Code: Meltdown

June 23, 2011 by ·

We’re good at meltdowns in this house. I can pull off a spectacular one, though have had less need lately. Connor, on the other hand, has an ongoing, intrinsic need to completely lose his cool on a fairly regular basis.

This is normal for toddlers, I know. Occasionally – very occasionally – I find it funny. This is huge progress, mind you, because I used to absolutely lose it when he lost it, and that was all kinds of not pretty. One of the reasons I know I’m getting better at tolerating his meltdowns is that I’ve developed my own little rating system. The Code: Meltdown System has three levels.

The characteristics of a Code One Meltdown include:

  • Dropping to the floor in a puddle because he didn’t get what he wanted (see also: Things the Books Don’t Tell You, item #2).
  • Refusing to brush his teeth.
  • Flopping around on his bed like a chubby, soft little fish in cute jammies because he doesn’t want to go to sleep. Usually accompanied by on-and-off tears and the wail of “I don’t want to go to sleep!” which means he’s tired.
  • Throwing something, but gently because he doesn’t really want to invoke the Wrath of Mama.
  • A brief bout of tears that subside when the appropriate response is given to the arms-raised, sad-face “up” gesture.

With a Code Two Meltdown you get:

  • Ongoing tears that don’t respond to normal efforts to provide comfort and a resounding “NO!” to anything offered as a possible diversion.
  • Any of the following: running away, pushing, hitting, biting, smearing toothpaste on the sink/counter/mother, throwing things with aim and intention, hiding with face buried in couch cushions, adopting rag doll pose, or mimicking octopus limbs while dressing is being attempted.
  • One of the following outbursts, always included for the purposes of attention seeking or release of frustrated energy: loud banging, a trademarked “RAWR” (that I really must get on camera one day because it’s a perfect combination of dinosaur/pissed off toddler), or, more recently, a scrunched-up, spitting sort of face that I don’t understand but certainly don’t appreciate.

The Code Three Meltdown is where things get really interesting:

  • Screaming. My god, this kid can scream.
  • Did I mention screaming?
  • Very physical responses – usually aimed at parental head and face regions – designed to provoke a specific response.
  • Throwing himself on the floor and writhing around in a way that makes it almost impossible to pick him up (but not quite, ha ha).
  • More screaming, which, as the defining characteristic of the Code Three Meltdown, tends to go on for quite some time.

As I’ve previously admitted, he gets a lot of this from me, so I get it (though it’s also – hopefully? – because the toddler switch has been flicked to “ON”).

This system is more observation than criticism, and besides, when tolerating a meltdown, analyzing the level and assigning a code to it gives me something to do other than stabbing myself in the eardrums so I don’t have to listen to it. That’s good parenting, right?

This previously published photo is an example of a Code One Meltdown (liked his outfit, didn't want his picture taken). Funnily enough, I don't have a photo of a Code Three. Must get on that.

 

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Confessions of a Depressed Canine

May 14, 2011 by ·

Depression isn’t contagious in humans, but I’m starting to wonder if I’ve given it to my dog.

Poor Finley – he hasn’t been the same since we brought Connor home. We did the introduction thing and the blanket-smelling thing when we came home from the hospital and for a while he seemed okay. Curious, and perhaps a little suspicious, but okay.

Then Connor started to get mobile, and apparently this was NOT OKAY. Finley watched with surprise, and then concern, and then he started to get a little too close as though he was perfectly prepared to put the chubby little crawling thing in his place. So we carefully intervened on Connor’s behalf to make sure his chub stayed intact, but as Connor has grown it’s Finley who needs us to run interference.

This is generally related to Connor’s tendency to be active and physical and, well, two. We’ve taught him that he needs to be gentle, and usually he is. But occasionally Finley gets a completely undeserved swat, which we treat with zero tolerance so it’s getting better.

But at the first sign of any sort of discipline – even a calm command for a time-out – Finley’s tail starts to droop. If Connor is crying, for whatever reason, Finley lurks nearby, tail between his legs, head dropped, everything in his pose revealing his concern. If we get into a true cut-it-out, I’m-serious, quit-being-so-two! situation with Connor, Finley runs for cover.

Maybe it was that first year when things were so rough – Connor was fussy, didn’t sleep, cried a lot. I didn’t cope, didn’t sleep, cried a lot. Maybe Finley has Post Traumatic Connor Disorder as well.

At times we’ve found him cowering on the stairs or under a desk or chair. Sometimes his poor little fuzzy body shakes. When Connor’s in the house, Finley is always on high alert. I feel guilty for not being able to protect him from this.

