The plan of the adults:
We all dress as pirates for Halloween so we thematically match with L’s parrot costume, which he loved.
The summarized effects of a two-year-old mind on adult planning:
“No parrot costume, butterfly wings!” (Love really is fleeting, it seems.)
“Okay, your green Oberon costume from last year then.”
“No green costume, just butterfly wings!”
“Okay, suit yourself. Just butterfly wings.”
“Not just butterfly wings! Butterfly wings and Batman jammies!”
“Your Batman jammies are in the hamper.”
“Not just–”
“Butterfly wings, got it. Okay, Batman jammies and butterfly wings, it is.”
“No butterfly wings, just Batman jammies! NOW Trick or Treat!”
“What just happened here?”
There are those who say that giving a fussy toddler multiple warnings when they’re misbehaving is an exercise in futility, but it’s not.
It’s counting practice.
The other day a new father confessed to Lala that the first time he heard his son cry out, he felt like crying himself.
“Wait until he’s two,” she told him. “You’ll have that feeling again.”
I realize this has been a hard day for you, son, and that you haven’t fully recognized connections between statements like, “If you yell one more time, you’re going to your room,” then being sent to your room because you yelled again. (It’s a fair warning thing, and me being in the habit of that will become more useful over time, I promise.)
Yes, I realize that you asked very nicely for orange juice, and if we had any orange juice, I certainly would have given you some (The store was out of the brand you like, you see. We did look.), but even so! Yelling at me for not giving you non-existent orange juice really didn’t give you want you wanted, now did it?
For what its worth, it didn’t give me what I wanted either. In fact, the only thing sending you to your room got me that I wanted was sparing me the argument over why there was no orange juice.
Let the record reflect that, yes, I am aware of the irony that sometimes I have to raise my voice so my child can hear me telling them they need to be quieter. For what it’s worth, I’d rather be using flashcards, but I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t work.
Son, lately you’ve been going through a “fussy” phase, and by “fussy” I mean, “If I hear you make ‘that noise’ one more time, my last nerves may commit seppuku.”(1) But, I recently told myself, at least I’ve finally adapted to the worst he’s going to throw at me for a while.
Today I learned I was . . . incorrect.
Angry and frustrated you is difficult to be around, don’t get me wrong, but inexplicably heartbroken you is so much harder.
Let’s not do that again for a while, okay? For now, let’s just stick with what works.
*****
(1) I’m exaggerating, of course, so don’t sweat it, kiddo. There’s a reason they don’t call your current age the “terrific twos,” you know.
Now if anyone out there is wondering what L’s mother’s reaction was to my newfound habit of saying “way” to L. when he starts his litany of repeating the last word said to him and adding the word “no” in front of it, well . . .
Let me put it this way:
She has most definitely not taken to saying “way” to L. like I have.
Instead, she faces him very maturely, then asks him in a quiet, serious voice if there’s a problem . . .
As I implied on Friday, last week was . . . rough.
Several factors contributed to this, none of which directly dealt with L., but last week he was definitely acting in the role of the overarching aggravating factor.(1) You see, just when I thought I’d adapted to his habit of occasionally responding to anything said to him(2) with “No _______!” last week he put that habit up to eleven.
Now, like I said, he’s had this habit for some time,(3) but last week’s nigh-constant litany of “no,” on top of all my other stressors, quickly pushed me to contemplating a desperate act.
I want to make it clear that I’m not proud of what I did.(4) My only defense is that I was that desperate. The first time it happened, it just sort of slipped out, but after that, I just couldn’t stop myself.(5)
Now, every time when the litany of “no” starts to become too much for me, I find myself looking at L. and saying, “Way!” just to hear him respond, “No way!”(6)
*****
(1) Sorry, son, but it’s true.
(2) And sometimes not to him, sometimes just in his earshot is enough.
(3) He’s two! It comes with the territory.
(4) Amused, but not proud.
(5) And I still can’t.
(6) Look . . . sometimes you just have to do what you have to do to get though the day.
Suffice it to say that all this toddler rage has been affecting me more than I would like. For a start, I’m decidedly more short-tempered than my norm, which makes it harder for me to teach L. how to handle his emotions, which makes things rougher for him, which makes things rougher for me, and so on, and so on.
Clearly this is going to be something that he and I muddle through the learning process together.
It’s not always that bad, of course. Not every storm of his triggers a storm in me, and even when that happens (last night, for instance), a suitable time out for one or both of us ensures that we’ll be smiling and playing again not long after, but to use the vernacular . . .
Easy this ain’t.
Candles & Curses 