Snow Crunching: 2 Year-Old "Me Time"

its like popping bubble wrap,
an independent activity

Crunching some snow (winter’s cousin to spring’s puddle jumping) is my son’s favourite winter activity.  Every time we pull into the driveway over the dirty, icy hunks of leftover snow - where you hear that familiar tectonic-plates-shifting sound - he says eagerly, “Want to crunch some snow!” meaning precisely, “Don’t even think about carrying me directly inside when you take me out of my carseat, Mom.  I want to spend some quality time crunching snow (with my BOOTS)”  

I don’t usually let him because its a) too cold or b) I just want to go inside and put my feet up or c) we have groceries to put away or d) I have to run to the washroom, but on the odd occasion, when I’m feeling charitable, I stay outside for 5 minutes and let his heels smash and crush some snow because well, you only live once and snow crunching is a spectacular passtime for a 2 year old - it beats snowshoeing any day of the week (if you ask me). 

Yesterday was one such day. He was really into it, talking to himself as he raised his foot up high and with purpose, “Fuhst you cunch da snow like dis.” (more baby accent than Governor Arnold) “And then your foot cunches it all up.  Cunch, cunch, cunch.” I leaned on the retaining wall, holding my pee and hugging myself from the cold. “This is the stuff of Canadian winters” I said to myself.  “Be patient. Clearly, He needs to get in touch with nature and the driveway is his north east passage expedition equivalent . He just needs to crunch right now." 

After I had humoured him for 10 minutes and was very near to wetting myself (I half considered it - at least my legs would feel warmth again) I approached his “cunching zone” to pick him up and bring him inside. “Good crunching, man.  But that’s enough for now.” I said, authoritatively yet warmly.  “Time to go in and get warm - want to play trains with Mommy?” (The diversion technique is still my go-to - it usually works).  I expected him to whine “No!” and perhaps flail a little as I carried him up the stone steps to our front door, but what I received instead was something so unexpected, something that caught me so off-guard I was moved to write this blog. 

“Leave me ALONE!” he shouted. “I’m not finished yet. Don’t touch me!”  These are words I have never heard him say, especially so dead seriously and to me!  I no longer saw Charlie standing before me, but instead glimpsed a misunderstood, angsty, lippy teenager from a Gus Van Sant film. I stood there...astonished. Struck dumb. Speechless. "Who is this child?”  

Since that moment, when he saw my reaction of shock and silence paired with my actual physical retreat by a few steps he has gained the power of Lex Luther in our household.  His commands as weighty as cryponite to my once super Mom.  There is no fooling him.  There is no putting his coat on when he doesn’t want to.  There is no, “Here, eat this” where I sneak something healthy into his mouth while he’s watching Fireman Sam and he absent mindedly chews and swallows its nutrients. No more.  He is the master of his own universe and no mortal shall deign to make decisions for him.  Or help him either.  He is rather dichotomous about this.  On the one hand, he must do everything “hisself” even things he cannot do, like do up his carseat.  But he tries first before letting me. The idea that I would even try to cover him with a blanket is met with disdain. “Don’t WANT THAT!” or “My blanket - don’t touch it.”  And then he’ll do a total 180 and demand snuggles and help. “Lift me up.” “Kiss it better.” “I need a hug.”   I feel like a maid some days or atleast his personal assistant.  At what point did I become SIRI responding to voice commands?

In Search of Some Traditions

Woof Woof!

You know those springy, coil door-stoppers that make a funny noise if you stub your toe on them? They’re literally a mounted spring with a rubber stopper on the end and they’re usually on a baseboard?  Well, in my family, growing up, whenever we’d hit that and hear that “sproing boing” sound reverberate, someone, would bark in response.  Yes, they would actually imitate the sound of a dog going, “Woof!”  Its weird, but its a family tradition.  No one ever really asked my mom, the one who started it and who would faithfully remember to do it every time someone accidentally hit the thing, why we did it, but now, whenever it happens at my house, I bark like Pavlov’s dog hearing that bell (only barking instead of drooling and licking my chops).  My son, now nearly 2 and a half, thinks that I’m a real space cadet for doing something so weird - he pauses and smirks when I do it because he knows, even at his young age, that the action makes no sense, but it sounds so empty if no one does it.  Its like picking up a penny when you see one, or walking out of the way instead of going under a ladder.  Its a tradition that taken on superstition status.   

