Love among the ruins

Yesterday I confirmed to myself two things that may already be obvious to most people.

The first is that once an almost-three-year-old gets wound up, it is almost impossible for him to switch gears, even if he wants to.

The second is that one day, if I can just be consistently patient and loving, I will likely see a reasonable human emerge from the wreckage of a thousand toddler tantrums.

I was in a rush yesterday morning, as always, and gave very little thought to the fact we were out of soda crackers. And so, as we headed out the door to the baby sitter's, instead of handing Graham his normal snack of three - always three! - crackers, I substituted a piece of fresh, toasted bread smeared with peanut butter.

The meltdown started slow, but soon built to epic proportions.

"I want my peanut butter crackers mommy. Peanut butter crackers."

"There are no crackers left sweetie. Have some bread. It's delicious. Yum, yum! Mommy will get more crackers later."

I forced my voice to sound cheerful as I buckled Graham in his car seat, but my heart was sinking. I knew where this was going. I was tired. I was late. Again. I was burdened with worry over a loved one's recent illness.

"PEANUT BUTTER CRACKERS MOMMY! PEANUT BUTTER CRACKERS!"

Graham's rage was in full force by the time we pulled out of the driveway. He cried. He flailed. His screams reached ear-splitting volumes.

And I lost it.

I burst into tears.

"Please Graham! Please! Please just stop treating mommy like this!"

The sobs were louder and more anguished than either of us expected; louder and more anguished, certainly, than the situation warranted.

But a funny thing happened.

When I looked in the rear view mirror, I saw something flash across his still raging, tear-stained, face. Compassion? Regret?

He screamed louder.

"BE HAPPY MOMMY! I LOVE YOU MOMMY! I WANT A HUGGY!"

My heart lifted and my tears dried up almost as quickly as they had appeared. Instantly ashamed of my dramatics, I cooed to him.

"Mommy is okay sweetie, don't worry. It's okay."

I turned and I smiled right at him. And I realized that Graham couldn't smile back. He wanted to, but he couldn't.

Arms flailing, tears flowing, voice at a furious pitch, he was past his anger over the crackers, but remained trapped in his almost-three-year-old body. He was powerless to instantly switch gears in the manner that we adults take for granted.

"Be happy mommy! I love you mommy! I want a huggy!"

The refrain continued, but gradually quieted until his tone matched his words and his rage ran its course. When got to the baby sitter's five minutes later he was beaming and chewing on his toast.

I gave him his huggy, told him I loved him and continued on my way to work.

And while I drove I ruminated on that rather intense reminder of just how undeveloped a toddler's sense of reason and control really are.

It was a much-needed reminder that it is me, not him, who supposedly has the maturity not to let my temper or my frustration dictate how our day will go.

It was a much-needed reassurance that my son, despite his almost-three-year-old limitations, has at least some compassion and patience for a mother who still spends so much time confirming things that are already obvious to most people.

Losing the battle

Graham loves his babysitter.

She’s my mother-in-law’s best friend. She was at my wedding. She truly adores Graham and it’s obvious he feels the same way.

So it’s all the more frustrating and perplexing that getting him out the door in the mornings these days generally involves a full-blown temper tantrum.

They appear to have become a favorite sport for him. It starts with him turning away, laughing and making silly faces when I first approach with socks and shoes. But giggles and mock protests quickly escalate into full-blown power struggles involving crying, flailing, screaming, kicking and slapping. (On his part, of course, though I have to cop to some occasional screaming of my own).

When Graham is finally wrangled, red-faced and screeching, into his car seat, he’s usually barefoot and without a coat and I am usually close to tears.

Never mind that he generally starts cooing happily from the back seat within minutes, the tone for the day has been set.

And it’s a negative tone, an angry tone: a tone that makes me feel like a failure.

Anyone else feel like they’re losing the battle?

I think he knows

I told him over and over again that it was just a haircut.

I told him that it wouldn't hurt a bit. That he would look so handsome afterwards. That I would give him a lollipop when it was all over.

And still he protested mightily, whimpering and clinging to me the whole time. It wasn't a furious scene like last time, thank goodness. There was no screaming or flailing or streaming tears.

But there was tension and muted murmurs of protest, as if he knew something that we adults don't like to think about.

As if he knew exactly what these photographs prove: that with each lock of hair shorn a piece of his sweet babyhood falls away and flutters irretrievably into the past.

For the betterment of supermarkets/ retail establishments the world over

Dear every supermarket/retail manager in the greater Toronto area,

Hello from Don Mills!

