A Word From The Wise

I lost my temper today.  It was bound to happen after only getting 4 hours of sleep.  The early birds woke complaining of hunger so I brought them downstairs before the sun even rose.  So after several hours of eating, playing, dancing, cluttering & repeat they are still going strong, not a nap in sight.  I am exhausted, cranky, and need more caffeine.  I was about to walk into the kitchen to refuel with a cherry coke, which is something I should not be drinking with a history of kidney stones mind you, when something caught my eye.  Lil R had a book, a book where it is not supposed to be.  She was not reading this book.  No.  She was eating. yet. another...  If you've read my previous posts you know this is an ongoing problem.

"NOT FOOD!" I boomed.  I swiped the book from her hands and out of her mouth in such a way that she began to cry.  "Good," I thought, "that'll teach her!"

Big brother R immediately stopped playing and went over to comfort his whimpering sister.  Meanwhile I stormed from the room like a pouty teenager to go cool off.  He then came directly to me to have a little talk.  I was still fuming, futilely wondering, "Why? Why does she eat stuff that's not food?"

"Mom," he began, patiently waiting for me to make eye contact.

At first I wanted to yell at him too.  Snap a "Get out of here! Leave me alone!" while I wallowed in my mean-mom guilt for losing my temper.  But when I looked at his sincere little face, I just couldn't.  My heart was tongue-tied.  The smoke was now clearing.

Making sure I was really listening, he calmly continued, "Mom, you can't yell at Baby Ro."

I sat there stunned and listened intently to this child of mine.  "You must use your inside voice", he wisely instructed.  "Yelling is for outside."

I started to stammer like a child who's hand was caught in the cookie jar.

Then he proceeded to hit me with the exact thing I tell him during one of our time-out talks after he has a screaming tantrum.  "If you get mad just scream in a pillow and then you won't yell anymore, and you won't be mad anymore, and it'll be all better!"  He said it so cheerfully, so judiciously, so sensibly.  He is very animated when he speaks, his head tilting and nodding, his shoulders, hands, and arms were poised in one of those "I don't know" poses.  He smiled at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for my response.

I sheepishly pouted.  Now what am I supposed to say to that?

Here I was, a grown woman, a mother of two, the disciplinarian, or so I thought, and this small, physically frail but strong in heart & spirit, three-year old boy, just taught me a lesson.

"Now promise me you'll never do it again," he recited again from memory with a gentle sternness.

I felt myself blush with embarrassment.  This was the most awkward situation I have ever found myself in as a parent.  I didn't know what to say.  Perhaps I should've gone with the old standard "I make the rules and what I say goes!" followed by a rude "Just mind your own business" for smarts.  Or maybe instructed him with one of the classic place-putting lines "I'm the parent and you don't speak to me that way!"

But he was right.  How could I argue with my very own rules?  How could I possibly deny something I've said to him?  Then, foolishly perhaps, I dove straight into the sea of awkward.  I opened my mouth and out came a "But..."  ...insert my big stinky mom foot here...

I stammered, "B...b... but... how am I supposed to stop her from putting things in her mouth and eating things she shouldn't?  She doesn't listen to me."  I shamefully admit that I actually whined.

Is this really happening?  Am I desperately seeking parenting advice from my own three year old?  Nice.  In that moment I imagined a slew of future Mother's Day cards with a big 'ol X over the word BEST or GREATEST.  "To the X mom"  Yep, that's me.  The stuttering, push-over X parent.

"Well," he started with a long sigh, sounding wiser than his years (heck, even wiser than my years) shaking his head, "I just don't know.  He then finished with a final matter-of-fact, "But don't yell at Baby Ro."

I immediately felt ashamed as hot tears stung my eyes.  I became the child and he was now the parent. 

I was a slobbering contrite mess scooping him up in my arms and apologizing in a whisper.

When I finally put him down and let go, he stood there with that bashful, smiling, head-cocked, tilted shoulders, hands-behind-his-back, stance that he does when he is so pleased with himself.

