A sloth mom's version of career day...

April 11, 2011

Saturday, Mark took Sawyer, Sander and my niece Emily to Aggieland for their open house -- they show off their veterinary school once a year, free, to anyone who wants to come. 

For those of you not from the South, Texas A&M University is known far and wide for its fabulous veterinary school, great programs in agriculture and farming, a town that includes The Dixie Chicken as one of the more upscale bars, Aggie jokes and an unstoppable rivalry with the University of Texas in Austin.

I lived in College Station, home of A&M, and was the chief copy editor of the newspaper there a million years ago. People might make fun of Aggies, but no one questions their expertise with animals.

Sander has wanted to be an animal worker since he was born. He’s not sure whether he’s going to be a biologist or a veterinarian or work with exotic zoo animals, but he’s going to work with animals.

So, we’ve been to every zoo within 1,000 miles of Austin. We’ve done whale watches, explored nature centers, done behind the scenes tours, taken classes, read books, and he’s still hungry for more.

So off they went, each with a stuffed animal with an ailment that needed fixing.

The top draw was the fistulated cow. Really.

It’s a cow with a healed hole in its side, and you can reach in and pull digested grass out of its stomach. Or, as Sander likes to say, you can also put grass in and “feed the cow.”

He’s been laughing at that for three days.

Then, off to surgery. Emily’s bear had a broken arm that the surgeons helped her set. Both Sander and Sawyer wanted a pregnant bear, so the surgeons cut open the bears along the belly and inserted a button in each, and then sewed it up.

I’m not sure what message that teaches, at all, about genetics or anatomy, but since they’re going back next year to have the button removed via c-section turned into cubs, we can answer more questions then...

All three kids had fun. All three kids learned a great deal. And they all had the opportunity to ask questions, learn about the career and find out if this was something they were willing to work for.

All in all, a cool thing for A&M to do, and a good day for everyone.

My son

Asleep in the laundry basket. Finally.

Published August 4, 2009

Yeah, I know we’re not supposed to label kids.

I know that if a parent says you can be difficult, then you’ll live up to the label, and if a parent says you’re sweet, you’ll be sweet.

But Sander can’t read, and no one’s going to tell him what I say here, so I’ll say it: Sometimes this four-year-old child is one huge, unmitigated, giant, pain in the ass.

I know that all of these quaint character traits that I’m seeing as negative will eventually turn into positives.

I know that bright, energetic children will turn into successful, driven adults.

I know that pushy turns into assertive, and bossy turns into a leader, and demanding turns into an adult who can get what he want. Curious turns into an education, and non-stop energy is fabulous when you’re thirty.

But you know what?

Right now he’s a pushy, bossy, demanding, curious little kid, full of non-stop energy.

And I have no idea how to parent him.

I love him, so, so much, and yet, he is the challenge that was given to me on earth to test my patience and my parenting ability and my faith in my ability to be a mother.

Almost every night, I have five or six courses of action I can pursue in dealing with him running through my head.

Take tonight.

We got home from gymnastics late (first strike.)

They hadn’t eaten dinner, and we ended up eating late, at almost 7:30 (second strike.)

I told Sander that he could watch the end of his new TV show, which had about fifteen minutes left on it. Then Mark didn’t know I’d promised that, and watched something else instead. (Third strike.)

So. I announce bedtime, not realizing that I have set the stage, yet again, for disaster.

Sander announces that he won’t go to bed. He’s going to watch the last few minutes of his show, as he was promised.

It’s already 9:30. I say it’s too late. Then Mark says if we promised, we promised. Fine. We’re obviously loser parents who can’t make up our mind. Sander sniffs the air, catching the scent of weakness.

So we let him watch the last fifteen minutes, thereby exposing our underbelly with Sander: If you give in once, out of kindness, love, friendship or in the interest of fairness, you are toast. Dead meat. You deserve everything that happens next. You have been warned.

It’s now 9:45. His show is over. 

