Saturday, November 26, 2005
Next time, I might try a glass of wine with that whine
Hallelujah, it finally rained yesterday! Just the excuse I needed to stay home and cocoon. Since we'd been away for a couple of days, and with my housekeeper now out on maternity leave, I was consumed with the routine washing, sweeping, wiping, folding, hanging, sorting and straightening, all while trying to knock out the non-tree-related Christmas decorations. Did I mention that Lee was at the office, so there were also two small children to amuse?
By the end of the day, I had an epiphany: keeping kids entertained indoors is all about making messes. Cooking waffles together means powdered sugar footprints on the island and barstools and floors. Making an anachronistic jack-o-lantern on the pumpkin's final voyage to the trash means lots of slimy seeds and squishy pulp. Indulging the kids' adventure on a pirate ship means rearranging the 11 pillows on our bed more times than I can remember. When you're 4 and 2, fun equals mess. I tried to go with the flow.
At moments, though, my housekeeping efforts directly conflicted with the boys' play. I had washed linens and was trying to wrestle the waterproof mattress cover and fitted dinosaur sheet onto Boo's bed when he came into the room and began a ferocious round of whining. I hadn't noticed that someone had commissioned the small ladder that once housed pumpkins on the front porch. It now served as a diving board from which the kids could hurl themselves into the "swimming pool," which had become overrun with prehistoric reptiles.
"Not my bed!," Boo protested, his nasally screech evoking the same feeling within me as fingernails on a chalkboard. "That's my swimming pool!" About a dozen times.
The parenting class I took this fall recommends that parents charge--either toys or money--for listening to whining. But in the moment, I hadn't remembered that approach. Instead, I tried to enhance Boo's self-awareness, with the ridiculous notion that with raised consciousness, he might opt for a sunnier approach.
"Boo, do you remember what that tone of voice is called?"
"No."
"It's called whining."
"No, mommy, it's called sad."
So much for consciousness-raising.
By the end of the day, I had an epiphany: keeping kids entertained indoors is all about making messes. Cooking waffles together means powdered sugar footprints on the island and barstools and floors. Making an anachronistic jack-o-lantern on the pumpkin's final voyage to the trash means lots of slimy seeds and squishy pulp. Indulging the kids' adventure on a pirate ship means rearranging the 11 pillows on our bed more times than I can remember. When you're 4 and 2, fun equals mess. I tried to go with the flow.
At moments, though, my housekeeping efforts directly conflicted with the boys' play. I had washed linens and was trying to wrestle the waterproof mattress cover and fitted dinosaur sheet onto Boo's bed when he came into the room and began a ferocious round of whining. I hadn't noticed that someone had commissioned the small ladder that once housed pumpkins on the front porch. It now served as a diving board from which the kids could hurl themselves into the "swimming pool," which had become overrun with prehistoric reptiles.
"Not my bed!," Boo protested, his nasally screech evoking the same feeling within me as fingernails on a chalkboard. "That's my swimming pool!" About a dozen times.
The parenting class I took this fall recommends that parents charge--either toys or money--for listening to whining. But in the moment, I hadn't remembered that approach. Instead, I tried to enhance Boo's self-awareness, with the ridiculous notion that with raised consciousness, he might opt for a sunnier approach.
"Boo, do you remember what that tone of voice is called?"
"No."
"It's called whining."
"No, mommy, it's called sad."
So much for consciousness-raising.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
My World Travelers
Max loves maps. Like a true-blue Texan, he has been able to recognize his home state for longer than I can rememeber. But I'm surprised by some of the other places he now identifies on a globe, such as Africa, South America, Australia, India and Madagascar. (Were you to inquire about that last one, he might shrug his shoulders and say with nonchalance, "You know, because it's where lemurs come from.")
On Friday, Don and Shelly came over for dinner and what Shelly and I sometimes refer to as "kid therapy." Think "fur therapy" without pet dander and "retail therapy" without a credit card bill. On a bad day, Max's giggles and Boo's kisses rank high on our list of mood-elevating substances.
