Baby Squared : discipline

Positive Reinforcement

Roper — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 22:48:00 GMT

We're trying to do more of this around the Baby Squared household, as a means of fending off the whacking, kicking, hair pulling, whining, shouting, pants-pooping and other nastiness that seems to have proliferated 'round these parts over the past month or so.

Partially as a result of the suggestion made by several fabulous readers/commenters on this very blog, we got ourselves a couple of "Responsibility Charts" by Melissa & Doug. (This is not a paid endorsement, however if Melissa & Doug, Inc. would like to send me some free stuff, I'd be more than happy to be a total blog whore and write about it here.) There are a bunch of "responsibility" magnets to choose from, ranging from very preschool-appropriate stuff like "keep your hands to yourself" to stuff I hope we won't have to use for awhile, like "Don't use bad language." Next to each one, there are spaces to put happy face magnets.

There are also a couple of blank responsibility magnets you can write stuff one (dry erase!) so on each girl's chart there's currently one magnet that says "Poop in potty." (This is still a bit of an issue for Elsa.) Alastair pointed out that "potty," probably would have been sufficient. But I say, anyone who comes into our home had better be prepared for the fact that poop is a frequent point of discussion.

When we first put the charts up, we made the obvious, idiotic mistake of putting them low enough on the wall that the girls could reach them. Naturally, they thought they were toys and started moving all the magnets around. (Duh.) Now, they're high enough up that only Mommy and Daddy can reach. So, we now administer magnets for good behavior and aborted bad behavior, and shamelessly dangle the promise of magnets in front of the girls as an enticement to -- to choose a random example -- poop in the potty. Or say please and thank you, or pick up their toys when we ask them to.

We'd been a beet stymied by how to deal with the "things not to do" categories, as in "no whining," and "keep your hands to yourself." We were sort of working on the idea that we'd award a magnet if, for example, the girls managed to work out a hair-pulling / pushing / hitting bout on their own, without parental intervention, or if they nipped a whine in the bud when it was pointed out to them. But that didn't seem quite right, so now we're trying to focus on "catching them being good." (Thank you, to the potential babysitter we recently interviewed, who gave us the term!)

This morning, for example, I saw what could have been a potentially violent situation resolve itself quite beautifully. Elsa was sort of bopping a toy on Clio's head -- lightly, and Clio was laughing -- but it was the sort of thing that I could tell was about to turn ugly. Then, Clio said, as reasonable as can be, "I don't want you to do that, Elsa," and Elsa, by God, stopped doing it! It was miraculous. And I told them so (in slightly different words) and gave them each a magnet for keeping their hands to themselves.

We haven't quite figured out the best way to tie the number of magnets to an actual reward (beyond the magnets themselves) but Alastair tried telling them they needed to get up to ten, and they'd get a treat (i.e. a piece of Halloween candy), and that seemed to work well. It's also an excellent excuse to hang onto all the Halloween candy just a leetle bit longer. For them, of course.

It is kind of funny, though, to look at their charts, and see all the magnets lined up for the "easy" stuff like brushing teeth and picking up toys. (And, in Clio's case, pooping on the potty. (Can I manage to say "poop" ten times in this post? If I can, I'm going to give myself a Reeses!) I kind of feel like we should tie the rewards to a distribution of magnets across the more challenging categories as well. It's quite the science.

But we're not only relying on the chart for positive reinforcement. We're trying hard to vocally recognize good behavior in general. Not that we haven't always, to some degree, but it seems more important than these days. We're pretty pooped out from having to be constantly reprimanding and warning. It makes us feel like jumping off the poop deck of very large ship. (One big enough to have a poop deck.)

Shoot. That's only eight.

Poop. poop.

Mmm....candy.

A Not So Happy Halloween

Roper — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 03:20:00 GMT

I don't know if it's the full moon, daylight savings, Halloween, or perhaps all three -- and maybe a molar coming in? -- but Clio has been having a rough time of things lately.

