Baby Squared : tantrums

Bedtime madness

Roper — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 13:10:00 GMT

We all know how important it is to have a consistent bedtime routine for our children, particularly when they're under the age of three. Establish rituals, create a sense of security, establish limits, yada yada yada. We're pretty good about sticking to our routine for the most part, either abbreviating or elongating it depending on the hour and the mood of the girls. (Abbreviating doesn't go over too well when they're tired or cranky -- ironic since those are the nights we're *most* inclined to abbreviate.)

Over time, the routine has evolved, as the girls' needs have changed. When they were still babies, I read to them in their cribs, but as they got more engaged and interested in books, we moved reading to the rocking chair. For a long time it was two books, and then goodnight. Nowadays, the reading routine is a bit more unpredictable -- Clio wants to sit on the floor instead of on my lap / Elsa wants to read a book herself / Both of them want to read books on their own in their cribs, etc. But it's all good, yo.

What's more complicated is the actual, final good-night, when the girls are in their cribs and the lights are out. Until they were around twenty months (I think?), they were satisfied with a couple of kisses. But ever since then, the good-night has been a constantly changing series of mini-rituals. If we ever, in our folly, dare to introduce any new element -- singing a song, for example, or having a back rub (or "rub back," as the girls call it) -- the girls will latch onto it ferociously, and demand that it be part of the routine. For awhile, anyway, until they come up with something new. And then, of course, there are the various stuffed animals and dolls to be fetched, the blankets to be arranged, the books to be brought into or taken out of the crib.

Sometimes I am probably too accommodating. But for the most part, I don't feel like quirky bedtime requests are a battle worth fighting. Better just to put the blankets on in the right order, give one more kiss on the nose, and go downstairs and get the Elmo doll if need be. But there are times -- like last night -- when even my best intentions and most concerted efforts cannot satisfy my daughters' peculiar demands.

Clio was in her mode of wanting to rewind what has just happened and re-do it in exactly the same way, but with one slight variable altered. Only it's not exactly clear what that variable is. Example: when I moved her blankets aside for her to get in her crib, she flipped out. When I moved them back, she flipped out even more. When I told her SHE could move the blankets herself, she further flipped out, because, in fact, she DID want me to move them back, she just wanted me to have done it the right way. Whatever that was.

A few minutes later, when she was in her crib and I thought she'd calmed down, we had the following absurdist exchange:

Me: You've got your Bert doll there to go night-night with you?

Clio: Yeah, I want my George, too.

Me: OK, here's your George. (I get her Curious George doll from the chair and put it next to her.)

Clio: Now I have them both!

Me: OK. Good night Cli. (I start to rub her back - this is a required part of the ritual these days)

Clio: (squirming out of my reach) NO!! DON'T SAY OK!!! DON'T SAY OK!!! WAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!

Me: All right, I won't. (I try to rub her back again.)

Clio: Nooo!!! No!!!!! No rub back!!

Me: All right, good night, Clio. (I start to leave)

Clio: No!!! No!!! WaaaahhHHH!!!! You say yeah!!! You say yeah!!!

Me: Yeah?

Clio: No!!!!! No!!!!!!! Not yet!!!!

Me: (Sigh) What do you want, Cli? Can you use your words and tell me what you want?

Clio: (Whimpers and Hugs Bert and Curious George close) Now I have them both.

Me: (With great trepidation) Yeah....now you have them both.

Clio: (Satisfied. Finally.) Can I have a rub back and a kiss?

If only they would give me a copy of each night's bedtime script to study ahead of time. It would make things so much more pleasant, for all of us.

But what really disturbed me last night was what she said after her series of fits were over, when she'd finally calmed down, and I was kissing her goodnight: "You don't love me anymore."

What???!!!

I assured her that I most certainly did love her, I would always love her, I loved her loved her loved her. This (of course) didn't satisfy her. "You still love me?" she asked. "Yes, of course I do," I said. She tried again: "You still love me?" "Yes," I replied, "I still love you." This was the response she was looking for. She snuggled into her pilow and closed her eyes.

I had NO idea where this came from, or where she picked up this phrase. She didn't sound particularly angry while she was saying it, and I suspect she didn't even really know what it meant. But -- interestingly -- she'd said something along the same lines earlier in the evening, when I came home from work, and the sitter was there: "You don't love me because I didn't eat all my eggs. I just ate one for you and one for daddy."

At the time I'd laughed it off, thinking maybe I'd heard her wrong, or she was mixing up two different things. But now I wonder: has our babysitter been saying things along the lines of "If you don't eat your [insert food here], your mommy / daddy / I won't love you anymore"? She's a wonderful sitter for the most part, but she can be a little odd at times, and her methods aren't always what we'd prefer. Plus, there is the language issue.

But I need to talk to her about this next week when she's here again. If that is what's going on, it is most definitely not cool, yo.

An Adventure Gone Terribly Awry

Roper — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 19:19:00 GMT

Let me preface this tale by saying that I hate, hate, hate, hate, HATE hot, humid weather. I can't stand it. I wilt in it. I am physically and mentally uncomfortable in it. I become cranky and lazy and irritable, and you pretty much don't want to be around me. This is is exacerbated by the fact that we only have air conditioning in our bedroom and the girls' room, and the rest of our house traps heat like a ... a ... heat trap. (The weather affects my ability to construct similes as well.)

