Henry is in the bathroom. I hear a murmuring and think he might need me.
"What is it?" I call out.
"Oh, nothing, Mommy," he says. "I'm just sitting here talking to myself about gravity."
Friday, May 17, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Gnomes on a car
Why of all the cultural and literary references of the mid-1970s was it "Have a popover, Froggy?" that stuck with Mom? Why was it so super-duper important to Dad not to eat dinner before 7? Why did the Rosenfelds not really celebrate birthdays? Why did the Arkushes always pronounce vulgar as "wulgar"? When did the Gleesons start singing their skol song, and did they plan for it to become an institution?
I like how all of these little ways become artifacts for everyday use, like heirloom china that can't be chipped. But mainly I just like them, in the same way I like old furniture, books annotated by other people, and words with very specific and limited meanings, like petrichor and oxter; often, when Henry finds an interesting object--a speckled rock, say, or a broken mechanical gewgaw--he holds it up and cries triumphantly "Aha! A clue!" which is close to how I feel about these things, although I don't know what mystery is to be solved.
In our family, we seem to have developed a gnome tradition. I guess I married into it; it can be traced to Peter's mother, who called him a zwergl when he was small, and to Susan, who had given Peter several garden gnomes. Being both small and odd, Peter naturally draws comparisons himself, and the children are only smaller and odder, as well as constantly pursuing such gnomish work as digging and delving. When Peter built the kitchen cabinets, he filled in an odd space with a gnome niche, and I have contributed with a series of pointy knitted hats over several years. I didn't put it all together, however, until a couple of weeks ago, when Henry and James decided to assemble all the scattered garden gnomes in the kitchen. There are four, which gave rise to a lively discussion about which one represented which member of the family. After arranging and rearranging, naming and renaming them for a spell, James did a little flat-footed dance around the grouping and cried out, "It's Gnome Time!"
Which is, obviously, pretty much our new family motto.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Wait, what? Did that actually work?
For about a year now, James has taken charge faithfully, of his own accord, of one daily household task: bringing in the newspaper. About as soon as he could toddle, he began toddling out in the mornings to hunt it down. For the last two weeks, for no obvious reason, Henry has been contesting James's ownership of the job, although he never thinks of it until James has already started outside. James is understandably aggrieved.
Sometime last week, probably the day after our very bad morning, I started using one of the child-rearing strategies I have been reading about for god knows how long without adopting. Instead of trying to adjudicate--a lose-lose approach that all former children, at least ones with siblings, know won't work, yet one that has proven incredibly difficult to drop, because it's so bloody obvious to me what justice demands--or ignore the skirmish, which has a lot of superficial attractions right up until the moment I'm daubing bloody wounds with hydrogen peroxide, I asked each boy in turn questions to help figure out what he actually wanted to say, then encouraged him to address his brother directly.
Because of their different personalities and ages, this most frequently plays out like this: Henry snatches something away from James, James howls, I say, "Henry, you want the car. James, you don't like it when Henry grabs the car. Henry, can you ask James for what you want," at which point Henry says, "Give it to me!" and I say, "Can you ask him nicely?" and Henry, in dulcet tones, says, "James, may I please have the car?" and James says, "OK, Henny," and hands it over. Then Henry is overcome with emotion and says, "James is so cute! James, I love you," and embraces him so hard it makes him cry.
It's been harder to make it work the other way. James manfully repeats "No like that, Henny!" when Henry mugs him or thumps him, at which Henry screams with simulated outrage, "I don't like you saying that! No fair!"
For reasons I might want to interrogate my own heart about one day, I have been incredibly pessimistic about the chances that I can intervene usefully--but not abusively--to change any of my children's habits that annoy or trouble me. So it was with considerable amazement, almost incredulity, that I listened the other day as James opened the door to get the paper and wailed, as usual, when Henry pushed him aside and ran out ahead of him. I paused in the kitchen, nerving myself to go deal with it without yelling or taking sides, when I realized that the tone of their conversation had changed.
"Do you want the paper, Jamie?" Henry was asking.
"'Kay," James sobbed. (What he says instead of "yes.")
"How about this?" Henry proposed. "I will put the paper down again, then I will get it again, and I'll give it to you, and you can give it to Mama."
"'Kay," James agreed again, happily this time.
And that was that! I almost thought I heard angels sing! Of course, nine times out of ten, we continue in our usual way, but it makes such a difference to know that what sometimes sounds even in my own ears like the rote utterance of a shibboleth might actually be teaching Henry and James (and me) that they truly can solve their own problems.