At the girls' preschool Halloween parade / show / party whatever thing last Thursday, she wouldn't wear her costume, started crying when her class went up on stage to sing "I'm a Little Pumpkin," and spent the rest of the event being held by her teacher. It was a little bit heartbreaking to see the pictures (Alastair was there; I wasn't) but I really did sympathize with the poor girl. It's no fun being forced to wear a costume if you don't feel like it. And getting up on stage in a big room in front of dozens of parents and kids is absolutely scary. (To sing a stupid song about gourds, no less.) In fact, I'm sort of surprised more kids didn't melt down.

Her freak-out on Halloween day, when we went to the U.S.S. Constitution museum in Boston for some old-timey nautical Halloween fun, was a little harder to comprehend. We were decorating goodie bags (ahem, "sailor's bags") with stickers and stamps and markers (you know, just like 19th century sailors decorated their bags) and Clio was happy enough, though she wanted me to hold her most of the time. Then, when we started to go upstairs to do some sort of activity about the seafaring life, she freaked out. Screamed. Wailed. Writhed. You'd think someone was doing voodoo on the poor girl. I had to take her outside, she was screaming so loudly and intensely, but this only made matters worse. She ran back to the door of the museum and started trying to pull it open, screaming that she wanted to go back in.

I still don't know what flipped her switch (she thought she was about to be conscripted into the Navy?) or what she wanted, but even once she'd calmed down, she was still clearly unnerved, and fragile. There was another mini-meltdown on the way home, when Alastair picked her up a few yards before we got to the car, when, in fact, she really really wanted to walk those last few yards to the car. (BIG mistake, Alastair. Huge!)

Surprisingly, she seemed to rally in the afternoon when it was time to actually put on costumes and get ready for trick-or-treating. We'd been given a pair of ladybug costumes as hand-me-downs from a neighbor with twins, and while Elsa was perfectly content to be a ladybug, Clio had informed me that she would like to be a bird, please. So being the anti-Martha-Stewart that I am, with very limited time for purveying let along assembling the materials for a proper bird costume, I took a feather boa that we had, cut it into a few pieces, and sewed it to the leotard part of one of the ladybug costumes, for a sad but passable bird effect. (I sewed feathers onto the hat, too, but of course Clio didn't want to wear it.)

This costumed contentment lasted for all of fifteen minutes. When we were in the car, on the way to our friends' neighborhood to go trick-or-treating, Clio suddenly decided that the sleeves of the leotard were too tight, started screaming, and by the time we'd arrived at our destination, had 1.) Completely torn off the feathers on one sleeve and 2.) Fallen asleep.

We let her snooze for a little while. And when it was time for the actual trick-or-treating part of the evening, she rallied and enjoyed herself quite thoroughly. And would announce with great enthusiasm to anyone who asked her what she was, "I'm a Bahd!!" (As opposed to Freddie Mercury, a figure skater, or a drag queen who's been mauled by a bear, all of which would have been much more reasonable guesses based on what her costume looked like.)

But the next day, she was unhappy again. We had some friends over for a brunch-time playdate, and while Elsa and the two other kids played together happily (if not always harmoniously), Clio didn't want to join them, and clung to me -- or tried, anyway. And then, she started testing limits and doing "bad" things on purpose -- hitting and kicking; throwing toys; dumping sand from the sandbox onto the grass right after we told her not to, etc. It was so clear that she was doing these things for the express purpose of getting attention, so we were tempted to ignore her altogether instead of reprimanding or removing her from the situation. But how do you ignore a child who has just hit you on the legs with a plastic bat for the third time? How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?

And then this morning, to send me off to work in style, she hit me in the face when I went to kiss her goodbye. (She was mad at me, I think, because earlier I'd refused to give her a second helping of raisins.)

I wish I could look inside her little brain and understand what's happening there. I wish I could give her the words to explain what is upsetting her, and tell us what we could do to make her feel better. We are trying to do what seems right instinctively -- to make her feel safe, both with love and reassurance, and with firm limits. And we're trying not to lose our cool in the process. It's incredible, the depths of exasperation and love that one small child (or two) can simultaneously inspire.