Unfortunately, Elsa and Clio are not fans of hot weather either. They've been cranky and whiney and tantrum-y the past few days. In fact, on Saturday, Clio threw a fit of such ferocity that she actually managed to lock herself and Elsa in the nursery as a result. I forget what the inciting issue was, but Clio for some reason wanted to get out of the room, and was trying to open the door while I was changing Elsa. She somehow managed to turn the little lock knob thingy on the doorknob, unbeknownst to me, and when I closed the door behind me to go downstairs and get a particular library book to read to them before their nap, it locked. There are locks on all three bedroom doors in our house, each with separate keys, because the house used to be a rental property, where multiple people lived and each had their own room. But when we bought the house, we were only were given keys to two of them. Guess which one we didn't have?

It was horrible. I tried to get the girls to come turn the button, but they coudn't. Elsa started freaking out and crying "Come to me, mommy!" which was more than a little heartbreaking. (Then "I'm itchy!" which was just weird...) Fortunately our next door neighbor, who is a semi-retired painter, had an extension ladder, and we were able to climb up and into the window of the girls' room. Immediately after we got the door open, in a fit of primal, maternal anger / fear, I took a screwdriver and took that damned doorknob out. Alastair later pointed out that we could have just put tape or something over the locking button until we bought a new doorknob. But it was 90 degrees out, and my Mama Bear adrenaline had been tripped. Screw reasonable thought.

Alas, it turned out that Clio's door-locking fit on Saturday was just a warm-up. But let me back up a little: When I woke up Sunday morning, I had the immediate and urgent need to get everyone in the car and go somewhere. Not only because being in the car would mean AC, but because I felt suddenly, extremely claustrophobic. Not just in the house, but in our town and in our life in general. I didn't want to go to the usual playgrounds or the usual pond where the girls like to swim. Where did I want to go? The Swiss Alps would have been nice. Tibet, perhaps. I would have even settled for a beach north of Boston, but knew that the traffic would be horrendous and the parking impossible. So, I decided we should pack a lunch and drive west, out toward Mount Wachusett, maybe have lunch near the big reservoir if we could.

We told the girls we were going on an adventure. "An a-vencha!" they said happily. Clio put her Curious George doll up on her shoulders and said she wanted to go on a Bear Hunt. (In the book, by Michale Rosen / Helen Oxenbury, the father puts the little kid on his shoulders at some point. So, now Clio thinks that's a key part of any family Bear Hunt. Too true.) Things started off well. The AC felt good. The scenery was lovely, if slightly wilted and hazy. We stopped at a grocery / orchard store somewhere in the middle of nowhere to buy food for our picnic, and the girls ran around pointing at things and picking up ears of corn and asking to hold apples and staying on the "cute" side of that fine cute/annoying line that young children walk in such places as grocery stores.

Then, when we were standing at the checkout, for reasons which still remain a mystery, Clio started crying and asking for her ga-ga (pacifier). It was one of those slow-build cries that you know is going to be really bad -- lip starts to tremble, eyes start to fill with tears, mouth turns down at the corners, and then, all of a sudden, she's hyperventilating and screaming. I want my gaga! I want my gaga! I wanna go home and have my gaga!

And, my friends, she proceeded to scream and cry, non-stop, for the following hour and a half. Through our "picnic" (if you can call it that) and the entire ride home. Sometimes her request changed: I want medicine. I want to sit with you, mommy. I want to go home. And, because one screaming two-year-old really isn't difficult enough to handle, Elsa decided she had better join in, too. So, from lunch onward, she also screamed for her gaga, for medicine, to sit up front with me, etc. At one point, the two of them were screaming at eachother. It was a prime example of the absurdist toddler argument: Clio screamed that she wanted her yellow ducky gaga, and then Elsa screamed that she wanted her red doggie gaga. But somehow these events were mutually exclusive in their little, addled toddler brains. So it became:

Clio: I WANT MY YELLOW DUCKY GAGA!!

Elsa: NO! I WANT MY RED DOGGIE GAGA!

Clio: NO! DON'T SAY I WANT MY RED DOGGIE GAGA! I WANT MY YELLOW DUCKY GAGA!

Elsa: NO! I WANT MY RED DUCKY GAGA!!

And on it went. In the midst of all this, of course, Alastair and I started getting snappy with each other -- nearly impossible to avoid in this sort of situation, we find; especially when it's 96 degrees out and your'e trying to drive. I started wondering: are we doing something wrong? Is there something wrong with our parenting technique such that 1.) We are powerless to stop this 2.) This started in the first place? I mean, we did everything. We reassured. We held. We comforted. We tried to speak stupid "Toddlerese." We yelled. We tried to use the Putumayo CD the girls love as a bargaining chip. Noth. ing. worked. I was seriously on the brink of tears myself. (And actually did cry about it later, after we'd gotten them down for their nap, in sheer frustration / exhaustion.)