"Bubba, I am so very proud of you." I gushed, holding his pale little face in my hands, looking in his deep dark eyes, and planting a kiss on his fuzzy head.  "I love you! Thank you for teaching me."

He made that clicking sound, a sort of  tongue-click/lip-smack, as his chest swelled with pride.

"Your welcome!  I love you too!" he cheerfully chimed and sprung from the room to continue playing where he had abruptly left off.

I dried my eyes and felt humbly solemn as I walked into the next room.  I saw the two little angels playing and giggling.  I scooped up lilRo.  Big brother joined in the love fest and we all hugged and kissed each other.

I returned her to the floor and went across the room to the computer desk.  I was basking in the happy Hallmark-moment watching my beautiful, intelligent children playing merrily.  Lil R smiled at me, her cherub cheeks glowing, her evenly spaced baby teeth showing in a cheesy grin.  She then picked up the book and began to once again feast on it's spine.  Well, that lasted about as long as a commercial.
 
I let out a defeated sigh as I searched for the nearest pillow.

Disaster Strikes

There I was, cooking a delicious, healthy meal... oil popping... food sizzling... onion and herb aroma wafting up on waves of steam and heat... giddily daydreaming of celebrity chefs' jealousy of my creation when suddenly, without warning, I am pulled from my fantasy by deafening silence.  It's coming from the other room.  Silence can only mean one of two things.

I turn off the burners, dread rising up in my throat, and swiftly bound over the baby gate into the dining room.  I didn't even get a chance to react to the crunch beneath my feet.  In fact I didn't even notice it.  As I round the corner to the living room I am stopped in my tracks at what lay in front of me.  I think I even stopped breathing for a moment.

I first take in the rubble strewn on what was once a lovely living space.  The casualties are many, poor souls face down, lying there motionless, covered with debris, unable even to cry for help.  My eyes scan the floor, the chairs, the couch, the table... not an inch was spared.  It's everywhere.

I can feel my heart stop for a moment then start to race.  The blood boils in my veins and I can feel it throbbing in my head and neck.  The heat is worse here than in front of the stove.  I'd rather be in front of the stove.  I'd rather be there than starring at this mess, this disaster.

Then slowly my eyes catch site of the terrorists observing my every move, eyes gleaming and lips curling with delight.  They are obviously pleased with the result, it reads all over their faces.  They start to say something, yell something, or perhaps laugh, but it is stifled as they catch their breath.  They are spring loaded, ready to bolt but seem hesitant to make the first move, not knowing which direction to go.  Leaping into the air with glee or running away in fear of retribution, unsure of which, they are contemplating my reaction.

We stare at each other a moment, in silence.  The small henchman looks from me to her mastermind, smiling, confused, looking for his lead or my approval.  He knows she's looking to him, but he is a confident leader, unwavering.  His eyes stay focused on me, twinkling mischievously.

My lips purse and every muscle in my face tightens.  Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed.  My nostrils flare as I attempt to suck in air, puffing out my chest as if to show authority.  I try to think clearly, blink away the anger, try to regain my composure.  I must stay ahead of the game.  Stay one step ahead.  Just once come out victorious.  But I can't.  It's too late.  I fail.  Once again.  I let the anger get the best of me.  I take one step forward and transform into a fire breathing dragon.  Venomous words lash from my tongue.  I fly across the room.

The culprits waste no time.  They spring onto the couch, bursting with excitement, squealing with delight.  The chase is on.

I grab one in my talons and carry her away.  Dropping her off in a clothes basket prison, I'll deal with her later.  But no bars can hold her.  She's clever, quick, and agile.  She escapes and chases after me as I turn toward her accomplice.

Now for the head honcho.  He bounces up and down in place, bubbling with joy, fizzing with energy.  He darts left and right trying halfheartedly to avoid my grasp.  He wants to be caught.  And catch him I do.  I seize him around his belly and hoist him sideways through the room over the rubble, one arm wrapped around his middle, his arms and legs failing perpendicular to mine.  His laughter turns to terrified pleads as I carry him to the lair of time-out.