The Defiant Ones

Roper — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 19:20:00 GMT

Elsa and Clio are having some authority issues. Particularly at bedtime. I suppose this isn't surprising. They're at their tiredest and crankiest at the end of the day, AND they don't particularly want to go to bed. Not to mention the fact that I am starving (we still eat after they go to bed, for a variety of reasons) and, four days out of seven, have had a long day at work and am looking forward to relaxing, so I'm not at my best, and am not interested in letting the bedtime ritual drag on indefinitely.

So I am finding myself at my wits' end lately when, for example, one of them will refuse to brush her teeth. She'll simply refuse to leave the nursery and come into the bathroom. Or she will do something silly, like Clio did the other night: dance around the hall wearing a pair of sunglasses (upside down) and make goofy faces, while I tried to help Elsa brush her teeth. Of course, Elsa thought what Clio was doing looked like a lot more fun, and started asking me to go downstairs and find her sunglasses, too, so she could do the same thing. Oral hygiene was a lost cause. I don't even remember how I finally got everyone to shut the hell up (oh dear; did I just write that? Yes I did) and brush their damned teeth (and that? Oh, my). Somehow I did. But by the time I'd read them their books, wrangled them into their cribs and given them the ten thousand "just one more" kisses and hugs and back rubs they wanted, I was totally fried.

In general, my strategy for dealing with out and out defiance is one or more of the following: 1.) Give the defiant one a minute or a bit of space and let her comply on her own, which she sometimes will. This can work well in situations like toothbrushing refusal. But it is not so feasible if, for example, we're leaving the playground and one child is already loaded in her carseat, in a very hot car, and the other child has decided that she absolutely must continue scraping the rock she has found against the sidewalk.

2.) If #1 doesn't work or is not applicable, make it clear that there will be a consequence. As in: it's up to you, but if you don't brush your teeth, that means we won't have a story before bed. Sometimes that works, other times not. When it doesn't, in that particular scenario, it means that the defoamt one will stand in her crib and scream while I read a story to her sister. Even if I do it in the next room. And then I have to attempt to calm the screamer enough that the other sister can actually go to bed. Sometimes it is workable. Sometimes it's not.

Consequences really are a lot more complicated with twins, especially when they share a room. It can often mean that the "innocent" one ends up losing out, too. Like in the army. (Actually, I don't know if that's how it really works in the army, but in army movies from the 80s it always seemed like when one guy screwed up, the whole division would end up having to scrub latrines or jog ten miles or something. And I base much of my knowledge in life on movies from the 80s. Which is why I know that Russians are evil, an abortion costs $200 and high school principals are all morons.)

3.) When nothing else works, I will bodily remove the child (because often it's a matter of getting her to come or go somewhere -- upstairs, downstairs, in the car, into the bathroom, etc.). If I can muster the emotional energy, I do it in a silly or amusing way. With an airplane sound or with a bouncing motion. When I can't, in a very brisk and business-like fashion. Sometimes while clenching my teeth to keep from being more brisk than I need to be.

I'm thinking I should probably hit the books and try to read up on some effective strategies for dealing with defiant toddlers / preschoolers, because I obviously have -- er -- "spirited" children, and two of them, and surely this is going to be a common theme over the next few years. (Brief respite in the school years, and then...adolescence.) Knowing that it's never easy, I would still like to have some "best practices" in my arsenal. I feel like I'm winging it here, and could probably be doing a much better job. How do you cope when your kids simply refuse to do (or not do) something you ask or expect them to?

The Weirdest Mommy on the Block

Roper — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 13:00:00 GMT

I recently picked up a copy of Harvey Karp's The Happiest Toddler on the Block from my favorite local bookstore, the Salvation Army. I'd heard good things about it from a few people, and I'd also found the Swaddling-shushing-swaying-shishkebabing-etc. advice from Karp's Happiest Baby useful when the girls were young, though I never actually read the book. (The S's were just the word on the street.)