Of course, when we were approximately thirty seconds away from our house, they both stopped. And by the time we got them inside and upstairs into their cribs, they were both downright jolly. Guess they wanted to come home as badly as I wanted to get away from it.

And how was YOUR weekend??

Babies and baths: A Rocky Relationship

Roper — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 15:34:00 GMT

I don't generally give advice on this blog. I like to think of myself as a friend and fellow-traveler to anyone who reads here, not some kind of big sister or "expert." But just this once, I want to send out a word of advice / reassurance to any parents out there with children younger than mine, who have reached the ripe old age of two and a half. And it is this: There may well be phases in your child or children's development when, for absolutely no reason fathomable to you, they suddenly HATE taking baths; when they will scream and flail and resist with vehemence your attempts to get them into the tub and to wash their bodies and/or hair.

Do not be alarmed. This condition generally will resolve itself within a matter of days or weeks for equally inexplicable reasons. All you can do is wait, try to make baths as quick and painless as possible, or -- if getting your child into the bath is completely impossible -- settle for swabbing her down with a washcloth or see if you can get her near a pond, pool, lawn sprinkler or other source of water with less drama than the bath inspires.

A happy bath period -- the girls at circa 15 months

We have had several bath "strikes" in the Baby Squared household since the girls were born. I wrote about one of them here, when the girls were a little over a year old. There have been others as well. Sometimes it's one child or the other, sometimes it's both of them. Lately, it's sort of both of them. Elsa doesn't want to get into the bath to begin with. (Which is kinda weird, given her penchant for getting wet in other circumstances.) When I try to get her into the bathroom, she'll run and hide behind her crib or curl up on the glider with her pacifier.

If I manage to get her into the bathroom and close the door, she'll squeeze herself into the tiny nook between the sink vanity and the wall. If I can get her undressed and wrestle her into the tub -- like, it's the second day without a bath and she's sticky with melted popsicle and dusty with sandbox sand and muddy from playing in the dirt in the backyard (ah, summer) and she really needs a bath, like it or not -- it's usually a screamfest. (Ever wonder if your neighbors think you're beating your children with a log chain, given the volume and intensity of their tantrums?)

Clio, on the other hand, has developed a bizarre phobia of things being in the tub -- washcloths, bath toys, the soap, nail brushes, etc. The only thing she wants in the bath is herself and/or Elsa. Even if Clio's not in the tub, she will freak out if any of the above objects are in it -- even if there's no water in the tub. I have no idea why. I guess I might understand feeling like it's creepy to have stuff floating around in the water that might bump up against you unexpectedly. But this takes it to a strange extreme. And the intensity of her object-in-the-tubs reactions can be unnerving.

The other night, she threw a five-alarm tantrum because after I'd taken Elsa out of the tub, she came back into the bathroom (I'd bathed them separately to try to deal with Elsa's reluctance) and saw that I'd left a washcloth in the tub. She was inconsolable for ten minutes. It was a little scary. I know todders can be weird in this way, and I suspect this is linked to her recent neat-freakness. But sometimes I worry that she might actually have OCD.

But I am going to take my own advice -- and reiterate it once again to anyone else out there who might be dealing with a bath crisis of their own: be patient. This, too, shall pass.

Squeaky clean and happy after a bath, watching Curious George.

Fancy PJs from China courtesy of Grandma Jaycee, who got them on a recent business trip.

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Naked Baby

Roper — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 22:17:00 GMT

I'm not exactly sure how this started, but Clio is all about being naked -- or naked except for a diaper -- these days. It's not that she disrobes; she just wants to stay naked or undressed or partially dressed once she gets that way. A key part of the experience for her is shouting "I'm a naked baby!" or (if we're attempting to put clothes on her) "I want to be a naked baby!" Of course, we have no one but ourselves to blame for this; for a long time, Alastair and I have been in the idiotic habit of gleefully yelling out "naked babies!" when we get the girls into the bath. That kind of humor is very funny to toddlers. And to us, apparently. And, well, shucks, naked babies are just so durn cute!

Let me interject to say that, in case you're wondering, no, there will not be a birthday suit photo of Clio accompanying this post. As cute as it would be, I wouldn't feel right doing it. Not just because there are sickos out there, but because it seems like an invasion of her privacy. Unlike the rest of this blog. Ahem. Um...er...Moving on!

So, the naked baby thing will be increasingly less of a problem as the weather starts to warm up. Fine with me if she wants to walk around the house in nothing but a diaper. (Until potty training is achieved, I must insist on the diaper.) But Clio is a stubborn little thing, and there may be some battles ahead if she wants, say, to go to the playground or the library naked. Already, we've had to deal with some serious resistance in the mornings and during diaper changes when she wants to be a naked baby and it's just too cold for that sort of thing. A few times, we've compromised at half-naked. Shirt and no pants, or vice versa.

But the other night, Clio had her first all-out Naked Baby tantrum. It was at approximately 3:30 am, and she was suddenly wide awake, wanting to (among other things) go downstairs, read a book with mommy, come into our bed with us, eat waffles, have more water, go outside in the yard and "go in the little house," watch Curious George, etc. She hadn't reached tantrum stage yet, just a lot of loud, whiny insisting. I noticed that her diaper was feeling pretty soggy, so changed her, hoping it was simply discomfort that had woken her up, and that maybe the activity of being changed would satisfy her need to do something outside the crib. Alas, she kept yelling her demands the whole time, more and more loudly (waking up Elsa, of course, who joined in the yelling with her own set of wants and needs), and when I tried to put Clio's pajama pants back on, she went into all-out tantrum mode.

