Angel/Hellraiser

It has occurred to me that I might have given people an incomplete picture of my daughter.

Yes, she is a happy baby. Yes, she is good-natured and a lot of fun and fairly easy temperament-wise.

But please believe me when I tell you this girl has crazy spunk!! She is no shrinking violet.

In fact, she is a bit of a hellraiser!

Check out this video of her -- and her attitude -- when I tell her we are not allowed to eat packing peanuts. Even if they are, in fact, called "peanuts."

What was that little push-up thing she was doing at the end??

Hahahaaa! She cracks me up!!

And I love it that she finally decides if she can't eat packing peanuts, she'll just eat stray plastic. LOL!

The good thing is, even when she's mad, she's still hilarious.

My daughter = so much personality! And I love it -- every last bit.

How Legos Saved My Life

Before our boys were even born, we dreaded the “Terrible Twos.”

How could we not? It seems that’s all we ever heard about, once people found out we were having twins. “Oh, you’re going to have two of ‘em going through the terrible twos!” “Look out! Two times the terrible twos!!” And so on and so on.

So we were more-than-prepared, so we thought, for tantrums, defiance and boundary-pushing. We were prepared for crying and screaming and meltdowns galore.

But we were not prepared for Dean.

Don't let the cute face fool ya: This handsomest child ever gives us a run for our money.

 Dean’s tantrums were epic, long and drawn out, high-pitched and woeful. His screams were ear-piercing; his tears were real. He was never violent or scary. It was just you could tell that once he got going, he had a really, really hard time soothing himself. The meltdown was cannibalistic: The more he cried, the more he felt like crying, and so the more he cried. Does that make sense?

We tried everything recommended: Ignoring it. Talking him through it. Distracting him. Giving him extra love and hugs. Getting down on his level and acknowledging his feelings. Time-outs for over-the-top screaming. More love, more hugs, more ignoring. Sometimes, I’ll admit, we were at our wits’ end, and we yelled. Sometimes I’d put him in his crib until he could calm down. And then I’d fume, or cry, thinking about him all alone in his room unable to sort through whatever it was he was feeling.

I was losing sleep at night about this, wanting so much to meet his needs, and second-guessing everything I did or didn’t do throughout the day. And it was also, quite frankly, making things tough around the house. The screaming and crying would start from the time we got home and go on sometimes until after bedtime. He’d freak out about everything: He wanted something he couldn’t have. He wanted to walk and not be carried. He wanted to be carried and not made to walk. We didn’t get his spoon fast enough. Cary had his toy. Clair was in my lap. It got to be we hardly knew what was going to set him off. And so the days were nerve-wracking and unpleasant for everyone. Even Cary and Clair seemed to be bothered by all the melodrama.

I talked to my doctor about it, who, after asking a zillion questions about intensity, frequency and duration, declared Dean well within the realm of normal. In fact he said Cary was the one who was more abnormal, if you will, for sorta be-bopping through the day, and quickly rebounding from meltdowns with the simple promise of being rewarded by reading. (Not that Cary doesn’t melt down. He does. Believe me. It's just whinier and poutier, not as furious and deep-seeded.)

I also talked to a psychiatrist friend who works with children. Not because I thought Dean was that far-gone. I certainly did not. But for strategies, mostly, and to assure myself that the things we were doing – though not seemingly very helpful – were not at all harmful to my baby boy, who so obviously needed something that we weren’t giving.

(She too assured me, after asking a zillion questions, that he was well within the range of normal.)

Long story short, Dean is doing SO much better these days. Much fewer tantrums, and much shorter times between freaking out and getting over it.

So what did it?

Legos.

Yes, Legos.

I took all the things the pediatrician and my friend said and considered them all. And some of their advice was quite helpful. But I could not shake the feeling that Dean was acting out because of something I was or wasn’t doing. This was more than mere Mommy-guilt. I just knew it.

