The Fuck-You Fours
December 9, 2012 by ·
A friend of ours noted that it’s not the Terrible Twos parents have to worry about, it’s the Fuck-You Fours. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
The word “fuck” is not one you will see me use often on this blog, but in this case there’s really no other that quite does the topic justice, because lately pretty much everything Connor does seems like a gigantic Fuck You, Mom. I don’t think it’s a result of adjusting to a new baby; I think this is just the phase he’s in right now. And I don’t like it.
Let me pause to say that I hesitate to write this for fear it’s going to be taken as a post, accessible online for all eternity, saying I don’t like my child. But I’m pretty damn sure most parents go through this sort of phase with their kids sooner or later, so let’s just acknowledge that we all love our kids and get on with the rant, shall we?
Four is not a fun age. Two wasn’t bad, and in fact, while we had our challenges, there are many things about two-year-olds (or mine, at least) that I thought were just awesome. At the time, everyone told me three was worse, and while three had its own challenges it really wasn’t awful either. But four. Oh dear lord. Some days I want to lock him in the basement.
Connor has always been very much his own person. We learned early on that if he wanted something he would do everything in his three-foot-tall power to get it. And if he didn’t want it? You’d better have been prepared to have it thrown back at you. Something about this attitude must have worked for him, because as a four-year-old this is now very much his MO.
I’ve thought a lot about our interactions with him and whether we need to be taking a different approach. And honestly, sometimes we do. Some of his behaviour is because he’s bored, and some is because we don’t give him enough time with something, or enough warning that it’s time to stop something, or enough autonomy. And some of it is because he’s hungry. Or tired. Those issues are all theoretically easy to fix and, at times, practically impossible.
I will admit to not having done a lot of reading about parenting philosophy. I don’t have the attention span and I find too much “should”ing counterproductive. But a large part of it is due to having come across so much advice that I just don’t find useful.
Proponents of “gentle parenting” seem to be everywhere these days. I get the concept, and a lot of it I agree with, though the amount of condescension in much of it leaves me blinking in disbelief. (This gentle parenting article (Update: which has now been deleted – hmm…) is especially annoying. The first three paragraphs, which assume that some people either completely ignore or rudely yell at their children, make me really quite cranky. If there’s a gentle parent out there who has never lost her patience with her child I would like to meet her and find out what medication she’s on.) But some much-touted gentle parenting practices are downright farcical when attempted on a child like mine.
The classic “give him a choice” approach is a perfect example. This is how it tends to go in my house [not an actual conversation, but the typical outcome of many real ones nonetheless]:
“Would you like soup or a sandwich for lunch?”
“I want a hog dog.”
“We’re not having hot dogs today. You have a choice of either soup or a sandwich.”
“I want a hot dog.”
“That’s not one of your choices.”
From here his response goes one of two ways:
A: “Well, that’s what I’m having.” [Feet stomping, pout big enough for a bird to land on.]
or
B: Meltdown that makes Chernobyl look tame.
Giving him a choice is not a parenting or communication strategy that works.
I still try. It’s not as though, having been unsuccessful with this approach, I instead turn to dictatorial parenting. I try to determine what he actually needs (as opposed to what he says he wants). I work hard to summon my patience from the reserve tanks when my (admittedly limited) supply has run out. I try to remember that he’s only four.
But, oy. Four. I do love my child, and most of the time I really like him too. But to Four I really have only one thing to say:
Fuck you.
VBAC: A Dad’s Perspective
November 27, 2012 by ·
In talking about Ethan’s birth after the fact, Rich and I realized we had different perspectives on it. Specifically, he remembered things I didn’t, so I asked him to write his version. I’m tempted to add editorial notes in a couple of places (mostly to defend myself!) but have resisted. I hope you enjoy it.
Robin tried to convince me that it was just false labour. That she’d been experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions for a day and a half and, aside from being tired from losing sleep, everything was normal. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Because I don’t remember seeing a grimace on your face yesterday and I’m positive I would have remembered that.”
Then her water broke.
Earlier in the day (yes, I’d left the birth partner books to the last minute) I’d read that encouraging a woman in labour to relax her jaw would also help her relax the rest of her body and make the contractions less painful. So, during a particularly hard contraction I told Robin to do just that. Please read that sentence again. I told her. Not asked. Not suggested. Told. That was my first mistake.
Now, you should know that my wife is a very independent person and has been from a young age. Her mother likes to share the story of Robin’s first sentence as evidence of her independence: “Do it self, mom!” So, you can imagine that, during the difficulties of labour, being told to do something, anything, wasn’t welcome advice. Robin’s reaction was to do the opposite, which made the contraction more painful, which made her declare, “I can’t do this anymore.”