"No! No! NO!! I want to be a naked baby! I want to be a naked baby! I want to be a naked BAAAAAAABeeeEEEEEeeee!!!"

It was cold. Too cold to be a naked baby. So what did I do? I tried out my modified Toddler-ese -- the Happiest Toddler method, lite. I said, "You want to be a naked baby! You want to be a naked baby! But you'll be so cold, Clio! If you're a naked baby, you'll be SO cold and sad! I don't want you to be cold." And by God, wouldn't you know -- she stopped crying and screaming, looked at me, slightly confused, and then started saying, "Naked baby be so cold!" as she let me put her pajamas back on her. It was like a freakin' miracle.

Of course, it still took another ten minutes to try to get her to lie down in her crib, and she woke up again an hour later and pitched another fit. But when it comes to parenting toddlers, one must cling to small victories! Screaming 3:30 am naked baby successfully thwarted! Huzzah!

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?

Les Miserables

Roper — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 01:02:00 GMT

That's us. Having a helluva week here in the Baby Squared household. Yeah, yeah, we're not starving in the streets at the hands of an oppressive regime or dying on the barricades. And honestly, both A. and I have managed to keep our sense of humor and sanity. But it's certainly been theatrical. The dramatis personae:

Yours Truly (as Fantine): Compelled to work long, extra hours prostituting myself for the advertising agency I work at, in hopes of winning some new business for the firm. The company is fundamentally strong, but like every business, feeling the pressure of the recession. On Monday, we found out we're all getting pay cuts (temporary, hopefully, and not too drastic, but still.) That same day, on the way home from work, the engine light in our 13-year-old Honda Civic went on. Yet again. We just can't justify putting any more money into a car with 169,000 miles on it. Meanwhile, I'm still plagued by clogged sinuses and ears and a sore throat; was officially diagnosed with an ear infection today. Surely tuberculosis and hallucinations can't be far off.

Clio (as Eponine): Throwing all-out, spirited, hoarse-voiced tantrums both before bedtime and in the middle of the night, repeatedly, over the last 3 nights. (Definitely not night terrors; more likely related to cold / sore throat / existential angst / etc.) In the throes of a tragic, unrequited love affair with having her way. She wants to be held. Put down. Rocked. Read to. Brought downstairs. Given water. Allowed to watch Curious George at 2am. Left alone. What a life she might have known! But we never saw her there......

Elsa (as Cosette): Madly in love with sleep. Parted from her true love by one obstacle after another: congestion, a cough, Clio screaming, and more Clio screaming. Desperately wishes she could go to a place where nobody shouts or talks too loud. And where she wouldn't have hives, which she had tonight. Don't know if it's due to the sickness or the fact that the sitter fed them mass quantities of almonds today (grrr.) We will be checking in frequently tonight. (But does it make me a bad person that I was sort of psyched for an excuse to give the girls Benadryl?)

Alastair (as Jean Valjean): Trying so hard to do right by the ones he loves and shake off the shame of his past. (Um....not really. But work with me here.) Getting up and holding Clio in the middle of the night. Rubbing Elsa's back. Putting up with the tantrums and two-ness while his wife is out prostituting herself so they can keep affording to buy diapers from Whole Foods. (The misery!!) All this, plus the relentless question an artist must constantly ask him or herself: "Who am I?"

The Cat (as Madame Thenardier): Absolutely no help at all. But she's willing to eat meat by-products, so we can't really complain.

Do you hear the people sing? Or is that Clio, waking up for her second tantrum of the evening? We are planning to call the pediatrician in the morning if tonight is equally mauvais. Also: anyone want to sell us a gently used car?

Tantrum or Terror?

Roper — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 00:11:00 GMT

Last night, Clio had what I think can only be described as a Night Tantrum. I don't think it was a night terror, because she seemed to be quite awake. She was doing all the things she normally does when she has a tantrum -- screaming and crying, flailing, making numerous, contradictory demands. (Mommy read a book! No mommy talking, just Clio!) The only difference was that it was ten o'clock at night, and she was horizontal for most of it. Was it brought on by a nightmare? A really intense case of insomnia? Or maybe it was a night terror, and she wasn't actually fully awake?

For the past couple of days, neither of the girls has been feeling terribly well -- they're congested, and both have conjunctivitis. (Ha ha -- made your eyes start itching.) Clio was running a fever last night, so I gave her some Ibuprofen before bed. She was exhausted, and went right to sleep. But a couple of hours later, we heard her crying. Alastair went upstairs to check on her -- I figured he'd be back down in about a minute's time after finding her pacifier for her or rubbing her back or whatever it was she needed. But minutes passed, and he didn't return, and then Clio started screaming even louder -- the kind of scream that yanked right on my heartstrings and practically dragged me up the stairs. I took her from Alastair and rocked her and shushed her like she was a newborn, but it didn't do a thing.

