eating lunch in the morning and other real life stories of the unruly three year old

The Tills turned three last week.

Three.

I had to go back to read what I had to say about Cole when he turned three. I wasn't very nice about it. I apparently really, really didn't like year three.

I'm not going to be nice about the Tills and her year three now, either.  But at least I'll be honest.

Cole was nasty at three.  They were his rules.  His terms. I eventually folded and obeyed.  Things got much easier for me once I did.  Thankfully, through it all, it was our secret.  Our little dirty family secret.  

The secret that the three year old won because he literally outlasted (and oftentimes, outwitted) the grown ups.  Mentally and physically.  Let's even add psychoso-maticaly.  In fact, we should have added that one, first. He was still the sweet, kind, rule-obeying boy everyone loved at school, with his grandparents, and even (at times) with me if others were watching.. . .just not when we were alone.  Not ever when we were alone.

With Tills, it's different.  She is just as nasty.  All of the rules are her rules.  The terms? Hers.  The difference?

She doesn't care if it me, her father, her grandfather, her teacher, her teacher's teacher, the president. . .whoever!  She's not listening to anyone.

Anyone, people.  And it's getting bad.

Now...before you get all "you're the parent and you need to get this kid under control", trust me.  I've tried.  I'm trying.  I'm dishing out time outs and taking away toys faster than she can push another kid to the ground.

No, wait.  That's the problem.  I'm not dishing them out faster than that....but I'm going as fast as I can!

I literally dread dropping them off at daycare in the morning.  I try to get in, get out, and not make eye contact with anyone.  Leave no trace.  Be a whisper like the wind. 

This is usually the scene:

I'm late for work (again) because Tilly took her clothes off three times throughout the morning, put a shoe in the toilet and then hid her lunch box.  So clearly I'm already annoyed.  I'm trying to get in, get out . . .but they stop me.  I know it's coming, too.

"Oh, Erika. . .I was hoping it was you.  Got a minute?"

Just typing it makes me get a knot in my neck.

"Oh, good morning Miss It-Doesn't-Matter-Because-Tilly-Doesn't-Listen-To-You-Anyway! Of course I have time."

Then the teacher tells me whatever terrible thing she did yesterday that centers around her complete disregard for any law and order.  They give her a time out.  She doesn't care.  They take away outside play time.  She could care less.

In fact?  The Tills?

Actually told a teacher that she wanted a different teacher to give her the time out, because she "didn't care for" the first teacher!

People? What am I supposed to do with that?  Of course, besides apologizing profusely and overcompensating with the teachers' holiday gifts?

She's got two settings: complete angel or not-listening-to-nobody-no-how-no-matter-who-the-hell-is-talking.

There was the time she wouldn't unlock the bathroom door and a teacher had to go in to get her.  But before they could get their big grown up body under the little kid-sized bathroom door, Till's has climbed to the next stall and took off running out of the bathroom and down the hall.

Or the time she hid all the other kids' art projects and wouldn't tell anyone where she'd put them.  (but come on. . .really? All of the projects? That one was a little tough to believe. . .)

Or how about the time she told the older teacher that she had a mustache like her dad.   Innocent? Yes. Helping her situation any? No!

And I just apologize.  Ask what I can do to help.  Tell them that she's really a sweet kid.  Because she is.  And I'm not going to be one of these people that thinks my kid doesn't do anything wrong because they are my kid.  I know this devil.  And it can be awful.

But she's still sweet.  Sweet and young and learning and exploring.

And defiant and relentless and smart and cunning and really, really good at hiding stuff.

So . . .I figure the only thing to do is to use what God gave me. .  .Cole.

I've started to have in depth conversations with him whenever she's around about listening.  And how much we love it.  And how grown ups are fantastic. And fun to listen to.

Cole plays along perfectly.

"Oh yeah, mom.  It's super fun to listen to grown ups. Plus they get you stuff."  Amen little buddy. Amen.

Okay, okay. . .maybe I've got some work left to do on Cole, but cut me a break for a bit.

Every morning, before school we stand in the kitchen and hold hands, we bow our heads and promise each other that we'll try our hardest to listen to grown ups today.  And to be friendly even if we don't like everyone.  And not to tell women that you see their mustaches.

It's never too early to learn that life lesson.

It works.  Sometimes.  Her good days seem to correlate to when I can spend uninterrupted time with her the night before.  Funny how that happens, huh?  Could it be that simple?  That she's acting out to get my attention...my good attention? 

So tough to find that time, though.  You know. . when there's laundry and dishes and dinner and "(*&#$ Till! Why are you touching your poop, again?!?"