So I started to think about how our days were spent being dominated by Cary and his desire to “READ!!” All day long. Dean enjoys reading too, but after awhile, I’d notice that he had wandered off somewhere and was, generally, doing something he shouldn’t do. Pulling outlet covers out, or tearing a book, throwing small toys, or pushing Clair’s swing really hard. I’d scold him or put him in time-out, and this would go on several times a day. By the end of the day, I think Dean was tired of being scolded, chastised and sent to time-out. By the end of the day, we’d get the full force of his unhappiness.

So I thought, “We need to find things that Dean likes to do, and do those more often throughout the day.” Immediately, I thought of trying Legos. And I found Starbuilders at a client’s office and thought he’d like those too.  One recent weekend, I went out and bought them both, big tubs of them, and I cleared out the toy box in our living room of miscellaneous junk and baby toys, and left only books, dolls, cars/vehicles, puppets, puzzles, balls and the Legos and Starbuilders. (Their kitchen, instruments, easel and other big toys are in the playroom in the basement.)

The Legos, as I’ve mentioned, were a big hit right away. He loved them. And I swear, now that he has something that he enjoys doing for a big chunk of the day, he gets into far less trouble. He sits and builds long strands of Legos and then takes them apart and does it again. He is so occupied by this activity, he isn’t looking around for naughty things to do. The end result is less scolding, and fewer time-outs. So that when he does have to be disciplined for something, he takes it so much better! Oh, he’ll still scream and cry, but for two minutes not 20.

And I’ve finally found something I can distract him with (besides snacks). Before Legos, I had nothing that he really wanted to do to bribe him with (besides snacks). Now the same way I can say to a melting down Cary, “Hey, can you find Mommy a book to read?!” and he calms down to go get a book, I can say to a melting down Dean, “Can you go get me the box of Legos? I’m going to make a TALL building!” And he bites!

It is awesome!

The net result of the fewer timeouts and diminished discipline is a happier, calmer Dean. And a happier, calmer house.

And that is why I say that Legos saved my life! :-) 

2-year check-up!

Today the boys had their 2-year check-up. Here are the stats:

Cary

• Weight: 24 lbs., 8 oz.
• Height: 35 in.

That's 10th percentile for weight; 60th-65th for height.

Dean

• Weight: 28 lbs. 10 oz.
• Height: 36 in.

That's 50th percentile for weight; 75th for height.

Both boys are doing excellently in every area of their lives. Praise God!

They're good eaters, good sleepers, developmentally-appropriate physically and behaviorally and "well ahead of themselves," according to the pediatrician, in language development. They're off all bottles and ready for toilet-training. They're good big brothers to Clair and curious, verbal, hilarious, normal boys.

The doctor also praised us for being collected, patient and cooperative when it came to handling all three children during the visit, especially in a small exam room, with one child (Dean) not very happy about having to be there; another child (Cary) getting into everything, including fingering the doctor's scraggly, white beard, and one baby (Clair) crying for more milk and a paci.

It's wonderful when your pediatrician tells you how awesome your kids are. It takes it to a whole 'nother level when he tells you how awesome you are! SCORE!

We felt so good about ourselves, we decided to take the whole family out to a late breakfast/early lunch. So off to Bob Evans we went. I haven't been to Bob Evans in years, but we'll likely go back, as they were very kid-friendly, both in terms of price and accommodations.  We sat in a back area, near a pair of friendly older ladies who were chatting and eating. Just before we left, they stopped us to tell us how well-behaved Cary and Dean were, and how impressed they were by their manners and ability to sit and feed themselves quietly, and not behave like terrorists. (I'm paraphrasing.)
 "That speaks directly to your parenting," one said.

SCORE! SCORE!

Feeling really good about ourselves now, we headed on home to get them down for naps. Once in the door, we paid for all that complimenting. :-)
First Dean, then Cary started in with the serious, out-of-the-blue, no-good-reason-for-it melting down. Then Clair started wailing for her lunchtime bottle. Lester drew the long straw and got to feed Clair, while I dealt with the "well-behaved, well-parented" Cary and Dean. Tears were streaming down Dean's face for I'm not sure what. Cary didn't want his shoes off, then bawled because his shoes weren't off. Neither boy would climb the stairs to get to their bedroom, so I ended up having to hoist them both on either hip and carry them, hollering, up the stairs. (Please note the stats above to see that I was carrying more than 50 lbs. of tear-stained babies!) One wanted me to read a book; the other didn't. One wanted his blanket; the other didn't. By the time I got them both moderately calm enough to turn the lights out and leave, I was ready for a drink (and a nap)! (I got neither, btw.)

