Tornado

In a comment on my last post, Jana said,

I am just going to ignore everything except the one about cuddling because I am trying to survive the SHITSTORM THREES over here and if you’re telling me that four is no better but in fact WORSE I might have some problems.

I know Jana knows this because she has an older child as well, but I know, too, that every child is different and her younger one HAS BEEN TALKING LIKE THIS FOR YEARS kind of like Fresco, which I suspect her older one did not (as mine did not), so OMG it’s going to get louder? I am quitting is a totally reasonable response.

I only had 20 minutes to write the last post so I didn’t get to a) the good things about Four, and b) my personal strategy for surviving it, other than earplugs and gin.

No, four is not worse than three. Really. In my house, anyway, so far, and bear in mind that we are still a few months from Four, so I reserve the right to change my mind / sell my kidney, buy an RV, and leave this town forever.

The tantrums are fewer, with Four, but they’re bigger. And meaner. Three (sometimes) accepts what you say at face value, then punishes you later with tantrums and you have no idea why. Four does not accept what you say, so it’s more straightforward. Four will respond immediately by refuting your statement, so you must remember to NOT ENGAGE in dumb arguments. This is key. You cannot — as I tend to do — argue about the sky being blue or not blue. You have to learn to say you are wrong, even if you aren’t. Because if you insist you are right, Four will argue with you until you are crying for mercy. And then you will be too tired to enforce the rules that matter, like no eating chocolate bars off the shelf while I buy groceries.

Listen. You are right. It doesn’t matter if your child believes you or not.

And lest you worry — as I tend to do — that setting a precedent for letting your child win an argument or believe that something is true when it is patently UNTRUE will result in him becoming some kind of sociopath, or bully, or right-wing nutjob, it won’t.

I think of developmental growth as like being in a tornado. You’re over there, and your mouth is moving, but your kid can’t hear you because he’s in a tornado. When he comes out of the tornado, your house will be messy, but he’ll be himself again. He learned a bunch of stuff while he was ‘away from you’, and now is ready to listen to your seminar on Manners and Cutlery Use.

He’s not going to make the connection: “I’m always right because Mommy agreed that the sky was yellow even though it was blue.” He doesn’t even remember that conversation. It had nothing to do with the sky and everything to do with CONTROL.

(however if you give in on the chocolate bar, even once, that one will come back to bite you)

I survive by not giving a toot about him eating his crusts, or him calling the table a stupid table, or saying he hates the cat, because it’s the intent behind it that he is immersed in and when he emerges from the bath of that intent, he will be cleaner and probably ready to love the cat / clear the table / eat the crusts.

And finally, some great things about almost-Four are:

1. Sustained concentration — 45 minutes building with Lego? Check.
2. Incredible imaginative play. (just make sure you let him be the director)
3. Wicked sense of humour / great bubbling giggles and belly laughs.
4. Ability to walk for miles without complaint.
5. Drawing faces.
6. Hugs still fix 80% of life’s ills.

Courtesy of Saint Aardvark, T.O.R.N.A.D.O by the Go! Team.

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The Ten Rules of Being Almost-Four, By Fresco

Fresco will be four in April. I know. It’s ridiculous and it shouldn’t be happening, but there you go. Life, wheels, turning, yearning, etc.

It has been harder lately to ascertain what of my children’s behavior is related to developmental stuff and what is related to a) they are getting sick b) they are getting over being sick c) it’s the holidays AND they’re sick d) I had a headache for a month and made a grimace face at them approximately 11 hours a day e) it’s back to school f) they’re getting sick g) and not sleeping h) but when do they sleep? Really? Ever? Like, could I complain about this any more?

HOWEVER. We have been healthy and well-slept for four? five? days now, and the holidays are over and the back to school routine has been well re-established and my headache stopped on the 14th of December, so I can safely say that Trombone is settling down, now that he is five and a half (don’t get me STARTED on how wrong that is. His head is now as big as his whole body was when he was born. Cat’s in the Cradle! Etc!) and Fresco is moving into a period of some, transitions, and um, other bullshit ways of saying PAIN IN THE ASS.

Guys, they don’t call it The Fucking Fours for nothing.

Here are the rules of four.

1. He is the Boss.

You want him to do that thing that he loved doing last week? He isn’t doing it. He loved the cat. He might still love the cat. If you ask him to feed the cat? He will say, “No. You can do it.”

2. He is right about point 1 and everything else in the world.

“Please feed the cat. It’s your job. And the cat is hungry.”
“It’s not my job. It’s YOUR job. I hate the cat.”
“You hate the cat?”
“NO. I DON’T. I HATE THE CAT.”

3. He is ANGRY that you will not acknowledge how right he is, and that he is the boss.

“I’M NOT FEEDING THE CAT. Anyway. It’s evening. Where’s my dessert.”
“It’s 9:30 am.”
“It’s EVENING. Stop LYING TO ME.”