It's the worst feeling not to be able to comfort your children when they are in obvious distress. Clio kept crying, "I want to go night night! I want to go night night!" but refused to lie still. We tried everything. Rubbing her back. Giving her milk. Giving her all the toys in her crib that she screamed for (Curious George monkey! Curious George monkey!) and then removing them immediately thereafter when suddenly she realized that they were, in fact, the bane of her existence and cause of her suffering (No Curious George monkey! No Curious George monkey!) She only wanted daddy, then she only wanted mommy. We brought her downstairs to see if a change of scene might help her calm down, and she wanted to go back upstairs to her crib. We put her back in her crib and she wanted to go downstairs.

I worried at times that she was in pain, or that something was seriously wrong. What if she had a urinary tract infection? A migraine headache? Appendicitis? It's not like she'd be able to tell us where it hurt, or describe her pain on a scale of 1 to 10. I guess if she had just kept on screaming, we would have called the doctor. But she didn't. After thirty minutes or so, she finally calmed down and went back to sleep. (Miraculously, Elsa didn't wake up the whole time.)

And boy, did those girls ever sleep. In fact, they didn't wake up until 10:00 a.m. Yes, ten as in an hour before eleven. As in, a reasonable hour to wake up if you've been out dancing or to a late movie the night before. (Which, of course, we hadn't.) It crossed my mind that maybe I should go in and check on them -- had they been kidnapped? Were they comatose? -- but it seemed like a crime to risk waking them up. And given the intensity of the fit Clio had had, it didn't seem entirely impossible that she was just tuckered out. As for Elsa -- well, I suspect she'd sleep until nine or ten every morning if she didn't share a bedroom with Clio.

Has anyone else out there had this happen -- the random, nocturnal meltdown? God, I wish I could know what was going on inside that sweet little head of Clio's when she's inconsolable like that. She seems so angry, and I feel so awful for not being able to give her what she needs. Here's hoping there isn't a repeat performance tonight.

Dancing Queens

Roper — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 21:23:00 GMT

There are days like today, when you've got a nasty head cold and sore throat, and your house is a total mess, and your desk is overflowing with bills and mail, and one of your daughters has a nearly TWO HOUR tantrum, when it feels like nothing short of a small miracle to turn on your digital camera (which you finally have a new battery charger for) for the first time in several weeks and and discover this:

The soundtrack, for anyone who's curious, is "Salsa for Kittens and Puppies," a CD given to us by a super-cool friend of ours. The hats are mine. (You may remember them from the recent Baby Squared fashion expose.) But the rhythm and moves are 100% Clio and Elsa. These girls LOVE to dance. Anytime we put music on, they start bopping and spinning and clapping. Sometimes we play "dance class" and I'll do various crazy moves for them to imitate: kicking, stamping feet, the twist, the pachanga. (Sure, Neil, no problem. We'll end the season with the pachanga. Great idea.)

So, yes. They dance.It's good to remember this when my patience is nearly worn thin and I'm considering putting my children up for sale on eBay: They don't just scream and yell and stomp and cry and make ridiculous demands ("No Mommy talking! No mommy talking! Mommy read a book! Read a book! NO MOMMY, NO TALKING!!") They also dance.

Ah, dance.

The Reign of Clio

Roper — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 23:24:00 GMT

I am in need of some serious Babble reader advice, sympathy and/or commiseration here. We have the world's bossiest toddler living under our roof, and she's driving us bonkers. True, we have been basically trapped inside by snow for the past two-and-a-half days, so we're all feeling a little cabin-feverish. But this has been going on for some time: Clio has become incredibly high maintenance.

She wants to play with Play Doh now. She wants more milk now. She wants to watch the Baby Animal Songs DVD ("Baby ee-o") for the 4th time that day. She wants me to read Chickaboom to her for the 5th. But mostly, she orders us to hold her. We try to oblige when we can, but it's just not always possible. Making breakfast, going to the bathroom, playing with your other child, etc. are all fairly tricky when you've got a 26-lb. person in your arms. Unfortunately, Clio is also very specific about how and where she wants to be held: standing up vs. sitting down, with mommy vs. daddy, in the kitchen or in the living room. And she most definitely doesn't like to share a lap with Elsa. (I wonder if, in fact, this is all directly related to being a twin -- a sense of competition or jealousy, a need to have her individual desires met...)

When Clio doesn't get what she wants, she cries and yells and screams. If it gets really out of hand, we'll put her up in her crib for a while to chill out, but the effects are typically short-lived. Soon enough, she's yelling "Picka up! Picka up!" or "sitty mommy" (sit with mommy) again. We try to explain that Mommy/Daddy is doing something else and can't pick her up right now. We tell her she's a big girl who needs to walk / play / etc. by herself sometimes. We talk about taking turns so we can play with Elsa, too. We promise to pick her up later. We try to distract her with toys or books or milk or non-lethal kitchen utensils. We try pretty much everything. It works maybe 25% of the time.