Sometime last week, probably the day after our very bad morning, I started using one of the child-rearing strategies I have been reading about for god knows how long without adopting. Instead of trying to adjudicate--a lose-lose approach that all former children, at least ones with siblings, know won't work, yet one that has proven incredibly difficult to drop, because it's so bloody obvious to me what justice demands--or ignore the skirmish, which has a lot of superficial attractions right up until the moment I'm daubing bloody wounds with hydrogen peroxide, I asked each boy in turn questions to help figure out what he actually wanted to say, then encouraged him to address his brother directly.
Because of their different personalities and ages, this most frequently plays out like this: Henry snatches something away from James, James howls, I say, "Henry, you want the car. James, you don't like it when Henry grabs the car. Henry, can you ask James for what you want," at which point Henry says, "Give it to me!" and I say, "Can you ask him nicely?" and Henry, in dulcet tones, says, "James, may I please have the car?" and James says, "OK, Henny," and hands it over. Then Henry is overcome with emotion and says, "James is so cute! James, I love you," and embraces him so hard it makes him cry.
It's been harder to make it work the other way. James manfully repeats "No like that, Henny!" when Henry mugs him or thumps him, at which Henry screams with simulated outrage, "I don't like you saying that! No fair!"
For reasons I might want to interrogate my own heart about one day, I have been incredibly pessimistic about the chances that I can intervene usefully--but not abusively--to change any of my children's habits that annoy or trouble me. So it was with considerable amazement, almost incredulity, that I listened the other day as James opened the door to get the paper and wailed, as usual, when Henry pushed him aside and ran out ahead of him. I paused in the kitchen, nerving myself to go deal with it without yelling or taking sides, when I realized that the tone of their conversation had changed.
"Do you want the paper, Jamie?" Henry was asking.
"'Kay," James sobbed. (What he says instead of "yes.")
"How about this?" Henry proposed. "I will put the paper down again, then I will get it again, and I'll give it to you, and you can give it to Mama."
"'Kay," James agreed again, happily this time.
And that was that! I almost thought I heard angels sing! Of course, nine times out of ten, we continue in our usual way, but it makes such a difference to know that what sometimes sounds even in my own ears like the rote utterance of a shibboleth might actually be teaching Henry and James (and me) that they truly can solve their own problems.
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Schooled
We are trying something new at bedtime. Actually, we have just thrown bedtime out the window. Ever since Henry started sleeping more or less through the night, right after he turned one, we've had one sort or another of a bedtime routine, just as all the worthless sleep books advise. We've tried reading three stories, one story, no stories, unlimited stories, singing, CDs, starting late so he will be so tired he'll just have to go to sleep, starting early because probably he's overtired and can't sleep. We've tried a nice relaxing bath before bed, and we've nixed the overstimulating bath before bed. We've tried lying down with him, sitting up next to him, sitting outside the bedroom door. My conclusion is that this is mug's game. If I think there should be a bedtime, and Henry doesn't go to bed, I feel bad about myself because I failed, I become enraged at him for his contumacy, and I weep with frustration as I think about my precious minutes of time alone slipping away. And he goes to bed whenever the hell he is ready anyway. And in the end, I cannot really explain to myself why I don't make him eat if he doesn't want to eat, why I didn't force him to use the toilet until he was ready, why I try to let him test out his physical capabilities without help or hindrance, full of theories about him learning to listen to his own body--but damn it, when I say it's bedtime, you sleep, kid, and like it!
I conclude that this is yet another case of me comparing myself (mostly unknown even to myself) to Mary Poppins, the Mary Poppins from the books, whom the children adore because she is magical but whom they fear because of her cold blue eye. Sometimes I play the hairy-backed Madonna, just one step removed from the forest canopy, but the truth is when you have been weaned as I was on Frances Hodgson Burnett and P.L. Travers, you may find yourself saddled with an inner Edwardian nanny who hasn't the slightest interest in evolutionary adaptations and just wonders disapprovingly why your children are so grubby and ill-mannered, your hair so frowzy, and your beds unmade.
Once I realized that my problem is totally imaginary, it became much easier to solve. A week and a half ago, after running it by Peter, I told Henry we'd do something different at bedtime that night. He immediately ran away to hide under a table. "No!" I said, "You should listen to this! You will like it!"
