Conversations with a 3-year-old

My 3 1/2-year-old likes to talk.  

Oh, did you not come to my blog today for the understatement of the century?  Oops.

Anyway, my poor introverted husband has been blessed with an outgoing, people-happy, sanguine, chatty-cathy wife AND a preschooler who can’t stop making noises, even while she sleeps.  We’re all praying Miss Bennett turns out to be a little less vocal, but…she recently hit the 12-month milestone and is showing no signs of the quiet contemplation we’d all hoped for.  Sometimes when I come home from work and Little Miss immediately starts jabbering at me, I give Husband “the look.”  The one that says, “Oh boy…” before I’ve even gotten my shoes off or put my purse on the hook by the door.  His response to me often is his “the look” which says, “you have no idea” and then he mutters underneath her monologue, “All…day…long.”  It’s his way of telling me he feels no pity for me and is happy to pass the responsibility of at least appearing to listen to her off to someone else.  (It’s also kind of his super-obvious-to-me passive aggressive way of saying, “She’s your daughter.”)

Yes, I like to talk.  I’m the parent that says, “Okay, kids, let’s go!” and then ten minutes later they’re back in the play room at our friend’s house with their shoes off because I’m still chatting with the other adults in the house.  Five minutes later I’ve called them again and this time I’ve actually got my hand on the doorknob so it looks like I mean business…

Yeah…

So my point is that Little Miss comes by it honestly.  And although I expect everyone to listen to me when I’m talking to them, I sometimes struggle with listening whole-heartedly to my daughter.  (Yes, I do recognize the double standard there.)  The reason for this is because she repeats herself often, makes predictable arguments, and often starts talking before she even knows what she wants to say.  For example:

LM: Mama, I want…
Me: Yes?
LM: I want…
Me: *waiting*
LM: I…want…
Me: You want…to…???
LM: I…want…to…I want…
Me: You want to WHAT?!
LM: I want…I…want…to…tell you something!

And because I’m a talker, it’s likely that during this whole excruciating process I’m waiting to start a conversation with Husband about something important.  Or I was just on my way out the door, leaving ten minutes late for work…again.  Or I need to turn on the blender.

In addition, her bargaining style, though amusing when observed in other people’s children, is beyond frustrating.  For example:

LM: Mommy, I want a cookie.
Me: Supper is in ten minutes.  If you eat a good supper we can talk about dessert then.
LM: But I don’t want a cookie after supper!
Me: Okay, you don’t have to have one. I won’t force you to eat a cookie.
LM: I want a cookie!
Me: Little Miss, did you ask me already if you could have a cookie?
LM: …Yes…
Me: Did I give you an answer?
LM: …Yes…
Me: Then we’re done talking about it.
LM: Mommy, I have an idea!
Me: What’s your idea?
LM: How about I eat a good supper and THEN I can have a cookie!
Me: *eyes toward the ceiling, mentally mockingly crossing myself *

And now I need a cookie.

Gifts

Love Notes

When I was a kid, I attended a small private elementary school that provided lunch for students only two days a week.  Every night I would pack my lunch in my pink and turquoise lunchbox, beg my parents for some quarters so I could get a Snapple from the vending machine, and place my lunch in the fridge. 

The next day I would carry my lunch to school, stash my lunchbox in my cubby, and wait excitedly for lunchtime. 

It wasn’t the peanut butter and honey sandwich I looked forward to so much (though those were awfully delicious, if I do say so myself), or the Snapple, or even whatever dessert I’d grabbed (homemade chocolate chip cookies, brownies…).  What made my anticipation of the lunch hour so high was the hope that something extra would be in the box when I opened it.

My dad left for work before I made it upstairs in the morning.  At the time he worked for an insurance company and had to commute into downtown, so he left early in order to avoid the big morning rush.  But just because I rarely got to say goodbye to him before he left in the morning didn’t mean my dad wasn’t thinking of me.

I don’t remember how often it happened, but I seem to recall it was nearly every day.  When I opened my lunchbox I’d find a note scrawled in blue pen on a white paper napkin, signed with my dad’s nonsensical “Z”-looking initial signature.  The notes weren’t long; they were usually just one sentence: “Have a good day!” or “Love ya lots!” or “See you at dinner!”  But as simple as they were, those notes made my day. 