My children are adorable and delightful and I love being their mother. But I have to admit: this is a tough phase. When faced with long stretches of time at home with the girls, both Alastair and I are finding it a real struggle. We want to give Clio the sense of control and closeness she's obviously craving, but we have another daughter who also needs our attention and has wants of her own (though usually not voiced as insistently, thank God). There are also meals to be cooked and dishes to be washed and phone calls to be made. We can't spend all our time bowing to the whims of Queen Clio. (Aside: Ooh! What a cool name for a queen!)

As a result of this, we're finding ourselves turning more frequently to videos and TV, since it's one of the few things that can keep both girls calm and contented for more than two minutes at a time. But I don't feel great about it. What I would really like is for Clio to be able to play on her own or with Elsa for even just ten minutes at a stretch without needing me to pick her up or put her on my lap in the middle of it. I would like her to be a little more flexible when it comes to what she does, where, and when. I would also like world peace and for someone to invent a car that runs on water.

Is there any hope? Or is this just typical 2-year old behavior that we'll have to weather as best we can?

Meanwhile, it's still snowing out there.

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.)

Screw the bedtime ritual.

Roper — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 01:17:00 GMT

Really, sometimes you just gotta. Like tonight. I got home from work, and the girls were all smiles and happiness, having spent the afternoon with Jaycee (A's mom), going to the park and eating Cheerios and so on and so forth. Big hugs for Mommy, adorable "bye bye"s for Jaycee and Abu, la la la, everybody's happy, all is well. Time for a nice dinner and cozy bedtime wind-down with mom after a long day's work, right?

Ha.

Flash forward fifteen minutes: Elsa is straining at the straps of her high chair, red-faced and screaming, begging to come sit in my lap while she eats. It's something I made the mistake of letting her do a couple of times last week when she was acting especially fragile, and which both grandmothers -- who have been here to help while Alastair is away -- have naturally indulged, being grandmothers and all. But I want to break her of this habit, so I try letting her sit on a "big girl" chair (no dice) and offer to hold her on my lap for a little while, but move her food out of her reach. This doesn't go over well.

Meanwhile, Clio, in her high chair, is dropping pieces of veggie burger onto the floor and pleading "Kee kee? Kee kee?" I have no idea what "kee kee" means, but I suspect it means crackers, and I refuse to give Clio crackers for dinner, even thought they are by far her favoritest food, like, ever. As it turns out, however, "kee kee" means chicken -- or at least chicken is a passable substitute -- because after offering her several other options, leftover chicken from last night's dinner seems to make her quite happy. The little carnivore.

Elsa, now, is lying on the floor, writhing and kicking, screaming bloody murder and waving away any person or object that comes within five feet of her with tortured wails of "no! no! no!" (She reaches for her milk. I move it closer to her and she bats it away like she can't stand the sight of it.) I try sitting on the floor and holding her close, rocking and breathing in a loud, in and out rhythm. This seems to calm her down. But the minute I stop, it's screamsville again.

And now, Clio is upset, too. Her mouth is pulling down at the corners into a little baby pout and she's whimpering "ga-ga" (their word for pacifier) and "night night," and it's not clear whether she wants these things for herself, or just for Elsa, who clearly needs them. ("Mom, put her to bed, for the love of God! I'm trying to eat my kee kee in peace, here!")

So, finally, I carry (writhing, wiggling) Elsa upstairs and put her in her crib to chill out, then come back down to get Clio, who is still pouting, in spite of having ingested an entire can of mandarin orange segments. (Her favorite food, like, ever, after kee kee.) I manage to wrestle her into a fresh diaper and PJs while she continues to beg for ga-ga and night night. Elsa is still having a fit, but it has now become clear -- from the redness of her face and the bug-eyed, straining expression on it -- that she is pooping. She manages to expel a very angry, painful looking little b.m. which leads me to wonder if this fit -- and the one she had last night just like it -- is related to the constipation issue. (Having tried prune juice and all the rest, we're now starting Miralax, on her pedi's advice. First dose this morning.Please let it work....)

But she's still tetchy after a diaper change, and my nerves are too frayed to go through the usual bedtime routine: washing up, toothbrushing and a couple of books. I put the girls in their cribs while singing to them -- more to calm myself than them, I think -- kiss them goodnight, and get the hell out of there. Thirty minutes of yoga, a Daily Show episode and two glasses of wine later, and all is right with the world. Not counting Wall Street.

There's a comfort in the bedtime ritual. I don't like skipping it. But sometimes -- hoo boy. There's just no way. Hopefully, this won't be the case the night after tomorrow when I plan to read the book Corduroy to the girls before bed. (Watch now as I deftly segue into a public service announcement!) Thousands of other people across the country will be doing the same thing. It's part of Read For the Record -- a very cool initiative by an organization called Jumpstart that a friend of mine is involved with. One of its goals is to set a world record for the number of people simultaneously reading the same book to kids on the same day (that's Corduroy, on October 2).

The larger goal is to promote literacy among children in low-income populations, to help give them a leg-up for success in school. All the proceeds of the Corduroy books Jumpstart sells go to their literacy and early education initiatives, and if you want, you can donate a copy to a kid in a low-income community. But even if you don't buy a book -- i.e. if you've already got a copy, or would rather go to your friendly and helpful local library -- you can go to the site and register to be a part of the reading event.