I explained that he would not have a bedtime anymore, that he would wash up and put on his pajamas, I would read a book to him, and then he could do whatever quiet thing he wanted for as long as he wanted until he was ready to go to sleep. He cackled with excitement.
"But I will stop talking to you and just do my own things," I said. He didn't care. I think he was lost in contemplation of some hazy vision of Liberty Hall.
Ten days into the new regime, I am calling it a success. Henry has gone to bed every night later than I would like, but earlier than his previous average. With reminders, he gets himself into pajamas and brushes his teeth, no manhandling required. I read one or two books, then he huddles at the nightlight and studies a book of Mickey Mouse cartoons for a while. When he's sleepy, he asks me to come lie down with him; he's usually out within two minutes.
**
The other night, I was tired and repentant, after a crabby afternoon followed by an emotionally restorative but physically draining Crossfit class, so I just lay down in the bed with him for story time and stayed.
He was keyed up and kept pacing around the room, saying "Good day!" with a decisive nod, over and over again, as in "What a good day!" This seemed to be a case of protesting too much, since at least part of the day had been notably stinky, thanks to my bad mood. I said something about how grouchy I had been, and how sorry I was now.
He came to lie down on his back with his head in my lap.
"It must be hard to be a Mommy," he said.
"It is hard sometimes," I said. "Although it's wonderful, too. It's hard because sometimes I still feel like a kid inside, and I get way too mad about things. Do you know what is especially hard for me? When I see you and James hitting and biting and taking things away from each other."
"But Mommy," he said. "Kids are like that."
I conclude that this is yet another case of me comparing myself (mostly unknown even to myself) to Mary Poppins, the Mary Poppins from the books, whom the children adore because she is magical but whom they fear because of her cold blue eye. Sometimes I play the hairy-backed Madonna, just one step removed from the forest canopy, but the truth is when you have been weaned as I was on Frances Hodgson Burnett and P.L. Travers, you may find yourself saddled with an inner Edwardian nanny who hasn't the slightest interest in evolutionary adaptations and just wonders disapprovingly why your children are so grubby and ill-mannered, your hair so frowzy, and your beds unmade.
Once I realized that my problem is totally imaginary, it became much easier to solve. A week and a half ago, after running it by Peter, I told Henry we'd do something different at bedtime that night. He immediately ran away to hide under a table. "No!" I said, "You should listen to this! You will like it!"
I explained that he would not have a bedtime anymore, that he would wash up and put on his pajamas, I would read a book to him, and then he could do whatever quiet thing he wanted for as long as he wanted until he was ready to go to sleep. He cackled with excitement.
"But I will stop talking to you and just do my own things," I said. He didn't care. I think he was lost in contemplation of some hazy vision of Liberty Hall.
Ten days into the new regime, I am calling it a success. Henry has gone to bed every night later than I would like, but earlier than his previous average. With reminders, he gets himself into pajamas and brushes his teeth, no manhandling required. I read one or two books, then he huddles at the nightlight and studies a book of Mickey Mouse cartoons for a while. When he's sleepy, he asks me to come lie down with him; he's usually out within two minutes.
**
The other night, I was tired and repentant, after a crabby afternoon followed by an emotionally restorative but physically draining Crossfit class, so I just lay down in the bed with him for story time and stayed.
He was keyed up and kept pacing around the room, saying "Good day!" with a decisive nod, over and over again, as in "What a good day!" This seemed to be a case of protesting too much, since at least part of the day had been notably stinky, thanks to my bad mood. I said something about how grouchy I had been, and how sorry I was now.
He came to lie down on his back with his head in my lap.
"It must be hard to be a Mommy," he said.
"It is hard sometimes," I said. "Although it's wonderful, too. It's hard because sometimes I still feel like a kid inside, and I get way too mad about things. Do you know what is especially hard for me? When I see you and James hitting and biting and taking things away from each other."
"But Mommy," he said. "Kids are like that."
Friday, May 3, 2013
Those Dang Kids, Butt Edition
The last couple of days have been more like summer than spring, and the boys spent most of them naked. James came in from outside yesterday morning in tears, showing me one of his buttocks, which was red and abraded, from where he had fallen on it.
"My butthole!" he wailed. "Mama, kiss my butthole!"
***
And then last night, Peter and I were deep in conversation that was not about the children (a remarkable circumstance in itself) when too long a silence became alarming. The boys were outside, and Henry did not answer when we called. I went out to see what was up. A trail of inside-out clothing led from the door around the side of the house, where Henry was poised in a strange stance, like a cowboy at the end of a long day, and I could see his face change from triumph to defensiveness as I rounded the corner.
