Owen, crying: “Can you figure out what I need?”
“You know that children are growing up when they start asking questions that have answers.” —John J. Plomp
parenting
Mother/Daughter Day
Sophie spent the night with her cousin Colleen at Nini and Pop Pop’s house over Christmas. So tonight, it was James and Owen’s turn to spend the night at Nini and Pop Pop’s. My parents asked the boys if they wanted to spend the night together or separate and they said together (everything is together these days, including their clothes, which they love to match).
This worked out well, as Andy was in Columbus all day and Sophie and I had a baby shower to attend.
Lovely Danielle is due in March!
Sophie’s next request: the aquarium.
Once back outside, we watched the snow fall on the Ohio River.
And then: Dinner at Bravo. All she really wanted for dinner was to sit in a high chair (bar stool). (Halfway through talking about it, she realized, with hilarity, that “high chair” sounded an awful lot like she wanted to sit in a “highchair.” We used the phrase “tall chair” then on after.) She got her wish and so much more. Newport’s Bravo does have tall chairs, which overlook the kitchen. We got to watch everything being cooked. And (I had no idea they did this) she was given a small ball of dough to form into any shape she wanted (she chose five “snowballs,” one for everyone in the family). Marissa (at least I think that was her name, it was loud when I asked her) was in charge of making and cooking all the bruschettas, pizzas, etc. She cooked Sophie’s snowballs, in the wood-fired pizza oven. Sophie watched them rise and brown, and was thrilled.
We drove home slowly, in the snow. Once home I discovered my parents had my house key (we switched vehicles). And both our front door and back door were (for once) locked. So I tried the cellar door—thankfully, the basement door at the bottom of the steps was unlocked, and Sophie laughed with great joy at the oddity of entering our house this way. Once inside, and having fed Tucker, both on our own, we immediately put on comfy clothes. I started a fire and she curled up on her new bean bag couch, a gift from Grandma, and we watched “The Little Mermaid,” which I had ordered online earlier in the week and which she had been waiting patiently for, as she had never seen it.
My mom just emailed me. “They went to bed at 8:00 and fell asleep before I hit the bottom step. They were on their best behavior all day.”
Today was so nice.
I could spend a paragraph writing about how much I love Owen and James but truly, I feel it’s unnecessary. I love them.
But I also love and crave one-on-one time, with all my children, too.
And this has been a tough year for me, with two three year olds. It’s, well, chaos. I don’t think even the sleep-deprived nonstop first six months was chaotic as this has been. There was more control to their infancy—there was a schedule and when they cried it was OK because that’s what babies do and everything—they and all their things—stayed put, unless I moved them.
Now. Now it’s just chaos.
And today, I could have fixed that chaos a bit. A bit more, I should say, as we’ve deemed the year 2014 as the year we put our house (and lives) back in order. But instead, I spent it looking at fish. And making dough snowballs. And breaking into my own house. And remembering how sweet and funny and kind my little almost 6-year-old is, and how much she shines when, every once in awhile, the wonderful, beautiful chaos of being a big sister to two 3-year-olds is removed.
I’m so good at seeing the beauty in the chaos once removed. Now, I just need to learn how to recognize the grace while in the thick of it.
“If chaos is a necessary step in the organization of one’s universe, then I was well on my way.” —Wendelin Van Draanen
The Dinner Table
It’s nothing new to say that dinners with toddlers can be frustrating. See this post and this post and this post and this post and this post.
But sometimes (dare I say, lately, often) it can be lovely. I grew up eating as a family around the table, and since our children have been in highchairs, we’ve tried to do the same. We try to use cloth napkins more so than not. Sophie insists on napkin holders more so than not. I’ve long given the kids glass glasses. At dinner, we all use real plates. In fact, I think I’m ready to clear out the plastic plates altogether.
The last two times I’ve had dinner with my dear friend Linda at her house she’s lit candles. How many taper candles have been lit for meals throughout the years—throughout time? I love the simplicity of them, yet the way they say “This is important.” So I was delighted to find two candlesticks at an estate sale in Fort Thomas for $10 last week.
So while the rest of the house is often covered in toys and the laundry has piled up and I’m behind on freelance work and the beds haven’t been made (for several days), I try to make dinner nice.
Even if the meal is bunnies with cheese accompanied by mixed veggies.
“The oldest form of theater is the dinner table. It’s got five or six people, new show every night, same players. Good ensemble; the people have worked together a lot.” —Michael J. Fox
A Time-Out Trick
A couple months ago time-outs became tough. Our rule used to be you had to sit in the time-out corner in the dining room for the number of minutes equivalent to your age—and if you kicked, screamed, or otherwise created drama, time-out started over.