I write this down here not to complain about toddler tantrums, but to note that with children, it is rarely (if ever) all one thing or the other. They are marvelous and maddening, hilarious and hell-raisers. Just when you think, "Hey, I'm pretty good at this parenting thing!" they'll do something to make you think,"What am I doing wrong?" And vice-versa. If there's one more thing we've learned in the last two years, it's that it's helpful to keep this dichotomy in mind, particularly when they're being less-than-lovely.

Like rainstorms, the worst will be over eventually, and the sun will shine again.:-)

P.S. Clair is 3 months old today! She laughed out loud for the first time yesterday, and we're doing pretty well getting her to bed at 9 or 9:30 every night. So, just before I have to go back to work (Friday is my last day of maternity leave, waaaaaah!) things are inching, slowly, toward a sense of order. I'm not thrilled about having to leave my babies, but at the very least, there's that.

Bonus pic of Clair and her BFF Matthew, from my sister's visit to Baltimore yesterday:

Matthew is catching up!

Worst night with the babies ever!

I used this blog title once before and predicted I would use it again many times throughout my children's babyhood. So far, although I have had many, many "worst nights ever" I have resisted titling a blog post as such, because I always felt slightly better about the night by the time I got around to sitting in front of a computer to complain about it.

Not so when it comes to last night.

I will not go into all the details, as I would be here all day repeating these key words and phrases:

Screaming, whining, defiance, temper tantrums, resisting, meltdowns, brother-swatting, dinnertime indecisiveness, irrationality, uncontrollable crying, food on the floor, banging sippy cups, confiscated sippy cups, more screaming, whining, bucking, flailing, unhappy bathtime, complete and total craziness, demands to be rocked in the rocking chair before bed, waking at night for missing Lovey, then 2 hours later, waking at night for NO REASON WHATSOEVER, screaming, crying, refusing to go back to sleep, melodramatic moaning for "Ma-Ma!!!!", "Da-Da!!!", throwing Lovey out of the bed and saying "Uh-oh! Uh-oh! UH-OH!" until someone comes in to retrieve Lovey, more screaming (at higher decibels), wife snapping at husband, husband snapping at wife, retreat to basement to get away from screaming toddler(s), eating waffles AND a bowl of cereal (I know. I know!), mindless television, finally, finally hearing the sweet sounds of silence at 4 a.m. Delirious at 6:45 a.m. What am I doing wrong??

Seriously, people. I feel like I am about to lose my mind. If it's just craziness in the evenings, but then we get to rest peacefully at night, I could probably deal. Or if the boys were pleasant and enjoyable in the evenings but were having toddler-troubles with sleeping, I could probably deal. But this all-you-can-eat smorgasbord of craziness they've started lately? I can. not. deal.

"There is nobody in the world more lovable, more unmovable, more implacable, more challenging, more difficult to live with than your 'typical' 15- to 21-month-old child," so says Louise Bates Ames, in "Your One-Year-Old: Fun-Loving and Fussy."

Truer words have never been written.

I just wish I knew what to do to help them through this "phase" (at least I hope it's a phase).

But since I have no clue (really, I have been using ALL of my tricks and none of them are working) I suppose I will just become more and more familiar with the basement -- and maybe not just in the middle of the night. Maybe I'll start taking my meals down there! Maybe I'll start coming in the basement door after work, so they don't even know I'm there!!!

Sigh.

Maybe this will just get better??

A thin line between lovey and hate

Cary and Dean both have the most adorable loveys.

