Whining, Crying, and Christmas Trees

Before children, I romanticized about choosing a family Christmas tree. I grew up in a house where my dad assembled an artificial tree every year. The idea of going to a Christmas tree farm, or even a local tree sale, delighted me. Little did I know that selecting a tree would be a low point in our holiday season.

Year 1 (2007): Lauren is 20 months old; Will is 5 months old. My husband and I are smart enough to realize that visiting a tree farm is too big an undertaking with two babies. But we think, “Hey! Wouldn’t this be a great time to take our Christmas card photo?” The kids were not up for a photo shoot, as evidenced here:

Hmm... maybe it's the oversize lobster claw mittens that upset Lauren?

Year 2 (2008): I’m fairly certain we were scarred from year one. Ted asked my mother-in-law to join us, so that someone could manage the children while we made our selection.

Year 3 (2009): Back to the original town sale. I stay in the car with the kids, who show no signs of interest. Ted chooses the tree, I give him the thumbs up, and we’re out of there. So much for a family experience.

Year 4 (2010): We get brave and decide to try visiting a Christmas tree farm with the kids. We visit post lunch when Will (age 3) gets tired. This is probably the most miserable Christmas tree shopping experience of my life. We end up leaving the boy in the van with his hat pulled over his eyes.

Lauren (age 4) doesn’t like the tree we’ve selected. She wants a Charlie Brown version, instead.

And here is my poor husband, trying his best to smile for the camera.

Year 5 (2011): Something happens. We return to the same tree farm, half-expecting one of our children to have a melt down, but no one does. The whole family is in a good mood and excited to find a tree. It’s a Christmas miracle 5 years in the making.

Twist and Pull

Yikes. I’ve been absent from this blog for a while, but for good reason. We’ve been celebrating some milestones in our house, especially Miss Lauren, who turned five this spring.

I didn’t realize that children could lose teeth at this age, until I noticed that one of Lauren’s classmates had developed a gap-toothed grin. How could this happen? Weren’t they mere babes?

A few days later at the dentist’s office, the hygienist noticed Lauren’s two front teeth were loose and an adult tooth was growing behind them. I wondered aloud how I couldn’t have noticed this development, since I help brush her teeth almost every night. Lauren’s baby teeth were rooted so deeply, they would not come out on their own. Instead she would need to have the teeth extracted.

I snapped this photo just before our visit to the dentist.

With this news, my dentist-phobic husband went a little crazy. Did I ask how the dentist would go about extracting Lauren’s teeth? Would she need Novocain? Would she be in pain? I hadn’t asked, which may seem odd, but Lauren’s dentist is so perky and jovial, she managed to erase any concerns.

Unlike her parents, our daughter manages medical situations with aplomb. Lauren was looking forward to the dentist visit and when we arrived, she skipped down the hallway. I could feel myself getting anxious. I should have listened to Ted. Maybe I should have asked more questions.

Lauren’s dentist knows how to manage the Pre-K set. When she applied the topical solution, she said, “This is a little paintbrush we’re going to use on your teeth. A dentist is kind of like an artist, don’t you think?” Lauren nodded. “I’ll let you hold this tiny sand timer. You tell me when the sand has reached the other side.” I was so glad I hadn’t let her watch the Wizard of Oz since the Wicked Witch threatens Dorothy’s life with an hourglass.

Be warned: don't watch this scene in the Wizard of Oz before taking your child to the dentist.

When it came time for the Novocain, the dentist continued, “Now I’m going to spray some water in your mouth.” I saw the giant needle, but Lauren didn’t thanks to the ladybug sunglasses the dentist had put on her earlier. The woman thinks of everything.

There is no delicate way to explain the extraction tool. The dentist simply said, “Okay, Lauren, we’re going to use this tool to twist and then pull.” Ugh. The first attempt didn’t go well. The metal tool slipped on the tooth and made an awful noise. Lauren squirmed in her seat. “What was that?” she wondered.

After the slip up, Lauren looked worried, but by then the teeth were gone. The dentist sent us home with a tiny treasure box with two baby teeth, some instructions and a lot of gauze. Poor Lauren was shaken. Even though the bleeding stopped, she refused to take the gauze out of her mouth until we reached Whole Foods (where I treated her to ice cream for bravery).

