What a Difference a Year Makes

I'm sure I've blogged on this topic before. I've probably even used this exact title before. But when you have small children, you are struck again and again by how much they grow and change (and by how much they change YOU) over the course of 12 months.

One year ago, my then just-turned-2-year-old daughter began taking gymnastics classes. And, like her brother before her, she was a trial to her teacher. Even with me by her side, she didn’t listen, she didn’t follow her classmates, she wanted to play on every piece of equipment except the one she was supposed to be playing on. I spent more time chasing her around the gym than actually doing exercises with her.

She did improve over the course of the year, at least to the point where I was able to get her to cooperate by telling her to instead of by physically chasing her around or bodily picking her up and slinging her into line with the other kids. But I couldn’t imagine what it would be like putting her in a class without me by her side after three months of being away from class.

Well, here it is the next fall, and her second week of class without me. I’d be lying if I said she was perfectly behaved. I would be lying if I said she paid attention to her teacher all the time. I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t the least focused child in the class a good bit of the time. But I’d also be lying if I said the improvement wasn’t far above and beyond what I’d ever imagined or even hoped.

She runs right into the warmup circle at the start of class. She sits when she’s told to sit (most of the time), she gets into line with everyone else (some of the time), she waits patiently for her turn (occasionally – although she does at least wait impatiently a good deal of the time), she listens to what her teacher says and tries to do it (almost all of the time).

Well, she's not standing on her dot, but she's in the general vicinity of the circle,
she's not racing around on other equipment, and she seems to be listening to the
teacher. I'd call that a win.

But best of all, she doesn’t think twice about leaving me behind at the top of the stairs when class begins. She doesn’t look up to the windows during class to reassure herself that I’m still there. And although she’s happy to see me at the end of class, it’s not because she’s upset or scared, but because she can’t wait to tell me all about all the exciting things that she just did.

What a difference a year makes. And viva la difference!!

Photo A Day, Day 11: 3 of a Kind

Before my husband and I got married, naturally we discussed having children. Not surprisingly, he (who grew up in a family of three children) wanted three children, and I (who grew up in a family of two children) was more comfortable with the idea of two children. Since he already had one, it worked out perfectly that we simply added two more to the one he had, and voila! Three of a kind.

Although it’s not apparent from this photo, taken when our youngest was still in the “blob” stage, all three kids are happy, easygoing, and laid back. They all have terrific senses of humor and they love to make each other laugh. All three are social and affectionate, happily doling out hugs and high fives to friends and strangers alike. They are all content to spend time with others and also to have quieter times with only themselves for company.

And yet, they are each unique individuals. My son is all boy, rough and tumble and physical, fascinated by bugs and farts and trucks, preferring to play by building things or destroying them. My littlest daughter prefers to dress up in a tutu and a crown and make up stories with her stuffed animals, speaking in a different voice for each one and saving them from various dire situations. And my stepdaughter is a thinker and a storyteller and an athlete, equally comfortable tending bar and herding cattle and fixing HumVees. I’ve even got a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.

That’s what I call a perfect 3 of a kind. 

A Million Tiny Pieces

This Christmas, I realized a universal relationship that I hadn’t noticed before: the smaller the child, the larger the Christmas present. For example, Santa brought my 2-year-old daughter a toy kitchen that is approximately the size of my own kitchen, and a Barbie house that is larger than my first apartment (and contains significantly more furniture). My 21-year-old stepdaughter, on the other hand, received gift cards (approximate dimensions: 2” x 3” x 0.005”).

I also realized another universal relationship: the larger the toy, the smaller the pieces. And the more numerous. My two young children received a combined total of roughly 27 Christmas gifts. Those 27 gifts contained a combined total of approximately 7,953,246 individual pieces, the majority of which measure less than 1 cm in any dimension. Within any one square foot of my home at any given moment, I am likely to find 4 pieces of plastic fruit, 37 Legos, 23 Duplo blocks, 7 fireman or policeman figurines, 4 miscellaneous Barbie-related items, 14 erector set components, a minimum of 2 wheeled vehicles of varying size, and 3 magnets shaped like either articles of clothing or construction vehicles.

