Category — Toddler-hood

I’m really glad this topic came up on this week’s ControverSunday (check out some more chatter on it here) because discipline has been on my mind lately.

The girls are 18 months old now and I definitely see those terrible two’s setting in already. You don’t have to say it. I already know: We’ve only just begun.

Here’s what happens:

1. Children are happy.
2. Mom and/or Dad take something away. Whether that be the Coolest Toy of the Moment, or a beloved shoe (the girls are obsessed with shoes), or simply their essential happiness and livelihood (you would think), we take something from the child(ren).
3. Earth is engulfed by flames from Hell. Angels fall from the sky. Christmas ceases to exist and the Easter Bunny explodes into a million shards of jagged glass. Famine. Pestilence. Disease.

I took a cup away from Althea yesterday. In response, she threw a toy at me. I put her, crying and heaving, in a chair in the dark hall corner for a time out. It was her first real time out.

Elise throws food from her high chair and it annoys me to no end. I used to do time outs with that. Elise would sit in the corner like, “Thank GOD. I’ve been trying to get away from you all day.” So after 87 completely ineffective rounds of this, I started taking away the food completely.

Not that it works.

Then, there are tantrums. It seems that, within a matter of days, their mild, 40-second tantrums have evolved (or devolved?) into ever-more dramatic, three-plus minute meltdowns.

For instance: Bedtime. Never used to be an issue. Now? Ha. Ha.

The other night, Althea lost. her. shit. We plopped her in her crib as usual and good mother of all things holy, she went bananas. Stomping, throwing herself on the mattress, kicking, smacking herself in the head, holding her breath, writhing and flopping about like a fish on deck. Chris and I just watched, wide-eyed and speechless.

I am not a fan of this part of parenting.

Since discipline is now becoming a real thing to deal with, I pretty much have zero idea what I’m doing. On the one hand, I would think that doing some reading might be helpful.

But on the other hand, I think I’ve learned my lesson from reading parenting books: DON’T.

I’ve put some thought into it, and I believe my feelings are these:

• Misbehaving is a child’s job. The parent’s job, in return, is to love and direct the child through these explorations of boundaries.
• Tantrums and bad behavior can be attributed to a variety of things: exhaustion, hunger, need for attention, lack of ability to communicate. There’s also the very real concept that a child doesn’t know what or where the boundaries are; the only way to figure out the rules is to break them.
• Consistency is good. Just because the child doesn’t do what you say doesn’t mean they aren’t listening.
• I don’t agree with some parenting philosophies that allow a child to liberally direct decision making (e.g., unschooling). I think this approach entails, in part, the expectation that a child has the capacity to think like an adult.
• I do believe that we are raising adults, not children. But I don’t believe in inflexibility because childhood is made of beautiful, sparkly fairy dust.

All of this sounds great in a nice list of bullet points, but then there’s the part where a child is beet-faced and screaming and smacking themselves in the skull and then it’s like “Oh snap. People are looking at me. What do I do? Because I’m pretty much just staring and that’s probably not very parent-y.”

So yeah. Basically no direction. Lots of ideas and “feelings” and mushy stuff, but nothing to work with. Chris and I tend to approach things with humor and distraction (admittedly, easier for him than for me). I don’t know if a book would say that’s “good.”

Most likely, we’re causing irreversible psychological damage.

I’m not really looking for advice here. “Input” is more like it. Or a silly story. Yeah, tell me a silly story so I can just shut my eyes and go to my happy place until the girls are 26 so I don’t have to deal with this.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my job as a stay-at-home mom.

I purposely don’t put quotes around the word “job,” even though every feminist instinct in me wants to. Because hey, this gig doesn’t pay jack shit, and doesn’t a “real” “job” bring in a paycheck? Isn’t my worth as a contributing member of this family tied to my annual salary, my gainful employment — or lack thereof?

As the girls get older, my job gets harder. If I were still who I was five years ago, I’d look at my current job description of SAHM and laugh at myself. Stay at home? Mom? Uh, EASY. No obligatory bathing (myself), no dressing up for work, no bureaucratic red tape, no makeup, no high heels, no non-ergonomic chairs, no middle management, no client calls, no 12-hour days behind a desk.