It doesn't leave a whole lot of time for much else.  Because tomorrow is another day and if I'm late again because you took your lunch box, hid under the dining room table and ate what was in it while I was getting Cole dressed. . I'LL SERIOUSLY LOSE IT.

And we just turned three.  We still have three hundred-sixty-one days of it left.  It feels insurmountable. I'm just hoping it's kind of like when Cole went through that phase where he wouldn't stop eating his boogers, you know?

If I just repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat the message . . .maybe I'll get so annoying they will listen.

We don't eat boogers, Cole.
We don't eat boogers.
We don't eat boogers.
Boogers aren't for eating.
Do you need a tissue.
Don't eat your boogers.

FINE MOM. GIMME A TISSUE.
 

And I'm going to try to spend more of our few precious hours at home together in the evening just for them.  Uninterrupted.  Undiluted.  I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, any advice you can give me on ways to harness this independent energy into positive manifestations...would be appreciated.

Because I'm serious about her eating her lunch under the table while we're getting ready for school.  I can't take much more of that.

The Tills doesn't have to steal, but she does anyway.

Remember the time I took Cole to the Disney Store, and he stole a stuffed Bambi?  This story is sort of like that, except not at all, because my daughter doesn't have to resort to stealing. 

She just intimidates me until I cave.

The Tills and I were out shopping at the mall during the couple of weeks I needed to keep her home from school after her tonsillitis. 

Oh right.  It's not lost on me that I just said I was supposed to keep her home, yet went to the mall.  Two weeks is a long time.  And one of the best things for tonsillitis is shopping at J. Jill.  It says so on the internet.

Anyway, we went to a mall that I don't go to often. I parked right near the Disney Store.

Right there.  The game changer. And so early. . .I had no clue.

The thing about the Tills is that she's a great kid.  Great as in, tough.  She likes what she likes.  Not because it's what other little girls (or boys!) like.  Not because you surround her with 'it'.  Not because you tell her to. 

The Tills likes her peas in ranch dip.  That's just how it is.  She likes wearing socks on her hands and playing house with toy dinosaurs.  She must have her bottom sheet on top, her waffles with honey, not syrup, and until now. . .she was completely pleased playing with her hand-me-down boys toys. We loved that. 

Except somewhere, somehow it's changed.  Boy toys won't do.  Somewhere between begging for the hotwheels car with the purple racing flames and to sleep with her leaf collection, it's changed.  And it we've gotten in so deep, I don't think we're heading back anytime soon. 

Princesses.  Princesses are what's cool now.  Disney princesses.  Not just any old Disney character. . .princesses.  Princess movies and clothes and dolls and shoes and hair thingys and gummy treats at the grocery store.  Princess water bottles and vitamins and toothpaste.  Princess socks and tee shirts and pillows and pillow cases.  All of it.  All of the time.

And guess what? I give in.  She's so gosh darned cute when she's hugging her new princess, talking about princesses, and pretending to be a little princess, that I just melt and get something else silly.

We've got about 40 princess dolls.  So many that most are put away in storage.  We have princess dresses for dress-up.  Shoes.  Headbands.  Wands.  Blankets.  Toothbrushes.  Nightlights.  Name it. We've got it. . . or I'm looking it up on Amazon right now.

A gaggle of princesses. . . .and it's getting worse.

So back to the Disney Store.  I parked near the store without realizing . . . and of course she wants to go in when we walked past.  And how could I say no?  She had just had surgery people!

They're having a sale.  Of course they are.  The window display is full of Barbie-height Disney dolls.  Did that confuse you?  Barbie Disney dolls.  Of all kinds.  Of all movies.  And here's the cool thing. . . they had villains and princes!  The bad guys!  The princes! Not just princesses. 

They had the 2nd heroes.  The bad guys' moms.  The dads.  You know? The dads that don't let their princess daughters choose who they want to marry?  Those dads. 

In fact. . .just to prove my point, I've made a collage for you of the dolls they had that day.

Do you see Ursula?  Beast?  Fairy Godmother? Even that whiny prince from The Little Mermaid?  I told Tills she could get any one she wanted. 

After all.  She'd lost a body part that week of my scheduling, I owed it to her.

And she wants Rapunzel.  RAPUNZEL.  The same Rapunzel that's on her pillow.  And in her bed.  And on her jacket.  Her hat.  Her dress.  In fact. . .she might have been wearing that dress that day.

I reminded Tills that she had a Rapunzel doll.  Actually, four.  And two were the same.  Okay, okay. . not exactly the same, but one was a Disney doll, the other Mattel.  And the difference between them?  The bust size. 

