, he put the index finger of his other hand in his ear.
I reiterated that I wasn't going to take his picture with his finger in his nose. That's when he took his finger out of his ear and placed it in his other nostril. Once again, I told Max that I wasn't going to take his picture with his fingers in his nose. And then he exclaimed proudly, "Mommy, I'm a walrus!"
Sometimes you just have to laugh. (And we did.)
I have tried to strike a balance between admonishing Max not to do this and reacting with enough nonchalance that it doesn't become more appealing to him. The approach I tend to take is to say, "Fingers don't belong in noses!", which usually takes us on a playful verbal adventure about where various other things do belong.
A few days ago when mom was holding Boo, I realized how many pictures I have of mom with Max and how few I have of mom with Reed. To make a dent in this imbalance, I pulled out my camera. It didn't take long for Max to join the photo shoot. When I asked everyone to smile, Max put his index finger in his nose. I told Max that I wasn't going to take his picture with his finger in his nose. He laughed, but didn't budge. I thought I'd give Max a creative alternative: I suggested that he put his finger in his ear. And that's exactly what he did. Grinning broadly, he put the index finger of his other hand in his ear.
I reiterated that I wasn't going to take his picture with his finger in his nose. That's when he took his finger out of his ear and placed it in his other nostril. Once again, I told Max that I wasn't going to take his picture with his fingers in his nose. And then he exclaimed proudly, "Mommy, I'm a walrus!"
Sometimes you just have to laugh. (And we did.)
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
My ABC's
By all objective standards, I was a good student. My report cards and transcripts from grade school and college are columns of A's, a smattering of B's and one noteworthy C. (I omit law school only because the grading scheme was different.) Half way through my freshman year at Duke, I came to the misguided decision to take more hours than the recommended load. I'm too embarrassed to publicly confess my reasons for doing so, but pretension and grandiosity featured prominently in my absurd logic.
My additional class that spring was a Russian lit class in which we were fed a heavy diet of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. All that I recall of the novels I ostensibly read was that they were dark and very long and that I didn't have a clue what they were about. The only truly memorable aspect of the class for me was that I showed up for the final on Monday, only to discover that the exam had been given the preceding Friday. Why the professor took pity on me is beyond me, because I hadn't put forth the kind of effort that would merit sympathy. All I know for sure is that that C was a gift. I'm lucky I didn't fail that class.
-----
Sunday morning I took the boys to the pool at the club. By myself. This is possible only because Boo is willing to hang out in his stroller for extended periods of time and because I trust that if I get into a bind, some kindly person will be willing to pitch in and help. We'd been poolside for no more than ten minutes when Max snatched a toy out of another child's hands. Max and I have discussed that this behavior is completely unacceptable no fewer than, oh, about 2.5 million times. I told Max that he had until the count of three to return the toy or we would go home immediately.
One. Two. Three.
Consumed with the pilfered toy, Max ignored me completely. Now I was in a serious bind. It doesn't take Drs. Spock or Brazelton to tell me that consistency is the cornerstone of effective discipline. I had committed myself, and I needed to follow through. But taking Max home seemed more like punishing me. I was guaranteed to be on the receiving end of a tantrum all the way home and for some time thereafter. Lee, who was trying to work from the house, would be none to happy to see us so soon. And I would face the even more difficult task of entertaining both boys quietly so that Lee might get some programming done. Despite these certain hardships, I was resolved.
I took Max's hand and told him we were going home. Recognizing the need for rapid atonement, Max selected one of his own pool toys and handed it to the boy. But it was too late, and I told him so. I picked him up and began to dry him off. He implored, "I'm ready to be nice now, mommy!" I started packing up our gear. Then, sensing an opening, Max took off running. Down the steps. Around the baby pool. Past the lifeguard and the entrance to the gym and the stairs to the big pool and the practice lanes and the slide and the diving boards. When I caught up with him, he reiterated his pledge: "I'm going to be nice now, mommy!"
At this point, I made a major parenting mistake. I capitulated. Positioning my face squarely in front of his own, I glared into Max's eyes and said emphatically, "You have exactly one more chance. NO hitting. NO pushing. NO splashing. NO taking toys away from other people. OR - WE - ARE - GOING - HOME - IMMEDIATELY!"
