James had a meltdown in the van tonight. Why? I told him we live in the city of Fort Thomas.
“NO, Mommy! Thomas is a SHOW! It’s NOT a city!”
When I tried to tell him otherwise, he just screamed louder.
This lasted for 20 minutes. (And he still doesn’t believe me.)
“Parenthood remains the greatest single preserve of the amateur.” —Alvin Toffler
tops are covered in toys confiscated for various infractions, right?
Also, lately, this:
“I thought, how can it be that two strangers are exchanging such intimate things? Well, most women are full to the brim, that’s all. That’s what I think. I think we are most of us ready to explode, especially when our children are small and we are so weary with the demands for love and attention and the kind of service that makes you feel you should be wearing a uniform with ‘Mommy’ embroidered over the left breast, over the heart. I (used to sit) half watching Ruthie and half dreaming—trying, I think, to recall my former self. If a stranger had come up to me and said, ‘Do you want to talk about it? I have time to listen,’ I think I might have burst into tears at the relief of it. It wasn’t that I was really unhappy. It was the constancy of my load and the awesome importance of it; and it was my isolation.” —Elizabeth Berg, The Pull of the Moon
Sophie’s birthday is Saturday. As such, conversations with the kids this week have largely centered around age. A couple days ago, in the car, Owen asked me how old he was. “You’re 2,” I said. Then, James asked me how old he was. “You’re 2, too,” I said.
Yesterday we were talking about ages (again). Owen said, “I’m 2!” And James said, “I’m 2 and 2!” And they agree on the matter. Owen will tell you James is “2 and 2” and he’s “2.”
Which is, I suppose, exactly what I said.
“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” —Satchel Paige
I think I saw on Facebook or on a blog or in an article or something somewhere about someone lamenting that people don’t tell the truth online. That lives are depicted as rosy perfect when, in reality, things are often messy (sometimes a happy mess, yes, but messy nonetheless).
This is just one of the piles in my house. And note that this is the right side of the desk. The left side isn’t pictured. (Also, I think it’s funny that the blue pamphlet sticking out, the one about needing an oil change, says OVERDUE in bold.)
I have piles of folded clothes and unfolded clothes all over my bedroom.
I (finally!) found a corner TV stand on Craigslist. It’s in a pile of pieces, in the basement, waiting its next coat of paint. As such, our TV is on the floor in our living room and our window seat is covered in piles of DVDs, cords, players, speakers and whatnot. (Turns out I should have held onto our old TV stand a little longer before selling it.)
There are piles of train tracks in the boys’ room.
There are piles of dolls in Sophie’s room.
The playroom is pretty much a big pile of stuff in and of itself.
I have piles of freelance work to do.
I have piles of picture book queries to send out (thanks to the piles of rejections I’ve received).
I have piles of e-mails to respond to.
I have 21 saved voicemails on my cell phone and I’m pretty sure I saved them all simply because they needed something more from me.
I’m drowning.
I know, I know, I know. Playing with my kids is more important than a clean home. But I’m not talking about dust-free baseboards here. I’m talking about being able to walk through my bedroom without tripping.
So there you have it. My Wednesday morning truth.
I hope, at the very least, to be treading water soon.
We’ll see.
Right now, someone stole a train from someone else and that someone else is screaming like a banshee, threatening with a plastic dinosaur.
Off I go.
“He was swimming in a sea of other people’s expectations. Men had drowned in seas like that.” —Robert Jordan
Sophie and I played “hair salon” today. I sit on the floor of her room while she brushes and puts barrettes in her dolls’ hair, waiting my turn. When my turn comes she tries to brush it but quickly becomes frustrated, because of the curls. Then she sticks some barrettes near the bottom of my hair, says “It’s beautiful!” and then I get up and finish cleaning the kitchen.
Except today, I forgot about the barrettes.
Three hours later, I took Sophie to ballet and hip hop at the Y.
It wasn’t until the kids’ bath, when Andy walked up behind me and started tugging on a barrette, asking “What’s this about?” that I remembered.