That evening, there was much to do about the placement of the teeth, so that Tina the Tooth Fairy would be able to find them. I told Lauren to place them in the special pillow her grandmother gave her, but she worried Tina might not find them there. Instead, she opted to keep her teeth inside the plastic treasure test the dentist provided, but with the lid open. “Tina’s really small, Mom,” she told me. “It might be too hard for her to open the box and fly at the same time.”

When she was safely asleep, my husband arrived in our room with the treasure box. I emptied its contents into my hand.  Lauren’s baby teeth were beautiful; small and delicate like two perfect pearls.

Anger Management

My 3-year old son Will is testing his yelling skills these days. Usually the hollering starts over something simple, like, how I put on his pants. He’ll fuss with the waistband, look at me disapprovingly and say, “I don’t want the pants this way! I want them this way!” And he’ll tug them a little to the left. To manage his frustrations, I offer the usual parenting advice—use your nice words, your inside voice, your manners, etc. But after awhile, the yelling, paired with a fingers-on-the-chalkboard whine, had me rattled. I fought the urge to shout back, then one day, something altogether surprising came out of my mouth:

“Spell it, don’t yell it.”

I could have shot flowers out of my nose. Will was remarkably silent.

“If you want to me to help you,” I said. “Please don’t yell at me. Spell pants instead.” Again, silence. Now don’t get me wrong, I know a preschooler can’t spell pants, unless he’s taken a crash course in Your Baby Can Read, but asking him to spell pants piqued his curiosity.

“Momma, can you spell it for me?” he asked.

“P-A-N-T-S.”

He repeated the spelling back, smiled and returned to the floor to play with his Star Wars figures. I was beyond pleased.

Of course now, like anything that’s too good to be believed, Will is asking me to spell everything. New Jersey. Underwear. Pneumonia. The last of which tripped me up. Seriously. Try spelling pneumonia out loud.

But I’m not complaining. R-e-a-l-l-y. It’s a lot quieter in my house. And my son is learning, which is so much better than yelling.

Cleaning House

While reading about simple IKEA bookshelves on the family design site, Oh Dee Doh, I discovered a link to Becoming Minimalist. The blog details the life of a Vermont family of four and their quest to live more simply. Dad Joshua Becker writes quick, readable posts about his family’s goals and successes. After reading a few entries, I was ready to become a minimalist myself.

Why? After the holidays, new toys, knickknacks and assorted sundries make our modest, 3-bedroom cape feel overloaded. Our house is without a doubt, a minimalist’s worst nightmare. My intentions are good however. Prior to Christmas, I thought I’d make room by taking 3 loads of toys and books to our local kids’ consignment shop. The great unloading was freeing. We gained some shelf space and I felt like Martha Stewart on her best day.

But now I am back to square one, shelves covered in books and magazines, toys on the floor, craft supplies scattered on the kitchen counter. Madness! So you can imagine the relief I felt when I came across Becoming Minimalist. Becker recommends starting off small—clearing out a desk drawer, bookshelf or medicine cabinet—before managing big, overwhelming projects like the toy room, garage and basement. By doing so, he says, a person can enjoy small victories each time. I like the sound of that.

Today, I went through the kids’ giant box of dress-up clothes and put aside extra hats, outgrown ballerina outfits, bandanas, pirate swords and wands. I collected the bounty in a kitchen bag, posted the items on our town’s Trading Post and within the hour, the dress-ups were sold. Victory number one! The whole project—cleaning and posting the items—took about 15 minutes. I feel more organized already.

The kids' dress up closet rivals Vogue

More dress-ups... we could open a theater company

Can our family become true minimalists? We’ll see. I’m not sure we can accomplish object free shelves and floors, as described on this minimalist design guide, but I love the idea of pairing down and living simply. I’m hoping this small start will lead to some peace of mind.

You Say Yes, I Say No

I’m starting to wonder if my daughter takes me seriously. This thought popped into my head one evening after the kids finished their bath. Ted attempted to put prescription oil (for eczema) on Lauren with little success. I heard the debate upstairs and continued cleaning the dinner dishes. I didn’t want to get involved. What sane adult would? A sound bite:

Ted: Put the oil on!

Lauren: No I won’t.

Ted: You need to do it!