There was kicking, screaming and drama. Always. It was miserable, for everyone.
Enter the hourglass sand timer, which I keep tucked away in our secretary.
I purposefully chose glass.
Now the kids have to sit in time-out and gently hold the timer. I explained that it’s glass and holding it is like holding a bird’s egg—if it’s dropped or thrown, it breaks. The gentle handling requires almost immediate calmness.
It’s also a five-minute timer. At first I worried this would be too long, but they spend the entire time watching the sand fall, and they calm, calm, calm.
Once the sand runs out we spend time talking about why the time-out had to happen, and follow-up with the usual apologies to those needing them, hugs and “I love you” from me.
It’s not foolproof. But for the most part it has greatly improved what had become a nonworking discipline technique.
Rarely do I have success with these sort of things, so when I do, I feel the need to pass these tricks along.
“While you’ll feel compelled to charge forward it’s often a gentle step back that will reveal to you where you and what you truly seek.” —Rasheed Ogunlaru
New Year’s Resolutions
I make wishy-washy New Year’s resolutions. To write them down would simply be overwhelming. There’s so much I want do do but mostly, I just want to do better.
But if I were to write them down, “do better with my blog” would top the list. Gosh I was terrible last year. I love to make excuses so here’s one: I get behind, and I don’t know how to catch up. Example: I haven’t posted about Halloween, so how can I post about New Year’s?
As my mom has told me several times, it doesn’t matter.
So here’s my New Year’s post. Halloween will likely be a month from now.
Today:
I restarted (for the fourth time) my Loseit.com goal. I am a cliché. And starving.
Around 10am I convinced Sophie to climb into bed with me while Owen and James ran around the house shooting these Plane toy things at breakable things. It was snowy and windy and cold and we curled up together under my down comforter and my new raw wool blanket (a perfect Christmas present) and Sophie chatted on and on and on about “Garfield and Friends” (yes, the TV show from the late 1980s, she’s obsessed) and I listened and nodded and laughed and slightly dozed and as much as I love Christmas and all its decadence the decadence of just sitting in bed mid-morning doing nothing was, well, decadent.
I made a lunch that no one ate and one that Owen cried most of the way through because it wasn’t cinnamon-sugar toast, which is what he wanted.
We spent 40 minutes getting dressed to spend 20 minutes out in the snow.
It was gorgeous outside.
We built the world’s worst snowman. We were out of carrots (the reindeer ate them). I tried celery for a nose but it was much too big. So I used found vegetation. “It’s a bit lumpy,” Sophie said regarding the snowman’s smile.
We played.
Once inside I made hot chocolate. We were out of milk, so it wasn’t the cocoa-sugar-milk-vanilla-stovetop kind my mom always made us, but the instant powdery kind made with a kettle of hot water, which Sophie told me several times “wasn’t nearly as good.” But I threw in a ton of marshmallows, which helped.
Then I sat outside the half bath for more than an hour with hot tea, waiting. (Details aren’t necessary except to say we’re still potty training.)
I made dinner with hands that smelled like clementines. Dusk fell and the snowflakes fell slower but bigger—they were beautiful. I wished for George Winston in the background but Team Umizoomi won.
Andy was late (traffic) and cold. I fled upstairs to do freelance work for three hours while he played board games and insisted on bedtimes.
I ended the evening by finishing “Les émotifs anonymes,” (a lovely film), eating popcorn and drinking tea.
And now I’m back in bed, under my down comforter and raw wool blanket, listening to icy snow hit our drafty, old windows that rattle in the wind but are so fitting to the house we never want to change.
And even though it’s just a moment, a day, a month, I’m happy for new beginnings—for a chance to restart goals, improve upon one’s self—to try again.
“I made no resolutions for the new year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me.” —Anaïs Nin
James & Owen’s 1st Day of Preschool
I have a lot I want to write right now but it’s too much. I can’t put my thoughts together. Sometimes, three-year periods bear little change. Others start with you in the NICU with two little people who—combined—weigh less than your cat and end with you watching them walk down your front walk wearing backpacks.
This picture pretty much sums up the morning. James has just found out that we aren’t going to be in preschool with him (we thought this had been made clear much earlier—apparently not). Owen (who is usually our more timid child) is thrilled.
Check out their personalized handmade backpacks. Andy’s aunt Susan made them by request—contact her here if you’d like backpacks, totes, diaper bags, clothes—she can make anything. (The boys love their backpacks. Thanks again, Aunt Susan.)
At one point Owen clenched his fists and just stood on our porch shaking his arms—he was so excited.