She says Rapunzel.

So I say, how about Ryder, the prince?  "Rapunzel."

How about the wedding Rapunzel?  "Purple Rapunzel."

"Tills, you have two of those."  "Rapunzel.  My throat hurts," she says much, much louder.

It's like, 10 a.m. on a Tuesday so we're the only ones in the store. Till's last demand for Rapunzel got the attention of the Disney cast (that's what they call them, you know. . .cast.) and they ask if we need help.

"No, don't need help.  We have this doll already and she wants another. I'm just trying to get her hooked on one of these other great dolls."

So how about Ursula? King Triton? The fairies from Sleeping Beauty? An extra outfit for Tiana? Anything. . . but. . .Rapunzel.

We take a stroll (or seven) around the store.  I'm try desperately to entice her to choose anything else.  I'm committed to purchasing something at this point.  Would you like a new dress?  "Yep, Rapunzel."  Damn it, Tilly!

"NO MORE RAPUNZELS! AND THAT'S FINAL."

[side note: why do you talk like that when you're a parent? "that's final?" What is that?  Who talks like that? How does that kind of stuff just infiltrate your brain as soon as you give birth?!?]

That last one really drew the attention of the cast.  Because, I think, one of the not-so-good-things-to-say-at-the-Disney-store, is something like. . .NO RAPUNZELS EVER AGAIN.  In so many words.

She starts to cry.  I almost do, too.  I take her over to the coats and ask her to choose one.  She's starting to love clothes lately (who is this kid?) and she needs one anyway, so I figure it'll change the subject.  She chooses the Rapunzel model.

Whatever.  In the cart.

As we head back to the checkout, we pass the pajama section.  She asks for a sleeping gown. 

"Sure, which one?"  "Rapunzel."

Whatever.  In the cart.

And don't you know. . . she 5-finger-discounted herself a purple Rapunzel doll from the display while we were at the checkout and rather than pry it out of her still-bruised-from-her-surgery-IV-hands, I paid for it and left.

Now we have three, 12 inch Rapunzel dolls.  Two larger, 24 inch Rapunzel dolls, and a stuffed one.  And that's just the inventory of Rapunzels.

And when we got home? Whilst I still hung my head in over indulging my child shame?  I went around the house and took pictures of all the silly princess junk we have collected over her short 2.9 years of life.  And made you a collage.

It seems I'm into collages lately.

If it doesn't look like too much, that's intentional.  I might have been selective when including what to take pictures of, so you wouldn't completely disown me.

...but see the two Rapunzels?  Can you tell which one is the Barbie?  Just look at that low-cut corset. 
What. A. Hussy.

No one believes you were up in that tower. . .all alone, missy.

Now Lightening McQueen? That's a stand-up guy.  You could learn a thing or two from him.

Let's just try and forget the last 141 days, okay?

Riiiiiight.

May 12th, eh?  That's like. . .uh. . .um. . .141 days from the last time I posted.  So there's no excuse for that.  The busy line won't cut it this time, huh? 

So let's start over.  You and me.  Me and you.  Let's try to put this all behind us and start anew.  Okay? Starting now. . .here's our update from the last third of our year.  *holding bloggy head in shame*

The kids are big.  I mean .. bi-heeehh-ig. They actually look like this.  They actually eat cheese sticks like this.  And they string them on their own!  Do you know how long I had to string the cheese for them?  It was like, at least 80 days.  If I'd been around, we'd have talked about it.

This picture is actually a fantastic representation of their little personalities.  Cole sizing you up from the shadows. . .the Tills right in front . . . ready to kick you in the shin at the first sign of her displeasure.  Oh, and she looks like a boy.  Her choice.

We ride bikes now.  Well, one of us rides our bike, the other pushes it around until they get tired of that. . .and then they start chasing the other of us that is still tryring to ride our bike.  We also like to wear our helmets in the bathtub.  And in the grocery store.  And when we go out to dinner.  To church. . .the doctor's office. . .

. . .but we don't usually like to speak in the 3rd person like that. . .that's creepy and I'll try to stop.

They aren't so easily detained anymore.  So, for example. . .when you've paid $8 at the country fair for a carousel ride and just before it starts to move. . .the kids feel like screaming and getting off?  Guess who's getting off?  Immediately.  Right now.  Because, man.  She can kick.

But...please note: I'm always, always thinking of you.  I always snap the shot before running to help.  And in this case?  I might have just waited a second or two to get a really good shot before helping Bill. 

