I HATE Fun

"I don't WANT to go to school today, Mommy!" said Addie, climbing into her carseat.

"Why?"

"Because I HATE fun."

"Well," I said, sighing.  "It's good to know you have fun at school, at least."

This conversation took place after I found Addie scratching the side of the car with a stick, saying she was taking the "pleasure" out of the car.  "The pleasure?" I asked.  "Yes," she said.  "The pleasure out of the gas tank, so it doesn't explode."

This is a pretty good example of the kind of conversations we're having with Addie right now, who is completely driving us nuts at one moment, endearing us to her forever the next.  Here's a picture of her at yesterday's Father's Day picnic; our friend (possibly the funnies man I've ever met) hilariously captioned it "Addie Party Girl":

Addie's certainly an introvert, no doubt about it, and she gets it from no strangers:  her dad and I are definitely introverted in that we tend to refuel through quiet time at home.  Still, usually Addie is social, likes parties, likes to be outside and talking and playing.  The last two parties we've been to, though, she's wanted to stay inside, watching t.v., avoiding everyone. 

I'll chalk this up to the transition of moving again, for a little while longer.  Addie's normally a sweet, happy, talkative kid.  She's affectionate, and she has my heart in her two hot little hands, probably forever.  It's hard when you're going through phases like this, though--phases where your three-year-old looks like she constantly wants to wring someone's neck, or is crying all the time, or answers every question with "no," before you've even finished speaking.  The worst thoughts flicker through your mind at these times, wondering if your kid has some wicked form of antisocial disorder, and you'll be finding her one day pan searing your housecat over a hot stove.

The most frustrating thing at the moment, though, is not being able to properly giver her the attention that would probably most help her through this:  there are just too many demands on my attention.  Nolie seems to have some sort of puking flu, so this morning she was holding on to my leg, screaming, while I was trying to talk Addie through getting her underwear and pants and socks on (a Herculean task at the moment).  All of us were crying or on the verge of crying, and honestly I felt like just getting up and walking out of the house, never to return.  But then Addie looked at me and Nolie, sitting there crying, and started blowing raspberries and laughing.  Which made Nolie laugh, which made me laugh.  Saved by the raspberry, from flight risks and abandonments and despair.

Which is a good reminder that Addie is tougher than I sometimes give her credit for, and that just as she has to learn to put on her own undies, she has to learn to cope with my attention being divided.  What an icky, hard lesson for us first-borns.  But unavoidable and important, too. 

Take My Kid...

 

You know that old joke that goes something like this:  "Life is rough.  For instance, take my wife..."

"No, really, TAKE MY WIFE!   Somebody, please!  TAKE MY WIFE!"

Well, that joke was never really that funny, but I think I sort of understand it now, except I would apply it not to my wife (oh that I had one!) but to my toddler, who is driving me out of my gourd at the moment. 

I thought we had moved past the whining, the tantrums, the contrariness.  I thought all of that was so pre-third-birthday.  But it's not.  It's back, and it's bad.  Every single minute shift in activity over the course if the day is opportunity for a major altercation.  Addie needs to go potty?  Well, we have a fight about which potty to use.  Then we have a fight about whether or not, after thirty minutes of sitting there, she's finally done.  Then we have a fight about needing to wipe, needing to wash hands, needing to pull our underwear up.  All of which ends in me pulling my hair out and sticking her in a time out, where she dissolves into heaves and sobs on the floor.  I'm really the one who needs the time out, but I haven't told her that yet.  I should.

You know that movie Sophie's Choice?  These last few days would have made that choice just a little easier.

What a terrible joke.  I take it back.  But, really?  Somebody, please!  TAKE MY TODDLER!  If only for a few hours.  Because I might throttle her myself if you don't.

The spells are worst on school days, of course.  This is still a major adjustment.  And although she's not having night terrors at the moment, Addie is taking a good two hours to go to sleep at night and refuses to nap, so she's also overtired.  Overstimulation + exhaustion = child succubus. 

We're reading the book Harriet, You're Driving Me Wild! about a mom who doesn't like to yell at her "pesky" daughter Harriet Harris, but finally loses her cool once Harriet creates one crazy mess too many.  Addie really likes this story.  I imagine it's a way for her to work through our own horn-locking.  At the end of the book, after the mom finally yells, she and Harriet dissolve into laughter at the silliness of it all.  This would be a good thing to try, if I can muster it.  But pulling one's hair out is painful, and it will be hard to laugh through that.  Send me good thoughts.

On an adorable note, at her new school, a truck pulls up every Tuesday, loaded with a gymnasium in the back of it, and the kids go out in small groups to do what Addie calls "nymastics."  You should see her trying to do a somersault.  It's really special.

crankus maximus

 

I was trying to explain to my friends Nancy and Tonya tonight the fits that Addie has been having lately.  "She's just challenging everything we say," I said.  "And when she doesn't get what she wants, or if she hasn't eaten or taken a nap, she has a major tantrum."

"She's acting cranky, huh?" asked Nancy.

Um, no.  Not cranky.  Cranky doesn't even come close.  On a scale of 1-10, cranky is like a 6.  Addie's at 11.  Full on Spinal Tap.  Weeping.  Screaming.  Uncontrollable sobbing.  "It's a complete dramatic episode," I said.