And, surprise! He wants to watch another one. 

He now believes that we will give in if he throws a fit. This is obviously our fault, and yet we still don’t get it. 

The problem? We had an incredibly easy, sweet first child. With Sawyer, he would have smiled at us, thanked us profusely for letting him watch the show, and taken himself off to bed.

Sander has decided this is a turning point in his relationship with his parents. He can now call all of the shots, if he just digs in on this.

So, he’s going to watch another episode of his show.

No. Matter. What.

Mark and I, sensing danger in the water, have decided to hold our ground.

No matter what.

More than an hour of tears. More than an hour of begging.

Finally, Sander decides that we need to make him happy. We’ve made him unhappy by saying no, so now he wants a dish of ice cream, or to play a computer game.

That will make up for the bad things we’ve done to him.

So. In my head I have:

Stern Parent: You must not give into this kind of manipulative garbage. He’s just trying to see who’s in charge here, and you have to show him that it’s you. He thinks this is a bad thing? He’s going to see a bad thing. Right now.

Attachment Parent: This poor kid is so upset, and he’s really trying to figure out how to comfort himself. Maybe a dish of ice cream would show him that you can help him figure out how to soothe himself when the world’s too overwhelming.

Rational Parent: Yeah. Because, you know, bad behavior should get rewarded with ice cream. Well, wait a minute -- when I’m upset, I want ice cream... 

Middle-ground Parent: This doesn’t have to be a “him or me.” How can we make this work so we’re both on the same side?

So I go to pick him up, to help him and hug him and cuddle.

Nope. He wants me away from him.

He hates me. Hates everyone. All he wants is ice cream.

Finally, he goes off to seek comfort with his brother, who is apparently not as big a jerk as his parents.

He crawls in the laundry basket, looks at a couple of books, and falls asleep. At 11:40.

This child won’t take comfort, or snuggles or kindness when he’s mad.

He holds grudges. Has NO sense of humor about himself or his deeds.

You  can’t gently poke him, giggling, out of a bad mood.

You can’t tease him or tickle it away.

You can’t hug it away.

And yet:

He is exceptionally, undeniably, bright. Funny. He adores animals. He has a passion for learning that I’ve never seen in a child this young. He wants to sort animals into every category, and watches nature movies and reads animal books with a curiosity that borders on obsessive.

When he’s good, he’s loving and cuddly and adores me. He loves to spend time with, and his favorite thing, besides animals, is going to garage sales on Saturday mornings.

He does like to snuggle, when it’s his idea and he’s not mad.

He does want to hug me, and tell me I’m beautiful, when he’s in a good mood.

But man, I’m having to re-read every parenting book I have, and go get some new ones.

Playful Parenting. Attachment Parenting. Kids are Worth It parenting.

I’m not quite sure which style Sander parenting is.

Whatever it is, I think I’m going to be exhausted for a very long time.

The middle child

Published May 2, 2011

 

The picture above is not entirely fair to Sander: We were playing with the camera and I asked him to pose with his grumpy face. 

But it’s not the only picture I have of him like that, and not all of them were posed. And it is what he looked like most of today.

First, let me say this: I believe that it is my job to defend my children to the death. It is my job to place them first, and to make sure no one, ever, anywhere, talks smack about them.

Because for God’s sake, if it’s not my job to protect them from bullies and morons and predators and teachers who don’t think they’re perfect, than what I am here for?

I also believe that a parent’s job is to make the well-being of their kids priority number one. 

Having a nice house can’t come first, a good career can’t come first, and whatever goals you have as a human being can’t come first. 

Notice that I didn’t say that the child’s whims and wishes and hopes should be your top priority. Just their well-being.

Because if a parent doesn’t place their child’s needs (not wants, remember,) as their first priority, then who the hell will? 

Who’s looking out for your child? 

There is no one else on the planet who will put this tiny creature’s needs as a top priority.