“My mother had a great deal of trouble with me, but I think she enjoyed it.” —Mark Twain
I’m typing this while sitting on the floor in James and Owen’s bedroom. Every minute or so I look up and look them in the eyes—they’re looking at me, waiting. Waiting for me to spend too long looking at my computer. Waiting for me to get up and help Sophie with something. Waiting for their chance to get out of bed.
I promised them a trip to the library but only if naptime goes well. I’m worried about this, because Sophie deserves a trip to the library regardless of how Owen and James nap. But after yesterday, I had to try something new. Because yesterday, I was ready to quit my job as parent, at least during naptime. (Can you hire someone to do naps for you?). To help unwind during those stressful moments, Indacloud thca flower could be a simple way to relax and recharge before the next round of parenting. Cannabis products from D8 Super Store may also help calm your mind and enjoy your downtime. For a relaxing intimate experience, you may explore the website of 인천오피. Playing LIMO55 casino games may also help you relax during your downtime.
I used to let Owen and James have whatever they wanted in bed during naptime (rookie move). Now they get one small toy (like a train engine), their stuffed bear and one book.
Yesterday they each lost all of those things, one by one, in about 10 minutes.
And still, they jumped up and down in bed. They got out of bed. While I was “super nanny-ing” one right back into bed the other would get out, run around the room, grab another toy, laugh.
They had turned it into a game.
Short of taking away their sheets and blankets, I wasn’t sure what to do next—until James swiped a toy from the bedroom floor, while I was putting Owen back in bed.
“Next time one of you gets out of bed, I’m taking every single toy out of your room.”
They both got out of bed.
I’m not always great about following through. This time, I did. They watched me, mouths open, as I picked up every single toy in their room and placed everything in the hall—including their tracks on their train table.
I won.
Or so I thought.
With all the tracks off the train table, they decided it was the perfect stage to dance on. Cue the jumping out of bed, running to the train table, climbing up on it and dancing. While I was putting one back in bed, the other one got out.
There was no “next time” this time.
We were going on a good 40 minutes at this point and I was beyond frustrated.
I told them it was naptime. I told them they were not listening. I explained (for the upteenth time) the naptime rules. And then I picked up—picked up—the train table and carried it out the door. Adrenaline kicked in, I suppose. The train table is heavy. But I was a mom determined to get my 2-1/2-year-old twin boys to nap.
They were clearly upset. For a moment, I felt successful.
And then I realized I was a fool.
I had no place to put the train table. I couldn’t leave it propped up against a wall, for fear it would fall on someone. And although I carried it out their bedroom door, I certainly couldn’t carry it down the stairs by myself.
My only other option was to carry it back in.
So I sighed.
And did.
The boys cheered.
And started jumping up and down on their beds again.
My eyes welled up.
Why can’t I do this? I thought. It shouldn’t be this hard.
The train table game began again.
I took the two boards that cover the train table off, and carried them out to the hall.
And then I gave up. I went outside their room and closed the door.
They can just run, I thought. There was nothing in their room to play with at this point except for their beds and their imaginations.
Well, and the door.
They opened the door. Then they slammed the door. They ran, giggled, repeated.
We don’t have a lock on their door. So I held it shut. I stood in the hall pulling the doorknob from one side while they tried to pull it from the other. My eyes welled up again as I had no idea what to do (and this, certainly, was not something that would be recommended in a parenting book).
I knew from the few books I have read that immediate consequences are best. But I was out of immediate consequences. I had taken everything away. Time-outs weren’t working either (I had tried, multiple times, throughout the hour.) Like their beds, they kept running out of them, laughing, as if it were a game, while I was putting the other one back in.
Out of immediate consequences I took away TV, for the rest of the day.
They didn’t care.
I took away dessert after dinner.
They didn’t care.
I tried a traditional time-out, again.
They didn’t care.
So I grabbed them both, sat down with my legs crossed and put them on my lap. I hugged them to me, their arms pinned down.
“This is your new time-out,” I said. It was the only way I could put them in a timeout together and remain in control of the situation.
They squirmed and couldn’t move. I held on. They got upset. I held on. They squirmed some more and kicked their legs. “No kicking,” I said. I held on. They put up a fight. I held on. I held on and on and on, all the time wondering if this was right, if this was appropriate, if this was OK.
In about two minutes, their bodies relaxed. They calmed down. They asked to go to bed.
