Category: Parenting

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My Life As an Idiot

So three year old Mary Tyler Son said to me yesterday morning, “You don’t know a lot of stuff, Mom, do you?”  What the what?  Oh no, he didn’t.

Oh, yes, he did.

We were working on a five layer body puzzle and as we were moving from muscles to the under layer of organs, Mary Tyler Son pointed to the testicles on the anatomically correct little boy from the puzzle and said, “Those are his testicles.”  “Wow,” I said, “How did you know that?” 

Apparently, Mary Tyler Dad has started anatomy lessons, which is cool, but it’s kind of shocking to hear your three year old correctly identify testicles.  Penis is old hat — Mary Tyler Son could correctly point to his penis before his eyes.  Testicles are new.

My toddler boy mistook my surprise for ignorance and seized the opportunity to tell me in a matter-of-fact yet somehow smug manner that his old lady “doesn’t know a lot of stuff.” 

This pushed a lot of buttons in me.  Feminist buttons.  There’s something about a three year old boy, albeit a brilliant and verbal one, telling his forty-two year old mother that she is dense.  Making it worse, he then told me that Mary Tyler Dad knows everything.  Which he does, but still.

I’m still trying to sort out my feelings. 

On the one hand, the kid is three.  He is complete id and will say whatever pops into his head.  On the other hand, he thinks I don’t know very much.  That stings.  I vascillated between sharing my hurt feelings with him and giving him an intellectual smackdown he would not soon forget.  Punk. 

In the end, I opted to take the high road.  I briefly told him that what he said was unkind and hurt my feelings, but didn’t dwell on that.  Okay, internally I did, and obviously still am, but I don’t want to lay that mother guilt on the boy.  Empathy is best taught in doses, and never using guilt as a tool.

After that, though, I made certain to be more assertive with just what I did know.  Rather than take the more trusted route of prompting the boy to state what he knows, I took this episode as a sign that it is okay to share my knowledge more freely.  I don’t have the intellectual moves like Einstein, but my brain is not a shabby one.   It works pretty well most days.

Big picture, though, this raises all sorts of fears about raising a son.  As his mom, it is my solemn and sworn duty to raise a man that is not a nickname for Richard.  You get my anatomical drift? 

I want my son to value and respect women as much as men.  I want my son to know that brains have nothing to do with gender.  I want my son to appreciate the humor of Tina Fey as well as Judd Apatow.  And I want my son to know that his Mom and Dad are both pretty smart cookies, just different flavors.

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Toddler Ten Commandments

These Toddler Ten Commandments were handed down generations ago, written, scribbled actually, on the underside of cereal boxes with crayons. Anthropologists recently unearthed, from landfills miles deep in petroleum fortified disposable diapers, these Toddler Commandments and are currently verifying their providence.  True story.

Toddler Girl Crying

1.  Thou shalt not do anything asked of you only once.  Repeating things is good for our parents as it will prepare them for a lifetime of needing to do this with us.

2.  Thou shalt prefer sugar, in any form, above all other flavors.

3.  Thou shalt approach grandparents or other such malleable adults who appear especially impressed with our cuteness for those big ticket items our parents deny us.

4.  Thou shalt never go to the bathroom on demand without first exercising the power of, “NO!”

5.  Thou shalt covet our neighbors’ toys, proving the theory that OKT (“other kids’ toys”) are invariably better than our own.

6.  Thou shalt request macaroni-and-cheese at every single meal.

7.  Thou shalt not submit easily at the end of the day.  “Do not go gently into the night,” is not a metaphor about death, people, it is the banner call of toddlers everywhere.

8.  Thou shalt lose crucial single pieces of puzzles, toys, and Legos, making the toy’s proper usage impossible, though still within the possibility of findability, making disposal prohibited.

9.  Thou shalt sense when our parents are coming to the end of their proverbial ropes, in danger of denying us necessary privileges, and smile and look all innocent adorableness until the threat of denial has passed.

10.  Thou shalt incite the fear of adults in airplanes by our mere presence.  If we meltdown, we are only living up to our reputation.  If we do not meltdown, we are impressing those around us, thereby increasing our access to sugar, macaroni-and-cheese, and toys.

Toddler Boy Crying

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Super Nanny Where Are You? The Reverse Time-Out

Time-outs are not a common thing in our home, but they happen.  Mary Tyler Son just turned three years old and every once in a while that adorable angel, the fruit of our marital love, acts the fool. 

Yes.  It happens.