After dinner, Max, who was feeling adventuresome, announced, "I'm going to India." He headed for the kitchen to pack, then returned to display his preparations. First, he showed us a large ziplock bag filled with ice, because, as he explained, "It's hot in India." He also packed several days worth of goldfish in a crush-proof container. "Good idea on an international flight," I thought to myself. Then Max put on his Indian headdress--the one with feathers and corn kernels and beads that he'd made at school while learning about pilgrims and other early Americans--because, after all, he was going to India. Wrestling his backback across his shoulders, he began tromping down the hall.
His younger brother ran after him anxiously. "Wait for me, Max!"
"Boo, where are you going?," I called after him.
Confidently, Boo replied, "Africa!"
Naturally, the destination of choice for any two year old.
On Friday, Don and Shelly came over for dinner and what Shelly and I sometimes refer to as "kid therapy." Think "fur therapy" without pet dander and "retail therapy" without a credit card bill. On a bad day, Max's giggles and Boo's kisses rank high on our list of mood-elevating substances.
After dinner, Max, who was feeling adventuresome, announced, "I'm going to India." He headed for the kitchen to pack, then returned to display his preparations. First, he showed us a large ziplock bag filled with ice, because, as he explained, "It's hot in India." He also packed several days worth of goldfish in a crush-proof container. "Good idea on an international flight," I thought to myself. Then Max put on his Indian headdress--the one with feathers and corn kernels and beads that he'd made at school while learning about pilgrims and other early Americans--because, after all, he was going to India. Wrestling his backback across his shoulders, he began tromping down the hall.
His younger brother ran after him anxiously. "Wait for me, Max!"
"Boo, where are you going?," I called after him.
Confidently, Boo replied, "Africa!"
Naturally, the destination of choice for any two year old.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Simply Irresistible
I'm taking a parenting class at Max's school this year, and I've noticed something curious. Conflicts between pre-school aged children and their parents generally exist on one of three biologically-imperative fronts--eating, sleeping and elimination. I'm fortunate that my sons are hearty, healthy eaters, and that the one that has graduated to underpants seems psychologically unscathed by the process. (As for me, I came through Max's potty-training with only minor trauma.). Our major battleground is bedtime.
As is so often the case, when it comes to sleep, my kids are cut from different cloth. Max flips and flails like a trout on a riverbank right up until the moment sleep overtakes him. It's easy to tell when he's finally unconscious because his body actually ceases to move. When Reed takes to bed, he's a study in peaceful repose. Many nights I've believed him to be asleep for some time, only to find his eyes open, watching me. Although he's calm, he wants company, both for "lights out" and at each of the 3-4 hour intervals when he wakes during the night. He's picky, too--neither the company of his father, nor his brother, nor either of our devoted dogs will do.
The universal axiom for easing bedtime struggles is to establish a consistent bedtime routine. I'm the first to admit that repetition hasn't always been something I relished. (For many years, I believed that a trip wasn't a real vacation if I'd been to my destination before.) But I'm beginning to appreciate the virtues of routines, particularly where my kids are concerned. By now, our evening cadence has become so familiar to them, and perhaps so reassuring, that they will prompt me if I skip a step, inadvertently or otherwise.
On his first day of school this fall, Reed began a ritual that translates beautifully to bedtime, and someday soon I hope it improves our sleep. He squeezes me tightly, saying, "Hug." Then he pecks me on the cheek, saying, "Kiss." Another squeeze: "Big hug." Another smooch: "Big kiss." And so forth another 5 or 10 or 15 times, until he feels sufficiently loving or loved. We follow this with a Waltonesque round-robin:
"Good night, Boo."
"Good night, mommy."
"Good night, Max."
"Good night, mommy. "
"Sleep tight, Max.
"Sleep tight, mommy. Don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Sleep tight, Boo."
"Sleep tight."
"Sweet dreams, mommy."
"Sweet dreams, Max. I love you."
"I love you."
"Love you, Max."
"I love you, too, Boo."
At this point, Max usually flops about for a few minutes and drifts off. But Reed continues to talk: farm animals and related noises, every person, dog and horse he knows by name, beverage requests, what he did that day, what he wants to do tomorrow, on and on in a burst of impressive verbal acuity. I know now that he is likely to talk until I issue an ultimatum: I will stay in the room with little boys who keep to their beds and remain quiet.
For several days, I stuck to my pledge. And then Boo changed his tactics. If Max is the master of charm school, Boo is his eager disciple. Lately, when I've drawn the line in the sand, Boo begins to gently stroke my hair, whispering, "Mommy, mommy, mommy." And sleep or no sleep, who could walk away from that?