Lauren: I’ll do it myself.

Ted: Then do it!

Lauren: No!

Ted: Get back here!

Uh oh. Next thing I knew she was standing next to me in her altogether. I asked why she wasn’t wearing her pajamas.

Lauren: (sobbing) Because Daddy won’t let me put my cream on. By. My. Self.

I escorted my naked daughter back upstairs and instructed her to put the oil on solo, showing her the places where she needed the prescription most. She refused. I tried to keep my cool, reminding myself that we were closing in on bedtime. Soon I would be on the couch watching Modern Family and sipping tea.

Me: If you don’t put the oil on, I’m going to do it for you.

Lauren: No.

Me: Yes.

I should have walked away. But then she would go to bed without the prescription. I tried again and again, until I had to use force.

Me: (struggling, red-faced). You’re. Going. To. Put. This. On. Period.

Then there was no end to the histrionics from mother and daughter. There was purposeful drooling (Lauren). A nightgown tug of war (started by yours truly). And then me, demanding, “You will go to the bathroom before bed!” That’s when my smart husband came in to whisk me away.

If I appeared on the Supernanny, and there was a play by play of this disciplining nightmare, I would get ten demerits for losing my cool. Plus more points off for yelling. Then I would be reminded that little ones—especially 4-year olds—love to test their boundaries.

Either way, I decided to check out the book 10 Days to A Less Defiant Child by Jeffrey Bernstein Ph.D—a regular on the Today Show circuit. I’m not really a how to book kind of person. Like my daughter, I don’t enjoy people telling me how I should conduct my business. But after this particular argument, some guidance seemed reasonable. I scoured the chapter on 10 Ways to Stop Yelling. The author suggests verbal cues. For example, just about the time when you feel your blood pressure rising, remind yourself—and your child—out loud, “I know you’re tired, but you need to listen.” This tactic seems so simple, but I have to admit I like the technique.

Still, I wonder, is it possible for parents to keep their cool at all times?

Mommy Goes to Jail

Like so many low parenting moments, desperation made me say it. I mentioned to Lauren, if she didn’t cooperate with me, I’d be sent directly to Bad Mommy Jail.

Before you judge, please consider the scenario. Lauren and her brother were playing in the tub when I spotted excema on her back. While she poured bath water into plastic teacups, I attempted to put prescription oil on her.

“I don’t want the oil!” she shouted.

“But you need it for your excema,” I explained. “Otherwise the rash will get worse.”

She held up her hand. “No!”

“Come on, Lauren.”

“No.”

That’s when Bad Mommy Jail came to mind. And surprisingly, the thought of my being whisked off to the hoosegow made my children listen.

“But I don’t want you to go to jail,” Will said, eyes wide.

“I don’t want to go, either,” I told him. “But parents are supposed to take care of their kids. If I don’t put this medicine on Lauren, the doctor will think I’m not taking care of her. Then, I’ll get sent to jail for sure.”

“Put it on, please!” Lauren begged. I didn’t feel right about the way I managed to get her to comply, but the effects worked so well, I have used the Bad Mommy Jail card again. And again.

The method is so convenient—like drive-through coffee—dependable and quick to please. Even though the technique works so well, I do worry that Bad Mommy Jail might come up in therapy when they’re older. But in moments of weakness, parents can’t always control what comes out of their mouths. Or can they?

Bye Bye Baby

The summer brought a series of milestones for my young son Will. He potty-trained during a 2,500-mile road trip, successfully scaled his crib, celebrated his third birthday and experienced a growth spurt that changed him from a baby-faced toddler to a little boy. Since I’m 95% certain he is my last child, you would think these milestones would be bittersweet. But somehow, I managed them all with aplomb, especially bidding adieu to diapers once and for all (although now I have probably jinxed us for sure).

To cap off Will’s season ’o change, Ted dismantled the crib. Will was spending more nights in big sister Lauren’s bed anyway, and it seemed the two slept better together. Ted suggested moving the kids into the same room. After weighing the pros (uninterrupted sleep) and cons (the domino effect of changing rooms), I decided to give Ted’s idea a try. We purchased new beds for the kids and spent a full day moving Will’s things into Lauren’s room.