I haven't read all of Happiest Toddler. I've skipped around a bit and focused on the sections that dealt specifically with two-year-olds. So far, I have mixed feelings about the book. Overall, it was a little too "cute" for my taste stylistically (enough with the exclamation points, Harvey!) and a lot of the advice just isn't practical for twins. Or any toddler, for that matter. Nightly massages before bed, complete with massage oil? Uh huh. Right. But the insights into toddlers' emotional and cognitive development were great, and most of the advice seemed to make a lot of sense on an instinctual level.

There was one particular tactic Karp recommends that I'd love to know if anyone else out there has tried. He calls it speaking "Toddler-ese" -- basically, talking to toddlers in their own language when they're upset / angry. You start by acknowledging what they want or feel, to let them know that they are heard and understood, then you shift into what you'd like them to do. Sounds pretty sensible, right? But when you look at the examples of what this might actually sound like....well, here's one example he gave, of what a mother said to her 32-month old twins who were fighting over a ball:

"BALL!! BALL! BALL! BALL! BALL! You both want it! You want it NOW! But no fighting, or mommy takes the ball away. I like it when you play nicely."

I'm just not sure I can't bring myself to talk to Elsa and Clio like this. For one thing, Alastair will ridicule me mercilessly. I tried using some Toddler-ese the other day when Clio was loudly and angrily demanding to go to the playground when we were in the car on the way to an Audubon Society farm in Lincoln (Drumlin). I said something like: "Playground! Playground! You want to go to the playground! You want to go now! But we'll go to the playground later! Now we're going to the farm to see some animals! Won't that be fun?"

Alastair looked at me like I was demented. I'd told him about this notion of mirroring back the children's feelings before saying "no" or making a contrary demand, but I hadn't exactly mentioned the Toddler-ese part. "Wait a second," he said. "You're supposed to talk like them, too? That doesn't seem right."

Honestly, that was my initial thought, too. It does feel almost too accommodating in some way -- like you're relinquishing too much of your dignity for the sake of your child. Then again, trying to reason calmly in grammatical English with a screaming two-year-old isn't the most dignified activity either. There's also the issue of self-consciousness. Because let's face it: an adult imitating a toddler sounds pretty ridiculous, unless he's got his hand up an Elmo puppet. Karp, to his credit, addresses this point directly, urging parents to give the Toddler-ese approach time -- they'll get used to it -- and reminding them that the benefits far outweigh the embarrassment.

So, how did Clio react to my attempt at Toddler-ese? Like her father, she initially looked at me like I was deranged. She was silent a few, shocked seconds, which was nice. But then she resumed yelling "I just want to go to dee playground!"

Of course, Rome wasn't built in a day. I do believe that the technique might have merit, and I'm willing to keep at it. But I've modified the language a bit -- developed my own dialect, if you will. Instead of yelling (for example) "Ball! Ball! Ball!!!" I'll say something like "You both want to play with the ball!" trying, as best I can, to mimic the same tone and cadence the girls are using while keeping the words in Grown-up-ese. Then, I'll shift into my normal voice and say something like "But you need to play nicely with the ball, or I'm going to take it away." Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Like most parenting techniques. But there is something reassuring about having a technique at all, instead of feeling like you're in a constant battle of wills.

What do you, gentle readers, think? Have you tried the Toddler-ese approach, or something like it? What's your "method" for dealing with toddler defiance and demands? Do you think Karp is a brilliant parenting guru, or a silly man named after a fish?

No means no -- usually.

Roper — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 19:18:00 GMT

I'm finding that one of the toughest parts about parenting nearly-two-year-olds is deciding when and when not to let them have their way, and how to maintain some semblance of consistency while also being flexible. Obviously, in some cases, there's no room for negotiation: no, you can't go outside without a jacket; no, you can't play with that steak knife; no, you can't borrow the car.

But so much of the time it's a judgement call. Last night, for example, I made the girls a nutritious and colorful dinner of veggie burger, sweet potato fries and green beans -- all foods that they generally like. I gave them ketchup for dipping, too. (It's a vegetable!) But they wouldn't eat any of it. (Well, Elsa ate some of the ketchup.) Then Clio started asking for applesauce. Elsa, of course, joined in. (Which is frustrating because I think, given time, she might have actually eaten her dinner.)