James is (sort of) smiling here only because I was making an absolute fool of myself in our front yard, trying to get him excited/cheer him up.
We drove.
James cried.
“Preschool will be fun, James. OK?” Owen said over and over again.
At Country Hills Montessori (the same preschool Sophie went to—the one we fell in love with) we were supposed to kiss, hug and go. Owen knew what to do as soon as he walked through the doors—where to put his backpack, where to wash his hands … Sophie had talked through all these steps with both Owen and James all summer long.
Owen didn’t look back.
James clung.
“What should we do?” I asked one of the teachers, who was at his level, holding her arms out to him.
“Kiss, hug and go,” she said.
So we did.
After I peeled his fingers off my wrist.
We heard the sound of his cry all the long walk back to our van.
(Parenting can be hard.)
The first day was only an hour long.
I spent it at Fort Thomas Coffee, with a latte, coffee cake and a copy of Meg Wolitzer’s The Interestings.
I have long designated this future kid-free time as time to work on my freelance projects, excited about the possibility of not editing at midnight. But today, this first day, I designated this time as mine.
I didn’t read, though. I wondered if James was still crying. I uploaded Instagrammed first-day-of-preschool pictures to Facebook. I wondered if either had had an accident. I ate my coffee cake. I wondered if James was still crying.
And then it was time to pick them up.
Mrs. Richter gave me a thumbs up while helping load another set of twins into a mini van in front of me.
They had done well.
They came out, all smiles and waves, wearing the same clothes I had sent them in, excited to tell me everything—excited to go back.
I thought of the NICU, the times I kissed, hugged and had to go. How hard that was. How hard this was. And then how OK and, ultimately, good it all was, too.
The night before, my parents stopped by for a last summer hurrah—Coney Island, Skyline, Graeters. My mom gave me a gift—a beautiful Liberty print handkerchief, with hand-rolled and hand-sewn edges. (It has since seen some use.) And a card, with this written on it:
“Opie: Cage sure looks awful empty don’t it Pa?
Andy: Yes son, it sure does. But don’t the trees seem nice and full?”
Tonight.
This picture was taken at 5:22pm. Sophie woke them up at 6pm. They immediately started crying. We whispered softly to them. Scratched their backs. Dinner was already on the table, on their plates, parmesan cheese sprinkled on top, their favorite drinks in their favorite cups.
They started screaming.
And then kept screaming until 6:55pm.
Whenever I asked James what was wrong (which, obviously, was that I woke him up) he just screamed at me. Owen, at least, tried to talk although it didn’t make sense. I think he was dreaming and his dream was clashing with reality, which was just making him more angry.
Eventually, after a long story about a curvy track involving his Legos, he told me he wanted watermelon and carrots for dinner.
This was, actually, a somewhat reasonable request but I had already made dinner. And our rule is this: You must, at the very least, try a bite before requesting something else.
I reminded him of this rule.
He just screamed some more.
Finally (imagine a lot of time passing here) he decided to try a piece if I carried him to the table and if I fed it to him.
Whatever.
I did.
(It had been 55 minutes.)
Owen: “I don’t like it.”
Me: “So you want watermelon and carrots?”
Owen: “Yes.”
As I was spooning out the watermelon onto a plate …
Owen: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I ate all my pasta with my watermelon and carrots because I like it?”
I paused. And silently screamed inside my head.
Me: “Yes, Owen. Very funny.”
He ate some more. He ate his watermelon, his baby carrots and his pasta. James, who had been eating as well, got up and came over to where I was sitting, which, at this point, was on the couch.
James: “How many bites do I have to eat to get dessert?”
Me: “All of them. Your whole plate.”
He flipped out.
Me: “Fine. Ten bites.”
(Remember, 55 minutes.)
Owen: “How many bites do I have to eat?”
James: “Ten.”
Owen, sobbing again: “But I want to eat the whole of it!”
Me: “What?”
Owen, still sobbing: “But I want to eat the whole of it!”
At this point Sophie came down the stairs, wearing only her underwear.
Sophie: “Do you know what I really want? What I really want is … why could I only have five of those stars?”
Me: “Because you’ve had plenty of treats today. That’s plenty for dessert.”
James: “DID I EAT ENOUGH FOR DESSERT?”
Owen: “Did I eat enough for dessert?”
Sophie: “I want more stars!”
“Everybody knows how to raise children, except the people who have them.” —P.J. O’Rourke
A Walk in the Woods
This morning was gorgeous. We left the windows open overnight and as such, our house was filled with outdoor morning sweetness—chirping birds and cool breezes.