I felt myself feeling anxious, my emotions whirring around like clothes in a dryer. Will’s empty room made me nostalgic for my infant children. His room had been Lauren’s first, and I recall myself nearly 9 months pregnant, regarding the freshly painted walls, new furniture and the quilt made by her grandmother. I remember thinking; soon, there will be a newborn baby here, my baby.

When Lauren outgrew her room, Will took her place, and I never predicted he would leave. I couldn’t imagine a time when he wouldn’t be my baby. But here he was, after a summer of changes, leaving his crib behind and moving into a big boy bed.

While the kids were helping Ted locate his tools, I tried to make sense of this new space. Everything was out of sorts—there were books stacked in piles on the floor, scratches on walls where furniture used to be, dents in the carpet plus a bedside table, bookshelf and armoire that no longer had a place here. I started to blubber like a child, missing the way things were.

That evening, I kept Ted up with a crazy list of to dos: painting shelves, removing old furniture, and shopping for organizational supplies. But nothing would keep my children from growing up. Someday they’ll want their own rooms again and I’ll feel nostalgic for their preschool years. Until then, I’ll tuck them in at night—Will sleeping beside his cars, Lauren clutching her favorite blanket— and take my time with the rest.

Garden Primer

Did you ever have plans to do something with your kids, and then realize it was a bad idea?

I’ve wanted to join the Community Garden for years. The only thing that’s stopped me is the thought of gardening with two little ones. I can barely manage my overgrown perennial garden, let alone drive to another plot in town for weeding, watering and harvesting.

To compensate, we’ve had a farm share for the last three summers, where our family has enjoyed salad greens, tomatoes, herbs and flowers. The share worked well for us up until this year. Since we’re down to one salary, a 10 x 10 town plot for $25 seemed like the smarter option. With Ted’s encouragement, I decided to give the Community Garden a try.

The garden would require a team effort. And when the season started, Ted was by my side, setting up stakes, spreading manure and laying down tarps to keep the soil warm. Lauren and Will, who arrived with kid-sized gardening gloves, trowels, rakes and even a mini wheel barrow, didn’t show much interest.

My dear husband, armed with a shovel

Our plot B.W. (before weeds)

The entire month of May came and went without revisiting our plot, but I felt okay with that. The garden coordinator said tomatoes shouldn’t be in the ground until Memorial Day, when the threat of frost is over. Plus we were taking a family vacation at the end of the month. I didn’t want to plant and come back to a wilted garden.

A week after our return, I decided it was time to plant—our seedlings were bursting out of their trays. Ted was out with a friend, so I took the kids with me. I tried my best to make the field trip sound exciting. Now our seeds can grow! You can dig in the dirt and get muddy! We can visit the Children’s Garden when we’re done!

When the three of us arrived, most gardens were full of thriving plants. Our orphaned plot was surrounded by weeds. The tarps that Ted and I so carefully laid out were gaping with more green, gangly ugliness. I told the kids we’d have to do some weeding first. “But I want to plant!” Lauren said. “I want to water!” Will whined. And then came the mosquitoes.

Super Will looking super bored among the weeds

Lauren: Me? Weed? Can't you tell how hard I worked on this ensemble?

My duo sat on half the tarp itching their bug bites and looking forlorn, while I pulled weeds. “This is boring!” they shouted in unison. After an hour of of watching me weed and haul several loads to the compost heap, the two announced they were starving.  “Just a few more minutes,” I promised. “Anyone want to help Mommy plant peas?” They shook their heads “no” and proceeded to paw at the ground. I was covered in sweat. My kids were covered in dirt. No one was having any fun.

When Ted arrived home, he found me lying on the floor of the bathroom, while the kids splashed in the tub. He knew better than to say anything, other than “looks like you could use a nap.” Smart man.

I decided what I needed was a change in outlook. For our next trip, I promised the kids donut holes and lemonade. So what if it was only an hour before lunch? We would arrive at the Community Garden with full bellies, charged with sugar. Lauren helped plant lettuce, tomatoes, basil and cilantro. Will watered with pride. The two even carried hay over to the plot, and we made friends with some of our garden neighbors in the process.

Our garden's humble beginnings

Wow. What a difference between visits. This was the gardening experience I’d dreamed about—spending time outdoors, planting with my kids and meeting other gardeners. Then I realized: like tending the garden, new experiences with little ones take work. Some days we have to pull weeds, and others, we can enjoy what we’ve accomplished.