As is so often the case, when it comes to sleep, my kids are cut from different cloth. Max flips and flails like a trout on a riverbank right up until the moment sleep overtakes him. It's easy to tell when he's finally unconscious because his body actually ceases to move. When Reed takes to bed, he's a study in peaceful repose. Many nights I've believed him to be asleep for some time, only to find his eyes open, watching me. Although he's calm, he wants company, both for "lights out" and at each of the 3-4 hour intervals when he wakes during the night. He's picky, too--neither the company of his father, nor his brother, nor either of our devoted dogs will do.
The universal axiom for easing bedtime struggles is to establish a consistent bedtime routine. I'm the first to admit that repetition hasn't always been something I relished. (For many years, I believed that a trip wasn't a real vacation if I'd been to my destination before.) But I'm beginning to appreciate the virtues of routines, particularly where my kids are concerned. By now, our evening cadence has become so familiar to them, and perhaps so reassuring, that they will prompt me if I skip a step, inadvertently or otherwise.
On his first day of school this fall, Reed began a ritual that translates beautifully to bedtime, and someday soon I hope it improves our sleep. He squeezes me tightly, saying, "Hug." Then he pecks me on the cheek, saying, "Kiss." Another squeeze: "Big hug." Another smooch: "Big kiss." And so forth another 5 or 10 or 15 times, until he feels sufficiently loving or loved. We follow this with a Waltonesque round-robin:
"Good night, Boo."
"Good night, mommy."
"Good night, Max."
"Good night, mommy. "
"Sleep tight, Max.
"Sleep tight, mommy. Don't let the bed bugs bite."
"Sleep tight, Boo."
"Sleep tight."
"Sweet dreams, mommy."
"Sweet dreams, Max. I love you."
"I love you."
"Love you, Max."
"I love you, too, Boo."
At this point, Max usually flops about for a few minutes and drifts off. But Reed continues to talk: farm animals and related noises, every person, dog and horse he knows by name, beverage requests, what he did that day, what he wants to do tomorrow, on and on in a burst of impressive verbal acuity. I know now that he is likely to talk until I issue an ultimatum: I will stay in the room with little boys who keep to their beds and remain quiet.
For several days, I stuck to my pledge. And then Boo changed his tactics. If Max is the master of charm school, Boo is his eager disciple. Lately, when I've drawn the line in the sand, Boo begins to gently stroke my hair, whispering, "Mommy, mommy, mommy." And sleep or no sleep, who could walk away from that?
Sunday, November 06, 2005
My Highlight Reel
I've loved highlight reels ever since I was a child, when I would struggle to stay awake long enough to watch the halftime show on Monday Night Football. Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that one of my routines with the boys is to ask them about their favorite experiences each day. I like this game for a number of reasons: It allows me to glimpse a little of the world through their eyes. It stimulates their ability to reflect on their lives and identify what makes their hearts sing. And I hope that it cultivates in each of them a lasting spirit of optimism and gratitude.
This practice has become so habitual that I often find myself wondering about the best part of my own day. Many times, I find those moments in unexpected places. Friday was the annual school fair, and on the way to campus, I bumped into the mother of one of Max's former classmates. She had her hands full, with her son on one side and one of Max's new classmates on the other. As we greeted each other, her son exclaimed, "That's Max's mommy!" Without a moment's hesitation, the other boy said exuberantly, "Max isn't hitting any more!" Nothing that child might have said could have made me happier.
This practice has become so habitual that I often find myself wondering about the best part of my own day. Many times, I find those moments in unexpected places. Friday was the annual school fair, and on the way to campus, I bumped into the mother of one of Max's former classmates. She had her hands full, with her son on one side and one of Max's new classmates on the other. As we greeted each other, her son exclaimed, "That's Max's mommy!" Without a moment's hesitation, the other boy said exuberantly, "Max isn't hitting any more!" Nothing that child might have said could have made me happier.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
The Hero
Max and Reed often resemble lion cubs at play, jostling, tugging and rolling on top of each other until one gets hurt or tires of the game, or until the watchful lioness breaks up the commotion. Being big and coordinated, Reed is now a competent adversary, so who will get the better of whom is no longer a foregone conclusion. Max's tactics tend to be rougher, though, and any given race or chase may culminate in a shove to the younger brother's back while he is in mid-stride. A couple of weeks ago Reed's forehead had the imprint of a concrete sidewalk to prove it. I might be more concerned about the quality of their play were it not for the fact that they are so clearly enjoying themselves, right up until the moment of pain.
