Frustration, Frustration

As he approaches that magical year-and-a-half mark, my sunny, happy-go-lucky, good-natured, easygoing child is suddenly developing a tendency to periodically throw himself on the ground in abject misery. Why is this, you may ask? The answer, I can tell you in one word: Frustration.

The most difficult part of being a toddler, in my humble opinion, is the fact that your brain is developing so much faster than your physical skills. My son’s curiosity continually drives him to try to figure things out, to manipulate them, to make them work. And he gets frustrated when he’s not tall enough, not strong enough, and not coordinated enough. He’s about half an inch too short to reach the hallway light switch, and after straining at it for a few seconds, he throws himself down in frustration. He knows he needs to turn the deadbolt to open the front door, but he’s not quite strong enough to turn it all the way, so he screams in frustration. He knows that he needs to stretch his sock out to get it on his foot, but he’s not quite coordinated enough to get his fingers and his toes to work together, so he sobs in frustration.

It’s a hard time of life to be in. The world is his oyster, but nobody gave him an oyster knife so he’s stuck licking around the edges, waiting for someone to lend him a hand. He wants to dress himself, but he still has to wait for Mom or Dad to help. He knows where the basketball hoop is outside, but he can’t go play unless someone opens the door for him and helps him down the steps. He really wants to eat that bowl of rice but it keeps jumping off the spoon before he gets it in his mouth. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he cries in frustration sometimes – in fact, it’s more surprising that he doesn’t cry in frustration ALL the time.

As a mom, it’s really hard for me to watch his frustration, especially when I’m the cause of it in some ways. It frustrates me when I can’t explain to him that we need to put on his socks and shoes before we can go outside and play ball. It frustrates me when I see him struggling to master a new skill and I have to force myself to let him struggle instead of simply doing it for him. It breaks my heart to see that little tear-stained face begging me to let (or help) him do something that just isn’t safe. But I’m discovering that sometimes being a good mom means being a tough mom. It means standing by and watching my baby struggle. It means letting my child learn that you can’t always do what you want to do. Sometimes, it even means taking away something fascinating (but dangerous) and hard-heartedly ignoring the tears of frustration and anger that follow.

But those moments when I do allow him to struggle and suddenly he masters a new skill, or does something without help for the very first time…those are the moments when seeing the pride and delight in his eyes makes it worth every tear we both shed in frustration a mere moment earlier.

The Frustration Raspberry

I’ll admit it: I’m a bad mother. I am guilty of laughing at my child’s grief. But my excuse is that I just can’t help it. And you’ll understand why when I explain his latest trick: the frustration raspberry.

Ryan is obviously both a bright and a strong-willed child, and intelligence and determination mixed with the limited abilities of a one-year-old can be a very frustrating combination. So when Ryan wants something that he can’t have, or that he can’t figure out how to get, he gets frustrated. And he demonstrates that frustration in different ways: sometimes he cries, sometimes he yells, sometimes he bangs things, but most often of late, he blows something I’ve dubbed the “frustration raspberry”. There are several variations of the raspberry, but it always includes a lot of noise and a lot of spit. And it is hilarious.

Picture it: a small, determined child attempting to climb out of his playpen, standing on top of toys to boost himself up, reaching up to Mummy or Daddy for assistance, bracing his feet against the wall, pulling himself up using the TV cabinet. Suddenly he realizes that all his efforts are futile, and he contorts his face into a pout and lets loose with a loud, wet raspberry. The poor kid is angry and puzzled and frustrated, and I’m laughing at him. But how can a parent not laugh at that?

Fortunately, I don’t think he’s yet aware enough to feel slighted by my laughter (although he is no doubt offended by my lack of assistance). I think I have some time to practice laughing silently at his predicaments, so by the time he is aware I will have mastered the art of the straight face. I imagine there will be many times in the future when I need to excuse myself to laugh in private, then compose myself and go console him or help him solve his difficulty. There will probably be times when I hold my laughter in until I can call or e-mail his father and share the story between my gales of laughter. There may even be times when both his father and I excuse ourselves to another room and then laugh ourselves silly.

But I suspect that the best of times will be many years from now, when we show Ryan himself some of his comico-tragic moments on tape and we can all share the laughter together.