I tried the whole "you can have applesauce if you eat one bite of veggie burger and one bean" approach, but I honestly don't think the girls quite grasp the logic of delayed gratification yet. In the end, after much whining (from both them and me) I folded and gave them applesauce. They both ate, like, two giant bowls of it. So they were obviously hungry. But not for veggie burger, beans and sweet potato fries with ketchup. (Note: I also tried getting them to dip their sweet potato fries, etc. in the applesauce, but they just licked it off. Foiled!)

Did I do the wrong thing? Should I have refused to give in? Sent them to bed, then served them their untouched dinners the next morning, cold, a la Mommie Dearest? Or are you supposed to not worry too much about what your kids at this age eat at any one meal, as long as they get some protein, vitamins and fiber in over the course of the day?

Another dilemma: to pick up, or not to pick up? For the past few weeks, Clio has been constantly wanting to be held. And she's rarely content to simply sit on a lap -- she wants you to pick her up and stand or walk around with her, and will cry and whine until you do. Believe me, I love holding my girls in my arms, and love that they take comfort in being close to me. But you can only carry a hefty, applesauce-fed toddler around for so long. Then there's the problem of the second toddler getting jealous and wanting to be picked up, too -- something I can no longer physically do without endangering all three of us.

So,what to do? Do I pick Clio up whenever she wants me to, as long as it's logistically possible, or is it OK to set some limits? As in, "mommy is eating her lunch right now, so she can't pick you up, but when she's finished, she will." (As if saying stuff like that actually works.) Or, more realistically, "Mommy has been carrying you around for the past ten minutes and though she's not quite sure what a hernia is, she suspects she may be in danger of getting one unless she puts you down RIGHT NOW."

My ever-wise husband thinks that our approach, in general, should be not to be too quick to say no (choose our battles, in other words) but to stick to our guns once we decide to say it. I tend to agree, though it's obviously much easier said than done. The whining and screaming of my children frequently drowns out the calm, rational voice inside my head that's telling me to stand firm.

I can just imagine it, years from now: Clio and Elsa telling their therapists how sometimes I would let them have two cookies, and other times I only let them have one. Sometimes we would play the "Banana Phone" song over and over again, per their request, and sometimes we'd tell them to sit tight and just listen to the rest of the CD. "How were we supposed to establish a sense of self when the sands beneath our feet were so constantly and relentlessly shifting? How could we learn to trust or respect anyone when we couldn't even trust whether or not we were going to get a second Fig Newton?"

To future Elsa and Clio (and their therapist), once again: I apologize.

Two times two equals f#&%

Roper — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 02:02:00 GMT

We had a nice Thanksgiving weekend. Really, we did. There was lots of good food and no family drama. We got some serious, slothful relaxation in, too: the night before Thanksgiving, at my brother's house, we drank wine, ate pizza, and watched five straight hours of Top Chef. I've decided I'm going to start talking to Elsa and Clio like one of the contestants to get them more interested in their food: "What I've done here is taken circular oat cereal, rustled it into a bowl and then quickly doused it with just the right amount of fresh, cold milk. Finally, I've topped it off with some thinly-sliced, ripe banana. Enjoy."

We also had twenty-eight glorious child-free hours together on the Maine coast, which we spent doing the sort of things we used to do way back when: browsing in shops, eating more frequently than is biologically necessary, talking about everything from our college days to our future plans to how Abraham Lincoln won the Republican nomination. (A. is reading Team of Rivals.) We were silly and stupid and flirty. And man, it was nice to go to sleep in a big, soft, king-size antique bed and not have to negotiate which one of us was going to get up with the girls in the morning.

Though I can't say I really *missed* the girls, by the time we headed back to my parents' house, I was eager to see them. They greeted us with bright smiles, said "Mommy Daddy here!", let us kiss them, and then proceeded to have total, screaming meltdowns. Both of them.

I don't remember what exactly triggered said meltdowns -- maybe it was just release of pent up emotion having to do with our being gone -- but I've come to believe that getting at the root cause of a tantrum is not terribly relevant when you're dealing with an (almost) two-year-old. Once they go into that mode, fugghetaboutit. Giving them back the crayons that you took away, letting them eat the third cookie they wanted, picking them back up after you put them down against their wishes -- useless. Pretty much NOTHING can comfort them. Things just have to play themselves out.