Triumph overcame him, and he told me what he had accomplished. "I pooped! Standing up!"
"My butthole!" he wailed. "Mama, kiss my butthole!"
***
And then last night, Peter and I were deep in conversation that was not about the children (a remarkable circumstance in itself) when too long a silence became alarming. The boys were outside, and Henry did not answer when we called. I went out to see what was up. A trail of inside-out clothing led from the door around the side of the house, where Henry was poised in a strange stance, like a cowboy at the end of a long day, and I could see his face change from triumph to defensiveness as I rounded the corner.
Triumph overcame him, and he told me what he had accomplished. "I pooped! Standing up!"
 |
| A sweeter summer scene: the first outside nap of the year. |
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
A very bad morning at home with the kids
Things happen sometimes--little, daily things--that make me feel like I am a bathtub full of water and someone has opened the drain and every, last, single drop is sucked away. Except the plumbing metaphor should really have more toilet in it, because I am left feeling like shit.
Take one morning last week. Henry was furious at me the first time because I didn't put enough jelly on his "cold toast" (frozen bread) and butter sandwich. He turned red and cried and called me "Bad Mama" a few times, punched his fist into the air in my general direction, then took his plate under the table and ate there. OK, so far, so good. He's 4, I'm 41, I can do this. The morning proceeded as usual. Henry snatched things out of James's hand twice or thrice, made him cry by roaring loudly in his face, but whatever. I sportscasted away, folded some laundry, took a quick shower. The boys built a train together out of milk crates, looked at some books. Then James asked for milk.
"Just give him a little, and save the rest for me," Henry suggested, as we were running low. I checked Henry's cup, which was still two-thirds full, and poured the last inch of milk into James's empty cup.
"Did you save the rest for me?" he asked.
"No..." I began, in the light and reasonable tone of certain defeat.
His face broke apart like a kaleidoscope and he crouched down, yelling out sobs and imprecations. "I hate you, Mommy. You die, Mommy. Die, die, die, die, die, die, die!"
And I fell apart. "I don't have to listen to this! I don't want to hear you say that!" A big hot gust of anger blew out of me and I knocked over a kitchen chair, which scared James and made him cry. "Don't you say that! Do you know that if I died, you would NEVER EVER see me again? Never talk to me? Never touch me? I would never hug you or kiss you again? You can tell me you hate me, you can tell me to go away, but DON'T TELL ME TO DIE!"
I was crying, and both boys were obviously scared. Henry came over to me to pat me and kiss me, and I said, "Look, I know that you love me. I know you don't want me to die. I'm OK. I'm sorry I got so upset. But it's really hard for me to hear you say that." By now I was crying because I was so ashamed of my tantrum, ashamed of frightening them into comforting me. I went into the bathroom to try to collect myself. When I came out, Henry was drawing a picture that looked like Snuffleupagus and which he said was a heart, "to make you better."
I know. We sound like the yokels in Cold Comfort Farm, all rumpuses and unbridled passions. This is NOT the kind of family I intended for us to be.
I don't understand why this is so hard, and the God's honest truth is that it feels unfair to me. I know it isn't. I know fairness doesn't enter into it all, and if it did, I would in fact be riding the howdah of privilege on top of the broad elephant's back of great good fortune. And what's more, I believe that when it is hardest is when I can learn and grow the most. I mean, as nauseating as that sounds, I really do believe it: My children have more to teach me than I do them.
And I want them to be mad, to be sad, to be scared, to be aggressive, to be selfish, to be dumb, all of it, right under my eyes, so they know that none of those feelings or ways of being can't be borne, that I love them through it all, and that all of it passes and changes, too. But oh my God, I didn't expect that there would be so many of them! And that they would be so very heartfelt! And that they would pass and change so many times a day--an hour! And above all, I didn't anticipate how incredibly difficult it would be for me to listen to. Henry is 4; when I was 4, my family was falling apart, my safety was gone, my dad had moved out, my mom was frantic with grief and rage and fear. I think--I think--some vestige of my 4-year-old self just can't take it, that this kid with his world intact, with his beloved Daddy coming home every night, with his mother (mostly) OK, present, trying to make room for his big, fierce feelings, is so bottomless. They just go on and ON. Don't I get a reward for trying so hard? For thinking so much about what he needs? Shouldn't he just be made whole all at once by my good intentions and be fine? Ridiculous, when I put it into words. But I think it's what I've secretly been thinking.