Mostly, I think this is fairly age appropriate.  Addie is figuring out how and when to assert herself, and we are also experimenting with how much freedom to give her.  Yes, you can wear your cowboy boots on the wrong feet all around Target.  If your feet start to hurt, we can change them.  No, you can't stab your crayon into Nolie's eye.  Yes, you can wear your jammies all day today.  No, you cannot have a third carton of yogurt.

"Yes!  I!  can!"

Actually no, you can't. 

Addie doesn't like to be contradicted (who does?) and this leads to frustration, and we're trying to teach her appropriate outlets for frustration, and the learning is slow.  For her and us.

Anyway, we're trying all the good stuff.  Diversion, giving her choices, loosening up.  But it's really tough.  We were all supposed to go to the grocery store today, for example.  Eric was upstairs with Addie trying to get her ready (which probably just meant getting a pull-up on that didn't weigh 72 pounds).  Nolie and I were downstairs waiting and waiting.  Things got very quiet, so we decided to come upstairs, only to find Eric lying on the bed, eyes closed, hand to forehead, and Addie in her room, playing with the door shut.

"What happened?" I asked. 

"I needed a time out," he said.

I'm glad Addie is spirited and willful.  I'm glad she has opinions and is expressing them.  But it is also totally exhausting much of the time.  I'll be glad when Crankus Maximus abdicates the throne.

Mommy Needs a Time Out

Today was Addie's first day back at school.  Wednesdays are also my long days--I try to get up at 6 so that I can be at work for a 9am weekly meeting, and then I'm at work until 9pm.  So, Wednesday mornings are a little stressful.  Also, like clockwork, one of the kids always chooses Tuesday nights to wake up every two hours (thank you, Nolie, for last night's rousings), which means I wake up tired to begin with.  Note to readers:  don't go anywhere near highway 58 on Wednesday nights.  I'm a menace to society, driving home.

So, I get up this morning and get Nolie fed and dressed and ready to go.  I also get myself fed and dressed, and prepare the thousand and one bags.  Addie wakes up at around 7, and heads downstairs in her jammies while I'm putting on my make-up.

This is where things went wrong.

See, I always try to get Addie out of her jammies and dressed as soon as she wakes up.  Because if she gets to wandering around and playing in her jammies, she doesn't want to get out of them.  Getting her dressed after she has left her bedroom is about as easy as getting Israel to give up the West Bank.

So, she's on the couch, bundled up under her quilt, and she asks if she can watch a movie.  "Nope!" I cry out cheerily.  "Today's a school day!  Let's get dressed and have breakfast!  Yogurt and blueberries!  Your favorite!"

Next thing I know, Addie has trundled herself back up to her bedroom, crawled under the covers, and is "reading" herself books.

"Addie!  Did you hear me?  We have to get ready for school.  Time to eat breakfast and get dressed," I say, a little less cheerily.

"Just a second."

Tapping of foot.

"Addie?"

"Just a second."

"Addie  I'm going to count to three.  One.  Two.  Three."

Time out on the naughty step.  Wailing, gnashing of teeth, crying for daddy (the nice one).  Huge, hiccupy wails, massive streams of drool clinging to the carpeting, her hair, the banister.  I literally pin her down and get her into her clothes, call Eric and have her talk to her about how much fun school will be as I'm cramming yogurt down her throat and putting her ponytail in.  I then get her to the car, still sobbing and thrashing, and buckled into her carseat.

As I'm walking around to the driver's seat, I literally feel myself melting down.  I almost allow myself the luxury of screaming.  Of punching the car door.  Of banging on the car horn and giving Addie the evil eye for making me feel so stressed out.  But then I remind myself that I don't get to do that anymore.  That I'm the parent.  That the only thing making me miserable right now is that things are not happening exactly as I wish and, well, that's life, sistah.

Now that I have some space from the whole maddening intensity of it, I see that I had a few options.  I could have

a) just taken Addie to school in her jammies--they could have changed her into her clothes when she was ready.  My friend Rose pointed out that this is an option, and though it goes against my control-freak nature, it definitely would have put the ball in Addie's court and not made the whole thing about me being inconvenienced. 

b) sat down with Addie in my lap, and talked to her about what a great day she was going to have, and how much fun school would be when she got there, and how proud I was of her for getting up all by herself.  Taking these few minutes out from rushing around like a freakshow would probably have alleviated a lot of stress later, and I bet there would have been more compliance.

c) prepared better by making up a "getting ready for school" chart in which things like eating breakfast, brushing teeth and hair, and getting dressed are represented pictorially, reminding her of her role in getting ready for the day.

Okay, so I'm kidding about the last one.  I'm not that Supernanny, for Christ's sake.  But options a and b don't sound bad.  Definitely preferable to what actually happened, to almost losing it over no big deal.

What's hard about all of this is that I just feel so freaking squeezed all the time that it doesn't occur to me to just slow down for a few minutes and give my kids the attention they need in those moments.  I mean, this whole thing doesn't sound like that big of a deal, right?  But these moments are the ones that make me think I'm not that interested in being a working mom.  That I'm struggling and fighting too much to meet all expectations, and that I'm missing the boat with the kids.  I know I wouldn't be happy just staying home all the time, and I know these have just been tough weeks.  But lots of weeks are tough.  Something's got to give, and maybe my sanity shouldn't be it. 

I'm going to think about this.  There must be some happier middle ground.  Some hard choices may have to be made.

 

 (Don't worry Nolie.  We're keeping you.  I just may need to cut back at work).