I always liked Corduroy as a kid, and it really stuck with me. There was something kind of dreamlike and surreal about this little toy bear wandering around a department store at night, trying to pull buttons off of mattresses. Seeing as Elsa and Clio are big fans of bears, buttons, books, and surrealism, I think they'll enjoy the story. And if one or both of them is having a fit on Thursday night, I'm going to read it to them at bedtime anyway, dammit, so that one day I can tell them that when they were just wee little tantrum-prone things, they helped set a world record and promote literacy. Hope you'll join us!

And now back to your regularly scheduled program...

And we're back.

Roper — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 01:17:00 GMT

Home again, after a week at family camp in New Hampshire, followed by a few days in Vermont, where Alastair played in a folk festival. I am pleased to report that we had a really lovely time. In fact, this is the first time we've gone away with the girls that I wasn't dying to come home by the end of it. The secret: expectation management. As I mentioned in my last post, I went into this vacation with my eyes wide open, knowing it was going to be tiring and chaotic and nothing like pre-child trips of yore. But I very consciously decided not to be grumpy about this, and try, instead, to savor what is so fabulous and rewarding about having Clio and Elsa along for the ride.

Like introducing them to the wonderful game of bocce. The balls were a little too heavy for the girls to pick up, so we played a little-known, ancient variation on the game where you run up and down the bocce court waving your hands over your head and squealing, and occasionally kicking one of the balls. (It's still played this way in a certain village in Sardinia, I'm told.)

Really, with a little creative adaptation and irresponsible parenting, lots of games can be adapted to include twin toddlers. We're going to lobby for Baby Pong to be included in the 2012 Olympics. (Please note: no children were harmed in the making of this photo.)

We also spent a lot of time on the swings, of which there were many. The girls currently refer to swings / the act of swinging as "whee!"

Predictably, the girls weren't enthusiastic about spending time in the lake, but on one occasion they did a little wading and splashing.

We also managed to steal a little time for ourselves, with help from many wonderful folks on the island, first and foremost Alastair's parents -- or "Abu" and "Jaycee" as the girls call them these days. (Abu is short for Abuelito, and Jaycee is some kind of corruption/blend of "Grandma J" and "Joyce" we think...). I managed to make some respectable headway in "Middlemarch," Alastair defended his crown as men's singles tennis champ, and we made it out to some of our favorite evening activities. Like talent night.

Yep, that's me in the middle, channeling Steven Tyler, singing "Walk this Way" at the talent show, with the kickass staff band. I sounded like crap, but I totally had the moves. (And the snakeskin pants.)

The girls did their share of partying, too. They loved the pre-dinner cocktail parties at people's cabins, where they did carb-loading that would put Michael Phelps to shame.

Of course, it wasn't all Aerosmith and Pepperidge Farm all the time. Elsa was teething, and had some rough days, when she'd periodically start wailing miserably for no reason. Clio had a couple of all-out screaming fits, both diaper-rash and fatigue-induced, right as lunch started, so I ended up back at the cabin eating PB&J while she napped. And the mosquitos were vicious. Still, it was easily our best family vacation yet. More thoughts on that to come, but for now I leave you with a family portrait, which may be a serious contender for this year's holiday card....

Oh, and for anyone who's been waiting up nights for the answer's to last week's trivia challenge:

1. D (Clio went through a phase of screaming before bed unless we stayed there and rubbed her back. We did it a few times then finally realized we just had to let her cry it out and break the cycle. It worked.)

2. D (All of the above. She seems to have developed a whole new crying vocabulary of late.)

3. B (Elsa has been fighting wearing a bib when she's overtired. And once she refuses, Clio refuses too. Joy!)

4. A (They can say 'Thank you'! Sometimes...)

5. C, D, F (Blow her nose, wear a barette, totally f*** up our cable box)

6. A, B, D, E (Say please when cajoled, climb up the slide, walk down stairs by herself, has tried to lift the cat by her tail)

7. True, regrettably

8. True. (I'm almost certain)

Thanks for playing!

Understanding Clio

Roper — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 00:22:00 GMT

Over the past few months, Clio has gotten increasingly...how do I put this?...particular. First it was books, as I wrote about in this post, a few months back. Then, it started happening with sippy cups. We noticed that if we filled two different colored cups, Clio had strong preferences about which one she wanted: pink trumped all, and purple or orange were better than blue or green. Try to hand her the wrong color cup, and she'd push it away and say "no" until you offered her the other one.

Then, just when I thought I had her color preferences all figured out, she changed her game. She started consistently refusing the first cup I offered her, in favor of the second one, regardless of color. And then sometimes -- in a cunning and exasperating twist -- once she had that one, she'd whine until I swapped it for Elsa's cup. (Elsa, bless her heart, could care less.) So now I just hold up both cups and let her choose.

What's even stranger (or cuter or more annoying, depending on my mood) is that she also has preferences when two items are EXACTLY THE SAME. Por ejemplo: we have two identical toothbrushes, which we use interchangeably on the girls. The same color, the same design, everything. But lately, Clio won't accept the first one I hand her. Or she will, after I try offering her the second one. Or maybe, if Jupiter is aligned with Mars and the date is a prime number and the Sox are playing at home, she'll take the first toothbrush the first time. Who can predict -- let alone understand -- the ways of the Clio?