I am lucky. I know that. And I know that my knowledge of it is incomplete. I don't really, really get it, except in brief flashes. It's like every other thing I thought I knew, knowing it intellectually, but when I finally really get it, I realize I hadn't known at all before. Things like: having a new baby is hard; my parents are just people; the thing about death is ... it's final; I really am going to grow old, with wrinkles and gray hair and everything! I might even die myself! and meanwhile, this is it, my actual life.
Take one morning last week. Henry was furious at me the first time because I didn't put enough jelly on his "cold toast" (frozen bread) and butter sandwich. He turned red and cried and called me "Bad Mama" a few times, punched his fist into the air in my general direction, then took his plate under the table and ate there. OK, so far, so good. He's 4, I'm 41, I can do this. The morning proceeded as usual. Henry snatched things out of James's hand twice or thrice, made him cry by roaring loudly in his face, but whatever. I sportscasted away, folded some laundry, took a quick shower. The boys built a train together out of milk crates, looked at some books. Then James asked for milk.
"Just give him a little, and save the rest for me," Henry suggested, as we were running low. I checked Henry's cup, which was still two-thirds full, and poured the last inch of milk into James's empty cup.
"Did you save the rest for me?" he asked.
"No..." I began, in the light and reasonable tone of certain defeat.
His face broke apart like a kaleidoscope and he crouched down, yelling out sobs and imprecations. "I hate you, Mommy. You die, Mommy. Die, die, die, die, die, die, die!"
And I fell apart. "I don't have to listen to this! I don't want to hear you say that!" A big hot gust of anger blew out of me and I knocked over a kitchen chair, which scared James and made him cry. "Don't you say that! Do you know that if I died, you would NEVER EVER see me again? Never talk to me? Never touch me? I would never hug you or kiss you again? You can tell me you hate me, you can tell me to go away, but DON'T TELL ME TO DIE!"
I was crying, and both boys were obviously scared. Henry came over to me to pat me and kiss me, and I said, "Look, I know that you love me. I know you don't want me to die. I'm OK. I'm sorry I got so upset. But it's really hard for me to hear you say that." By now I was crying because I was so ashamed of my tantrum, ashamed of frightening them into comforting me. I went into the bathroom to try to collect myself. When I came out, Henry was drawing a picture that looked like Snuffleupagus and which he said was a heart, "to make you better."
I know. We sound like the yokels in Cold Comfort Farm, all rumpuses and unbridled passions. This is NOT the kind of family I intended for us to be.
I don't understand why this is so hard, and the God's honest truth is that it feels unfair to me. I know it isn't. I know fairness doesn't enter into it all, and if it did, I would in fact be riding the howdah of privilege on top of the broad elephant's back of great good fortune. And what's more, I believe that when it is hardest is when I can learn and grow the most. I mean, as nauseating as that sounds, I really do believe it: My children have more to teach me than I do them.
And I want them to be mad, to be sad, to be scared, to be aggressive, to be selfish, to be dumb, all of it, right under my eyes, so they know that none of those feelings or ways of being can't be borne, that I love them through it all, and that all of it passes and changes, too. But oh my God, I didn't expect that there would be so many of them! And that they would be so very heartfelt! And that they would pass and change so many times a day--an hour! And above all, I didn't anticipate how incredibly difficult it would be for me to listen to. Henry is 4; when I was 4, my family was falling apart, my safety was gone, my dad had moved out, my mom was frantic with grief and rage and fear. I think--I think--some vestige of my 4-year-old self just can't take it, that this kid with his world intact, with his beloved Daddy coming home every night, with his mother (mostly) OK, present, trying to make room for his big, fierce feelings, is so bottomless. They just go on and ON. Don't I get a reward for trying so hard? For thinking so much about what he needs? Shouldn't he just be made whole all at once by my good intentions and be fine? Ridiculous, when I put it into words. But I think it's what I've secretly been thinking.
I am lucky. I know that. And I know that my knowledge of it is incomplete. I don't really, really get it, except in brief flashes. It's like every other thing I thought I knew, knowing it intellectually, but when I finally really get it, I realize I hadn't known at all before. Things like: having a new baby is hard; my parents are just people; the thing about death is ... it's final; I really am going to grow old, with wrinkles and gray hair and everything! I might even die myself! and meanwhile, this is it, my actual life.
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