Sitting nearby, observing the unfolding drama, was an attractive young mother watching her son in the baby pool. After Max had resumed playing, I said sheepishly that I knew that backing down was precisely the wrong thing to do. She smiled sympathetically. "I've been there. I have four boys. You just do the best you can." And then she said something I'll never forget: "Some days you get an A. Some days you get a B."
That's as true a statement as I've ever heard. If I'm honest, though, there are some days, or at least some moments, when I really deserve a C. Like when I was trying to keep all the usual balls in the air and Max discovered a package of M&Ms in the pantry and proceeded to eat so many that he suffered with a stomach ache all evening and couldn't eat dinner. Or when I let him watch 3 or 4 "Dora's" in a row because I'm too drained to come up with something creative to engage him. Or when I raised my voice (that's putting it euphamistically...) because he decided to jump over Boo and landed instead on his head.
As with my academic career, I know that my A and B moments outnumber my C ones many, many times over. Still, it's the C moments that haunt me, because I have to acknowledge that my emotional resume includes so many less-than-stellar qualities--distraction and self-absorption and boredom and mind-numbing fatigue and frustration and rage, to name a few. None of those attributes seems particularly damning as a person (not necessarily pretty, but also not damning). But as a mother, with the awesome power to affect a little person-in-the-making, I'm less forgiving of my considerable limitations.
-----
On Saturday evening, we went out for dinner at the Buffalo Grille. We were pushing our luck a bit because it was already past 7:00 and Max had not had a nap. Even so, Max is usually enthusiastic about trips to "the Buff," as he calls it, because he likes both the macaroni and cheese and the large buffalo head on the wall. But this evening neither of them could hold his attention. He wanted to go outside "to drive the car in the street" (as if that were a possibility...). Lee and I had just begun to enjoy our pecan-crusted catfish and chardonnay. Max was making repeated attempts to escape through the exit that is way too close to Woodway for my comfort. Tired of pursuing him, I issued Max an ultimatum: Get out of the chair one more time, and you will have a time-out in the car and go straight to bed when we get home. Unphased, Max hopped down from his chair. This time the consequences were instantaneous. Out of the restaurant we went, with Max protesting, "I'm going to stay in my chair, mommy." But it was too late. Max and I sat in silence for 5 minutes while Lee finished his meal alone. Then Lee had sentry duty in the car while I returned for my now-cold dinner and now-warm wine. (As I said, enforcing consequences involves sacrifices for the parents, too.)
When we pulled into the driveway, Max was sound asleep. I unbuckled his car seat, and as I scooped him into my arms, he whispered, "I'm going to stay in my chair, mommy." Each time I transport Max's limp body into the house, I recall how safe and loved I felt when dad carried me half-asleep from the car to my bed. Max was asleep again by the time his head hit the pillow. And when I rolled him over to put on his pajamas, his last words of the day were, "I'm going to stay in my chair, mommy."
My additional class that spring was a Russian lit class in which we were fed a heavy diet of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. All that I recall of the novels I ostensibly read was that they were dark and very long and that I didn't have a clue what they were about. The only truly memorable aspect of the class for me was that I showed up for the final on Monday, only to discover that the exam had been given the preceding Friday. Why the professor took pity on me is beyond me, because I hadn't put forth the kind of effort that would merit sympathy. All I know for sure is that that C was a gift. I'm lucky I didn't fail that class.
-----
Sunday morning I took the boys to the pool at the club. By myself. This is possible only because Boo is willing to hang out in his stroller for extended periods of time and because I trust that if I get into a bind, some kindly person will be willing to pitch in and help. We'd been poolside for no more than ten minutes when Max snatched a toy out of another child's hands. Max and I have discussed that this behavior is completely unacceptable no fewer than, oh, about 2.5 million times. I told Max that he had until the count of three to return the toy or we would go home immediately.
One. Two. Three.
