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

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?  

Klepto Kid

a natural place to store trains

On my way to work last week, I stopped for my usual coffee and when I went to pay, I opened my wallet and noticed that it was completely empty.  I figured I’d been robbed and knew exactly who the culprit was, my nearly-two year-old son, Charlie.  I smiled politely at the woman and awkwardly told her I’d be right back, thankfully I only live around the corner.  When I returned home, I entered the house and politely asked my son, “Where did you put all of mommy’s cards and money?” (I hoped that his answer would  not be: I flushed them down the toilet or I ate them).  He smiled coyly and vacated the room, his hands together, whistling, nonchalantly, and looking around for something new to get into.  My husband and I spent the next 10 minutes frantically tearing the family room apart and when we found nothing there, proceeded to do the same to the kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms.  It sounded like a chant, we were repeating in unison as we searched: Where’s the stuff from mommy’s wallet? Oh where oh where can it be? Hoping the sing-song, you’re-not-in-trouble-as-long-as-you-show-us-where-you-buried-the-treasure, game would entice Charlie to play along, or at least jog his memory.  Finally, the hero that he is, my husband found the missing cards and money inside an unpacked overnight bag, backpack really, from the previous weekend’s excursion to a bachelor party.  Inside the backpack, along with the cards and money, were a roll of toilet paper, our chopstick collection and an unpeeled naval orange (thankfully not punctured by the chopsticks, nor rotting).  And so I kissed my husband, gave my son a heart-not-in-it, gotta-hurry lecture and rough hair-tousle and headed back to pay for my coffee and be (only slightly) late for work.

Its funny really, how any organization, or attempt at it, goes out the window when your kids gets to a certain age.  Its ironic, that now, I can actually manage to label things, sort them and keep them orderly on my own (not like when I had the baby blues and couldn't think straight nor wanted to do any of that), but now that I want to alphabetize my spices and line up my books by genre and colour block the spines on my bookshelf, my son is like the tasmanian devil, whirling about the place and throwing things everywhere.  All cutlery is out of the drawer and in a variety of spots from toilet brush holder behind the toilet (yeah, probably don’t accept that invitation to my next dinner party) to inside the cold air return register grate.  All my tampons have been removed from their packages and are in a variety of handbags in the closet (highly sanitary I believe) as well as a welcome surprise inside my husband’s sock drawer.  Its not that I don’t watch him and supervise him.  Its that he’s lightening quick - especially if he’s undertaken a job he’s not supposed to be engaged in.  One minute he’s singing Twinkle Twinkle and reading in his room and the next he’s moved his crib to the other side of the room and has lined up every sock my husband and I own around the perimeter of the baseboards.  If only I could train him to enjoy putting things back, where they belong, and not in the most random and inconspicuous place known to man.

Sharing Is Caring

don't even think about it, mom

My son does not share well.  I’m sure he will, one day, but that day has not come.  Right now, if you, say, ask for a piece of his grilled cheese, the response is a resounding “Noooooo!” (sometimes, “No sank you,” but only if you’re lucky).  If you really play it up, milk it and whine “Pleeease? I’m SOOO hungry!” He will pause, think and then still say “No.”  I don’t know what my husband and I are doing wrong.  We sing the Raffi “Sharing Song” as if its a Top 40 hit. We always say “Sharing is Caring” and Charlie even repeats it.  We’ve even taken up clowning in an effort to teach, for “modeling” sake.  In a pantomime fashion, Mommy and Daddy share everything (me with my husband and he with me) and we lay the manners on thick too “Thank you so much for sharing this delicious apple with me daddy.  I was hoping you’d give me a bite and you did! Oh boy!”  Charlie just rolls his eyes and walks away “Charlie’s apple” he says, clutching his Northern Spy tightly.    

You’d think having 3 young cousins around to share toys with would help.  You’d think our twice weekly visits to the local Ontario Early Years drop in Centers, where sharing is sacrosanct, would have rubbed off on him atleast a little.  Well it hasn’t. Recently, for example, we went to the center for some play time with different toys, to play with new kids.  We were first to arrive.  Big mistake.  This sends Charlie the following message, I’m sure: Behold, Sir Charles, your very own play mansion filled with whatever toy you desire. Enjoy.  Then, of course, as it is a public place (and free, and awesome) lots of other mommies arrive with their kidlets to escape the Murky Dismal weather.  The Bob the Builder toy set Charlie has been enjoying (alone) is suddenly “under attack” as other curious children arrive and bee-line for it.  Charlie enters high-alert disaster mode and starts wailing, tears spurting from his eyes as if he’s swallowed a habenero.  He runs to me and collapses in my lap.  Its a travesty.  