Someday when my kids are in school, I have every intention of resuming the tradition my dad started with me.  To this day I still wish I could open my lunchbox and find a napkin note from my dad.  And maybe a peanut butter and honey sandwich, too.

Bring Your Pony to Work Day

My 3 1/2-year-old loves My Little Pony.  No, not the 1980s version (can you even find that anymore?) but the new “Friendship is Magic” series that actually has an entire (large!) fanbase that’s over the age of 20.  In a moment of weakness while enjoying a relaxed Girls’ Afternoon Out with Little Miss and Miss Bennett…I caved at Build-A-Bear and she stuffed a new best friend: Pinkie Pie, the Plush Version.  Pinkie Pie does everything now – eats with us, sits on the floor next to the tub during bath time, rides in the car with us, goes to the grocery store with us, sleeps in bed with Little Miss, and even carries on conversations with family members, friends, and other toys.

Nearly every day Little Miss asks to come to work with me.  She loves the novelty of not staying home with Daddy and Miss Bennett all day (though they do lots of fun things, too), and she is spoiled nearly rotten by my coworkers.  Since I work in a small, private office, occasionally on short days I’ll let her come with me.  She has a cupboard in my office containing crayons, paper, misc. toys and games, and yes, some ponies that keep her occupied while I work.  (Well, until she ends up at our office manager’s desk playing “school,” playing with the stamps and stickers and markers, and helping sort the mail.)

Most days I tell her she can’t come with me.  Though my workplace is very kid-friendly, flexible, understanding, and accommodating, I don’t want to overuse any of that privilege.  From time to time, on some of those days when I say no, Little Miss runs to her room to find a replacement for herself.  Once she sent a tiny toy cat with magnetic feet to work with me.  Another time it was her current favourite stuffed animal.

Today…I went to work with Pinkie Pie.  She kept herself quite busy, too, so throughout the day I sent pictures to Husband to share with Little Miss.  Here’s how my first Bring Your Pony to Work Day went:

The Jars

My 3 1/2-year-old was having trouble.  We’d ask her to put something away and she’d tell us no.  We’d request her assistance with a simple task and she’d claim she was “too tired” or “too busy.”  We’d tell her it was time to stop what she was doing and she’d blatantly ignore us.  Her whining was out of control.  She intentionally bopped her sister on the head when she did something the preschooler didn’t like.  Once she even attempted to hit Daddy when he did something she didn’t like.  And the tantrums.  Oh good gracious.  Meltdowns over silly, ridiculous things that even other 3-year-olds didn’t care about.

At this point, let me just say that Little Miss is a really really good kid.  I know that last paragraph makes her sound like a contestant for the next big family reality show on MTV, but truly, she is a good kid.  But her age, developmental stage, and surrounding environment had all combined to create a temporary mini-monster and we were much less than pleased.

So…I tried something new.

I’ve learned that parenting is really one big giant lifelong experiment.  You posit theories daily (perhaps hourly in some cases) and put your idea to the test, trying to find something that will generate the desired outcome.  This science laboratory doesn’t come with goggles, a lab coat, and protective rubber gloves, either.

Anyway, this time my theory was that a visual goal would help Little Miss willingly act like she should, make better choices, and be, in general, a more pleasant person to be around.

I used some recycled baby food jars and dug out my old glass fishbowl stones.  I found basic happy face and frownie face images on Google and then printed and taped the images onto two of the jars.  The third jar I left blank and filled with all the stones.  To be generous, I put a few starter stones in the jar with the happy face on it, to give her a head start.

Here’s how the jars work:

• For every positive thing she does – responding “okay!” to requests, voluntarily doing something helpful or kind, remembering her manners, taking responsibility, etc. – she gets a stone taken FROM the Frownie Face Jar and placed in her Happy Face Jar.  (If there are no stones in her Frownie Face Jar they’re taken from the stockpile jar.)
• For every negative thing she does – arguing, whining, acting rude, misbehaving, disobeying, ignoring Mommy and Daddy, breaking the rules, etc. – she gets a stone taken FROM her Happy Face Jar and placed in her Frownie Face Jar.
• Once the Happy Face Jar is full, she gets to choose a special fun activity for us to do as a family, such as going to the zoo or the children’s museum.