That said:

I’m not sure Sander’s going to make it to his seventh birthday.

As I have said, I have no problems praising Sander. 

He’s brilliant. Funny. Can be incredibly sweet and kind and has such an empathic, nurturing side that it makes me think I’ve done something right.

And yet every wonderful, amazing thing about him is turned into a weapon against me if the stars aren’t lined up just right.

He is sensitive.

Great. 

This means he will get laid in college. 

Bully for him.

In practice, right now, this means that he can’t function unless he’s fed, he’s at the right temperature and he’s had enough sleep. 

And God forbid someone’s said the wrong thing to him that day. He’s worse than a drag queen after a bad breakup: “No, I will NOT listen to you. You were mean and I don’t want to be around you and I won’t listen to you today!”

He’s brilliant. Terrific.

He’ll actually pass his classes when he’s not getting laid. 

In practice, right now, this means that he is capable of understanding much more than he’s capable of dealing with. 

And that he can pinpoint, with astounding accuracy, anyone’s weak spots.

And that he can remember everything you’ve ever said to him.

“But you said maybe, and I know that maybe is just another way of you saying no because you don’t want to fight with me over saying no, but I need you to either say no so I can know why not or say yes so I can stop asking you. So which is it? Can we go get a treat today? And if you say yes you have to promise so you can’t change your mind and if you say no then I have to know why so I can make you change your mind. And don’t forget you can’t say maybe.”

He likes adventure, and the outdoors, and constant movement and new things and new places.

Fabulous. He’ll be an explorer. He’ll travel the world.

In practice, right now, this means that after a week where we go to my aunt’s ranch, to Houston for three days, swim until we’re all exhausted, go on hikes, go to the zoo and come home with ten loads of laundry and a week’s worth of chores in order to recover, the next day he wakes up with, “So, what are we doing today? And don’t tell me we’re staying home, because that’s boring. It’s a beautiful day! Let’s go do something!”

He takes everything to heart. 

Everything is a big deal. Everything is important.

This is a wonderful thing. He’s serious and deep.

In practice, right now, it means that if I’ve told him we have to watch his baby sister all the time, that means we have to watch his baby sister all the time. 

Every freaking minute, or the Sander police come after you.

I can’t go to the bathroom and leave her outside the door, or the Sander police come up and yell, “Hey! There’s no one watching the baby!! She might swallow something!! Get out here now, you know a six-year-old can’t watch a baby!! Where are you?!”

I must wear my seat belt at all times. I must never have alcohol in front of my son, because he knows it’s bad for me. My room must be clean, or I can’t tell him to clean his. My clothing must be spotless and appropriate for the season, or I can’t tell him to change his shirt. I must not fucking curse in front of him, or I will hear about forever, and his father will hear about it, and so will my family.

The rules are the rules, you know.

And he will not bend.

Ever. He will not show weakness. He will not give in. And he has such pride and such vanity that he will not be mocked or teased.

And this, in practice, right now, is what’s going to kill us both.

A six-year-old child can not always be right. He must bend to the ways of the family around him. The world can not always bend to his whims.

And yet, usually, his strength of personality is so great that it usually does.

He wants to see a platypus, and so plans are in the works for a trip to Australia. He has a business watching people’s pets while they’re on vacation, complete with business cards. He has a couple hundred dollars saved up for this.

He wants to be a veterinarian. So he’s convinced everyone around him to read to him, night and day, about animals. The librarians know him by name and have new books set aside for him each week. He is sure of himself and friendly, and confident the world is on his side and out to help him.  

And so when anyone crosses him, he can’t imagine why they would be so foolish.

He likes to dress up; he’s still six years old. He likes capes and cloaks and magic wands, and his newest cool thing is to wear clothes that are the wrong size. He puts on Sawyer’s pants that fall down and wears a belt with them, or he squeezes into a pair of Scout’s sweat pants and waddles around the house laughing.