This is especially true of Clio, who has more intense and frequent freakouts than Elsa. (Elsa can be a bit of a drama queen, but she's also easier to calm down and comfort, and has been since she was a newborn.) Once Clio gets going, there's no stopping her. (Also the case since day one.) When she's in this state, she doesn't know what she wants, or how to feel better, and rejects everything we try. We pick her up, she screams "Down now! Down now!" We put her down and she screams "picka up! picka up!" She pushes or flings away anything we try to give her -- a toy, a snack, a cup of milk. The only thing to do, it seems, is to put her in her crib with her pacifier until she collects herself. In other words, a textbook "time out."

It felt like there were a lot of tantrums this weekend, both small and large. A lot of intra-sibling bickering. And they both constantly wanted to be picked up, or to sit on our laps. Part of it, I think, was the fact that they're both getting over colds. Also, Clio appears to have a big old bicuspid busting its way through her gums. The change of scene and routine may also have contributed to their fragile states. But I'm afraid the larger truth is that the terrible two's have arrived. And it's going to be rough.

Dealing with one toddler's whining / stubbornness / neediness / etc. is challening enough. But when you've got two going at the same time -- or even one in a bad mood and one in a good mood, but still wanting attention -- hoo boy. Both Alastair and I lost our cool at times over this past weekend. We yelled. We handled inanimate objects more roughly than was necessary. We shouted "Serenity Now!" (Well, I did, anyway.)

I hate that stressed-out, angry, powerless, exasperated feeling. Heart pounding, nerves frayed, temper short. I can almost feel my skin wrinkling, my hair turning gray. I wish I could take it all more lightly and easily -- respond with more humor, grace and patience. I wish I knew how to keep them happy more of the time, or help them more effectively when they're not. But sometimes it's just so damned hard.

And then they go and do stuff like this, and I just want them to stay 23 months old forever:

(Filmed at my brother's house on Thanksgiving Eve. You may hear snatches of "Top Chef" on TV in the background if you listen carefully. And my goofy laugh and dopey commentary even if you don't.)

T-I-M-E O-U-T

Roper — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 02:30:00 GMT

You're probably all familiar with the need to spell out certain words in front of your toddlers once they pick up that pesky habit of understanding English. Woe to the parent who foolishly utters the word C-O-O-K-I-E without the intent of immediately handing one over to any small child within earshot. And don't mention that you're going to take your kids to the P-L-A-Y-G-R-O-U-N-D unless you intend to go THAT VERY SECOND.

But certain words, you would think, are safe to say aloud -- things that kids aren't interested in, like "credit card," "recycling," or "corkscrew." Or things that pertain to them, but that they don't find particularly appealing and aren't likely to start begging for, like "crib" or "time-out." Right? Well, yes. Except ixnay on that last one in the Baby Squared household.

We've been attempting to institute the practice of giving the girls a "time-out" when they push or hit each other, throw food on the floor, or grab toys away from each other in a patently aggressive manner. We haven't had to do it that many times, and when we have, it has tended to be with Elsa.

Unfortunately, the girls don't quite seem to grasp concept of a time-out. That is to say, they LOVE it. They seem to think it's some kind of cool privilege to get to sit on a chair by the window and do nothing. Which is why, if Alastair and I want to discuss the topic of time-outs in the company of Elsa and Clio, we have to avoid the word itself, lest we are faced with two toddlers whining and begging for a time-out.

Obviously, it doesn't work terribly well as a threat, either. The other day, when Elsa was throwing food onto the floor and I warned her that if she did it again she'd get a time out, she started saying "Time out! Time out!" and pointing over at the time-out chair. What was I supposed to do? Punish her by NOT giving her a time-out? Then, of course, Clio wanted a time-out, too. So, after helping Elsa down from the time-out chair (in spite of her protests) I let Clio sit there too. Clio also wanted her baby to have a time out. "Baby sit? Baby time out?"