Sometimes I think she just likes the process of it all: the chance to assert what she wants, then refuse it, then ask for it again. Other times I wonder if it's a twin-specific thing. Is she trying to prove (to herself and to us?) that she and her sister are not interchangeable? That she has very specific needs and wants, and we can't expect to treat her and her sister them the same way, even when it comes to something as simple as offering them a toothbrush or a cup or a cracker? I'm just glad that this fussiness hasn't extended to all aspects of life -- clothes, shoes, diapers, car seats. (Can you imagine? No, mama, I don't want to be on the left! I want to be on the right, where Elsa is. No, no, no! Not over here! On the left! That's what I said! Yes it is. Why are you looking at me like that?)

I am reminded of a classic snapshot in one of our old family albums, labeled "The Tantrum in Tomorrowland." It was taken in 1980 on our first family trip to Disney World, and features my father, in a shaggy beard and slightly too-tight, bright red, Jack Tripper-esque shorts, grinning with sarcastic fervor while holding my writhing, screaming, three-year-old brother in his arms. What happened was this: we'd all started to climb a staircase to some sort of rocket thing, my father leading the way. My brother piped up and told my father that he wanted to go first. So, my father obligingly stepped back down to let him go ahead. But no. My father had already ruined it. My brother couldn't go first -- it wasn't the same -- because our father already had. There was no remedying the situation. He (my brother, that is) proceeded to scream and cry inconsolably for at least fifteen minutes (I think at some point my mom and I left and went on the Mad Hatter teacup ride....) until he finally fell asleep, right on the pavement.

I really would prefer to avoid this kind of scenario.

Every time I hand Clio the wrong cup, I fear that she's going to snap because I didn't comply with her need to have everything just so. I'm sure this control thing is a natural developmental stage, and it's silly of me to take it too seriously. Still, I find myself bending over backward to do things the way Clio seems to want me to, just to keep her from freaking out. It's probably not a good habit to get into. But they're such small, innocent things. Like the other night, when she insisted on sleeping in the hooded towel I'd put on her after her bath. (She's a big fan of having things on her head -- except when she's completely opposed to it.) What's the harm, right?

Or should I be trying to break her of these little pecularities and get her to chill? Is my complicity fueling unhealthy, compulsive behavior? Or should I continue to take the path of least resistance and humor her? Please advise.

Cry Baby

Roper — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 19:14:00 GMT

Elsa is really starting to get on my nerves. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to stay stuff like that. And most of the time she is, of course, delightful. But it seems like she's doing a lot more crying and whining lately: to be picked up, to be fed, to be given her cup or bottle, to be taken out of her high chair.

A couple of times over the past few days, she's even thrown all-out tantrums. This is definitely a new development. Both times, she was in her high chair eating and then suddenly -- seemingly out of the blue -- started freaking out. We tried giving her different food, holding her, giving her her cup, etc., but she was, for a few minutes, inconsolable. She even kicked and flailed when I tried to hold her. So finally, we just let her walk (more like stomp) around the room crying and screaming until she calmed down.

I have no idea what she was upset about. Her food wasn't to her liking? Her peas and carrots clashed? She was worried about the economy? I don't know if it's normal for 14-almost-15-month-olds to start throwing tantrums, but if it is (please tell me it is....) I would wager it's due to communication frustration. There's so much now that she can tell us -- she knows the sign language for "drink" and "eat" and "more." She can lift her arms up when she wants to be held and shove a book at me when she wants to be read to. She even sometimes points at her rear end when she needs to be changed -- a new and promising skill. But I'm sure there's much more going on inside her head that she can't get across: I'm sick of mac and cheese! This bib is scratchy! I'm tired and bored and my college savings funds are nosediving while you sit there trying to get me to eat chunks of over-microwaved Boca burger! Agggghhghghgh!!

My instincts tell me that at this stage of the game there's not a whole lot we can do during these outbursts except just give her some space to cool off. As for the other, more low-grade whining and crying, I don't know. Since day one, Elsa has been a bit of a drama queen (not that I'd ever dress her in a shirt that said so...), and her crying has always seemed somehow very *emotional.* I love the fact that she's passionate and intense and stubborn. But it's definitely becoming more of a challenge. Although I am generally able to keep my cool ("Everything's OK, sweetie, Mommy's getting your milk right now, please be patient," or "Mommy can't pick you up right now because she's changing Clio's diaper, but I'll play with you as soon as I'm done" etc. etc.) -- the occasional, "What is up with you, Elsa? Chill, girl!" does slip out. I'm beginning to have dire visions of the future -- tantrums in the grocery store, battles over bedtime, notes sent home with the principal, squad cars pulling up to our house with -- OK, OK, I'll stop.

At least this is one time where the twin thing is a comfort. While Clio certainly does her share of crying and whining, too, she's generally much more mellow. So at least we can be reasonably sure that Elsa's behavior isn't a result of our doing something horribly, dreadfully wrong. I don't think...