At first it didn’t work.  She didn’t care enough about the stones to act the way she should, so she began filling her Frownie Face Jar much more quickly than the Happy Face Jar.  After a day or so, however, she finally started to catch on.  We were able to say, “Well, that looks like a stone in your Frownie Face Jar…” and she’d suddenly remember how she should be behaving.  I quickly became excited every time I got to tell her I was going to put a stone in her Happy Face Jar, and the smile on her face from the verbal affirmation we gave her each time a stone was placed in the Happy Face Jar was great.

Eventually we got to the point where we would just go move stones into her Frownie Face Jar if she made a poor decision, and the sound of it dropping into the jar would remind her that she should change her behaviour.

After 2 1/2 weeks of hard work, Little Miss finally put the last stone in her Happy Face Jar.  And the good choices have (so far) stuck around.  No, she’s not perfect.  This is (sadly) not a magical method that will turn any preschooler into an angel.  But she has been doing much, much better.  She offers to help set the table, rather than waiting to be asked.  She takes things to her room instead of dumping them on the floor when she’s done with them.  She cheers her sister on when Miss Bennett is trying something new, like walking independently.

She may change her mind before we find time to go, but her current choice for a fun family activity is going to the zoo to see the baby elephant, the baby river otter, and the new flamingo exhibit that just opened  a couple of weeks ago.

I may be more excited (and proud) than she is.

Children and Their Most Prized Possessions

Children and Their Most Prized Possessions

This photo essay (click the title above to view it) is fascinating to me.  Not only does it speak to the differences in wealth between countries, but it also says something about each place where these kids reside.  A few observations from my relatively brief study of this collection of photos:

• The text accompanying this photo essay is interesting and jives well with my experience in the Philippines back in 1999: Those who have nothing want to give or share what they have; those who have much want it all for themselves.  This is not just true of children.
• The only smiling boy is the one from Morocco.  All the other boys are serious, straight-faced, or downright sullen.
• All but the Thai child identify their prized possessions as things to play make-believe with.  Nothing in the pictures (aside from the Thai child’s portrait) is electronic.
• The Ukrainian child’s choice of items says a lot about his environment and his portrait struck me more than any of the others.
• I adore what the Haitian girl chose – it really speaks to her personality.
• The Thai child’s portrait actually looks a lot closer to what I expected for the American child’s portrait.  The modesty of the American child’s picture was, to be honest, a pleasant surprise.
• I could stare at the view out the Moroccan child’s window all day!
• Girls everywhere love dolls, stuffed animals, and dresses.
• Justin Bieber is not just invading homes in America.

And last, but most importantly: I know SO little about the world.

No Regrets

(EDIT: Thank you to commenter Dayle for the original source of the text below.  Author credit goes to Dale Hanson Bourke.)

* * * *

We are sitting at lunch one day when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of “starting a family.”

EDIT: Time is running out for my friend.

We are sitting at lunch when she casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of “starting a family.”  What she means is that her
biological clock has begun its countdown and she is considering the prospect of motherhood.

“We’re taking a survey,” she says half-joking. “Do you think I should have a baby?”

“It will change your life,” I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.

“I know,” she says, “no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations.”

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes.

I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking, “What if that had been MY child?” That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her.

That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of “Mom!” will cause her to drop a soufflé or her best crystal without a moments hesitation.

I feel that I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting and she will think of her
baby’s sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

I want my daughter to know that every day decisions will no longer be routine. That a five year old boy’s desire to go to the men’s room rather than the women’s at McDonald’s will become a major dilemma. That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming
children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.

However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself.

That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor.

My daughter’s relationship with her husband will change, but not in the way she thinks.

I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his child.

I think she should know that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving.

I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike.

I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time.

I want her to taste the joy that is so real it actually hurts.

My daughter’s quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. “You’ll never regret it,” I finally say. Then I reached across the table, squeezed my daughter’s hand and offered a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.

To all the moms out there: May you always have in your arms the one who is in your heart.