I didn’t think much of that statement at the time but it resonates with me now. Not only could she do this but she would endure so much more before the end of the night.
During a previous visit, our midwife had shared the story of a couple who’d used guided imagery to manage contractions—a leaf rising and falling over a wave of water. It sounded corny to me at the time but it ended up being a lifeline of relief during labour. During every contraction I would describe this leaf climbing up and falling down a wave on a river. And having that leaf to follow really did seem to make the pain more manageable for Robin. So that’s what we did, every contraction – just ride with that leaf.
When it was time to go to the hospital I packed our bag in the car, got Robin settled in the passenger seat and opened the garage door. To my horror I saw that the first snowfall of the season was here. Crap!
I pulled out of the garage and slowly started driving. Every few minutes Robin would grab my hand and say, through gritted teeth, “Do the leaf. Do the leaf.”
So there we were. Wife in labour. Driving to the hospital. In the dark. Snow piling up. Visibility diminishing. People driving like it was the first snowfall of the year. And I kept thinking to myself, “Please don’t crash. I don’t want my son born in a ditch,” all the while trying to describe a leaf on a river.
The end result.
Our midwife arrived at the hospital before us. (Apparently it’s quicker to get around if you’re not doubled over in pain every four minutes. Who knew?) Robin was dressed in a fetal heart rate monitor and a band to measure contractions—precautionary side-effects of her previous C-section. That’s when we discovered something was wrong. During each contraction, the baby’s heart rate dropped. His umbilical cord was being compressed and he was in danger of oxygen deprivation.
The obstetrician on duty was called in and a catheter was inserted into Robin’s uterus so fluid could be pumped in to provide cushioning for the cord during contractions. If that didn’t work Robin would require an emergency C-section.
C-section. It’s a four-letter word in our house and it’s something I’d been dreading. Not on my account but for Robin.
Personally, I would have welcomed another C-section. My fear leading up to the births of both my sons, was that I wouldn’t be an good birth partner. That I would fail to support Robin in the way she needed. That the words I’d choose would make the experience worse or that I wouldn’t be able to physically endure a long labour. (“Sorry honey, you keep going. I’m exhausted.”) The C-section that brought Connor into this world spared me from realizing that fear. If I never had to find out how I’d do as a birth partner, that was fine with me. Bring on the C-section.
But for Robin, having a C-section for Connor’s birth was a robbery. My wish for her, for this delivery, was that she be given the chance to give birth on her terms. That she be able to test herself, if that’s what she needed. To fight on behalf of her helpless son and shepherd him into this world. To prove to something deep inside that she had what it took to be the mother she needed to be.
The additional fluid worked, the baby’s heart rate stayed up, and Robin continued to labour.
He was a little smaller than we anticipated.
During most of her labour Robin was on her feet, walking around the room. During contractions she gripped my hands and rested her forehead on my chest. Towards the end she would growl and implore this baby to come out.
Then came the overwhelming need to push.
Gathered in the room were at least ten people: Robin, two midwives, the obstetrician, her resident, a nurse, three members of the NICU, and me. The additional fluid had leaked out and the umbilical cord was again being compressed. If this baby wasn’t delivered right away then the obstetrician had no choice but to use a vacuum to pull him out—something we wanted to avoid.
During the next contraction Robin was to resist as long as she could and then push with all her might—even after the contraction ended. The problem was that five people were trying to explain the plan to her at once.
She looked over at me with a mix of confusion and exhaustion and said, “Tell me what to do.”
We waited. Then she pushed with everything she had. When she could no longer hold her legs up, our midwife and I held them for her. She pushed like she’d already given birth to three kids. I could see the baby’s head. She growled. She pushed again and in a sublime moment, his head came out. One more push and out followed the rest of his body.
Immediately I felt an overwhelming sense of joy, pride and relief. Joy in the fact that he was here and healthy. Pride in Robin and what she’d accomplished. Relief that it was all done.
Only it wasn’t all done. There was a problem. The placenta hadn’t released from the uterus and the obstetrician would have to remove it manually.
Our midwife offered Robin laughing gas and I held her hand as she screamed and screamed while the obstetrician, as carefully as she could, reached her arm inside and scraped away pieces of placenta. “Just one more time.” “I’m so sorry. Just one more time.” FOUR times.
Midwives experience a lot of deliveries. After everything was done and Robin cradled her baby to her chest, Wendy, a seasoned midwife, turned to me and said something that I’ll never forget. She’d not met many people who were able to endure what Robin just had—“She’s one tough lady.”
And I agree.
Looking for my version of this story? Start here with part one.