Consumed with the pilfered toy, Max ignored me completely. Now I was in a serious bind. It doesn't take Drs. Spock or Brazelton to tell me that consistency is the cornerstone of effective discipline. I had committed myself, and I needed to follow through. But taking Max home seemed more like punishing me. I was guaranteed to be on the receiving end of a tantrum all the way home and for some time thereafter. Lee, who was trying to work from the house, would be none to happy to see us so soon. And I would face the even more difficult task of entertaining both boys quietly so that Lee might get some programming done. Despite these certain hardships, I was resolved.
I took Max's hand and told him we were going home. Recognizing the need for rapid atonement, Max selected one of his own pool toys and handed it to the boy. But it was too late, and I told him so. I picked him up and began to dry him off. He implored, "I'm ready to be nice now, mommy!" I started packing up our gear. Then, sensing an opening, Max took off running. Down the steps. Around the baby pool. Past the lifeguard and the entrance to the gym and the stairs to the big pool and the practice lanes and the slide and the diving boards. When I caught up with him, he reiterated his pledge: "I'm going to be nice now, mommy!"
At this point, I made a major parenting mistake. I capitulated. Positioning my face squarely in front of his own, I glared into Max's eyes and said emphatically, "You have exactly one more chance. NO hitting. NO pushing. NO splashing. NO taking toys away from other people. OR - WE - ARE - GOING - HOME - IMMEDIATELY!"
Sitting nearby, observing the unfolding drama, was an attractive young mother watching her son in the baby pool. After Max had resumed playing, I said sheepishly that I knew that backing down was precisely the wrong thing to do. She smiled sympathetically. "I've been there. I have four boys. You just do the best you can." And then she said something I'll never forget: "Some days you get an A. Some days you get a B."
That's as true a statement as I've ever heard. If I'm honest, though, there are some days, or at least some moments, when I really deserve a C. Like when I was trying to keep all the usual balls in the air and Max discovered a package of M&Ms in the pantry and proceeded to eat so many that he suffered with a stomach ache all evening and couldn't eat dinner. Or when I let him watch 3 or 4 "Dora's" in a row because I'm too drained to come up with something creative to engage him. Or when I raised my voice (that's putting it euphamistically...) because he decided to jump over Boo and landed instead on his head.
As with my academic career, I know that my A and B moments outnumber my C ones many, many times over. Still, it's the C moments that haunt me, because I have to acknowledge that my emotional resume includes so many less-than-stellar qualities--distraction and self-absorption and boredom and mind-numbing fatigue and frustration and rage, to name a few. None of those attributes seems particularly damning as a person (not necessarily pretty, but also not damning). But as a mother, with the awesome power to affect a little person-in-the-making, I'm less forgiving of my considerable limitations.
-----
On Saturday evening, we went out for dinner at the Buffalo Grille. We were pushing our luck a bit because it was already past 7:00 and Max had not had a nap. Even so, Max is usually enthusiastic about trips to "the Buff," as he calls it, because he likes both the macaroni and cheese and the large buffalo head on the wall. But this evening neither of them could hold his attention. He wanted to go outside "to drive the car in the street" (as if that were a possibility...). Lee and I had just begun to enjoy our pecan-crusted catfish and chardonnay. Max was making repeated attempts to escape through the exit that is way too close to Woodway for my comfort. Tired of pursuing him, I issued Max an ultimatum: Get out of the chair one more time, and you will have a time-out in the car and go straight to bed when we get home. Unphased, Max hopped down from his chair. This time the consequences were instantaneous. Out of the restaurant we went, with Max protesting, "I'm going to stay in my chair, mommy." But it was too late. Max and I sat in silence for 5 minutes while Lee finished his meal alone. Then Lee had sentry duty in the car while I returned for my now-cold dinner and now-warm wine. (As I said, enforcing consequences involves sacrifices for the parents, too.)
When we pulled into the driveway, Max was sound asleep. I unbuckled his car seat, and as I scooped him into my arms, he whispered, "I'm going to stay in my chair, mommy." Each time I transport Max's limp body into the house, I recall how safe and loved I felt when dad carried me half-asleep from the car to my bed. Max was asleep again by the time his head hit the pillow. And when I rolled him over to put on his pajamas, his last words of the day were, "I'm going to stay in my chair, mommy."