Or maybe I shouldn’t feel that guilt – shouldn’t worry that there was too much tension when Connor was a baby and my reaction to it has traumatized my dog for life. Maybe it’s just the combination of a dog who likes his routine and a child who is determined to keep things interesting.

But I feel for my furry baby, and when he looks at me with those sad puppy-dog eyes I know just how he feels.

 

In his happy place.

 

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Thoughts for My Mother

April 20, 2011 by ·

If my mom were a blogger I know exactly what she’d be like. She’d be the kind of person who pours her heart onto the page without worrying too much what other people think. She would start writing thinking no one would read – except maybe her kids – and then realize her ability to create a community around her would work magic in the blogosphere as well. People would read because she was a mom in the time before mommy bloggers and therefore her story is different. And yet it’s very much the same.

I could never have imagined how the advent of one small child into my life would change things, permanently. I was pretty passionate about everything I tried, passionate about business, passionate about training, passionate about travel, passionate about the mountains and skiing. So no one ever expected me to drop it all in favour of one small child.

I also could never have imagined how much time one small child took up. I think I envisioned myself getting up in the morning, dressing the small (and of course perfect) child in something becoming, and sitting, sipping tea and reading mind-expanding material to said child so that he or she grew up to be something extraordinary. The reality, as you can imagine, was quite different and a bit messier.

The day the earth-shaking child chose to make her entrance was cold and snowy… I won’t go into boring detail about the following day but it was indeed D Day and while I remember thinking, “Well, I will never do this again,” I was in for the surprise of my life. What was about to happen to me resulted in not one small child, but 4, and my life being co-opted and enriched in a way that was totally unexpected.

At 4:31 p.m. on December 21st, a child was born. She looked at me with my eyes. Then the whole world shifted.

Those of you who are members of The Red Dress Club will recognize the beginning and end of this piece as a recent prompt. My mom read what I wrote and then sent me a piece of her own, part of which is excerpted above.

“You should start a blog,” I told her.

“I wouldn’t have enough to say,” was her response.

I confess I laughed. My mom? Not have enough to say? She’s interested in everything. She could write and write and write and still not run out of things to say. She would write thoughtful posts. Insightful posts. Funny posts. She would probably write a lot of poignant posts. She would write posts that would connect to something in people and they would comment. And then she would click on links and follow tweets and read others’ writing and comment back.

That’s the sort of person my mother is – through her involvement in various things she becomes part of something. As far back as I can remember she’s been genuinely interested in people’s stories.

My mom is not a blogger, but her earth-shaking child is. And right now, reading the things I have written – especially recently – I imagine it’s hard to be my mother. So because I have, yet again, shaken her world, I will use my own blog to tell her this:

I know you’re worried.

I know you wish you knew how to help.

I know you’re beating yourself up about not noticing sooner or not coming by more. About saying the wrong things. About not knowing what the right things are.

I know you’re watching and reading and trying to understand, and I love you for it.

I know you don’t really understand though.

I actually don’t think you can. If you haven’t experienced this – especially this experience as it relates to being a mother – I really don’t think it’s possible to know what it’s like. During the times I feel good, even I can’t remember what the bad feels like.

I imagine just knowing I’m struggling, whether you understand it or not – and perhaps especially if you do not – is consuming you with stress and worry.

You might feel as though I’m not reaching out to you enough. Don’t take it personally – it’s not really anything to do with you. I just can’t right now.

I don’t know why this happened and I’m not entirely sure how to fix it, but I feel like I’m getting closer to finding the way.

You have to trust that it will be all right.

That’s what I’m doing. I’m holding on and trusting that it will be all right.

This is not to exclude my dad, but I think for my mom it’s different. And besides, that’s not what the prompt said. 😉

Linked up with Mama Kat, prompt #2: If my mom were a blogger…

Mama’s Losin’ It

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The “Difficult” Child

April 12, 2011 by ·

When Connor was really young – I don’t know how young, but young enough to still be considered an infant – I got a book from the library called Raising Your Spirited Child. My husband saw it on the stairs and gave me a funny look.

“Oh, you better believe we’re going to need that,” I assured him.

I skimmed the book and my resolve fled in fear at some of the descriptions of “spirited” behaviour. I don’t think I actually got to the how-to-deal-with-it stuff before promptly sliding it down the library’s return chute, out of sight.