4. He loves me so much and wants to cuddle and kiss my neck and pet my hair.

Tickle games. Snuggles. Made all the more bittersweet because, well, it’s ending. The sweet snuggles are ending and he’s becoming his own person (more so than before) and this is it no more babies oh god what have I

wait. No. It’s OK. Because.

5. He wants to punch me in the face.

“I need to get a drink of water now. I’ll be back to snuggle in a minute.”
“YOU CAN’T LEAVE. I WANT TO SNUGGLE YOU.”
“I’m thirsty, Fresco. I need a drink –”
“Stay or I punch you. Those are your choices.”

6. He is so, so sad because I yelled at him because his fist was in my face because he loves me so much.

“Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. I don’t like your fist in my face.” *
“This is all your fault. All of it.” (that’s a direct quotation, by the way. OK! Thanks kid!)

*note: he has not actually punched me in the face.

7. The best way to express excitement about something is to shout at the thing that excites you!

“CHOCOLATE BARS! IN THE GROCERY STORE! I WANT ONE! I WANT ONE! I WANT ONE!”

8. Don’t tell him what to do.

“Please put the chocolate bar back on the shelf. We’re not buying a chocolate bar.”

9. Didn’t you see the top two?

(cover your ears)

10. He is the Boss.

(might want to block your face, too)

But he’s still not getting a chocolate bar.


(photo credit: Fresco’s preschool teacher, who apparently denied him his autonomy right before this photo was taken.)
(just kidding)

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The Best Stuff

In one of my darker moments of the past week, I wrote an e-mail to 2012. I asked it to bring good things for me and my friends. I also asked for maybe a month or two of health, just because it would be nice.

Today 2012 called me, on the telephone.

Hello? I said.
What are you bringing me? said a deep voice.
Who is this? I said.
This is 2012. I start tomorrow. And I am wondering, since you want so many things, what are you bringing me?
What? I said. Like a sacrifice? Are you that kind of god? Do you want a goat or something?
My point is, I’m a year. You’re a person. You’re in ME, not the other way around. I don’t bring you things.
Oh. OK. So — how do I make this — you — a good year?
I’m not good or bad. I’m a block of time. I think you’re confusing me with someone else. Like God. Or Santa. I don’t care what you do. So don’t blame me for your shit at the end of next December.
Oh..kay?
I didn’t want to be a year, you know. I wanted to be a virtuoso pianist.
Yeah?
You’re lucky. You’re a human. You can be whatever you want. Who wants to be a year? It’s like being the weatherman. The news one, I mean, not someone who actually makes the weather. The weather is made by Science.
Science is Real.
I know.
OK, so… I prompted.
So, it said. Bring me your best things. And you will have the best year.
It’s that easy?
It’s that easy.
It’s not like putting lipstick on a pig?
No, more like using real butter in your cookies.
Like smiling with your eyes?
Yes. Like smizing. Exactly. Except with fathoms more moral depth than Tyra Banks.
You get what you give? I asked.
You got the music in you, it replied.
OK.
I have to go. I have more calls to make. Have you seen facebook? People are asking me — a year — for all kinds of stuff. Cars! Girlfriends! Good fortune! It’s like I’m the Easter Bunny, tooth fairy and Santa, all rolled into one. And people are talking SMACK about 2011. 2011 didn’t do anything except exist as a series of days, you know?
Yeah. Got it.
See you on the flip side. Remember. Bring the good stuff.
OK.

The good stuff.

At the end of a calendar year, people talk about meditating on a word for the coming year. They talk about resolutions, although it seems resolutions are uncool anymore. More people are resolving to not make resolutions. I’ve had ample time to think, lately, and nothing is presenting itself to me, resolution or word-wise. Or, you know, life-wise, career-wise, anything-wise. So I think I will do two things:

1. Ask myself if what I am about to say or do is true.
2. Ask myself if what I’m bringing is my best stuff.

I guess my word would be authenticity. But yesterday, walking in the forest, Fresco decided he would name his new stuffed puppy “Deciduous” and I kind of like the sound of that too.

Happy 2012, friends and foes! Deciduously looking forward to all your best stuff!

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Notes from Mother’s Journal: Uphill From Here, in A Good Way Edition

The first day of Christmas vacation was not the best day of my life. I felt like I was getting a cold; the kids have both been sick and now have those clear-the-room coughs; we had nothing to do and no one to do it with; it was raining; still six days till Christmas, yes, six days, yes, that’s six sleeps, yes, almost a week, yes, 24 hours in a day, let’s do the math, ok that took up fifteen minutes NOW WHAT.

You, and by you I mean I, get used to having even that ten minutes of time or whatever it is that I get in a day. It takes a few days to get used to the routine change. You know. Togetherness. Which leads to bickering; the bicker bone being connected to the scream bone, the scream bone connected to the stress bone, the stress bone connected to the WINE. No bone. Just wine.

