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."
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