Today, he was tired. The stars were not aligned. He wanted to be entertained and catered to, and I was not in a catering mood. He wanted to be read to, and played with, or wanted me to come up with some interesting diversion for his royal highness.

I had errands to run. I was done with entertaining him. I wanted out of the house.

I told Sander I’d take him to lunch, to the library and to the store, and then we had to pick Sawyer up from school. Oh, and hurry up, because we’ve only got a couple of hours until we have to pick up Sawyer. Go get dressed, please.

So he came out to the living room waddling in a pair of Scout’s pants. She’s eleven months old. These were jeans that wouldn’t fit past his thighs. Cute, but annoying. 

Nope. Go get dressed for real. We’ve got to go.

He wouldn’t have it. He insisted that he was going to wear those pants, and that he was fine, and that they fit.

And here is where the diverging parenting strategies begin.

If I were cheerful, happy, and on top of my game, I could have done a number of things. Had a race to see who got to his room first to change his pants. Had Scout wear his pants so he could see how silly he looked. Grab an extra pair of pants so when we got to the car and he complained, he could change. Ignore the whole thing, let him deal with the fallout and let him not go to the library because he couldn’t waddle in.

But I was not cheerful, happy and on top of my game. I was tired of amusing him and catering to whims.

I told him I was going to the car, and he could come after he’d changed his pants. It was cold and rainy out, we had errands to do, and he had to be dressed to go.

Sander knows a challenge when he sees one.

“I’m not changing, and I can wear these pants if I want, and you can’t stop me, “ says he.

Fuck.

Now, instead of a day of errands, we have a face-off.

We have a full-blown pain-in-the-ass situation, where if I back down, the terrorists win. 

If I back down, I won’t be able to stop him. 

He will take this a personal weakness and will use it every day to his advantage.

However, if I don’t back down and I have to spend an hour making sure that he obeys me,  then I’m an idiot for setting myself up in a situation where a small child has now forced me to pay attention to him and to waste an hour of my day dealing with this.

I knew better. He’s done this before. He wanted my full attention, and now he’s got it.

At this point, the car is running, the baby is strapped in, it’s raining, and he’s outside, dressed in flip-flops, a dirty T-shirt and baby pants. Way to go, killer. 

“Go back in and change your pants,” says I, as the baby starts to cry because she’s pissed that she’s in the car and it’s not moving.

“Nope.”

And he climbs into the car and buckles in.

Fuck.

Now it’s a physical escalation. If I have promised that he can’t get in the car unless he changes his pants, I have to back down or take him out of the car. And I’m not backing down.

And I know that you can’t do physical escalation. In ten years, this kid will be six feet tall and sixteen years old. If I don’t figure this out now, there’s no way I’m going to be able to manhandle him into doing what I want then.

But I can now. So I pick him up, get him out of the car, kicking and screaming, and put him in his room, telling him to please change his pants. And yes, by this time, he and the baby are both screaming and yelling.

At some point, he does, in fact, change his pants. We did make it out of the house. And a mile down the road, he asked me to pull over so he could get in my lap and stop crying.

But he wouldn’t apologize. And when I tried to discuss what happened and how we could do better next time, he put chopsticks in his ears and said, “I refuse to talk about bad things.”

And we had to skip the library, because we ran out of time, and he threw a fit because I “broke a promise to go to the library, and now you need to get me a treat to make up for it.” 

So tonight, Mark put him to bed so I wouldn’t murder him.

And tomorrow, he will wake up sweet and happy and will want to know what adventures we’re going to have and how I will entertain him.

And tomorrow is Mark’s birthday, and because Sander is sweet and thoughtful, he will make a present and draw a picture and will want to make a cake and have a surprise for Mark.

But I will spend the entire day trying to avoid traps that leave me with no way to back down.

I’ve got to figure out how to work with this kid before he gets much older. 

Because if he’s this hard now, his teenage years are going to finish me off, right before all of those difficult traits turn him into an amazing man, and that would be a shame to miss.