I’m one of your customers, or potential customers anyway, and I want you to know that I think you’re doing a great job. It’s not easy working retail, I know. I used to be waitress, which kinda sucked too, but at least I got tips. And free food.

Anyhoo, I’m writing today with a simple, heartfelt request that, if granted, would really make a world a better place for me and, I wager, other moms too.

I’d like you to lose the balloons.

You heard me: the balloons.

I know you think they’re a nifty way spruce up your displays, add some colour to the store - maybe draw people’s eyes to the items you’re looking to move.

But balloons make my life a living hell.

I have a toddler, you see. And don’t get me wrong, he’s a super little guy – a real live wire as they say (ha, ha), but he’s got a bit of a fixation with balloons.

Okay he’s obsessed. So obsessed I’m not even sure it’s normal. When we go into your store and he sees a balloon he gets all crazy, see. He starts out chanting under his breath, Ba-oon, ba-oon, and craning his neck to get a better look at them.

Then the chanting gets louder and I start to get nervous and I try and just grab what I need and get the heck out, but before I know it, the chanting has become screaming. So I head to the checkout, but by the time I get there he’s freaking out and crying and throwing himself in the general direction of the balloons.

And I try to hold him back and calm him down, but the guy ahead of me is paying in pennies or doubloons or something and my son has determined that he will self-destruct if he does not get a balloon. I get really flustered ‘cause everyone’s giving me that I-can’t-believe-you-are letting-your-child-act-like-that!-look. (Except for that one lady who always says Are you okay? so nicely it almost makes me feel worse because it’s so obvious that I am LOSING IT!)

So you can see my dilemma.

Now, sometimes one of the people working in your store takes pity on me and cuts down a balloon and gives it to my son. And that’s great, don’t get me wrong, but I worry it might make him think that driving mommy BAT-SHIT-CRAZY is the best way to get what you want. (Even if it is).

So anyway, if you could just refrain from displaying balloons in any way, shape or form anywhere in the vicinity of your supermarket/ retail outlet that would be great.

Thanks a lot.

Oh, and if you could maybe move the bins of apples, oranges and other roundish-type fruits and things to somewhere in the very back of the store, that would be great too.

Sincerely,

Don Mills Diva

Scenes from a life

Before I became a parent, back when I wanted desperately to be a parent, I would play movies in my head. I would run scenes of how it would be, of the things I would do with my child, of the joy we would share.

One of the most enduring scenes in my head involved raking leaves. It would be a brilliant, fall day, warm and sunny. I would be happily raking and indulgently chiding my mischievous ragamuffin as he frolicked alongside me.

When today dawned bright and sunny I started to think I just might find myself reliving that fantasy I had long held dear.

But it was not to be.

Yes, it was sunny and warm and thousands of leaves had fallen in our large, ravine yard.

But Graham was having none of it.

He didn't want to frolic. He wanted Mommy to carry him around and around the yard while he pointed at trees. When I finally tired of that and encouraged him to play the part I had envisioned for him, the tantrum began.

He cried. I raked and sang a little song.

He flailed. I playfully tossed a few leaves his way.

He screamed at my audacity. NO MAMA!

I tried to introduce him to his own rake so we could work together.

He was clearly insulted.



And so I gave up. I gave up on raking and I gave up on my fantasy of how it would be.

Because if there is one thing I have learned since having Graham, it's that parenting is never quite the way you imagine it will be.

There are wonderful moments. Many wonderful moments.

And there are tough moments. Moments that are tougher than anything you imagine.

All these moments, good and bad, present themselves when you least expect them. The joy sneaks up on you and floods your heart like a tidal wave from the clear blue sea. And the frustration steals the show when you feel sure the scene is set for a happy ending.

And in the end, you learn that ultimately you are destined to play only a supporting role in your child's life. You learn that not matter how the movie in your head plays out, you can never be the director of someone else's show.

Sadness, part two

I did something last night and I can’t stop thinking about it.

I hit Graham.

Slapped actually. I would like to say swatted, but in my heart of hearts I know it was more than a swat. It was a slap. A firm one.

Let me set the stage.

Graham napped little yesterday. He had his first meltdown in the car on the way home from his babysitter’s. He was still raging nearly an hour later. I offered him a drink. Some bread and peanut butter. I got his blanket. Put on his favorite music. Attempted to cuddle him and play blocks with him.

He screamed in my ear. Flailed. Threw his toys at me. Slapped me.

I spoke to him in soothing tones. I put him on the naughty step for a time out. Twice.