The reason I’m writing about something so random is that I keep reading about family traditions, however zany, and how important they are to establish with your kids. Whether its making pancakes together every Sunday morning or Friday night movie night - something routine and predictable and comforting - and something special that kids can look forward to doing with their family. I can hear burly Tevye singing now.   There is nothing more lame in my opinion, then forcing a tradition upon unwilling participants.  Like nerd mom declaring to her reluctant kids, “Scrabble time! Get out your thinking caps!”.  I’m not going to do this - well - I’ll try not to.  I’d love for something fun to happen organically, that we can repeat all together, at will.  Over the summer, I’d say our local bike rides together that would invariably end up at our favorite park with our pail and shovel were a pretty good tradition.  And now, when I’m with Charlie all day, we nap together, I take him to the library or play group in the afternoon and we have a treat somewhere (usually a muffin). But I’m looking forward to something unique and highly memorable.  Something that only we have.

Yes, those are marinara stains.

Recently my mom emailed me some scans of paper napkins she’d saved from years gone by.  That sounds like the opening sentence from an episode of Hoarder’s, but I assure you, she’s undiagnosed and just sentimental.  The reason she’d saved these used paper napkins from places like Pizza Hut and Earl’s is that these were the same restaurants that my family frequented and to pass the time while we waited for our order (half canadian/half hawaiian pan pizza), my artist mother would take out her trusty black Staedtler ink pen from her purse (fine-nibbed and permanent! big responsibility for little girls) and we would play “squiggles” a make-something-out-of-this doodle-and-guess-what-it-is game.  We were IN LOVE with squiggles and to this day my sister and I fill the void by playing each other on Draw Something on our iPhones (she from Vancouver and I in Burlington).  This is the kind of tradition I know will never leave my memory and my heart and its weird enough that now, even though I'm usually inclined to, I can’t just ask someone I’m dining with to play with me (most people don’t enjoy the challenge of drawing on a surface that may rip at any moment should the pen be wielded in a careless manner) and besides, we tend to dine at places with cloth napkins now, thank heavens.   I never asked my mom why she never stole one of my dad’s reporter notepads that he had stacked by the dozens in our house to play our game on, but I don’t think the memory would have been the same if she had.

Defy Me And You Shall.... (*gulp...I don’t know)

how many times do I have to tell you? they're not toys!

I am desperately trying to beef up on my knowledge of parenting a child whose sole interest is in resisting parental guidance.  “Charlie do it hisself” has been an oft-uttered phrase lately.  I get independence and mastery.  That’s cool.  I can dig it.  But when he goes limp and refuses to stand so I can pull his pants up after a change - well it really boils my blood.  I don’t like gritting my teeth or boiling over, but I immediately go there.  Its like I have the shortest fuse known to man.  

Logically, I understand he’s testing the limits.  He’ll sweetly watch our reactions as he throws books over the railing and down the stairs batting his eyelashes or as he goes into drawers we’ve told him a hundred times not to empty with a little devilish smile on his lips.  I continually trip over chopsticks, bag clips and napkin rings in the weirdest places.  

I think it was my over-reaction when I noticed he’d pulled every tissue out of the brand new Puff’s box and put it into the toilet with the stealth of a CIA operative which was the event that set this whole phase off.  When I saw what he had done I growled “No! What have you done? No thank you! That is such a waste and will clog the toilet.” I paired this with a somewhat aggressive interception of the final tissues, I picked him up and I carried him out of the bathroom and slammed the door in his face as I unplugged the toilet. (Never think you’ll reach into toilet water with bare hands? Have a kid - it will happen at some point, I promise you.) He cried as if I’d dismembered him or drowned his puppy.  I’m sure neighbors thought the worst.  As I mopped up the drips and disposed of the mushy kleenex I calmed down, washed my hands and composed myself.  I opened the door, picked him up, wiped his tears and apologized.  We read some stories and I realized had I been giving him this attention, he wouldn’t have sneaked off to do that.  

Its my reaction in the moment of discovery that I need to work on. Its just short of Homer Simpson choking Bart ("Why I Oughta!")  My husband is the most calm and patient man you’ll ever meet (except when I’m parallel parking) but the second Charlie does something that might endanger him (like playing with a cord at the electrical socket or hugging a christmas tree as it teeters on its stand) he’ll go completely ape-sh*& and yell in scary daddy voice: “Charlie NO! Stop that right now!” or something to that effect which usually results in instant crying.  It even scares me.  Is fear mongering the right way to curb the behavior or does that make it all the more desirable?  I’ve heard of ignoring problem behaviours so that they become less appealing.  I’ve heard of redirecting kids instead of scolding.  Of positive reinforcement and rewards for good behaviour.  Its the punishment thing that’s hard to swallow.  I recently talked with my sister-in-law about the “time out” corner or “time-out” chair idea.  Her friend does it paired with counting to 3 and it really works to keep her kid in line.  What do you do to let your kid know you mean business?

