DISNEYLAND AND THE GOLD RULE OF PATIENCE

A couple weeks ago, Peter and I took Jonah to Disneyland for his 6th birthday. In a recent post for Babble, I shared how this trip made me realize I don't always need to be the Fairy Godmother of Fun...

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“Mom, pleeeeeease can we play? Can we do something fun? This is so boooring. Monday is soooooo boring,” my 6-year-old whined to me as I sat at my desk.

Nine times out of ten, I would have called in the circus and pulled out my “let me entertain you” hat. Instead of letting him be bored and then sitting with my own guilt about having to work, steam broccoli, fold laundry, and basically not be the world’s most fun mommy EVER, I’d typically offer him a slew of suggestions of things we could do. I’d create an itinerary of all the amazing things to do in our home. First, we could bake. Then we’d play Legos, and then we’d do a science experiment. We could make LAVA. If we had time, we’d watch a movie — a super-long “NOT BABY” one. Then, we’d read, hunt for bugs, and eat candy … IN MY BED.

And the mother of the year award goes to … the crowd goes wild!

As a single mom, there were many weekends when our days were just that, and I didn’t stop until he was satiated. But as he gets older, I see that if I don’t set up an afternoon of “WOW,” he won’t “just go build a fort” or go outside and play kick the can (please tell me you’re familiar with this hilarious scene in This is 40?). This was a problem, and it needed to stop.

Well believe it or not, it wasn’t until a few weeks ago at Disneyland, the mecca of all things jazz hands, that I realized he didn’t actually need to be entertained. 

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EMPTY THREATS

I really don't know when it happened. If I could just remember the day it all changed, why it all changed, and how it all changed, I think I'd unlock the key to parenting. When did my child start to need discipline? I mean, DIS.CI.PLINE. Like "do that again and you're grounded for life" discipline. He's only 3. Well, almost 4. And yet it seems like it was just yesterday that I was monitoring milestones and neurotically researching which solids were the best to introduce first. Bananas... peas... Berries, OY. The berries. Who cares that the AAP said you can introduce them as early as 6months. I just spent $300 for a "pediatric food specialist" in the Pacific Palisades who said it was too soon...

Now, I'm changing the tone of my voice, taking deep breaths, negotiating like there's a bomb strapped to my back... Everything has changed. My goal to discipline according to "the plan" is not, well, going as planned. Trust me, I start out as a discipline-like-an-evolved-democrat-voting-parent... but shit. One can only, get down to "their" eye level, talk in a calm but firm voice for so long while their child slams a computer shut or gets out of bed 45 times... The result of failing the "what good parents on the Westside of LA pay thousands of dollars to accomplish" is a big, heavy, and ridiculous dose of the ET's: Empty Threats.

So far, my threats are pretty standard... punishments that fit the crime. But just like the new hilarious book Go the F*** to Sleep by Adam Mansbach (you must listen to THIS audio version), there are a thousand things I'd like to threaten with but never will. Here are some of the ridiculous threats I could spew, and I think you all could do if that button kept getting pushed...

If you do that one more time....

I will throw out all your shoes.

If you do that one more time...

You will not go to prom.

If you do that one more time...

We will never take a vacation.

If you do that one more time...

You will not be able to vote.

If you do that one more time...

You will never go to elementary school.

If you do that one more time...

I'm never teaching you to read.

And the list goes on....

What are some of your biggest, best (and by best, I mean worst) threats you've said... or wanted to say?

THE PRICE WE PAY...

More often than not, when it comes to a 30 lb. boy with sparkly brown eyes, I have a hard time saying "No." To be perfectly honest though, I think I may preempt his protests with an automatic cave in.... Take yesterday for example... We had just left an incredible birthday party at Giggles and Hugs. Jonah had his face painted, a balloon blown into a dragon (er, dinosaur?), a big piece of cake, two kinds of ice cream and even a life size bubble blown around his body. To quote his new favorite television show, The Fresh Beat Band, "We had a great day, it was a super way, to spend some time together." Btw, side note- if you don't watch this with your child: Please do. Share in my horror. With lines like "hip hop and pop, my legs just won't stop," I feel very alone. Join me.

ANYWAY, there are these carts, these fire truck carts, outside the market... And on our way out, as I was schlepping a shopping bag with a dozen apples and grape juice to make Charoset for Jonah's preschool Seder (this I'll save for another post), the gift bag from the party, and the dinosaur (er, caterpillar?), the 30 lb. boy's eyes twinkled just right and his voice sang just so:

"Mommy, can I go in the fire-"

"YES."

Am I sucker for his cuteness? Yes. But in less than 3 seconds of him asking, I saw life without this firetruck cart flash before me. It was a hard 10 minutes. One where there would have definitely been tears, tantrums, and a fancy balloon getting popped. We would have eventually made it to my car... but along the way, it would have been gnarly, tough and all around unpleasant.