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have let them have time-outs for "fun." (Let alone document the incident on film for blogging purposes.) But it was either that or let Elsa sit there and whine and/or continue to fling food, and then risk a Clio meltdown because we didn't let her have a "turn" at timeout. We've been working so hard on the idea of taking turns; how is she supposed to understand that she gets a turn with toys, but she doesn't get a turn at the awesomecool time-out game?

I suppose this is mostly a function of the fact that the girls still find it highly exciting to sit in "grown-up" chairs --- or any chair, for that matter. I'm wondering if it might help to move time-outs to a less appealing, more out-of-the way location. On the floor in the front hall? On the stairs? This would also help solve the problem of the girls bringing each other toys while they're on time-out. (Gates can be closed.) But the challenge, then, is being able to keep an eye on both girls at once. And, ironically, they would be far less likely to actually stay in time-out if it was somewhere they didn't like. See the vicious circle?

And then sometimes I wonder if they're just not ready for time-outs at all. But I feel like we have to start enforcing some kind of consequence for bad behavior, beyond just scolding and explaining, which doesn't seem to have much staying power. Ah well. It's not like they're shoplifting cigarettes or sniffing white-out, or whatever it is the kids are into these days. Hopefully, by the time we get there, we'll have put a little bit of the fear of God into 'em.

Finally, for those of you following the ongoing, not very dramatic saga of this depressive episode I've been having (sorry, couldn't think of a better segue. Something about spelling out S-S-R-I ?) here's the update: I don't want to jinx myself, but I have had two and a half solid days now of feeling darn near like myself. I wouldn't say I'm at 100% yet, but definitely somewhere between 80 and 90%. And God, it's great. It's kind of like being in zero-gravity all of a sudden. Simple, everyday things that were painful to undertake a couple of weeks ago -- making dinner, chatting with co-workers, putting the girls to bed -- seem suddenly, amazingly easy; even pleasant.

And the more serious things that I missed -- having the urge and ability to write (other than here), being able to joke around and be affectionate with Alastair, being able to be a more fully engaged, silly, loving Mom -- feel almost miraculously satisfying. I guess in some weird, backward way, that's a perk of depression? It makes you appreciate just how great life is when you're not depressed (even if not everything your life is great).

I've said it in my comments, but I'll say it again here, because I know not everyone reads the comments: thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for all your support, advice and understanding -- silent and otherwise -- as I've struggled through these past weeks. It helps immensely. (And I am so happy to know that I may be helping a few other folks out there, too.)

No More Mr. Nice Mom

Roper — Thu, 18 Sep 2008 16:44:00 GMT

So, I've decided that I am too much of a pushover when it comes to satisfying Elsa and Clio's every whim. Or, perhaps more accurately, that they're old enough to start understanding that they can't have every little thing they want, whenever they want it. (And by "thing" and "whim," please understand, I am primarily speaking of graham crackers.)

Seriously, if given the choice, the girls would carb-load non-stop from 3pm until dinner time. (And then throw their dinner on the floor.) It's not like I've been completely lax in the past, but I've been inconsistent -- often saying no, no, no and then eventually giving in when I get sick of the whining and fussing. Really, it's not behavior you want to be modeling for your daughters.

"Cracky?"

This past week, I've started putting my foot down more. If they want a snack, I give them (for example) a graham cracker each (well, half of one), then another when they ask for more -- which sounds like "mo? mo?" followed by a sort of wincing / moaning sound if I don't put another cracker into their hands within .08 seconds -- but if they want thirds, I say no. Very firmly. "No. That's all. Snack is over. We'll eat again at dinner."

I'm also trying to get in the habit of setting up expectations, so the rules are clear to them (and me) from the beginning. I make a little speech like, "OK, we're going to have two graham crackers, and then we're going to put them away. Twoooo graham crackers." And then I might make up some goofy little "two graham crackers" song, like "Where it's at! I got two graham crackers and a microphone...."