4 Going on 14

Lauren posing on her uncle's Harley. A glimpse into the future?

Four years ago, when I learned I was having a girl, I immediately worried about her teenage years—the drama, the sudden shifts in mood, the tears. I was not a rebellious teenager. I studied, listened to my parents and rarely got into trouble. However, I was a royal pain in the derriere when it came to my appearance. My hair, clothes and complexion had to be right, and if they weren’t, then my mother endured most of the grief. Why didn’t she have the mousse I liked? Why couldn’t she buy me Guess jeans? And why was it such a big deal when I missed the bus because my hair wasn’t feathered just so?

My husband thought I was crazy when I fixated on ages 13-18, when we had more pressing things to focus on like preparing for a new baby. When my daughter arrived, she was so sweet and even-tempered, that I forgot all about my worries. How could this dream child ever give me cause for concern?

Little did I know that Lauren at age four would have tantrums equal to my own at age 14. If her hair isn’t perfect, she screams, “No! Mommy! No! Not like that…. like this.” Then she’ll tell me where to place the barrette. If I’m off by an inch, she freaks out all over again. I have little patience for this behavior. What I really want to do is scream at her. Instead, I attempt reason. “Mommy is just trying to help. Can you sit still for a moment and I’ll try again.” But I should know better. After 15 minutes of unsuccessful hair styling attempts, she storms off, and I’m left feeling exasperated.

Then there are the battles with clothes. Long ago, I gave up arguing about wearing polka dots and stripes, or going outside without a jacket. Our morning routine runs better when Lauren is happy with her outfit. These days, she changes at least three or four times before selecting the right ensemble. Her closet can be full of clothes, but if she has it in her mind to wear pink and pink, then Mom is expected to deliver, pronto. And when I can’t? She falls on the floor in a huff. “But I want my pink skirt and my pink tank top!” I tell her the skirt is in the wash, and then I get flack for washing it in the first place. “Why, Mom? Why, did you wash it?” I opt for reason again, mentioning the ketchup stains from the night before. This small detail sends her into orbit. She sits in a pile of rejected clothes, naked and bemoaning the unfairness of it all.

The aftermath of a wardrobe meltdown

I’m not sure that there is a logical explanation for her behavior. Maybe it is payback for all the times I drove my mother nuts. But isn’t it a little early? I was hoping for ten years of basic training to help avoid battles like these. If Lauren behaves like this at four, what will happen when she’s 14?

Friends: I am beyond worried. I am terrified.

The Big Tease

At ages three and four, my children get along 85% of the time. I’m amazed by the small kindnesses they pay each other. Will, ever the charmer, regularly tells his sister how beautiful she looks. I have also spotted Lauren helping her brother remove his jacket, or offering him a toy that’s out of reach. During moments like these, I’m proud of my duo. I actually feel as though I must be doing something right.

Still, they do fight and tease each other during play. The insults range from, “You’re a Bad Hat,” a name inspired by the book, Madeline, or “You’re a baby.” When the teasing happens, they argue until someone ends up crying and running to me for help. “Mom, Sissy called me a baby! Tell her I am not a baby!”

Usually, I make the Instigator apologize to the Teased and if that doesn’t work, the Instigator gets a time out. Though lately I’ve been hoping the two will find a way to resolve their own conflicts. Maybe I’m expecting too much, but I figure, they’re going to get teased outside of the house eventually, and I want them to be ready. So, I bestowed upon them some advice: when someone teases, tell that person, “I don’t agree with you.”

Most of the time, my crazy ideas don’t pan out, but in this case, the “I don’t agree with you line” works wonders. And it makes me laugh when I hear Lauren or Will use this method, although sometimes they need reminding:

Lauren: You are a baby.

Will: No, I’m not.

Lauren: Yes you are!

Me: (While folding laundry in the next room) Will, what do you say when someone’s teasing you?

Will: Sissy, I don’t agree with you.

And then… glorious silence! My guess is that kids, upon hearing this declaration, don’t know what to say. With all power defused, the Instigator can no longer continue the argument. Then play time, laundry folding and all other household matters can go on peacefully.