I live with the toddler whisperer

I recently found my old copy of "The Happiest Toddler on the Block: How to Eliminate Tantrums and Raise a Patient, Respectful, and Cooperative One to Four Year Old." That's a mouthful, huh? And I'm not talking about the length of the title. I'm talking about the words "patient, respectful and cooperative" in the same sentence as "one to four year old" and putting your name on it for the world to see.

That's exactly what Dr. Harvey Karp did and about 8 months ago, when I first started seeing hints of terrible two-ing in my future. . .I immediately ordered that thing and paid for express shipping!

Dr. Harvey Karp looks like he knows a tantrum when he sees one.

And I can't believe I never told you this story.

I read the book dutifully.  In about two evenings.  And it was craaa-haazy.

Dr. Harvey Karp told me to eliminate tantrums I must first make the child see that I understand the emotion behind the tantrum.  Um. . .what?  He said there's an art to civilizing a toddler and that taming tantrums is not only possible but easy.  Side note:  If Dr. Harvey was with me right now, and could see how difficult it is most mornings to have a civilized cup of coffee, or apply civilized eyeliner, or maybe take a civilized quick trip to the store to get the milk I forgot from my last civilized trip to the store, things might be different.

Anyway, that's what he said.  And I ate. it. up.

So here's my 10 second summary on how to actually achieve toddler tantrum bliss:

Get down to their level, throw all of your pride and self-worth out the window, and have a good old-fashioned tantrum right there with them;  making sure to repeat the emotions you see so they understand that you are empathetic. 

Can you see where we're going with this?

So.  . .yep.  We're at the grocery store a few days later, and Cole wants something I say he can't have. . .and here we go.  I squat down to his level and start telling him "Mom knows Cole is mad.  Cole mad.  Cole mad."  Do you even realize how foolish this feels?  But that's what Dr. Harvey says to do.  Keep repeating over and over in short sentences what the child is trying to tell you.  Use the same intensity as the child.  Mirror what you are being shown. . .

And Cole's like. . . seriously freaked for a second.  And I think it's working. . .until he is clearly having no part of my experiment and flips out louder. . .and louder. . .

. . .so I do, too.

"Cole MAD.  Cole MAD.  MOM KNOWS COLE MAD."

A woman pushing a cart down my aisle does a complete 180 and goes the other way.

"COLE WANT TOY.  MOM KNOWS COLE WANT TOY.  COLE MAAAD."

Why are you acting like this, mum? You're freaking me out!

Listen.  I'm going to stop here.  It's embarrassing enough that I'm telling you that I tried this.  And in public.  We don't need to go into the rest of the horrifying specifics.

Let's just say it didn't work.  Not even a smidge.  I considered it relatively successful in that #1: I wasn't asked to leave the store and #2: I didn't see anyone I knew.  But that's it.  Cole continued to have his tantrum, I tried having one for awhile, too.  It felt crazy.  It certainly must have looked crazy.  Not one of my best parenting moments. . .

So flash forward with me a few months to yesterday. . .

. . .when Cole is having another tantrum (terrible threes, fours, fives. . .eighteens. . .does this ever end?) and here's how it goes. . .

Me:  "Mom doesn't appreciate when you act this way."
Cole:  "ARGHHAHAGHGH"
Me:  "Mom is going to walk away from you now until you can calm down."
Cole:  "ARRGGHHGHG MUM ARGH"
Me:   "Okay, Cole.  I'm leaving and if you continue to act this way, you'll sit in your chair for a break."
Cole:  "ARGHHHARG NOOO MUUUUM ARGGAH"

And Bill walks in the room.

Looks at Cole.

Points one finger at him and says, in his most calm and monotoned voice. . .

"I'm not interested."

And Cole takes a deep breath, wipes his tears, stands up. . .and starts playing with his train by himself.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!?

Did I miss a chapter in Dr. Harvey's nut-town adventures of toddler tantrums?  Have I been living with the Toddler Whisperer this whole time and never knew it?  Maybe there's some mind bending cosmic psycho-ray coming from his finger?

I just stood there.  Quiet.  In awe.  Feeling like I either wanted to slap him silly for not sharing his secret or bottling his tantrum essence and selling it to the seemingly millions of mothers that need help like I do.

I did neither.  He smirked and walked away. 

And I opened the wine. 

Oh S@#% Mum!

Okay, so I have to tell you about my day before the intensity leaves me. . .or before I have a few calm-down-mommy cocktails. 

Oh, and I know you're all like "where have you been?" and the answer is that my dad had some pretty serious medical stuff happen this week.  99.8% of my free time has been spent travelling back and forth to the hospital.  The other 0.2% was doing the bare minimum amount of laundry necessary (by local law) to clothe my family. 