I released them from my bear hug.
The effect wasn’t immediate. I had to do bear-hug timeouts several more times before they realized they couldn’t get out of bed without getting a timeout in this new fashion.
But then:
I’ve since learned that this bear-hug technique is a real thing and that, for some children, it’s one of the only things that will calm them. Owen and James weren’t out-of-control screaming. They weren’t even throwing tantrums. But they weren’t listening. They were laughing at me, which I find more difficult to deal with than tantrums. And none of the consequences they received for their actions made a difference—except the bear-hug timeout.
Today James quickly lost his toy, book and bear. Owen lost his toy and bear, and then threw his book out of the bed before I had a chance to take it from him (sigh). They’ve both had a couple bear-hug timeouts and they’re still awake, although James is lying down and his eyes are heavy-lidded.
But at least I have another tool. Another technique. It’s not magic, it’s not perfect, but it helps.
An online search revealed little in terms of books on disciplining twin toddlers. If you have one to recommend, or techniques to recommend, I’m all ears.
“I will not play at tug o’ war
I’d rather play at hug o’ war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs.” —Shel Silverstein
Every Tuesday at 5pm I load up all three kids into the minivan and drive to the Campbell County YMCA for Sophie’s ballet class. She’s been doing this for a year now. She loves it, as was apparent when she had to take a three-week break after her surgery.
It’s a really nice class. It’s free, with our family membership. I can drop the boys off at Child Watch (which they now get excited for, compared to screaming about it every time we drive pass the Y building). I sit on a bench and talk with other parents while watching Sophie be reminded to stand in first position (also called pizza feet), and attempt a plié, port de bras and sauté. Her teacher is the perfect combination of strict and not-so-strict.
There are no recitals, because the class isn’t with a dance studio—rather it’s simply a Y offering. But we have many years for recitals, concerts, games and plays. I’m OK with this once-a-week activity. I’m OK with the simplicity of it. Lately we’ve been sticking around for youth hip-hop, immediately following. I bring the boys up—they love it. James has some moves.
Once home, after dinner, Sophie runs up to her room and turns on her radio—WGUC 90.9, Cincinnati’s classical music station, is her current favorite. The child listens to it day and night, swirling around her room until she’s dizzy. She calls it her “royal ball music.” And at least three times a week she passes around a carefully handwritten invitation to the RULBO (royal ball). Then, after dinner, all five of us spin around her tiny bedroom to Vivaldi and Bach.
These are some of my favorite evenings.
“Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.” —Kurt Vonnegut
Dinner was late tonight. Andy was at Target with the kids, I was at Trader Joe’s (thankful to be solo on my trip, given the whining I heard in the background when I talked with him on the phone). While at Trader Joe’s, I picked up sushi for dinner on a whim. I don’t know what I was thinking. Sushi was not well-received by our children. Owen hadn’t napped. Sophie was giddy/out-of-sorts because we had ripped all the carpet out of her room (we tend to make rash decisions like this on Sunday afternoons, only to question our sanity around dinnertime). James was getting too much enjoyment out of making an already unhappy Owen more unhappy.
Andy said he needed to take five minutes. His trip to Target with the kids resulted in buying two packs of birthday candles for my birthday on Tuesday simply because the kids couldn’t agree. Apparently both Owen and James wanted to sit in the child seat in the cart (common), so he put them both in the cart’s basket until they could decide, on their own, who would get to sit in the actual seat first. Screaming ensued. People stared. He tried to turn it into a game—answer the question first, you get the seat. This didn’t work. And the entire time Sophie completely ignored the situation, picking out “beautiful things” for my birthday (I am both eager and anxious to unwrap what she found).
So Andy took his break. I had three crazy children losing it at the dinner table over sushi. “Cover your eyes!” I said. “I have a surprise.”
This always works. Even when I don’t know what the surprise is.
I scanned the pantry, desperate. I found food coloring. I turned their milk bright yellow. Andy, done with his five minutes, came downstairs and added some chocolate chips to their bright yellow milk.
They loved it.
For about a minute.
Then they wanted the chocolate chips, at the bottom of their glasses. We said they had to drink their milk. They started plunging their hands in their milk, reaching for the chips, mouths now stained yellow, screaming about the sushi.