Please don’t get me wrong; I’m not upset that anyone gave these gifts to my children (the majority of them were either purchased or suggested by myself and my husband). It’s not like anyone in my family hates us enough to have given the kids, say, a drum set or a ride-on fire engine with functioning siren. And I love that my children love playing with these toys so much that they’re always out and scattered around. But I never realized how much longer it takes to clean up the contents of a 12” x 6” x 2” box containing 2,000 individual items (for example, a Lego building set) than it does to clean up the contents of a 12” x 6” x 2” box containing five individual items (for example, a Barbie doll wearing a bikini and high heels).

But what I also realize about toys containing a zillion components is that, much like cars and computers, they carry with them a kind of planned obsolescence. At least once a day, I step on and crush a Lego item which I must then discard. Several times since Christmas Day some pink plastic item from Barbie’s house has gone permanently astray for whatever reason. Various items have already succumbed to irreparable chewing damage. By my calculations, at this attrition rate, 83.6% of the toys my children received for Christmas will be gone by the time next Christmas rolls around. And since my children will be that much bigger, their toys should be proportionately smaller, so the annual net increase in toy volume will be only around 11.8%.

At that rate, by the time their toy collections increase enough that we need to move to a bigger house, my son will be ready to enter college and we can turn his room into a toy storage shed. Either that, or my husband and I will just move into his room. I figure he’ll have some really fun toys by that point.

The Truly Terrible Twos

I am convinced that the reason the phenomenon commonly known as the “terrible twos” doesn’t happen until that particular age is simply to allow for the survival of the human species. It takes parents two full years of bonding to become hopelessly attached to a child enough that we don’t simply wrench their precious little heads off after the twentieth spontaneous unreasonable tantrum within a 30-minute span of time.

My son’s “terrible twos” weren’t too bad. By the time he turned two, he was speaking quite clearly and in complete sentences (more often, in complete paragraphs), so he didn’t have a lot of frustration from not being able to make himself understood. He was also unusually physically coordinated so he didn’t have a particular issue with frustration from not being able to do things he wanted to do. His main source of frustration was really from me telling him he wasn’t allowed to do something, rather than from not being physically able to do it. And being an older child, his only competition for my attention was a 3-month-old lump of a baby sister who didn’t do much but occasionally cry and occupy my lap or my arms when he wanted to be there. His behavior at age two was somewhat annoying at times, but it was NOTHING compared to my daughter’s since she’s turned two.

If I ever wondered what my daughter’s puberty will be like, the last month since her second birthday has given me plenty of hints. Much like an adolescent girl, she has developed her pouting and flouncing skills to the utmost. Like a sullen teenager, her response to any activity I suggest she do is a monosyllabic “no” or a barely verbal “uh-uh.” And like every moody teenage girl that ever lived, her emotions are on a hair trigger. If her father or I so much as look at her funny, she dissolves into tears. She doesn’t like what’s for dinner? Tears. She wants to play with a toy her brother is using? Tears. I turn off the television? Tears. Someone sneezes in the next room? Tears. A dog barks on TV? Tears.

And naturally, the tears are rarely, if ever, a case of simple crying. Oh, no. The tears are invariably accompanied by scream-sobbing, hurling herself to the ground, rolling around, and kicking and flailing. If I try to pick her up during one of these episodes, I can count on her attempting to push away from me any way she can, including punching, kicking, and – luckily, only on very rare occasions – biting. Since she weighs roughly 26 pounds, it is difficult but not impossible for me to restrain her. (When my son turned two he was 3’3” tall and nearly 40 pounds of pure muscle, so it’s very fortunate for me that he rarely pulled that particular stunt.)