Stay-at-home moms just play all day, zone out on soaps, burn food, sleep in and give up on any attempt at cleanliness or self-esteem.

In the words of the Rolling Stones, a permanent vacation.

But becoming a SAHM has been extremely difficult, emotionally and financially. I expected the finances to be tough. I was a little surprised at all the emotions that arose. But what I didn’t expect was the actual fact that staying at home and raising kids is freaking HARD.

Here’s my analogy:

I used to be the editor of a major tourism website. This meant I worked with designers and developers (and project managers and clients and salespeople and analysts and. . . ). If a web page wasn’t browser compliant, I would inform the developer and he/she would fix it. If I didn’t agree with the layout or design of a page, the designer and I would talk it out. If sales wasn’t happy with click-through or ad positions, we would meet to talk about ad placement and cross-promo opportunities.

In other words, if I told someone to do something, they either did it or talked it out with me to make something happen. If someone told me to do something, I either complied or argued for a rational compromise.

Not so with motherhood.

I spend a decent portion of my day talking to people who don’t speak my language. A simple “Are you hungry?” is met with “Baahelgih goaishhglc lsdlfkajsgiieeeeee!”

I tell someone to do something, and they take off running in the opposite direction, laughing and farting with glee.

I try to explain the simplest of tasks (“Do NOT put the fork IN YOUR EYE.”), point out the most logical of conditions (“When you throw your blankie on the floor, you no longer have your blankie in your hand; you want the blankie in your hand. You WANT the blankie in your….OH GODDAMMIT.”), elaborate on the most evident consequences of one’s actions (“If you don’t put on your diaper, you will shit all over the floor.”).

Nothing.

You’d think these kids were being raised in a barn.

So, to anyone out there who thinks a stay-at-home mother just gets to “stay at home” . . .

Yeah. Suck it.

Been a while for video. Prepare for epic hilarity.

(Man, my blog post titles are getting stupid.)

It’s been eight days since I last nursed my girls.

::sob!::

Since I first started writing about weaning last month, I gradually reduced the number and frequency of nursings. We’d skip a day, then two days, then three. The couple of times we went for three days, my boobs ended up insanely uncomfortable — not really engorged, but heavy as bowling balls and very sensitive.

Then the tantrums started.

When it became obvious that we weren’t headed to my bedroom to nurse, the girls would start throwing a tantrum. That wasn’t worth it to me, so we’d nurse.

And then one morning, they didn’t freak out.

And they didn’t freak out the next morning either.

And here we are, eight days later, and my boobs have not freaked out and the girls haven’t freaked out and we’re all doing just fine, it seems.

My boobs have changed already. The last vestiges of hormonal brown discoloration are finally fading away. My nipples have regained their non-stretched-to-hell appearance. The aereola seem to be shrinking and looking less Nat Geo.

I think I’m doing okay with it. For a silly, superstitious reason, I kind of wanted to make their last time nursing be on the 17th, when they’d be 17 months old. You know, golden birthday nonsense.

But we did good. Sixteen-and-a-half months of nursing twins ain’t bad, in my book. We’re happy. We’re healthy.

Scrolling through the latest posts, you’d think I misplaced my children. I haven’t been posting pictures lately. So here you go.

Okay, I’ll bite.

Ms. Perpetua has been doing this for the past few weeks and I’m ready to jump in. It’s called ControverSunday, where we write about stuff that polarizes the best of friends and angers the most loyal of readers. I love it.

This week’s topic is extended breastfeeding, a subject near to my heart. (Literally, because I’ll be talking about my boobs, and they are located near my heart.)

I’d never heard of “extended” breastfeeding until a few months into my own breastfeeding experience. Back then, as now, I didn’t really think about how long I would breastfeed my twins. I breastfeed today, and probably will tomorrow, and likely the day after that.

Or maybe not. I’m not sure anymore.

In any case, here we are, 16+ months in, and I’m still nursing my babies. Er, kids, I guess. Because Elise and Althea aren’t babies anymore. I snuggle them close to my sides when they’re nursing and, in my mind, they are still tiny, needy little newborns. But then I glance over my shoulder and see round toddler bellies and long toddler legs and I realize that I have two thinking, learning humans drinking milk from my breasts.