I took out my credit card.

Yes, credit card. These carts cost $7.

Breathe.

Yes, SEVEN DOLLARS.

SWIPE.

My purse went in the bottom compartment with the dangling green worm. Our groceries, his gift bag went into the front seat, and the batman painted fire chief went on the top seat.

"Here we go!" I said.

"Thank you, Mommy. Thank you."

Wha-- whaaat? He gets it? He gets THIS?

"You're welcome, baby. Let's go for a ride."

It was a short ride. The market and my car... very close. In fact, I even asked him if we should go for a spin around the mall since we had this cool car. He said no, he was ready to go home. So we did. 10 minutes tops in this cart. $7 on my Visa.

For me $7 was a small price to pay for 10 minutes of calm. The rest of the night was flawless. No protests. No drama. Was it the cart? Does saying "yes" do the trick? What things do you give in on or pay for, for the sake of keeping the peace?

EVERYTHING'S COMING UP POOP.

Considering I think farts are the funniest things in the world, and would be happy to share my own bowel history and issues with anyone willing to listen, I suppose it should come as no surprise that my son may have a genetic predisposition to an excitement and interest in "potty talk."

Pretty much every other word these days is "Poop." I'm not kidding you, he weaves it into every story, every thought, every answer, and every scenario.

Me: "Jonah, would you like eggs or oatmeal for breakfast?"

J: "Um, I would like... Eggies.... aaaaaaand poop!"

Me: (Lights out. Story time). "Would you like to hear the story about William climbing the tree or William going to the moon?"

J: "Um, I would like to heaaaaaar.... The story about William, taking a big, big poop."

Me: (At park). "Let's put more sand on the castle."

J: "No, let's take a poop on it."

Me: "Jonah, please pick up your lunch box. It's time to leave."

J: "Okay! I'm ready to poop!"

Me: "Please do not bang the broom against cabinet."

J: "Oh, ok. Poop."

Here's the thing though, this might entirely be my fault. Frankly there are times, my brain is so fried, and he asks me a question or demands something, and the only thing that comes to mind is one word: POOP!

J: "Mommy, why do snakes shed their skin?"

Me: "Um, um, because they need to get rid of skin in order to..... (pause. I got nothin'.) um, um... Poop." (WHAT?!)

J: "Mommy, I NEED that toy!!!"

Me: "I need that poop." (REALLY?!)

And it probably didn't help that a few weeks ago, he put on his superhero cape that Mimi made him and said, "Look Mommy, I'm a Super Hero!" and I said, "You're my Pooper Hero!" to which he fell on the floor laughing and asked me to say it fourteen times in a row. (Doesn't being the funniest mom count for something?)

Certainly the time Auntie Alli made up the "get the poop out song" during a week long stand off with constipation (his, not mine) didn't make matters better either. To this day, we sometimes sing that song for no good reason. It really is quite catchy.

But I promise-- I've tried to curb the poop talk and make it clear that "this is not appropriate conversation for the dinner table/ library/ playdate/ Yom Kippur, etc." Please. You know what Jonah's response was today on a play date, as he was shouting "poop" like like had Touret's???

Me: "Jonah, enough of the poop talk. Please choose other words."

J: "Okay. (beat) PEE!!!"

Great.

SO, tell me, Is this normal? How do I stop the madness? Do I ignore? Do I punish? I need help!

Yours truly,

Jonah's mom aka sh*t for brains.

RULE THE ROOST

Discipline. The D Word. Something I've never been very good at when it comes to myself (diet, exercise, french fries etc.)... and something I'm realizing that I'm not so great at when it comes to my son. Shortly after Baby-Ko turned 1 and started "testing," I remembered the pride I felt when a mere look or simple redirection of attention settled his urge to do the "don't" and I certainly didn't need to use the evil "N" word. I had mastered parenting at an early age (both mine and his), and I thought whoever invented "time out" could just suck it. My kid's GOOD. Really good... which according to Wacky, you're never really supposed to say because it actually gives them this whole personality disorder or something like that...

But I digress...

The point is, Baby-Ko is now 2 and because I've been back to work full time for the last year and because I no longer have any Wacky's (other than my wonderful family members) coaching me through the (not-so) "terrible two's," I feel like I'm completely clueless when it comes to the discipline department these days. (Certainly, you remember the Vacuum incident that rocked the nation....?)

Baby-Ko's newest thing is to swing his beloved (and filthy) blankie in the air... first he starts out doing it cutely, as if he enjoys feeling his blankie around his body, side to side. Then he starts getting closer to people or things, and the blankie sort of turns in to a whip. I suppose it could potentially really hurt another person, but mostly it's just annoying and I'm not sure why he does it, and I'm certainly not sure how to get him to stop-- as taking his blankie away isn't an option.... I don't think... (is it???)