So how is it that parents get through those difficult months that comprise the “terrible twos”? For me, it’s the moments between the tantrums that are so delightful and endearing that get me through the rough patches. My daughter’s language development is exploding – nearly every day I hear her use a new word or a new combination of words. One day she doesn’t know red from blue and the next she is correctly identifying the color of half the things in the room. She’s gone from getting most of the letters in the alphabet right to spelling out the words on every sign she sees and singing the alphabet song with next to no help. Her play is getting more creative and elaborate. She is imbuing her dolls and stuffed animals with distinct personalities. The other day, she made two of her stuffed bears have the following conversation:

“Bye, Dad. Car. Dada gone. Sad. Crying. Where go?” (I assume this was Daddy leaving for work, as this is generally our personal family scenario in the morning.)

(Deeper, “daddy” voice) “Bye. Soon!” (“Soon” is her abbreviation for “See you soon” and often follows “Bye.”)

“Dada gone. Swing? Slide?” (Apparently the baby bear wanted to go to the playground.)

“Mmm-hmm. Swing. Slide. Bye!” (Daddy approved of the playground idea, I guess.)

“Mama, phone? ‘Hi Dad’?” (I’m guessing this was a request to call Dad at work.)

(Higher, “mama” voice) “Yeah, phone.” (I’m not sure, but I think Dad left the stage and re-entered as Mama Bear.)

How can you listen to a conversation like that and not forgive a few kicking, screaming temper tantrums? As long as my kids keep me laughing now and then, their lives are safe. And considering how funny my kids are, I think they’ll both stay safe for a very, very long time. 

Strange Things in Strange Places

With two small, curious children in the house, I am often finding strange things in strange places. I’m not sure what it is that makes children want to hide objects in odd places –maybe they’re like squirrels, and they’re just stashing them for later. But in the past few weeks, here are some of the items that have appeared in strange places in my house:

•         A popsicle stick (well, pieces of a popsicle stick) in the garbage disposal
•         A Barbie doll in the trash can
•         My camera in the laundry basket
•         My Kindle Fire under the couch
•         A sock on the bookshelf
•         A Barbie shoe under the couch cushions
•         A half-drunk juice box on the outside edge of the stairs
•         Several rocks in the toy box
•         A pair of underpants (not mine, thankfully) wedged behind the bunk bed
•         An earring in my shoe
•         Construction paper in the bathtub
•         A toy truck on my pillow
•         A single sneaker in the sandbox
•         A DVD in the sink
•         Pennies in the car DVD player (ouch)
•         The TV remote in the…well, I haven’t actually found it yet, but I’m sure it will reappear eventually, possibly on (or in) the refrigerator, behind the easy chair, under the piano, etc.

The upside to this phenomenon is that I have gotten very good and hunting for – and finding – lost objects. I have learned to think creatively and not to make assumptions. Anywhere a child can reach (and often places I’m quite sure they can’t) is fair game as a hiding place. Inside, under, behind, atop…if it’s a preposition, it’s a possibility.

So when I discovered yesterday that my Kindle Fire was nowhere to be found, I took it not as a frustration but as a challenge. It’s not in the most obvious places like on my bedside table or on the bookshelf. It’s not in the more common hiding places like under the couch or in the toy box or under the bed. It’s not in some of the more obscure places like in the office closet or under one of the sinks. I’ve looked in every drawer, under every rug, and behind every movable object I can think of.

 I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. So I’ll just keep looking, high and low. If past history is any indicator, even if I don’t find it, one of these days one of my kids will wander by nonchalantly with it in their hands just as if it had never gone missing. I may never find out where it had been for those few days. Because why would my kids reveal their hiding places? They’re just testing them out for their teenage years. Which means I’ve got another decade to suss them out myself.

The Mama Siren

Children will go to great lengths to get their parents’ attention. Verbally, the result of this is what I like to call “The Mama Siren.”