My friend Sumathi sent them these comfort-toys when they were born and I melted when I saw them. They were soooo cute. A puppy for Dean; a monkey for Cary. I imagined my boys snuggling with their loveys at night, loving them sweetly, and learning about affection all the while.

For a long time, they both ignored their loveys, or found them tolerable but not necessary.
And then, they grew to enjoy their loveys very much.

Lester and I found that it is a wonderful thing to have something soft and cute and harmless to give them when an irrational meltdown has ensued after bathtime.

But lately -- I'd say in the past month or so -- Dean has really become attached to Lovey the Puppy. It has become like a street drug to him. He needs it! He must have it!! GIVE PUPPY TO ME!!! OR ELSE!!

It wasn't always this way. Puppy used to live in his crib, where Dean would happily snuggle him at night. In the mornings, when lifting him out of the crib, we'd tell him "Put Puppy on the pillow. Puppy has to stay in the bed. Night-night, Puppy." And he'd comply, no problemo.

Then, it got to the point where both boys insisted on carrying their loveys around in the morning, while Lester and I got ready for work, or piddled around upstairs on the weekends, before heading down to the kitchen for the boys' morning oatmeal. But even then, when it was time to go downstairs, we would tell both boys, "OK, put Puppy and Monkey back in the bed. It's time for them to go night-night." And they'd comply, no problemo.

Sometime in the last month or so, Dean started resisting putting Puppy back in the bed before heading downstairs in the mornings. He'd cry and protest and throw tantrums. Oh, just give it to him, one of us would say to the other. Who cares? What's the harm?

So Puppy would find his way downstairs, and Dean would carry him off and on, sometimes tossing him aside for something more interesting, but usually finding him again throughout the day.

We managed to get Puppy back in the crib for naps -- where he'd stay until bedtime. That lasted a week or so.

But then, more meltdowns. Bigger, longer-lasting tantrums. Puppy needed to be with him at all times, in the mornings, after naps, while having a diaper change. Dean must. have. Puppy.

Before we knew it, prying Puppy from him at mealtimes became a major fight. Eventually, it became a fight we lost. Puppy stayed in the highchair, and got smeared with spaghetti sauce and cracker crumbs and sticky, fruit-covered handprints.

No amount of distraction or even SNACKS (his favorite thing) worked to keep his mind off his need for Puppy. His eyes darted around, wild and wide. I swear one night the boy got the must-have-Puppy-shakes!

Dean, my abusive-boyfriend-crackhead son. Sigh. Where have we gone wrong?

This weekend, Lester and I hit the Puppy wall.

After dinner, Lester takes the boys for their baths, while I clean up the wreckage in the kitchen and dining room and pick up the toys.

Usually, the soundtrack from upstairs is of laughing, splashing babies. On this night, the house was filled with Dean's piercing, desperate, gut-wrenching wailing.

He wanted Puppy in the tub with him, and no amount of explaining could deter him.
(Yes, we tried to explain to the 17-month-old that Puppy can't get wet. Yes, we know this is ridiculous. But my child is an addict!! I was out of ideas!!)

Lester steeled himself and went on with the washing, trying to sing, play and cajole Dean out of screaming with silly faces and requests (Hey, Dean! Wash Daddy's face!) Still, he cried. He cried continuously throughout the entire bathtime. He cried when Lester took him out of the bath. He cried all the way until Lester put him in his crib, where he found his fix, lying innocently on the pillow. Then, he sniffled and snuggled until lights out.

This, my friends, was the Puppy wall.

We don't know how Dean's Puppy love turned so wrong. But we have decided on an intervention.

No matter how much our little addict cries, Puppy must live in the crib. He can come out in the mornings, for as long as it takes for us to move the party to the first floor. But Puppy is not allowed downstairs, no matter what.

No more highchairs. No more bathtimes-turned-screamfests. Puppy, for the most part, is confined to the crib.



So far, there have been tears-o-plenty. And wailing. My Dean is a VERY determined baby. And when that jones comes down, it is not pretty. But we have stood firm.

And I hope and pray this will get easier.

Night-night, Puppy. Night-night.