And, it's been one of those weeks where everything is breaking.  The computer went again (I'm on another loaner...I mean, really...when am I just going to hop into this decade and buy a new one?!?), the air conditioner is blowing hot air, the car is making squeaky noises, and I suppose we could lump my dad in there for good measure, too.

It's sort of like when you read your horoscope and it says that the moon is in Pluto and that you shouldn't try to do anything major until next moon. I never know what that means. I still think Pluto is a planet. . .is that why all of my stuff is breaking? Anyway . . .it's been a week from. . . well. . . Pluto.

Anyway, right.  My day.

So I tell this girl that I work with (and hope doesn't read my blog) that I'll help her out today by babysitting her 3 year old daughter.  Easy enough.  I figured Cole would really like having a buddy and how tough can it be, really?  Side note:  I always, always, always get myself into trouble when the answer is, how tough can it be, really? It's always that tough.  Usually tougher.

This kid talks.  I mean, talks.  All. the. time.  What's this? What's that? Why are you doing that?  Can I help? Can you play with me? Can I have a milk?  You took too long to get me milk, I want water. . . or juice. . .or pizza. . .  Can I come with you?  Why did you do that?  What's this (again)? 

And here's the thing. . .this kid was so high maintenance that I never spent more than 5 minutes with Cole all day.  And Tilley?  That poor girl only was given the basic needs of survival from her mother because this girl required so much attention.  I figured she'd eventually run out of steam 6 hours into our day. . .no such luck.  She slept for about 40 minutes.  I have never appreciated 40 minutes more than I did today.

I am tired.  I have been severely verbally bruised and beaten by a 3 year old.  And it's only a bit after noon.  When her mother asked me to pick her up from work, I jumped.  I very willingly and quite happily woke up my sleeping babies from their naps (and yeah. . .if you've known me for more than 5 minutes, you understand that waking babies up from naps is practically a cardinal sin) ...just to remove this sweet house guest from our home.  

Of course I'll drive you home to another town.  No problem at all.

Stop by your boyfriend's place of work to get the house key you've forgotten?  Sure!

Get same boyfriend a coffee on the way?  Hardly trouble.

If it means that this child will stop talking.  Anything if it makes this child. . . stop. . . talking.

We left in such a hurry (judge me later) that I didn't pack anything for Till.  I packed Cole a quick snack and some milk.  Just basic rations because I figured we'd be there and back in no time at all.  And, with any luck, both kids might just go back to sleep.  But we weren't more than 5 minutes from home when Tilley started crying. . .

. . .and crying.  And CRYING. . .AND CRYING.

From the backseat I hear, "Why is she crying? Do you think she needs any cheeseballs?  I don't have any cheeseballs.  Erika, what are cheeseballs made of?  I wonder if babies eat cheeseballs.  Maybe just cheese.  What kind of cheese do you like?  Do you have any cheese?"

And I think for a second what would happen if I parked the van near the bus stop and hopped a bus going anywhere else but this van.  But of course, that's silly. . .because the 3 year old would have asked me where I was going, and then she would have followed me. . .asking. . .questions. . .

Anyway, here's the point.  We drive like 400 million minutes to their house (in reality, about 25) and Till screams the entire way and this sweet little thing never, ever stopped talking.  My darling Cole completely tuned out;  his eyes were glassy and he stared out the window.  Not even my classic game of "what sound does this animal make?" made him come back to planet crazy-van. 

I let the van come to a slow roll as I toss their things out in front of their house.  And we drive away.  And I let out the biggest sigh of my life. . .

And Cole says, "Mum?"

"Yeah honey. . ."

"Ohhh shit, mum."

His comic relief (which I of course didn't show him!) was in perfect timing, per usual.  Side note: Watch my mouth - seriously.  It's time!

Tilley stopped crying and Cole piped right back up and talked about Thomas Trains the rest of the way.  I know, in dark places of my mind that I'm not willing to visit just yet, that my children will also be this talkative someday.  But, for the love of all that is holy. . .I just need to live in my ignorant world of 2 year old mumble-jumble for as long as I possibly can. 

Here's the tiny tot this week eating some cereal for the first time...

. . .and here's my little potty mouth at his first movie.  Please note the Thomas Train that didn't have to pay full price admission. . .

All I ever needed to know about parenting, I learned from waitressing

I'm a waitress. 

Have I told you that? 

Probably not because I really don't like how it sounds.  Truthfully, this is the first time I've said "I'm a waitress."  It's usually, "I've been waiting tables until I find something full time again." .  . or "I'm waiting tables at night because it's a great way to get out of the house after being with the kids all day." . . or even "Well, once you factor in the cost of daycare. . .blah. . .blah. . .blah." 