The Mama Siren begins much the way that I imagine fire engine and police sirens first began: as a loud, repeated noise intended to break through the hubbub of miscellaneous background noises. Old-fashioned sirens repeated two notes: Wee-oo, wee-oo, wee-oo. Small children also begin by repeating two notes: Ma-ma. Ma-ma. Ma-ma. Once people got used to the sound of sirens, they weren’t quite as attention-grabbing, so they began changing volume slightly: WEE-oo, WEE-oo. Likewise with children: Ma-ma. Ma-ma! MA! MA!! But eventually, we all learned to tune those sounds out as well. So modern sirens and alarms use a wide variety of sounds to catch our attention: WEE-oo. BRRR BRRRR BRRR. Meep meep meep meep. Zoo-pa zoo-pa zoo-pa. Bzzz bzzz bzzz bzzz. Children discovered the same thing: Mama! Mum! Mum! Mommy! Mama mama mama! Mummy! Mum! Ma! MAAAAAA!!!

Both modern calls appear to work on the principle that changing sounds are more likely to capture our attention through the haze of general noise that is always around us. But the actual fact of how they work is that they are ANNOYING.

You try to ignore it for as long as you can, but finally it sets your teeth a little too much on edge and, like Lois in the clip above, you blurt out an irritated, “WHAT??!!??”

Now, I’m sure there are occasions when a child is attempting to impart a critically important piece of information like, “The drapes are on fire,” or “I just shut my little sister in the dryer,” or “It makes my tongue feel all tingly when I chew on this battery.” But in my experience, the message following the Mama Siren is almost always along the lines of, “Hi,” or “Water is wet,” or “Nothing.”

Like the Boy Who Cried Wolf, a child who overuses the Mama Siren will probably eventually have a crucial bit of news to report, and that report will be delayed because of that past misuse. And unfortunately, the fallout from that reporting delay is much more likely to affect the parent than the child. The child, after all, has no personal attachment to the drapes, no concern for his little sister’s welfare, and no concept of what battery acid will do to the human tongue. The mother, on the other hand, will have a heart attack, have a heart attack, and have a heart attack as a result of those three particular bits of news.

So just like I force myself to glance around the parking lot for suspicious activity when I hear a car alarm blaring, I force myself to look around for telltale signs of impending disasters when I hear the Mama Siren. I don’t want to miss any crucial news. And besides, every now and then the important announcement turns out to be, “I love you.”

Kids Are Boring - NOT!

The other day I overheard a young man saying that he didn’t want to have kids because they’re so boring. Boring? Kids?? I don’t know whose kids he had been hanging around with, but it certainly wasn’t my kids. There are lots of words you could use to describe my children – frustrating, infuriating, hilarious, energetic, mystifying, fascinating, unruly, and disobedient all spring to mind – but boring is certainly not one of them.

Is it boring to listen to a 3-year-old throw words he’s learned into a random conversation? Because my son does that all the time. Last night, he was racing around the room at top speed and he stopped in front of me just long enough to announce, “Mama, I’m a go-getter!” before tearing off again. Later that night he was being silly and falling over and told me that he had just “capsized.” Is it boring to try to figure out what a 1-1/2-year-old who doesn’t really talk yet means by her babbles? My daughter’s usual conversation is, “Tucka tucka tucka tucka,” but occasionally she’ll throw a word like “’iger” (while patting a stuffed tiger), “’tar” (while pointing at a star-shaped cookie), “hat” (while donning a yellow hard hat), or “’ook” (while handing me a book) into the mix. How could that possibly be construed as boring?

And then there’s the creative use of toys. Hand an adult a cardboard box and he’ll use it for something boring like storing file folders or putting winter clothes in the attic. Hand it to a child and it will be magically transformed into a spaceship or a pirate ship or a castle.

 

Give an adult an empty paper towel tube and he’ll throw it in the trash, but give it to a child and it’s a trumpet or a telescope or a drumstick. Send an adult out in the snow and after he shovels the driveway, it won’t occur to him to do anything other than come back inside. Send a kid out there and he’ll be climbing up the biggest snowbank he can find, making snow angels, building a snowman, starting snowball fights with the neighbors’ kids, and poking icy patches with a big stick.

Who would you rather hang out with, the child who can make fun out of anything, or the adult? I know which one sounds boring to me. And it’s not the one who eats spaghetti with a fork.