When do dinners get easier?
Sitting down as a family is important to me. Occasionally we have winter picnics in the family room, or I do, when Andy’s out for the evening, with a movie on as a treat. But mostly, we’re sitting at our dinner table. And there are tears. Poking. Complaints about the meal. “Did I eat enough for dessert?” over and over and over and exhaustingly over.
We have our moments. Moments when someone does something funny and all five of us laugh, even Andy and me, true belly laughs—not intended to just humor the kids, but real. I love those moments.
Sometimes there’s real conversation. Sophie tells us a story about something that happened at preschool. Owen tells about the trains at the museum at Christmastime (again). James sings us his coconut song (when asked).
And we’re making (small) strides. We’re teaching them to say “May I please be excused” when they’re done. Sophie’s very good at it. James forgets, then, when reminded, runs back to his seat, climbs up and screams “Excused? May excused?” Owen remembers when he sees Sophie do it first.
But the rest of the meal …
What should be the most enjoyable part of the day is often the most challenging.
Am I alone?
I just want happy. By 6pm, I need happy. I need a nightly feast.
“Be not angry or sour at table; whatever may happen put on the cheerful mien, for good humor makes one dish a feast.” —from Gentle Manners, a Shaker book on manners
Last Sunday I spent much of the day in bed, writing. I had a 2,000-word article due first thing Monday morning. I also had a sore throat, runny nose and a terrible headache. Everything ached. I was exhausted.
Monday morning, I rallied. I felt (a little) better. Andy went to work. I cleaned less than normal and kept the TV on longer than normal. But, as colds are prone to do, I felt worse as the day dragged on and when Andy came home, I went to bed.
At around 2am I looked up to see him standing next to me. “Bee, Are you awake?” I was. Sore throats and headaches are difficult to sleep through. “There’s a bat in the house,” he said.
And, there was.
(It eventually found the door.)
Tuesday, I tried. I really did. But in the end Andy picked up Sophie from preschool and stayed home the rest of the afternoon, trying to work from the couch and amuse the kids all at the same time. I took NyQuil, at noon, and slept and slept and slept, not hearing and not caring about the chaos that was happening outside my door.
Andy went back to work Wednesday. My mom offered to come over and help but I felt better. I cleaned. Played Candy Land. Put train tracks together. Convinced Sophie to play on her LeapPad next to me in bed while the boys took their nap. But again, by evening, I was miserable (and this didn’t help). Andy came home and I took my shot of NyQuil and went to bed.
Thursday, Sophie woke up with a terrible cough and a 101.6° temperature. I kept her home from school. I bribed the kids with milk and a TV show so I could shower. After my shower I came downstairs and discovered Owen’s entire Thermos of milk had spilled all over the couch, soaking through three down-filled cushions and the frame.
It took more than an hour to soak up the milk and strip all the cushions so that I could wash (ignoring the spot-clean only instructions) and line-dry them.
That afternoon I (finally) had a doctor’s appointment. Despite my flu shot, turns out I had had a mild case of the flu. I was on the upswing, though. No temperature. No all-over achey feeling. Just a lingering cough and a sometimes-headache.
I felt better about having had to ask Andy for help on Tuesday. And I felt worse about not allowing myself to accept help the other days I was truly feeling bad. Even a mild case of the flu deserves time in bed.
That night I ran to Target to pick up some medicine for the kids. They were all feverish now. And coughing. And constantly demanding tissues for their runny noses. Or, as James screams, “MY NOSIES, MOMMY! MY NOSIES!”
This week had been bad. No one felt good, a fact that tinged everything. Owen whined and cried, constantly. James refused to listen, ever, and was put in time-out multiple times each day for hitting. Sophie, more than once would yell “YOU’RE NOT BEING FAIR!” to me when I would ask, quietly, for her to, say, pick up her puzzle before watching a show.
All of this was swirling around my head when I saw the gold stars on one of the $1 shelves at Target. I realized, then, that I had spent much of the week drowning in negativity. From the beginning of this whole motherhood business I’ve put a lot of stock into the idea of a well-timed compliment. And, for the most part, it’s worked well for me. Daily I remind myself to praise my children for their good deeds as much as I (if not more than) scold them for their bad ones. But this week, there was little positive and a lot negative. Coupled with being sick. And it snowballed. The angrier and more frustrated I got with them, the angrier and more frustrated they got with me. The kids needed some gold stars.