There was a vacation at the beach in there.  Where we totally enjoyed ourselves as a family.  Just the four of us.  Liking each other almost all week.  Can you imagine?  Can you imagine if I actually remembered to put sunscreen on my nose one of these times? 

Cole and the Tills have really started to dig their own things.  Their imaginations grow every day.  And it's hysterical.  Like this time that the dinosaurs teamed up with the sea creatures and farm animals to totally kick the Lego's arses.  That one was epic. 

We've recently welcomed our first imaginary friend into the fold, too.  His name is Johnny.  And he tells Cole when he doesn't like what I've done to my hair.  As in, "Maaaaa?  Johnny wanted to tell you that he doesn't like your hair cut at dinner, but I told him that wasn't a good time."  Thanks Cole.  You're always thinking.

Johnny also doesn't like peas, baths, friends that don't share at school, pajamas, and the smell of mom's coffee.  I'd like to take this time to request any suggestions you might have on getting rid of imaginary friends as quickly and painlessly as possible. 

Johnny's running out of time.

And really? As much as I tried to fight it, the Disney princess thing took hold of my daughter.  Every. stinking. thing. in the world. must. be. Rapunzel.  Or purple.  Which she thinks has something to do with Rapunzel anyway, so it's one and the same.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you about the time I practically was robbed by a 2 year old at the Disney store.   Completely embarrassing. You'll enjoy it.

For now, we'll leave it that the Tills usually looks like this.  Or she's wearing her Red Sox hat.  There's no in between with this kid.  The best, though?  The dress with the hat.  Classic.  And usually comes with a dirty face of some sort. 

But really? Over the last 140 days?  They've turned into little people more and more.  Little people, who cry when the junior high girls won't play with you at the park. . .and need their daddy to explain it while sitting on the sidelines.

And little people. . who tell jokes to each other that you and I totally wouldn't understand. . .but that makes them barrel over with giggles. 

And little people. . .who have just as much fun with each other now as they do with us.  It's one of the most amazing things to watch.  When they make up a game together and somehow, they both know the rules. . .

. . .like the riding dad, half-naked game with dirty diapers. . . .that was a good one.

(Note: this is one of those times I run for the camera before I run to help.  In case you forgot!)

But every now and then. . . when they aren't thinking about dinosaur wars, princess shoes, and who will be their best friend today at school. . .they'll still goof off with me in the bread aisle at the grocery store.

I mean really. . .why on earth are their mirrors up there, anyway?

my soapbox entitled: that time magazine article

So . . .

Have you seen this?

Have you heard about this cover of Time on the news?  Talked about it at work?  Maybe over dinner?  Heard the opinions? 

Sexualizing breastfeeding. . .exploiting a young child. . .waging a war on career-focused women who don't want to be home with baby every-given-minute. . . 

I can't take it.  And it's only been about 72 hours since the cover was leaked.  And you know me.  I'm rarely compelled to respond to something like this. . .(or is it that I'm always compelled. . .).

The article is about the attachment parenting movement, it's founder Dr. Sears, and if this approach is psychologically damaging women who are trying to live up to its' goals.  Is attachment parenting just a misogynistic way to keep women in the home by psychologically guilting them to believe there's real developmental harm to be done by leaving baby in the care of someone else?  Is it simply the return-to-nature approach to parenting?  Which approach produces more socially-adept citizens at the end of childhood?  Who cares?

We're missing the point here, folks. 

This debate isn't pitting a parenting style against another.  It's pitting women again women.  Mothers against mothers.  And I'm having a tough time believing that we can't see this for what it is.

I've heard some say 'to each their own', and I guess that's good in a non-judgemental kind of way. But I also think it's a cop out. Why not take a stand and say that you support women. You support mothers. Whether or not you agree isn't the point. The point is that by being passive, you're wasting a chance to voice support for each other. . . while we're all trying to get through this really, tough thing called motherhood. 

We ought to be discussing how tough it is to be a mom.  It's really, really tough.  We're living in an age where we have so much information available to us. . .to guide us. . . to help us make decisions about our lives and our families and determine what approach we'll take to it all.  Doesn't that sound funny?  We actually decide what approach we'll take to parenting.  I'm pretty sure my mom just did what her mom did, like her mom did before her.

And it's tough.  It's tougher than any of us thought.  Isn't that the biggest common denominator we could have?  Shouldn't we be talking about how we can support those that want to breastfeed, and those that don't?  Supporting moms who work and moms who stay home?  Gymboree and ballet classes or the backyard?  Limited TV time. . .no TV time.  Co-sleeping, baby-wearing, cloth-diapering. . .or none of it? 

