Oh, you. Most days I say that with a smile. You of the humidity ringlets and obsession with toenail clippers, colanders, and bibs. Where did you come from? Wait a minute, I think I remember now.
I’m trying to watch you more now. Trying to observe and imagine what you might be teaching yourself at any given moment. Like when you spend 20 minutes dropping rocks down into a drainpipe or driving your dump truck up the legs of the kitchen chairs and onto the table, watching the wheels turn so intently, I imagine your brain turning its own wheels, causing you to stick your tongue out to the side as if searching for a crumb. I learn a lot from watching you.
And you learn from watching me too (unfortunately). In fact, I really do try to keep this in my mind when I’m contemplating (1.6 million times per minute) whether and/or how to discipline you. I’m trying to remember that “discipline” is really about teaching or modeling a better way to do something, but oh is that ever so hard to remember at times. Especially when you are prostrate on the blacktop in front of a line of cars at a stoplight in downtown Seattle, desperately clinging to my and your dad’s fingers in an attempt to swing between the two of us while we plead with you desperately to stand up in the very moment that the blinking “walk” sign is changing to a blinking “don’t walk.”
You watch me way more closely than I know, and the other day you taught me a huge parental lesson: You will copy whatever I do and whatever I say.
It was just so early on this particular day when you shouted, “Dah-Dah” from your crib and jolted me from a dream. I usually try to get up at least a few minutes before you to stretch my back, make some coffee, and, sometimes, shower. I need that time, but it’s not always possible since you have your own version of what I like to call an anti-schedule. So we got dressed together amidst some whining, went downstairs to get some juice and coffee, and were in the midst of eating breakfast when it happened. We were having blueberry oatmeal. There was only one blanket clean at the time (note to self: ALWAYS have more than one blanket clean at a time), and you wanted to hold it while you slurped up half-frozen blueberries mixed with oatmeal, honey, and soymilk. And of course that spells disaster. So I tried to calmly explain that you could only have the blanket after your meal.
Now I know what you’re thinking: Mom, I’m only 20 months old; I’m not fully rational yet. But I’d like to point out that when you want to be, you are quite rational. In fact, the other night when you attempted to put both of your Goose-approved blankies in the tub, I simply said, “No, you may only put one blanky into the tub at a time. The other one must go into your crib.” So you simply walked back into your room, deposited a blanket, came back with the dunker, and that was that.
But my a.m. blanky logic wasn’t flying. So I decided to let you throw your fit in earnest while I stood back and waited for the screaming and arm flailing to subside. It wasn’t quite what one could call a concise display, and my patience and nerves were fraying. I told you that I’d had enough. You didn’t stop. Then I said it louder. You didn’t stop. Finally I screamed, “STOP!” and clapped my hands together to get your attention. You just looked at me like, “Wow, good idea.”
Fast forward half an hour. I’m in the tub. You’re trying to occupy yourself with your dump trucks, but it looks so fun in the bathtub that you decide to start attempting to throw a leg over the side of the tub. I explain to you that I’m just taking a short bath and that I’ll be out in a jiffy and we’ll play again. But you REALLY want to take a bath now and another fit ensues. But this time is different because you have a new tool under your belt. It’s called screaming and hand clapping a la Mama. And so you, eager to practice anything new, screamed at me and clapped your hands. I wanted to submerge myself under that water in shame.
So mostly in this letter I want to say THANK YOU for helping me to see the error of my ways. I can’t always promise to be a good model, but I think I can try a little harder and use a few more sophisticated tactics. I hope for that … almost more than anything.
Love,
Mama
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