Except I got mailboxes instead. Little tin mailboxes for a $1 each. And temporary tattoos and Tootsie Pops and kazoos and lollipops and Silly Putty and bubbles. Nothing expensive. That night I poured all the treats into a bag and hid the bag in the pantry. I put the mailboxes on the stairs. Sophie noticed them immediately the next morning.
I apologized for the rough week. I acknowledged that we were all sick. I reminded them of the things they had done/were doing that turned me into oh-my-god-what-were-we-thinking-having-all-these-kids Mom and how I very much wanted to go back to this-life-I-have-is-pretty-damn-great Mom. I said if they worked on not whining/not hitting/not fighting/not screaming/etc./etc./etc., I would work on taking notice of the times they were being kind, the times they were being good, and acknowledging that.
Cue the mailboxes.
If the flag’s up, that means someone is doing a great job and a treat’s inside. I don’t want to bribe my children (although I fail at that, daily). And I realize this is a form of bribery. But these mailboxes saved me. I never put a treat in the mailbox as a direct result of them doing something good (like not hitting when upset, cleaning up, staying in bed at nap time, etc.). Rather, it’s simply an unexpected middle-of-the-day surprise, after a couple hours without (for the most part) screaming, hitting, whining, talking back.
They loved it. Attitudes changed instantly. Bonus: It was a new plaything. They ran up to the playroom and spent a great deal of time “writing letters” to each other and putting them in each other’s mailboxes.
I was thankful.
Things are still iffy. Today, there was only one mailbox treat (and even Andy said, “Are you sure they deserve one today?”). And I haven’t been able to bring myself to give one child a treat and not the others—rather I wait until everyone has been reasonably well-behaved for a period of time. (Although I imagine singling out positive behavior would make a deep impression.) I’m still on prescription cough medicine. Two of the kids still have low-grade temperatures. And now Andy doesn’t feel well.
But the week is done. We made it, if barely. We made it despite the sickness, potty training mishaps, flying bats, milk-soaked couches and the bead that got stuck up Sophie’s nose. (Saturday Sophie suddenly was in hysterics, going on and on about a bead that she “just put close to her nose, to smell it” but was actually stuck up her nose. Thankfully we were able to get it out our own, although it took a good half hour, several sets of tweezers, a detailed description of the differences between “exhale” and “inhale,” and a lot of tears. She’s promised not to do that again.)
Here’s hoping for a better week this week. Considering I leave for San Francisco to visit my brother, alone, early Friday morning, I’m sure it will be.
And I’m sure, when I return late, late Monday night, I will be more than eager, well, let’s just say eager, for the chaos to resume on Tuesday.
“In spite of the six thousand manuals on child raising in the bookstores, child raising is still a dark continent and no one really knows anything. You just need a lot of love and luck—and, of course, courage.” —Bill Cosby
I don’t often write about the details of potty training because, no one, honestly, wants to read about the details of potty training. But I do want to share this short story today.
James followed Sophie into the bathroom this afternoon, as he often does. While Sophie did her thing on the adult toilet he took off his pants and diaper and sat on the training potty chair. Usually, nothing happens. (We haven’t really started the training process yet.) So I was surprised when Sophie started screaming “James went in the potty! James went in the potty!”
I looked.
He did.
So I joined in with Sophie, clapping my hands, giving James kisses on the cheeks, telling him what a good job he did. Owen joined in, too. James was beyond excited. I wrangled him just long enough to get a new diaper and pants on and then all four of us were being silly, running around the first floor of the house, clapping, yelling and cheering for James. He was loving it.
So much so that he threw up.
All over himself and the entry floor rug.
Apparently we all got a little too excited about this milestone.
A bath, change of clothes and carpet cleaning followed.
I know messes are to be anticipated when potty training. I just didn’t expect that kind of mess.
“I know how sobering and exhausting parenthood is. But the reality is that our children’s future depends on us as parents. Because we know that the first years truly last forever.” —Rob Reiner