It rattles me for a fleeting second because I know there are people who think it’s strange that I’m still breastfeeding my 16 month olds. Thing is, I don’t think it’s strange. Most of the mom friends I hang out with don’t think it’s strange, either. Many of them are still nursing their kids — toddlers who are the same age as Elise and Althea.

Perpetua elucidates an underlying but major aspect surrounding the controversy with extended breastfeeding:

This discussion seems to have less to do with nutrition than it does with how we feel about breasts in public, and how we feel about the way a two-year-old relates to those breasts. Regarding the first issue, there’s nothing inherently wrong with breastfeeding in public.  Kids exist, kids have to eat, some kids eat breastmilk, la dee da. Adults relate to the public display of breasts differently. . . .

This leaves us with how toddlers (as opposed to “un-thinking” infants) relate to breasts. I’ve heard the “If he’s old enough to ask for it, he’s old enough to stop!” rule before, which also seems rather a bit too arbitrary. . . . More to the point, though, is that toddlers most likely don’t relate to breasts as sexual objects.  WE relate to toddlers relating to breasts with sexuality in mind.

And that’s where I think some folks have a problem. I understand that people get uncomfortable with the idea and/or act of breastfeeding an older infant or toddler, particularly in public and especially in the U.S. The sexualization of the lactating mother and her nursling is indicative of the larger social perceptions and fears of sexuality in general. And that’s stating it mildly. As they say, we’re more comfortable with the sight of people being blown up on film than we are with the flash of a nipple during the Super Bowl halftime show.

But every day, there are small revolutions that challenge this attitude — from the public protests against breastfeeding discrimination to a Facebook fan page on the historical images of women breastfeeding.

So where was I going with this . . . Oh yeah, boobs. The bottom line:

• Breastfeeding is great and I’m a very strong advocate for breastfeeding your child(ren) as long as possible and is comfortable for mother and baby.
• Extended breastfeeding is great too.
• Except, in my opinion, when the nursing child is old enough to warrant a film crew coming out to document it. I saw that lady on that BBC documentary and yeah, that was extreme.

(Awful post title, I know. It was either that or “To Wean or not to Wean,” and that would’ve just been lazy.)

Today I had a doctor’s appointment. Doctor D happens to be the girls’ pediatrician, so he was familiar with our situation.

He saw that I was on Zoloft for depression and asked how it was working.

The truth is, it isn’t. It’s definitely taken the edge off. I don’t feel like driving myself into the Grand Canyon. Usually. But I don’t feel good. Hell, I don’t even necessarily feel stable. I still have many of my previous symptoms: self-loathing, depression, despair, guilt, difficulty sleeping, anxiety, rage.

Before getting pregnant, I was taking Lamictal, a drug used for bipolar disorders, which is what my psychiatrist had diagnosed. Lamictal worked wonders for me, much more than any antidepressant ever did.

Unfortunately, Lamictal is a no-no for pregnant and nursing moms (depending on what you read). Doctor D’s literature said it’s straight-up unsafe for nursing mothers.

To get to the point, Doctor D recommended weaning so that I could get on a drug that actually works for me.

And that’s my dilemma.

I’m not eager to wean. I’m not looking to nurse until the girls are four, but I’m in no rush to wean either. I feel like….well shit, I’ve made it 16 months. What’s another eight? Make it an even two years. Their immune system still benefits, right?

On the other hand, Doctor D has a point. I’ve given my kids nutritional and immunological benefits that the vast majority of kids don’t get. It’s time to take care of myself, because the disorder I’m dealing with is not something to mess with.

When it comes down to it, if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. And the fact is that I’m not whole. I’m not who I could be.

It’s not about a mother’s little helper. It’s not about chasing an image of the ideal. As I’ve chronicled previously, I just have something ‘broken’ in my brain and, like anyone else with a medical issue who benefits from medication, I am a much more functional human when I’m being treated with therapeutic drugs.

I just can’t seem to embrace the idea of purposely or forcefully weaning my children so that I can pop a couple of pills to feel happy. It’s just not an even trade-off in my mind.

But I don’t know if feeling that way is a legitimate concern, or martyrdom and self-castigation.