Does it work? Well, I can't say it's been exactly painless. There has been much whining and moaning. It's tough to stick to my guns (OK, maybe two and a HALF graham crackers...but only cuz I like your face...) Sometimes I end up having to appease them with cups of crushed ice. But I find that if I do a double-maneuver of firmly putting the crackers away and then, Poppins-like, telling the girls what we're going to do next, they are fairly easily placated: "OK, the crackers are going bye bye. Now, let's go read some books. Into the living room we go. Spit spot!"

It takes a good deal of energy and resolve on my part, which is not always easy to muster, especially, for example, at 4:30 in the afternoon when you've been stuck in the house for the past three and a half hours trying to keep your children entertained while waiting for the cable guy who doesn't show up until an hour after the outermost range of his scheduled appointment window only to tell you your receiver is "sick" (huh?) and there's nothing he can do. But I digress.

I'm also trying to be firmer -- or at least more explanatory -- when it comes to things like picking the girls up. Or not picking them up, more accurately. I'm more inclined lately to say things like, "Mommy can't pick you up right now, she's busy washing dishes. I'll pick you up when I'm done, but you have to wait." Again, it doesn't always work, but I feel like it can't be a bad thing that I'm talking to them more like they're "big kids" and trying to set firmer limits. It's partly me -- maybe I feel more confident in my parenting lately, or maybe I just realize that I'm in for a lifetime of pain if I get in the habit of folding every time they ask for something.

I also feel like they're more ready for it. They may not be talking a whole lot, but they understand plenty. Probably more than I even realize. And I get the feeling that the more they exert their will and test limits the more they probably also need (and actually want, even if they don't know it) limits to be set. I'm not sure if I read this somewhere or it's my own crackpot pscyhological theory, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Really.

Where it's at!

Laughter is not the best discipline

Roper — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 00:56:00 GMT

As I've noted on previous occasions, Clio is a silly baby. From the very beginning, she's made us laugh. Something about her expressions, her mannerisms, her overall demeanor is just...silly. She loves to giggle, particularly when broad, physical humor is involved. And she's prone to doing random, silly things, like tilting her head from side to side and saying "blah blah blah blah blah" (my best guess is that this is an imitation of me) or spontaneously going into a perfect downward dog. We never taught her this; she just does it. And with such excellent form!

The latest twist on Clio's silliness, however, is not so innocent. It turns out she finds it very, very funny when I say "no" to her. And she finds it downright hilarious to test limits. Por ejemplo: there is a floor lamp in our living room that she likes to grab onto and shake. It's got a pretty sturdy, weighted base, so I don't think she's likely to topple the thing, but still. This is not behavior I want to encourage. So I firmly tell her, "No no, Clio, please don't touch, I don't want the lamp to fall and hurt you, etc. etc." And Clio finds this very funny. She takes her hands off the lamp, smiles, and then holds on again, waiting for my reaction. So I say "no" again. She laughs. I say no some more, and finally she lets go. Then she tries just touching the lamp with one finger, grinning and twinkly-eyed, to see what I'll do.

And my friends, I can't help it: I simply cannot keep a straight face. I try so hard, but eventually I break down. I just can't look at her (That smile! And one finger! That's sophisticated humor!) and not laugh or smile. And I know that this is not helping her learn that when mama says no, mama means it. Granted, I don't think I'd have a hard time staying stern if she was, say, putting her finger into an electrical outlet. But I'd like her to respect my "no's" in general, whether she's in mortal danger or just doing mischevious stuff like throwing her food on the floor or shaking lamps.

What should I do? Should I ignore her when she tests limits? Not look at her when I say my no's? Or do I just need to work harder on my poker face? I will admit that there's also this (weak. weak!) part of me that does't want to show anger or displeasure with her, lest she think that it's not all right to be silly and playful sometimes. I mean, I'm guessing it's pretty tough for a toddler to try to sort out why some things are OK and some things aren't. Why is it all right to stand up in the crib, but not in the bathtub? Why is it OK to throw a ball, but not a cup? It's my job to teach her these things, and hopefully to get her to realize when mama means business. But I suspect it's not going to work too well if I'm giggling the whole time.

Who among us is not powerless in the face of a baby with good comic timing? Help!