Desperate, I search my local library for books on sharing.  I found one called “Mine” by Patrice Barton.  Its a book about two toddlers who fight over everything and all they keep yelling is “MINE!” and trouble ensues when their puppy starts stealing and destroying everything they fight over.  I think its a little over his head because all he does is laugh hysterically at it, especially when the teddy bear ends up soaked in the dog dish after doing an aerial over the entire living room.  This book is NOT teaching Charlie to share.  What will?

Staring Down The Barrel of A...Baby Potty

Every time I see its pristine, gleaming bowl I feel like a bad parent

Its human nature to compare ourselves to others, and when a mommy: to compare our little ones to other little ones.  We do this all the time, however we love the trope, “everyone is different, everyone has their own internal clocks and timelines”.  We say this over and over again; almost a mantra, hoping that our child will be developmentally sound and reach all their milestones in good time (and not slow-bus time), but also to sound like we don’t care about such trivial matters and that we love our little one in whatever shape he or she decides to take.  Sorry, but its true.  I admit that I am slightly worried about my son’s verbalization.  Its not his fault.  We talk for him all the time and I do a pretty great job of decoding his sounds and so he gets everything he wants.  That’s communication 101 - give me what I want! He’s probably fully aware of this and thinks, “why go to all the trouble of forming the whole word when “Jew” gets me Juice and “popo” gets me my toy police car in record time?”  That’s not laziness on his part, its ingenuity.  

The reason that I realized that I compare way too often is when I started going to OEYC (Ontario Early Years Centers) drop-in hours around the corner from us.  I go for an hour or two in the mornings with Charlie for him to play with other kids, and for me to socialize with other moms.  This sounds like a great idea and its free - different toys and songs and stories everyday, a revolving door of new friends - what could be negative (other than communicable diseases) about this set-up?  Well, I’ll tell you what.  I have found that I do nothing, but compare developmental milestone calendars with other moms, and not all on my own doing either, its like we gravitate to each other and its a predictable and easy conversation starter.  It goes something like this: 

“How old is your little one?” 

“Oh, Charlie? (repeating or calling his name over and over during the course of the play date is a popular shameless, proud namer maneuver) He’s 21 months.”  

“Oh mine is 20 months.  Potty-trained yet?” the other mom is looking at my obviously diapered son and just baiting me into defensiveness.  I almost always take the bait.

Now I ask you, how is one supposed to, in a socially-acceptable manner I mean, respond to this?  Its not a harmless question, its a question that is basically sizing up a variety of personality traits of me as a mother: am I dedicated, in-tune with my son’s digestive patterns, am I environmentally conscious?  I have a sort of meta-cognitive awareness going on as I take part in these mostly mommy encounters.  How am I perceived? What are my strengths here? How am I doing as a parent?  Its kind of crazy actually.  I wish I could say what I’m thinking in these situations.  Something like, “well we’re a family of defecation fetishists so I think having him discard his feces into a toilet would be stripping him of the joys of sitting in his own crap.”  But that wouldn’t get me on any parenting committees and probably WOULD get me a visit from Children’s Aid, and so I keep my mouth shut (for once).

When Charlie was first born I went to these centers to get the F out of my house and to try to connect with actual human beings that were functioning as parents and not needing life support and anti-depressants by the bucketful.  Okay, that’s a bit melodramatic, but I was hurting.  So I went and I was told by the early years educators that I was normal and that it was good I was coming out, reaching out, and that it would get better.  I was comforted to meet other new zombies, I mean moms, who were just as disheveled, overwhelmed and exhausted as I was.  It sounds mean, but when I met one mom who hadn’t showered in three days, had twins and no help (no moms, sisters, non-working girlfriends, or mother-in-laws) well, it made me grateful for my one child, my great familial support network and my knowledge of the PTA sink bath (you can guess what the acronym stands for).  And see, even then, in my brand new days as a parent, I was comparing.  I didn’t smell, she did.  I had one kid, she had two.  I had a doting mother-in-law around the corner, she didn’t.  Did that make me a better person? No, my relief at my own situation and pity for hers probably made me a worse person, but it did put me in tune with that fact that, despite my terror at the whole game-changing arrival of Charlie, actually, I was lucky.  