We muddled through, me feeling a) like crap and b) like a total parenting n99b (that’s, like, even n00bier than n00b)(get it?) and c) that Doom/Panic feeling that comes from feeling like crap in one way or another for MONTHS and like it will never end, but trying not to complain about it because no one likes a complainer that’s why I’m sneaking it into this paragraph handwave and the kids reacting to that and being assholes and me being a bigger asshole just to prove that I AM THE BOSS ASSHOLE. In case there was any doubt.

I am the boss asshole.

Saint Aardvark came home at the end of the day and took the kids upstairs and put them to bed (but not before a parting shot re: how hungry they were because I forced them to bed without supper, oh wait, no I just asked you to SIT at the TABLE more than FIVE TIMES and so I assumed when you started dancing around the room that you were done, oh you weren’t done? Go to bed for 12 hours and then you can have breakfast. BOSS ASSHOLE.) and everything got better.

At the end of the evening I saw the broken bag of reindeer food on the shelf and told SA the story and he fell on the floor laughing and then I laughed too and realized that actually it’s all just funny.

Oh you want to hear the reindeer food story?

One of Trombone’s teachers gave him a card and a bag of reindeer food. You folks all know about reindeer food? I didn’t until recently. Without meaning any disrespect, it’s bullshit. It’s 2 ingredients: oatmeal and glitter. And a little tag that says sprinkle me on the lawn and reindeer will come! Except usually it rhymes.

Like, great, who’s going to clean up all the reindeer poop? Oh, my mom will get it, don’t worry. She’s already cleaning up everyone else’s poop.

I think there is a third ingredient: Magic, but since we are a low-key Santa-acknowledging household, we don’t sit around all day talking about where the reindeer will land. We live in a townhouse and we have a gas fireplace. Let’s not get into the details.

Anyway, it was 10:30 am and I was about ready to lock myself in the bathroom for the rest of the day, hang the expense, because I was trying to get the children to put on their coats and walk with me to the store. You get to a certain point, a tipping point, maybe? I haven’t read the book, where the the children both NEED exercise and CANNOT BE PERSUADED to do anything that will facilitate that exercise, so there I was, in all my outdoor clothing, with the kids half-clad and Trombone whipping the bag of reindeer food around, pretending to be a Ninja or something, yelling “Hooooowayyyyyahhhhhhhhhhh!” when of course it broke. Oatmeal and glitter all over the kitchen floor. < --- word count: 666.

"OH NO!" Trombone said.

He was dismayed. As was I -- I don't want reindeer in my fucking KITCHEN are you kidding me?

"Uh," I said. I leaned against the kitchen counter and surveyed the chaos.

"I'll sweep it up," he said. He went to get the broom from the bathroom, walking right through a puddle of oatmeal glitter. Then he commenced to sort of wave the broom around, making the lightweight glitter float through the air.

"I want to help!" said Fresco.
"You can hold the dustpan," said Trombone.
"OK!"
"Not like that. Hold it flat. It has to be...Oh now it's all going everywhere. YOU HAVE TO HOLD IT FLAT."
"But I am..."
"No you're not, you're holding it sideways. I have to sweep it in and it has to be FLAT."

Fresco dropped the dustpan and made his mad face.

"HEY PICK UP THE DUSTPAN YOU HAVE TO HELP ME."
"NO. I DON'T."
"MOMMY TELL HIM HE HAS --"

"Put your coat on."
"But we have to --"
"Put your coat on."
"But the floor --"
"Put. Your. Coat. On."

Next time I will just look at this photo, which I will be printing to poster size and putting up on my wall. Happy 2nd-to-last-week-of-December!

Trombone and Fresco, looking at Christmas lights through glasses that turn lights into hearts (We went out to look at Christmas lights with these “Happy Glasses” that are like 3D glasses except what they do is turn the pinpricks of light into heart shapes. Like acid, without the acid.)

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For Posterity

Supper table. Both children and I, eating. Each child has a glass of water and a glass of apple cider. Non-alcoholic.

Trombone: When I’m done this apple cider, can I have more apple cider?
Me: No.
Trombone: Why not?
Me: Because you need to drink water or milk. One glass of apple cider is enough. It’s juice, you know.
Trombone: No it’s not. It’s cider.
Me: … (shoveling food in my mouth)

Trombone eyes Fresco.

Trombone: Fresco. Drink your cider.
Fresco: What?
Trombone: Drink your cider. Do you still have some cider?
Fresco: Yes I do. (holds up his glass)
Trombone: Drink it!
Fresco: No. I will drink my water. (Drinks his water) Water is good for me.
Trombone: (sighs)

several minutes pass

Fresco: (drinks his cider) THERE! It’s all gone.
Trombone: Aha! (to me) See, I was tricking him. I wanted him to drink all his so that then I would have more!
Me: Ah.
Fresco: But I win the cider race! I win!
Trombone: Whatever. I don’t care.
Fresco: (singing) I win I win I win I w –
Me: — So you both got something you wanted.
Trombone: (ignoring me) I still have some cider. And you don’t have any.
Fresco: But I WIN!
Trombone: No you DON’T. I do. Because I tricked you.
Fresco: Nope.

**
The End. As if.

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