Check out what I’ve been reading lately on the subject:

http://www.caringforkids.cps.ca/handouts/tips_for_positive_discipline

http://www.oprah.com/relationships/Some-Good-Ways-to-Discipline-Children

http://www.parenting.com/tags/toddler-discipline?cid=searchresult&curatedresult

http://www.aacap.org/cs/root/facts_for_families/discipline

http://www.askdrsears.com/topics/discipline-behavior/10-time-out-techniques 

http://www.professionalparenting.ca/articles/PPTimeInNotTimeOut.pdf

Moomah

I am totally inspired and have a major girl-crush on Tracey Stewart.  Yes, she is married to the fabulous Jon Stewart of The Daily Show, but her brand of funny is all her own.  She is at the helm of free online mag: Moomah which is a gathering space for moms/ caregivers/ women (or men - I mean its not "women only" where did my gender studies degree vanish to?) who like alternative articles on female-ish stuff, parenting, DIY, crafts, cookery etc.  Its great, hilarious and inspiring.  Give it a read here, I betcha you'll bookmark it! Moomah

Prepping For A Dinner Party: 2 Year Old Godzilla Edition

The scribblings of a mad woman/ wannabe foodie mom

On the last Saturday before I had to return to work from winter holidays, we decided to invite our whole family over for a “fresh feast”.  We had recently bought a juicer after watching a frightening documentary on weight gain and processed foods (knowledge we already had, but paired with some foggy new year’s resolutions and packaged in a really convincing way, this documentary scared/ inspired us into trying to be healthier - at least for a little while).  The fresh feast was totally vegetarian (except for a small salmon filet for those not willing to go “all the way” with our idea).  The recipes were all from a vegan chef’s website and require a lot of preparation.

My husband was working all day and so I was alone with Charlie.  This is usually a pleasure, but on a day when shopping, cleaning, planning, cooking prep and actual cooking is required for a large group, entertaining a 2 year old can be extremely daunting.  I know, there were plenty of (and still are) women who can manage this day in and day out (an image of a 1950s octopi-supermom with 15 arms in a gingham apron comes to mind).  But I don’t do oversized family calendars and coloured sticky notes.  I’m not that person.  When cooking, I don’t have mise en place and I don’t keep a hot soapy sink ready to plunk in dirty dishes as I cook.  I don’t have a garbage bowl ready for keeping my work space clean.  Well, not normally.  

Having to manage Charlie (or atleast keep him out of trouble) while I prepped was a big task.  I needed a game plan.    I reminded myself to be positive, upbeat and oozing joy the entire time, else Charlie would sense my true stress levels and be B-A-D (we're talking: sneak into the bathroom and squeeze out all mommy's expensive-ish shampoo onto the tile floor or throw tin cans down the wooden stairs = previous behaviours which will go down in the books as maniacal).

Here are some activities that I successfully did which kept him occupied, happy and maybe interested him in one day being the next Tyler Florence.  I only burned the candied nuts on the first attempt! I call that a job well done!

• Get out play food and a variety of stuffed animals and allow charlie to use “grown up” and safe kitchen utensils to make them a “fresh feast” or “brunch” (pronounced “fesh feest” and “bunch”).

• Pull up a chair to the counter and allow your kid to be your sous chef minus the sharp knives, microplanes, food processors, and cheese graters. (Charlie was an excellent radish picker, scrubber and passer).

• Teach him to repeat the following phrases:

• Mmm! This is delicious white bean dip!
• Wowza! Have you been slaving over a hot stove all day to make this risotto? I can tell!
• Is that Tamari in the dressing? It gives it a real whole-mouth feeling!

• Cave and let him sit at my feet while I chopped playing ABC Food and Toca Kitchen on my iPhone.

• Let him wear oven mitts, apron and any other kitchen apparel while pretending to do pantry inventory.

• Let him pour dry pasta into a variety of bowls (that you’ll mark - DON’T EAT - EVER! in a ziplock bag afterwards for re-use) and use the swiffer and dustpan after to clean up.  Stepping on dry pasta is a little like DIY reflexology.

How Can It Be?

As a mother and teacher (both relatively new experiences for me in my life) I feel I need to write something brief about what happened in Newtown, CT this week.  I have heard snippets on the news and read the odd story here and there on the internet about the victims and heroes involved in the school shooting.  they’ve released the names and small little faces of the 6 and 7 year olds who were senselessly killed.  i’ve tried not to pay any attention to the shooter (who I shall not name, as he doesn’t deserve it) I try to reconcile the information - its like a tornado - a force of nature - something like that so random - how can you ever prepare for or prevent something like that?  

there are no words for something of this magnitude.  something so out of the blue.  something so senseless and horrific.  As a teacher I’ve heard it before: don’t you ever feel like a sitting duck? aren’t lockdown procedures scary to learn when you’re new on the job? why can anyone just walk into a school?  none of these things carry much weight for me.  of course. I know the lockdown procedures and when I had to practice them with a grade 3 class on my very first practicum during teacher’s college, something deep within me felt that it was wrong and corrupting their innocence to have to teach them about these things.  but the words, “gunman” weren’t used - just "bad guys" and/or “intruders” and we practiced the rules and procedures as we did fire drills - some people even giggled because they thought hiding under tables in the dark was fun.  its just part of our day and age. I teach 6 and 7 year olds all the time.  I would have done that same thing that that brave teacher did if my class were threatened.  so would every other teacher out there - I don’t doubt that for a second.  