We follow a fairly standard time-out routine.  Having just turned three, Mary Tyler Son is now doled out three minutes in the time-out chair instead of two for his indescretions.  Most commonly, those involve hitting one of us, kicking us, or simply not responding to our directions without them being repeated a number of times.  I see red when my boy is impertinent.  There is no way in hell that I would have ever been allowed to sass my Irish Catholic father.  Mary Tyler Dad is more patient and forgiving on that count.  Not me. 

Believe me when I say that Super Nanny taught me everything I know about toddler discipline.  For reals.  That gal is smart.  Like Toddler Whisperer smart.  When her show was cancelled, my heart started beating fast, as I never fully paid attention to her discipline strategies for older kids, tweens, or teens.  Mary Tyler Son is %^&*$# after age five (UGH – I just made another promise to my Dad that I would not swear on MTM). 

But he is not five yet.  He is just three and that means I have two more years to worry about discipline post toddlerhood.  That will come later.

Right now, I am struggling with our current time-out protocol and with Super Nanny having left me high and dry, I need help.  Your help. 

Mary Tyler Son is smart.  And feisty.  Kind of like me.  He does not like his time-out accommodations and getting him to sit still in the designated chair (a super cool mid-century restaurant booster seat in bent wood and red vinyl, yo) turns a three minute time-out into a 40 minute ordeal. 

He knows his Dad is coming from a different discipline place and style and has conned him into having a time-out in his lap or on the top stair (so unsafe when you have 14 stairs).  He knows I am a glutton for punishment and will spend the time it takes to keep his toochus in that little piece of mid-century perfection.  I will do just as Super Nanny instructed and without words keep returning that boy to his seat. 

At some magincal point in this interaction, without fail, it becomes about THE PRINCIPLE for me.  If I tell my misbehaving boy to sit in a chair for three minutes, dagnabbit it, he will sit in that chair for three minutes.  This has made time-outs a bit of a contact sport in our home.  Mary Tyler Son strays and I retrieve.  The clock does not start ticking until his bum in on the seat.  He knows this and challenges it every last time.

This is tiring.  Exhausting for both of us.  Silly, really, but still necessary, as I do not want to raise a brat that has no respect for rules, boundaries, the needs of others.  No, siree!  I want to raise kids who are aware and respectful of others and their needs.  This is “non-negotiable,” a term I use frequently to alert my son when something is a deal breaker. 

Okay.  That said, I don’t always have 40 minutes to administer proper discipline technique, expecially as Mary Tyler Son is most likely to misbehave during transitions — time for bed, time for nap, time for leaving the house, time to eat.  And, yes, I always give fair warning that these transitions are happening.  Exasperatingly, he never hears these warnings and ignores the timer my mother-in-law cleverly suggested we use at the five minute mark.  Sigh.

So anyways.  Yesterday we were both home.  We were tired and cranky after a weekend away visiting grandparents and getting home late.  (Thank you, United Airlines, for allowing me to experience the joys of entertaining my boy at boring mid-sized airport for an extra couple of hours!)  Mary Tyler Son had a bit of a stomach bug, too.  Minor, though.  In retrospect, I think it was just the re-entry to our routine that was upsetting to him.  He missed his grandparents and the lovely time they showed him. 

He kicked me after my explaining for the umpteenth time that No, we were not going to the Shedd Aquarium to see fish.  This despite he himself having gleefully stated he did not want to go see fish as he needed a day at home to “rest.”  He kicked me.  No freaking way my boy is allowed to kick me.  And kicking and hitting are non-warning events — Mary Tyler Son knows that kicking and hitting lead to an instant time-out.  Do not pass GO, do not collect $200.

Well, as expected, his shenanigans started.  Honestly, folks, I did not have it in me to wrestle him for 40 minutes.  After returning him to the time-out seat the third time, turning my back and hearing his little feet follow me, I made an executive decision.  I headed straight to my bedroom, shut and locked the door, and steeled myself for three minutes while Mary Tyler Son wailed and carried on just outside.  Yes, I did.  I might have checked facebook during those three minutes.  Maybe. 

At the end of those moments of deep breathing on my part, I calmly opened the door, kneeled down to talk to my boy, and dropped my jaw when he said, “I’m sorry Mommy.  I’m sorry for kicking you.” He then reached his little arms around my neck to give me “cuddles and kisses,” just like Super Nanny taught us. 

What just happened?  Had I stumbled upon the greatest thing since pre-cut green beans?  Had the time-out gods smiled down at me, providing divine revelation about a different way?  Was I to be the next Super Nanny, elevating the ABC schedule to new heights of amazingness?

I don’t know.  It could be simple dumb luck.  It could never be duplicated again.  I will definitely report back.  With Super Nanny in retirement, we all need some guidance.  How could she have ever left me?  Sigh.