I’ve thought of the “spirited child” concept many times since and I now know exactly what the author is talking about. The complete and utter meltdown because I’ve put his water in the wrong cup. The sheer determination this child shows in refusing to go to sleep easily or stay asleep once there. His spirit – unless sick – seems to know no bounds.

A Today’s Parent article about parenting the “difficult” child has me thinking about this again. “Difficult” isn’t really a word I like in the context of children and, besides, saying he’s “difficult” doesn’t really help people who don’t have difficult kids understand what’s meant by that. I do, however, like how the article’s author defines it:

First let me say that by “difficult” I mean kids who are more difficult to raise. In fact, more is the operative word here — more active, more inclined to explore (read: get into things), more emotional, more likely to question, more labour-intensive, more just about everything — apart from obeying, sleeping and playing by themselves.

This describes Connor exactly. Everyone who meets him comments on how “busy” he is. He gets into everything. He comes by his emotional nature naturally (ahem) but even I’m surprised sometimes at how immediate and explosive his reactions are. My mom once commented that he’s the type of kid who needs four parents. Let me assure you – as one of the two parents he has, I’m well aware we’re understaffed.

The “except” part of that description applies too. Obey? Not so much. And he’s not good at playing by himself – less so, even, than the average almost-three-year-old. And have I mentioned that he doesn’t sleep well? There have been times it felt like he didn’t sleep at all.

The Spirited Child book offers the same observation:

Research shows that spirited kids are wired to be “more”—by temperament, they are more intense, sensitive, perceptive, persistent, and uncomfortable with change than the average child.

“More” sums it up perfectly. Everything about Connor is “more”.

 

 

 

 

I’m a Type A and an introvert (which are not, as you might think, mutually exclusive qualities). I like to be busy, but on my terms. I like to have control over things. And at the end of the day I like to come home and decompress with a little quiet time. Having all of that and being a mom to a toddler – especially one who is “more”  – do seem to be mutually exclusive. I know it comes with the territory, but it’s tough for me. Really tough.

My husband and I have always talked about how we think this side of him is a good thing. I’d much rather have a happy, active kid than one who sits there like a barnacle on a rock.

I’m starting to appreciate what this actually means. The summary of the Spirited Child book notes that spirited children “possess traits we value in adults yet find challenging in children.” Quite coincidentally, my therapist pointed this out recently too.

Connor is smart, curious, creative, active, attentive and really, really loving. I do value those qualities in him now, even if I don’t always appreciate the side effects.

I really, really hope he carries those qualities with him to adulthood, and I’m willing to do my part as his mom to support that.

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I Am a Mother

April 11, 2011 by ·

There are times when I embrace my motherhood – when I temporarily allow the rest of the world to fade away and cease to matter. In these moments I find peace and rightness, as though I’ve found the fulcrum on which my life is meant to pivot.

This is not to say the rest doesn’t matter at all. I will always be more than a mother. It’s just that in those moments I am a mother but I am also me. I can see myself. I’m not hidden behind a curtain I didn’t see being pulled.

Connor has been sick since Friday night. Nothing major (knock wood) – just the stomach bug that’s going around. But it knocked him flat. My whirlwind lost his whirl.

For the better part of three days I’ve been sitting on the couch, holding my small boy. His temperature raged and, in compensation and protest, his hot little body melted into me, sleepy and still.

I did all the mama things that come with a child who has a stomach bug – cleaning up, calming down, doing laundry. When clothes needed to be changed I changed them. When we ran out of sheets in the middle of the night I improvised.

But those are just the things we must do as mothers. We do them with love, but they must be done. To be fair, my husband took on most of the worst of it, but still. Those things are not the things that truly define me as a mother.

Mother and Child on a Couch, by James Abbott McNeill Whistler

When my child had been sick in the middle of the night and wanted his mama, I was a mother.

When I sat on the couch hour after hour holding him, I was a mother.

When I coaxed medicine down his throat, counting squirts and promising juice chasers, I was a mother.

When I lay next to him in bed at night listening to his breathing long after he had fallen back asleep, I was a mother.

This type of illness is nothing compared to what some mothers face. Nothing. But the type of worry – the what-if worry – is in the same category. It makes us mothers.

I am a mother because, when he woke up after that first long night and wanted nobody but his mama, I returned to the couch and continued to hold him even though my body ached with tiredness.

I am a mother because I would have taken on every pain, every symptom, if it would have taken it away from him.

I am a mother because during this time his every need came before mine. I gave up sleep when I needed to sleep. I delayed meals when I needed to eat. I passed on exercise when  I needed to move.

Instead, I held him.

Because I am his mother.

 

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