The children’s attitudes, however, were less than gorgeous. There was whining and crying, and fit-throwing when Andy left for work.
In my mind, I couldn’t understand how they could be so cranky when so much outside beauty was pouring through the tiny holes in our window screens. I knew this line of thought was unreasonable but still, I was irritated.
So, I decided to immerse them into the beauty of the day in way I haven’t yet attempted with all three of them by myself.
“We’re going hiking,” I said.
Their moods instantly improved.
We went to Tower Park, only a couple minutes from our house. I knew they had trails there as we, as a family, had walked some of them during Fort Thomas’s annual jack-o-lantern walks. But we had never hiked them on our own.
The kids loved it. They pointed out everything—mud, sticks, different leaves, bugs, squirrels, the sound of an owl.
And then, we spotted them—two beautiful deer watching us, perched on a ridge just above us. (I failed to bring my camera and was only able to capture sunlight with my phone.) The kids were quietly ecstatic, trying their hardest to be quiet so as not to scare the deer away.
We continued hiking and like something out of a children’s book, the deer followed us, we down below, they on the ridge above.
We walked through the woods for a good half hour, which was about the time I started to wonder if my assumption that the trail would loop was, perhaps, incorrect. I called Andy. He tried to figure out where we were on the trail map. I told him where we started. He said that was impossible, according to the map. So the four of us turned around, walking back the way we came.
Sophie led the way, yelling back to us every time she encountered something we might want to know about.
“Here’s a rock bridge!”
or
“Balance on this tree root!”
or
“Don’t step in that mud puddle!”
James fell on a rock once. Owen forgot to watch out for that mud puddle and ended up with a mud-soaked sandal. Sophie loved to lean precariously over edges while I fretted.
It was perfect.
Parenting ruts are so easy to fall into—especially in later summer when there is no school and vacation has come and gone. But then, a morning like this morning happens. A morning when you discover a treasure in your own backyard, in your own little town, in our own little world, previously unknown.
“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.” —John Muir
A Rookie Move
One of my children: “MOM! Can we paint?”
My bone-tired thought process: Letting them paint by themselves will give me at least 5 minutes of alone time on this couch.
Five minutes later:
“No matter how calmly you try to referee, parenting will eventually produce bizarre behavior, and I’m not talking about the kids. Their behavior is always normal.” —Bill Cosby
We Were That Family
It’s summer. Not technically, but the pool at the Y is now open so really, it’s summer.
We’ve been twice. The first time I took all three kids by myself, to meet my friend Angel and her daughters, Zoey and Mya.
It was so much easier than last year. The kids played in the children’s pool for more than an hour. I sat for much of the time. And talked to Angel. James went down the water slide over and over and over. Sophie dipped her naked Barbie in and out of the pool. Owen, well Owen spent much of the time on my lap but still, when he did get in the water, he had fun.
I envisioned a glorious summer made up of afternoons at the pool, in the sun, happy.
So naturally our next visit to the Y was a disaster.
Andy and I took all three kids Sunday. Everything was great—until we had to leave.
All three lost it. We immediately stopped, got down on our knees at their level and sternly told them how inappropriate their behavior was and how there were going to be consequences as soon as we got home.
James listened to us and stopped.
Sophie (Sophie! Who is 5!) and Owen drew stares.
It was if their bodies had been taken over by demons. They screamed and kicked and carried on in a way we have never seen before. I took Owen. Andy took Sophie. There was no talking to them at this point. We carried them, our heads down and lips tight.
The walk to gather our towels and then exit the Y was so long. So very long. It’s not an exaggeration to say that everyone took notice. Some people had half-smiles on their faces, with I’ve-been-there looks. Some had frowns, with why-can’t-you-control-your-children looks. Some were bewildered, with dear-God-is-that-what-it’s-like-to-have-kids looks.
I wanted to disappear. I still get red-faced thinking about.
Once home, once calm, we had a long discussion about leaving, kicking, hitting, screaming and appropriate behavior. Owen and Sophie lost all dessert and treats for three days (which, for them, is a very. big. deal.). And we’ve told them that from now on we’re not going to put up with even a hint of whining when it’s time to leave—and that if something even close to that happens again, stricter consequences will occur.
So far, everyone has been incredibly well-behaved today. Sweet, even. So much so that I’m half-tempted to drag them all to the pool just to say, “See! They’re not always possessed by demons! Most of the time they’re actually wonderful, kind, incredibly-pleasant-to-be-with children!”
Tell me: Worst public tantrum (if only to make me feel better).
“Temper tantrums, however fun they may be to throw, rarely solve whatever problem is causing them.” —Lemony Snicket