For whataver reason, the other morning, Baby-Ko decided to test his limits again with said blankie. Carrying it in his little hands, he marched right in to the bathroom, lifted up the toilet lid and dropped it in the bowl.

First, he felt like ballsy.

Then, he was proud....

Then, he was screwed....

Not knowing whether to laugh, discipline, or be grateful for the fact that the toilet had JUST been flushed, I shook my head, said nothing, got a plastic bag, removed the now ass ridden blankie from the toilet, and carried it right to the washing machine.

For the next 45 minutes as the washer and dryer removed the germs and frayed corners that my son so derives comfort from, Baby-Ko was devastated and distraught by his decision. I did my very best, as he stood in the laundry room sobbing and pleading for his blankie to come out, to explain the consequence of what happens when we put things in the potty (that don't belong). But honestly, he didn't care.... My normally happy son who loves nothing more than to help me "do laundry," was being tortured by a great white blankie eating shark.

Fortunately, in a few weeks Wacky is holding a lecture for Two Year olds (well for the parents of two year olds that is) and I am attending. I very much look forward to a little Wacky gospel... Of course, I'm not sure she'd approve of redirecting a tantrum with YouTube videos or Sesame Street... Shh. Let's just keep that between us for now... okay?

IT'S JUST THE AGE

Hi, there. You still here? Sorry. I know it's been a while since I've posted. I knoooooow.  I knoooooow.  I should be writing more. You're right. It's true. But trust me. TRUST. ME. I have some pretty good goddamn excuses up my sleeves. And once I'm able to share them all with you, you will forgive me. I prom. 

In the meantime, let's talk about the UFC style bout I had this morning, trying to get Baby-Ko in the car. I have always thought the term "terrible two's" are, well, terrible. I mean, to me, this seems like the best age ever. He looks and sounds like a little munchkin, he's funny (like seriously, kind of witty. I swear), and his vocabulary is blossoming at warp speed. It's a FUN age. It is.... Until it's not. 

Baby-Ko's "new thing" is to try to test his independence. At first it started with grabbing my keys from the table by the front door and saying "Bye, Mommy. I be right back."  Now it's that, PLUS, "let go of me biatch. I'm going down the stairs on my own. Seriously, lady. I mean it." I mean, . I know that's what he's trying to say when he's pushing me away on the staircase and screaming "No! I do it!" at the top of his lungs. Typically, I might actually indulge his hysteria and (while hovering) let him hold on to the railing and go down step by step, sloooowly. But on a day like today, when Mommy's got to get to work, and the walk from the staircase to the car in and of itself could take twelve days if I let him walk on his own, I had no choice but to pick him up and take matters in to my own hands.

Yeaaah. He didn't like that so much.  

"WAAAAALK!!! ME WALLLLK!! DOWWWWN!!!" He screamed.

"I'm sorry, Baby-Ko. We have to go. I have to go to work."

"NO WORK!!!! NOOOOOO!!!!" He wailed as I opened the car door and the WWE Smackdown began. 

For the next ten minutes, I begged, pleaded, laughed, (and oh, did I sigh), trying to get a child with a gift for Kung Fu in to his car seat without breaking his limbs and my earrings.

"Do you want a Paci?"

"NO!!!"

"Do you want a snack?"

"NO!!!"

"Do you want to listen to the Santa Song" (Please don't ask. He loves Raffi's Santa Song.)

"NO, Santa. I want drive!"

"What?"

"Me. Drive. I drive! Mommy Car!" 

"You... Want to drive?"

"Yeaaah, " he finally says calmly.

I take a deep breath and try not to laugh.  "My car? You... You want to drive MY car?"

"Yeahh," he says like 'what's the big deal. hand the fucking keys over and let's do it.'

"Sorry, baby. No. Mommy's driving. You need to sit in your seat and we need to leave."

"NO!!!!" He flails and wails again. 

I take another deep breath and hold up his lunch box, "Want pasta?"

I was desperate (and he didn't want pasta).

Ten minutes (and a major need for a redo of my makeup, which was now on my palms) later, we were on the road.  

It absolutely killed me to hear him sniffling and whimpering the entire way to day care, and certainly didn't make matters any better that he lost his shit again when I handed him over to the day care workers... But what am I to do? I cannot NOT go to work and I most certainly cannot let him drive my car. So what's the solution and when does it end? Is there a magical age that they just stop protesting for the sake of protesting or should I get used to it now because it only gets worse blah blah blah....?

Mommies with older kids, please advise...  Or send me a check for a lot of money so I never have to leave the house again.  That would work too.