River of Consciousness
November 26, 2012 by ·
I desperately need to sleep, but we’re going out for dinner tonight so I don’t have time. Instead I get into the bath, except we don’t have quite enough hot water to fill the tub and I think, “That figures.”
Parts of my limbs stick out and they feel cool in contrast to the hot water. Cold, at first, but then refreshing.
I lie back and feel a single drop of water slide down my face. It bisects my temple exactly and then rolls toward my cheekbone where it disappears entirely, absorbed into the moisture on my face. I wonder if it was a tear, but no, tears don’t start at the temple, and besides, I’m holding my tears in.
I’m so tired.
I deliberately brought nothing to entertain me into the bath – no book, no phone, no iPad. I’m trying to force myself to relax and sink into something other than mothering, but at first the thoughts rush through my mind like a river – fast, tumbling over rocks, rushing past the stillness outside it.
Soon, eyes closed, I notice that the warmth from the water has seeped up through my body, and my knees and shoulders are no longer cold. All I feel is heat. It makes me sleepy.
For a while there is nothing. The river is still.
Then, for a moment, I lift my hand from the water to scratch an itch. The air feels cool and it wakes me up a bit. Then the contrast – heat again as I sink my hand back into the water.
Overhead, the bathroom fan is loud. Normally this bothers me but today I am grateful that it drowns out the noise, both in my head and beyond the door.
The river is still. Warm. Sleepy.
Almost asleep.
Time to get out.
[This was last week and I’ve significant catch-up sleep since then. I wrote this in my head in the bath (because apparently my brain doesn’t respond to “stop”) and then did some free-writing when I got out to get it down. It just seemed like something worth capturing.]
The Story of the Baby Who Didn’t Sleep
November 13, 2012 by ·
I didn’t shower until 6 p.m. today. When you have a new baby some days are like that, even when there are two parents at home.
Ethan didn’t sleep today, you see.
Well, okay, that’s not quite the whole story. A big part of the reason is that I didn’t get up until almost noon today. I dug my pump out yesterday and pumped last night, which turned out to be fabulous timing because Connor was at my parents’ for a sleepover. That meant no four-year-old coming into our room this morning at dark o’clock and proceeding to bounce off the walls. No thumps and bumps and yells reverberating around the house while I try to catch some extra sleep in the morning. Instead I handed the baby to Rich, pointed them in the direction of the bottle in the fridge, and went back to sleep.
It was heavenly.
I’m blessed to have parents who will take my older child overnight. I’ve always appreciated that, but now I really, really appreciate it. As of yesterday, I was at the point of being so tired I was starting to twitch. When I went for a nap yesterday Connor said, “Have a good sleep. I hope you’re less grumpy.” It was a totally fair comment. (But, bless him, he said it with no malice or resentment – more an observation than a wish.)
It was a good thing I got some sleep this morning, because I spent most of the rest of the day trying to convince my smallest boy that sleep is a good thing. A really good thing. Worth a shot, even if looking out the window sounds more fun.
He wasn’t interested.
I think we emptied our entire bag of tricks today – rocking, bouncing, nursing. We tried the swing, the car seat and the car. We held him and we tried him in his crib. We changed him. We swaddled him. We de-swaddled him. We sang and used white noise and music and quiet.
Nothing worked.
Hi. I’m not sleeping.
In a moment of pure opportunism this afternoon I decided to take the dog for a walk, figuring that Ethan would sleep in the stroller. It was a farce. I navigated slushy sidewalks while keeping the leash out of the stroller wheels and simultaneously pulling Ethan’s hat up off his eyes so he wouldn’t complain. Because he wasn’t sleeping, of course. Heading home while Ethan howled, I noticed the dog was sporting a dollop of yellow snow on his nose.
I had had enough.
At that moment I might have melted down into my own little puddle of slush in our entryway had I not had the benefit of some extra sleep this morning.
When Rich pulled out the last tool in our arsenal – the Baby Bjorn – and even that didn’t work I figured nothing was going to.
(As a related aside, are all babies chronically sleep deprived? Are there any who, at this young age, actually nap cooperatively during the day? No wait, don’t answer that. If there are babies like that I don’t think I want to know.)
Tonight after a very quick dinner and a shower while Rich took Ethan for a drive, I sat in the rocking chair in his room, one hand holding him to me, the other keeping his soother plugged in. He finally went to sleep just after 7 p.m.
What started out as a heavenly day turned into a hard one. My left arm is perpetually numb from holding him. My back aches in a line up my spine and my shoulders are burning. My neck cracks when I turn my head.
It’s entirely possible we’ll have to deal with the hard stuff again tomorrow, so it’s time for me to sleep. I shall dream of bottles in the fridge and the next heavenly morning when I can sleep. At least I’m old enough to know it’s good for me.