Now that I have myself more together and have adjusted to being a parent, I guess I feel I need to compare my child.  Now I don’t do it in a mean way.  I don’t find (that much) joy when Charlie’s fine motor skills outshine a playmate, nor do I curse Charlie if his ball throwing form pales in comparison to another’s.  I don’t ever look down at Charlie and think, “well, what a shame, he’s just not going to be pianist” or “his artistic composition with the finger paints tells me he’ll probably be an athlete” but I do look (split-screen in my mind’s eye) at the two 21 month old toddlers trying to climb up the mini slide, one wearing a diaper and one not and feel like a bit of a potty-training slacker. Or I hear one saying, “Oh mom, not Gouda again!” in an exasperated tone, as his mother unpacks his snack and then to my son who happily munches a cheese slice and says “tee” (which in all fairness to him sound a lot like the “ch” sound that the word he’s trying to say starts with.)  And there I go again, wondering when it will happen for Charlie.  When he’ll be enunciating his vast vocabulary like the brainiac he is.

There's A Tractor In Aisle 9

A Real Tractor (Kubota) in the middle of Longo's

How many of you recall the manly, testosteroni (ooh a new flavour for East Side Mario's!) guttural growling of Tim Allen on Home Improvement whenever he used a power tool or something that had a large engine on it?  You can Google it I'm sure.  Well my son, Charlie, has taken this to a whole new level.  

I believe it all started innocently enough with a wide array of "boy" toys (tractors, diggers, lifters, steam rollers, dump trucks, cement mixers, bulldozers, backhoe loaders, trains, airplanes, helicopters, street sweepers, fire trucks, police cars, monster trucks, cranes, garbage trucks, tow trucks - okay I'll stop now...) anyway, we would make all the sounds (beep beep beeping for cars in reverse, zooming, swishing, sirens, you name it, we made the sound).

In all fairness to him, while in utero, we were living in a condo at King and Spadina, the perpetual traffic and street cars were always a din in the background!   

Then we got the ABC Go! App where every vehicle imaginable has an animation and accompanying sound byte.  

Then we made the grave mistake of purchasing a Mighty Machines DVD.  Before viewing I suggest a shot of tequila or vodka.  The jingle alone at the beginning is enough to make you nuts.  Finally, I started taking the QEW Niagara over the Skyway bridge to school each day before dropping Charlie at Grandpa and Grandma's house and it was here that Charlie encountered the MAC Truck and Tractor-trailer.  He was hooked and now knows upclose and personal, what a revving engine sounds like!

But then it turned slightly Rain Man.  Charlie will drop what he's doing and rush to the kitchen whenever an appliance with a motor is being used.  Hand mixer? He's there.  Coffee grinder? With bells on! Food processor or blender? You betcha!  Garbage disposal (when its working)? Oh yah, baby!  He also will tune in to small, faraway sounds like an approaching jet or plane or someone weed whacking a few blocks away.  He'll stop, make eye contact with you, lean into the sound and focus (squinting his eyes a little) and then smile a bit and get back to what he was doing.  Hilarious!

And now to set the scene of slight horror, embarrassment and a pinch of pride.  Imagine if you will, shopping with your 19 month old son, thanking the Lord that he is big enough to now sit in the cart, and not having to limit your purchase to the few things you can fit under the stroller.   You're busy trying to keep him from opening all of the strawberries and blueberries before you've paid for and washed them and then.... imagine him the tractor in the image above.

In order for you to fully experience the soundscape of what ensued: close your eyes a moment and listen for a tiny mouse, growing into a screech owl, morphing into a mating pterodactyl and then decrescendo-ing into a grunting Tim the Tool Man Taylor.  We're talking deep base, groaning, throat clearing, exorcism here.  The shelves shake from the sound.  Nearby shoppers take cover.  A pyramid of navel oranges topple.  A woman, holding her young son, runs screaming for the exit.  No, its not Godzilla, its Charlie spotting a REAL tractor.

I am all for passion and I understand that this is the time in his development that little obsessions begin.  My friend's son is obsessed with Fire Engines, fire men, fire dogs, hoses, ladders, the helmet, the axe, the siren, the boots.  All things fire.  With Charlie its buzzing, whirring or engine sounds.  The louder and grittier the better.  Its like he WANTS hearing damage.

I'm used to this of course, but I'm going to have to, upon entering any store, make an announcement, nay a confession, at customer service that a farm implement-crazy psycho baby has entered the premises.  I will likely never take him to a Canadian Tire, Rona or Home Depot.  The riding lawn mowers and ATVs would just put him over the edge.