Who cares?  They are all tough decisions.  And none of us knew what we were signing up for before we were thrust into it.  No one could prepare us. None of us knew we'd be making these decisions and that in making them. . .we'd polarize ourselves from other moms.   From women, just like ourselves.

We tried to prepare though.  We read books.  I've read Dr. Sears' books.  I've read those by doctors who disagree with him, too.  I've made charts and menus and chore lists.  Bill hates when I do that.  And at the end of the day, it didn't matter.  I made the best choices I could and leaned on my family, my other mom friends, and my partner for the confidence I needed to be secure with our decisions.

But I still don't know if I'm doing it right.  I don't think I'll ever know.  Just like I would say my mom didn't always make the best choices for me, Cole and Till will say the same.  All I can do is make the best choices with them in mind, given what I know, what is available to me at the time, and what I'm capable to do.  Just like my mom.  Just like yours.

The world that I parent in is a different world than the ones we were children in.  Is it tougher?  Maybe.  Most likely just different.  Why not write an article in Time Magazine about that?  About the decisions we all make as mothers to shape the best little people we can.  Maybe about all of the white noise out there about parenting. . .and how it's so darned tough to find a quiet moment to think.  Make a decision without guilt.  Without labels and without having to choose a side.

Okay.  So speaking of a side. . .I suppose you will want to know where I fall with the attachment parenting thing. . .because we all do fall somewhere, I suppose.  In the spirit of being 100% honest with you, here goes.

I'm 100% for living a 100% attachment parenting lifestyle.  But that doesn't mean I pulled it off. 

With Cole, we were 100% attachment parenting.  I wore him or held him all day.  He slept with Bill and I at night (and still does, quite a bit. . by the way. . .) and I breastfed him past age 1.  Thinking back on it though, I had no idea that what I was doing was called "attachment parenting."  I held him all day because he was colicky.  He would only sleep 20 minutes outside our bed.  We did what we did mostly out of survival in those early days. . .and it stuck.  And before I could realize. . .we were all, really happy with the way we lived our new life of three.

With Tills it was different.  I was different.  I was 100% attachment parenting until she was about six months old.  Then she slept by herself.  I went back to work.  Our breastfeeding slacked off.  And we adjusted and chose a path that worked for us. . .a hybrid.  I think she'd tell you she's a happy kid.  Well-adjusted.  Connected.  We're just as happy with the way we live our life of four, as we were with three.  It's just a different way.  It's not 100% what I would have chosen,  but it works for us.  For now.

We're doing okay. . .but man, it's tough.

When I yell at them (again!)  to stop taking off their shoes and hiding them on me because we're already 25 minutes late and I know I'm going to be late to work. . .(again!). . .I wonder if I'm making the right choice.  When it's Spaghettios for dinner for the second time this week (::holds head in shame::), I wonder if spending my time at work and on my career is the right choice.  If I was home, we'd be having something homemade.  If there wasn't anywhere to be in the morning, I wouldn't yell . . .and they could take off their shoes all they wanted.  Hiding-shoes-from-mommy might be a pretty fun game.

And when I was home with Cole and not working I always wondered if he was developing socially the way he might if he were at a daycare with other kids.  Was I able to teach him all he needed to know?  Were we making the right choice?  What about me?  Was I the best woman I could be for Cole and Bill, if I wasn't attending to all of me and only focusing on the mom part?

You just don't know.  But you need to be confident in your choices as a mother, and other moms are the best people to help you find your confidence.  They are also your toughest critis.  And I think it's time that we think more about that.

The article, ironically, isn't really about breastfeeding at all (or even that much about attachment parenting) as it is about it's founder, Dr. Bill Sears.  What I found most interesting were the researchers that were studying indigenous moms in the South Pacific, and how they influenced his work.  It all comes from somewhere.  There are no new ideas. . .just recycled ones.

Twenty years from now, will we be reading about the link between attachment parenting and some new social disorder that many of our young adults are displaying? Who knows? It's wasted energy to think that way.

Let's just be confident in ourselves as mothers to know that we all want what is best for our kids. We make decisions with them in mind. We sacrifice ourselves in ways that none of us could have imagined, for no other reason than their happiness.  Let's really think twice before we criticize another for what she thinks is best.  Reconsider your silence and what saying nothing really says. . . or passing the buck and saying you've no opinion. You know you do. . .share it and start becoming part of the solution.

Enough on my soapbox.  Phew.

No new pictures of the kids for now.  Bill and I are going to try and take the kids bike riding the afternoon.  I'm sure I'll have something to share with you then.