Eventually the whining became at least intermittent. He started to play. I sat on the floor and arranged my legs as a tunnel (his favorite) and he crawled under them. I felt a shooting pain in my thigh. He bit me. Hard.

Harder than he had ever bitten me before.

I was, I think, remarkably calm. I swiftly got down to his level, held his chin and looked directly into his eyes. “NO BITING.” I carried him firmly, but not roughly, and placed him on the step in the other room.

I walked away and zipped off my corduroy jeans. A throbbing inch-long welt was already turning nasty shades of black and purple. I wiped away a single drop of blood and applied some polysporin.

I took a few minutes. I needed them.

I collected him. He was apprehensive, but otherwise nonplussed. I showed him the welt. “You hurt mommy. No biting. Biting hurts people.”

He smiled angelically at me, unsure. Regretful? Yes, I told myself. Regretful.

I picked him up. Kissed him. Hugged him. “No biting, Graham. No more biting. It hurts mommy.”

I picked up a book and settled with him on my lap. He started to whine. “Come on, Graham. Look, it’s Elmo.”

Smack.

I felt his nail rip through the skin on my cheek. I felt a dark, hot flash of anger.

And I slapped him.

I slapped him pretty hard. On his leg. He was wearing track pants, but there was no doubt he felt a sting. He blinked in surprise. Burst into tears.

I gathered him in my arms, heart racing. I rubbed his back. “No hitting. You can’t hit.” I blinked back tears. What a hypocritical thing to say. “That’s hitting Graham. Hitting hurts. You see, it hurts. That’s why we don’t do it.” Stupid, stupid rationalization.

I have always thought that parents, loving parents who are thoughtful enough to ponder these things in the first place, worry too much about defining their position with regards to spanking. I have always felt entirely comfortable with my own philosophy.

I don’t believe striking children is an acceptable way to discipline them. I don’t think it’s very effective or creative and I absolutely believe parents should avoid it. But I also always figured that Graham would likely receive a few swats throughout his childhood, due to frustration and/ or anger. I was human. He would likely push my buttons. I would likely lose my temper. And I felt okay with that.

I have heard people say that if one is going to spank a child, it should never, ever be in anger and that seems absurd to me. A calm and calculated administration of physical punishment strikes me as far more disturbing than a quick, thoughtless smack delivered out of exasperation and frustration.

I think it can be good for a child to see a normally calm and collected parent lose their temper. Not to freak out and melt down, mind you, but to throw aside their practical, parental reserve and expose some raw emotion.

I remember being about 10 years old and being in a pissy mood with my mom, who is as quiet and non-confrontational as they come. She asked me (probably for the umpteenth time) to put away some books I left around and I responded in typical fashion; bitchy, insolent, thankless. I remember her hurling those books against the wall and shrieking at me in manner I didn’t know she was capable of.

I was struck dumb. The force of her anger punctured my thick, bubble of preteen self-absorption. For the first time ever I saw, really saw, the exhaustion and frustration in her eyes. It moved me and I have never forgotten it.

But then Graham is too young for my temper to provide any kind of a teaching moment, isn’t he? He is too young to be struck by the revelation of his mother as a human being.

He is too young to be struck.

And that’s why I can’t stop thinking about what I did last night.

Sadness

So here I sit counting the bite marks on my arm.

Only two are still visible, of the six or seven good, hard bites I received in the space of about an hour earlier this evening.

Graham has developed a habit of screeching, hair-pulling, slapping and then biting when I take away something he's not allowed to play with. Or when I resist his attempts to pull me over to the garage-door opener to which he is addicted. Or when he has to get his diaper changed. Or when I say no to anything his toddler heart is set on.

Was it only a month ago that I was rhapsodizing about the purity of the two-year-old temper tantrum? Karma has really and truly bitten me on the ass for that one.

I have a routine reaction to his outbursts, which I execute exactly just as all the "parenting experts" advise. Down to his level. Eye contact. Strong and firm voice. No biting.

To the naughty step he goes. He sits, compliant, wide-eyed. He tries to catch my eye. He giggles. Tries to make me smile. I resist. Shake my head. No biting.

After two minutes, Okay, get up, let's play. He laughs with delight. His eyes dance. His mouth opens joyfully.

He sinks his teeth into my arm with relish.

And so it goes.

And here I sit. The bite marks are finally fading, but I'm still nursing my lingering guilt. What kind of a mother loses it and screams at her not-even-two-year-old not once, but twice in the course of one evening?

Apparently a mother missing a large clump of hair and sporting two still-visible bite marks.