He begs to be released as I place him into the dreaded rocking chair.  He grimaces with displeasure.  His cohort sympathetically begins to wail as well.  The jig is up.

I storm into the living room and focus on the task at hand.  The clean up.  I surveyed the damage.  Yes, there have been many, many, MANY before but each hits me with such sinking, sickening disgust that you'd think I'd be used to it by now.  There was the Famous Sanitizer Slip N Slide, the Chalk & Bubble Incident, the Watermelon Food Fight of June, and that's not even counting the weekly Cracker Bombs, the daily Dinner Disasters, and the seemingly hourly showers of Leaky Sippies.  I've seen it all.  And none of it was pretty.

A frown stamps its mark on my face as I let out a sigh of defeat.  Where to begin... hmmm... I drop to my knees and start to gather debris but realize I am surrounded.  There is no way my small hands can possibly remove it all at once.  And I must work quickly to resolve this lest the wailing shadow at my heels  begins to either devour the rubble or attempts to disintegrate the pieces beneath her feet or crumble it in her hands, strewing it about, raining down like ashen rain after a volcano.

I scramble to the kitchen to gather supplies. I quickly grab a bowl, the paper towels, and Clorox wipes.  I am temporarily distracted by the smell the once hot, fresh meal that is now turning to soggy mush.  It is a reminder of my previous existence, before the storm.  A reality I can not return to at the moment while my other occupation takes precedence.  This saddens and angers me all at once.

I stomp back to the living room, like a pouty child, and start my work.  My ears fill with the simultaneous sounds of piteous cries and wails pleading for forgiveness.  The decibel level was difficult to ignore.  And the more I avoided confrontation, the louder it grew until they became screeches and roars, competing with each other for my attention.  I grit my teeth at the noise.  It is like fingernails on a chalk board.  They know my weakness.

They are a devious bunch.  Plotting out each scheme before I can even begin to grasp the effects of the first, let alone do any sort of decent clean up from the last.  They are clever masterminds, able to destroy entire rooms in a matter of minutes.  They take advantage of each and every instance of back turning, cat napping, neighbor talking, phone calling, potty going, laundry switching. dinner cooking distraction.  They are at the ready with a new outrageous plot.  They do unimaginable things to toys, books, and let's not even mention food.

I narrowly have averted few disasters. I mostly just delve into the occupation of clean up and discipline, two things I despise the most in this world.  And they know it.  They know it and relish in putting me to task.

They have everyone fooled, too.  "What sweet, adorable, well-mannered children!" they coo and coddle. "Little angels!" they gush.  "Why, they aren't destructive at all!" they proclaim as my head fills with images of myself being drug down a long white corridor in a straightjacket with mocking insane laughter echoing through the halls.

I finish the majority of the clean up and realize the screaming has subsided.  There is a solemn quiet.  The little R has stopped clinging to my leg and has gone off to play with the dolly that I pulled from the rubble, saved from being suffocated from crackers and blankets.  The older R is eagerly awaiting "the talk".

I start to notice that my blood pressure has returned to normal.  The weighty anger and annoyance has left my chest.  I am breathing easier.  I brush my hands over my knees as I stand to walk to him.  I crouch down and look him square in the eyes.

This is my court now.  I refuse to lose.

Calmly, and slowly I ask him if he knows why I put him in time out.  Without missing a beat, he answers my every question.  He promises never to do it again.  Then he looks at me with those hopeful eyes, melts my heart with a smile, and plants the wettest kiss on my cheek and wraps his loving little arms around my neck.  "I love you mommy!" he effuses in his adorable tone.  Witnessing all this love, the little R runs to us to join in the hugs and kisses.  The warmth is overflowing.  The smiles and giggles dissolve the tears and screams.

I am renewed.  All is forgiven.

I return to the kitchen to finish what is now a cold pile of mush, unknowingly leaving a trail of smooshed Kix in my path.

They have won once again.  I am a sucker.