But teacher realities are not the thoughts that are haunting me, surprisingly.  Its the idea that i have a son who will grow up.  No, I won’t take him to target practice and I won’t own any weapons (that’s a whole other blog post!), but he will go to school.  I will eventually have to leave him in the care of another person/ institution all day long.  I won’t always see or know about the troubles he has or interactions he has socially that will make him who he is.  He will grow up a lot of the time on his own, or under the guidance of others, and he will go through awkward phases.  he won’t always be liked.  won’t fit in.  he might be too smart, or not smart enough.  he might get teased.  depression? hopefully not, but maybe.  1 in 4 people have a mental illness.  all these thoughts are playing bumper cars inside my head.  what made this kid snap?  How can I be a protective factor to the kids I teach? To my own son? How can I help to stop this sort of thing?

Motor Skill Maniac

 where you end up when you can only crawl backward.

When Charlie started crawling, he crawled backwards.  He just wouldn’t go forward and would end up in precarious places as he had no clue as to where he was crawling.  I, having a tendency to worry, overanalyze and catastrophize, decided there was something wrong, developmentally, and that this was likely an indicator of a learning disability to come.  “Who crawls backwards?” I worried aloud, hoping someone with experience would hear and reassure me that they knew of plenty of well-adjusted adults who began their journey’s crawling backward.  Then, at a dinner party, a professor of English told me that researchers had made a link between crawling and the ability to read.  “Great!” I thought, “He’ll be dyslexic for sure.”

Now a great forwards walker, runner and marcher (Ants Go Marching is a perennial favourite in our house) Charlie has recently started cutting a rug whenever he hears a song he likes.  He’s got the moves like Jagger! Surprisingly (I never thought a son of Elaine would be so on-beat and limber!)  And most recently he has taken to side stepping down the hallway, both right and left.  Its like he’s on an invisible tightrope and is sneaking around somewhere trying not to be seen.  Its adorable.

I always thought of Charlie as more adept in the fine motor department.  He doesn’t get into things head first. He doesn’t climb or do physically strenuous things that might involve an element of danger.  He’ll hang back and watch the other carefree children “discover” and will then decide if he should take part.  In an effort to balance him out and move him away from puzzles, picnics and scribbling, we bought a plastic baseball bat and ball, a small foam football and Grandma bought a bowling set.  Charlie loves hacking at the ball with his bat the way a lumberjack schools a fallen tree.  Swinging it is not and hand-eye coordination is not really established, but he has time to enter Shoeless Joe Jackson territory, I mean he is after all only 2.  We’re working on rolling a ball, kicking a ball (alas, there is no bending it like Beckham).  He can’t jump up and down yet, but he can squat and crouch like a champ.  I’m not following a gross motor skill checklist from a baby book, but I feel like being able to throw, catch, kick and roll a ball are pretty important things for a toddler to learn and practice.  I’m not Walter Gretzky, but it would be great if Charlie had a hat trick under his belt by JK.  Thankfully it seems like I’m not the only one who wants their kids to hone their physicality either.

Enter B2Ten whose tagline is “Dare to Be Great”. They are an elite group of business people whose goal it is to support and develop Olympic level athletes.  Its in their best interest (and ours, as proud, medal-loving Canadians!) to make sure their pool of potential isn’t dwindling, but growing.  The group’s focus is on what they call "physical literacy" and it is their goal that it will catch on with moms (even non-sporty ones like me!)  You see, moms are the key holders, who, in a few minutes a day, can teach toddlers the basic elements of movement and co-ordination that will result in them being more confident when they try physical games, sports, for the first time, rather than giving up early because they are not comfortable with the basic skills. Now, I’m not saying that Charlie needs to be center on the podium by the time he’s 18, but I’d like at least a little league medal or two and if I could, would like to help him avoid that awful feeling of being picked last for a team.  Check out their PSA-style advertisement here.   If it doesn’t give you goosebumps and motivate you to turn your TV off and go outside to run and play with your kid, I don’t know what will!  As a teacher, I know how the curriculum stresses Daily Physical Activity (DPA) in schools and how moving and being active isn’t just reserved for Gym time.  Kids (a lot of them kinesthetic learners) learn best when they’re moving - especially boys.  I’ve seen more kids than I can count on one hand be in a situation with ample reaction time and still get hit in the face with a red rubber dodge ball and I ask you, did these kids’ parents ever play catch with them?