All of that is true.  It is a great distraction and a way to get out of the house.  So is getting the mail.  And day care is expensive.  These are not the reasons I'm a waitress.  I'm a waitress because it gives me the best opportunity to make the most money, in the fewest hours away from the kids.  Plain and simple. 

It's not really all that part-time, either.  I work close to 30 hours each week, lumped into about four evenings.  In fact, tomorrow is my Monday.  I can't remember the last time I did something on a Friday night, or had a cookout on a Saturday.  But I don't mind.   It gives Bill great alone time with the kids. . .dinner and books and bedtimes. 

It's not easy work.  It's constantly being on your feet, with a smile on your face, keeping people happy after you've already worked at "happy" for 10 hours that day.  More meals to serve, more drinks to pour, things to clean, more "what else can I get for you this evening?"  Side note:  Dansko's work clogs are not only the most comfortable shoes on the planet, they are one of the cutest.  God sent them down from heaven for us to wear and enjoy.  Find them on Zappos.com and please, for all that is holy, go straight for the patent leather navy. 

It wasn't easy at first, I'll tell you.  I was always the boss.  I made the rules.  People got me coffee.  Okay, that's a lie.  People probably would have picked me up a coffee if I asked nicely and they were going that way, anyway.  But you get my drift.  I thought I knew plenty back then when I worked a "real" job, making "real" money while doing all of my "real" things.  But I've learned more about parenting while bringing people their dinner than in any job I've had or probably ever will. 

All I ever needed to know about parenting, I learned while working a terrible paying job in the food service industry. . .

-- treat everyone kindly; even your waitress.  They can be terrible at their job, the food can be awful, the atmosphere unbearable and your evening ruined. . .but your children will watch the way you treat others. . .and will talk to me the same way you did when you leave the table.   

-- children will be children and that's okay.  What's not okay is when you allow them to act in ways you wouldn't stand for at home. ( i.e.: smashing their french fries into their seats, rolling up place mats and tossing across the restaurant, coloring on walls, etc.).  If, by chance, these are actually things you allow your kids to do at home. . .please disregard because I could tell the minute you walked in the door that you had no manners and gave another waitress $5 bucks to deal with you.

-- you're going to touch nasty things.  At the restaurant, it's probably just ketchup. . .think of all the possibilities it could be at home.

-- always tip 20%.  That one is just for my benefit and has nothing to do with parenting at all.  But you should really do it. . . most of the time.

-- if I can scrape it off your plate without you noticing. . .I win.  You will never know I wasn't really listening when you said "no onions."   This also applies when your 2 year old goes through his "the-vegetable-can't-be-on-the-side-of-the-plate-closest-to-the-east-side-of-the-house" week.  A quick turn, a scrape, a smile.

-- you probably could use extra napkins.

-- presentation is everything.  Even Cole will eat broccoli when it looks like little trees growing out of mashed potato mountains.   And you won't send back your $8 sliver of cheesecake when I drown it in Hershey's syrup and make a little joke about not having to share. . . 

-- try to remember what folks like.  Even if it's not important to you, it is to them and will make them feel important when you remember. Cole's eyes light up when I dig through the freezer to find a blue ice pop and the old couple at table 44 likes baked potatoes with extra sour cream but only one pat of butter.  P.S.:  they also split a salad on one plate by placing it in the center of the table. . . that's really weird, but they do.  I hope table 44 doesn't read my blog. . .

-- anticipate what they need and you'll avoid a temper tantrum.  This also applies to other waitresses, cooks, toddlers and especially the boss.

-- always thank the bartender.  This also doesn't exactly have to do with parenting, except that if you're in the vicinity of a bartender. . .someone else has the kids and you should be in a thankful mood to begin with!

Anyway, the point is. . .I make $3 an hour serving others and it's okay.  Most people aren't really nice. . .and man. . .I really should collect all my "can you believe this guy?!?" stories into one post for you. . .but every now and then someone appreciates what I do.  When they do, it feels weird because this job isn't like others I've had. . .I'm never looking for appreciation.  For some pat on the back for doing a good job and a bonus from the boss.   I'm just trying to do something that will let me spend more time with the kids.

And when I think about it. . .isn't that what all moms are trying to do? 

Now go out to dinner and tip 20%. . .after tax. 

Family news. . .

I've been trying really hard to make the backyard fun this summer.  With Matilda being so little, we're just not all that portable during the day but Cole is like a Labrador and needs to run.  I've tried. . .

. . .plastic Little Tikes outdoorsy things . . .

I've tried to take indoor activities outside. . .like painting. . .

. . .and stuck with tried-and-true summer fun like the sprinkler. . .

We're having a great summer but sometimes. . .you can't beat the beach. . .

. . or being "posted up by the ladies" with a slice of watermelon. . .