Relationships are like prisms, beautiful and mysterious and complex, and I glimpsed another facet of theirs this evening.
I had taken the boys to a park to meet our playgroup for dinner and a good romp. Playgrounds are fascinating social laboratories in that they allow children to explore, among other things, their own power--both physical and psychological--and its limits. Want to swing across the monkey bars, but can't gain enough momentum to reach the next one? Want to ride someone else's bike when she's unwilling to share? Want to join a game of soccer with older kids who consider you a nuisance? On the playground, children experience accomplishment and failure, inclusion and rejection, dominance and passivity, long before their intellects can grasp those concepts.
The great playground experiment becomes more interesting with children as different as Max and Reed. For Max the Intrepid, the park provides an endless supply of new playmates and adventures. Reed the Timid has recently begun to articulate a litany of fears: firetrucks, trains, barking dogs, the dark, our housekeeper, his room, monsters, thunder, and the men hammering on the house across the street. For him, the park is a daunting landscape of the unfamiliar. Half an hour elapsed before Reed summoned the inner resources to relinquish his grip on my knee and interact with other kids. (Was it merely a coincidence that it was my friend's one-year old twins who coaxed him out of his shell? Perhaps even small children can tell when a relationship is non-threatening.)
His legs finally beneath him, Reed began to explore. I watched from a distance as he scaled the playground equipment and headed for the circular slide. As he was crossing the platform, he was confronted by three boys, all Max's age. They sized him up, surrounded him and began to taunt him. I couldn't hear their words, but by tone of voice alone, their intent to intimidate him was unmistakable. Reed's face buckled. Tucking chin to chest, he began to cry.
I started to intervene, but Max beat me to it. He scrambled up the ladder and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. "Stop saying that!," Max ordered. "He's smaller than you, and that's not kind!" The other boys dispersed. No hitting, no shoving. Just one little man, in a display of 4-year old courage, defending his fearful brother.
In Reed's eyes, was Max a hero this evening? I can't say for sure, but I know that he was in mine.
Relationships are like prisms, beautiful and mysterious and complex, and I glimpsed another facet of theirs this evening.
I had taken the boys to a park to meet our playgroup for dinner and a good romp. Playgrounds are fascinating social laboratories in that they allow children to explore, among other things, their own power--both physical and psychological--and its limits. Want to swing across the monkey bars, but can't gain enough momentum to reach the next one? Want to ride someone else's bike when she's unwilling to share? Want to join a game of soccer with older kids who consider you a nuisance? On the playground, children experience accomplishment and failure, inclusion and rejection, dominance and passivity, long before their intellects can grasp those concepts.
The great playground experiment becomes more interesting with children as different as Max and Reed. For Max the Intrepid, the park provides an endless supply of new playmates and adventures. Reed the Timid has recently begun to articulate a litany of fears: firetrucks, trains, barking dogs, the dark, our housekeeper, his room, monsters, thunder, and the men hammering on the house across the street. For him, the park is a daunting landscape of the unfamiliar. Half an hour elapsed before Reed summoned the inner resources to relinquish his grip on my knee and interact with other kids. (Was it merely a coincidence that it was my friend's one-year old twins who coaxed him out of his shell? Perhaps even small children can tell when a relationship is non-threatening.)
His legs finally beneath him, Reed began to explore. I watched from a distance as he scaled the playground equipment and headed for the circular slide. As he was crossing the platform, he was confronted by three boys, all Max's age. They sized him up, surrounded him and began to taunt him. I couldn't hear their words, but by tone of voice alone, their intent to intimidate him was unmistakable. Reed's face buckled. Tucking chin to chest, he began to cry.
I started to intervene, but Max beat me to it. He scrambled up the ladder and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. "Stop saying that!," Max ordered. "He's smaller than you, and that's not kind!" The other boys dispersed. No hitting, no shoving. Just one little man, in a display of 4-year old courage, defending his fearful brother.
In Reed's eyes, was Max a hero this evening? I can't say for sure, but I know that he was in mine.