The other voice in my head says “Yo. Forget anything you’ve heard or read. You aren’t doing well. Your girls and husband need you. You’re not a failure if you don’t nurse for two years. Wait….. two years!?? Are we seriously having this conversation? Because if we are, then you really do need to go back on the meds.”

I don’t know if I’m venting or looking for advice or what. But if you have any insight, I’d love to hear it, even if it’s just an “Aw man, that sucks.”

Because aw man, this sucks.

I don’t feel like being witty, coherent or organized, but I have a bunch of would-be posts accumulating in my head so I just need to get something written.

Feel free to comment on any, all or none of the following topics:

Why won’t my children sleep?

The girls are just about 16 months old. For the past week, they have been waking up crying — no, wailing – several times during the night. The cries are so intense that we don’t wait more than 10 minutes to see if they’re going to settle down on their own. We rock, we sing, we check and change diapers, but still the waking continues.

At this point, I’ve given up on explanations. Teething apparently lasts for a decade or more. They are obviously going through tremendous developmental stages. I’m pretty sure that the growth spurt explanation is BS, because from birth to 16 years seems to be one giant growth spurt.

All I know is that I really, really enjoy kids who sleep through the night. I would like to have those children back.

OMG-GYM

I joined a gym to get away from the kids.

Okay, that’s a bit dramatic. But seriously, the crying/whining thing, and the fact that my body still resembles a mountain of melting Play-Doh even 16 months after giving birth, made me think:

• Many gyms have childcare centers.
• All gyms have exercise equipment.
• Therefore, most gyms will solve many of my problems.

This was an equation I could solve.

So far, so-so. Althea tends to start panicking after about 30 minutes, but, much to my surprise, Elise walks around like she owns the damned place.

I totally have baby fever, but I really don’t think we’re ready for another child

That’s pretty much it. We want another child, and now’s the time to take advantage of my ever-dwindling youth (and egg count). Chris isn’t getting any younger. There will never be a “right time.” There will never be enough money. So all the logical “we shouldn’t have another kid yet” excuses are semi-bunk.

But ugh. I loved being pregnant, but now that I haven’t been pregnant for a while, I really don’t want anything to do with it. The nausea, the worry, the cravings, the weight gain, the deprivation, the heartburn, the 40 fucking weeks….

Then the newborn stage. My GOD, the newborn stage.

Can’t I just give birth to a six month old who sleeps through the night?

Also, how the hell does one ever leave the house with three children and no help?

We went to Disney World — not entirely against my will

I grew up just a short distance from Disneyland in California. I know Disney. I marveled at “it’s a small world.” I grew a little and split from my chaperons to smoke behind Space Mountain. I went without chaperons and smoked wherever I wanted. I got kicked out for smoking. I got high and rode “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.” I shoplifted near the old “Jurassic Park” ride and got caught. (That one sucked.)

Then I went to college and realized what an evil machine of manufactured imagination, monetized innocence and capitalist cultivation the Disney Empire is.

But then I became a Florida resident, had kids and decided that $99 for four Disney parks was a really good deal.

So, before I knew it, this happened:

In case you’re wondering, the girls are pointing at birds. Yes, $99 and the kids like the birds. Chris is just looking hot and perfect. I, on the other hand, am just trying to suck in it, tuck my chin and hope that my newly developed brow wrinkles don’t show up in the photo too much.

(I haven’t done a general health/habits post in ages, so bear with me if you’re not into this sort of thing.)

The girls turned 15 months old last week. I’m starting to feel like a legitimate parent with actual, like….kids. While sharing a park with some morose-looking teenagers a few weeks ago, I had one of those out-of-body experiences where it hit me: I was no longer that rebellious, chain-smoking, misunderstood teen; I was now “that lady with kids,” a total buzz kill, a bust.

Or whatever kids are saying these days.

Anyhow, moving along….

General stats

As of this morning’s well-check, the girls have finally broken the 20-pound mark.  Both are at about 20lbs 5oz, which puts them, as usual, in the 10th percentile (20th if you go by the WHO breastfed baby charts). Both are measuring almost 30.5 inches (50th percentile).

They’re fitting comfortably in 12-18 months clothes and are now in size 4 diapers.

Sleeping

The days of two, two-hour naps every day are behind us, sadly. During the past six weeks or so, their morning nap got later and the afternoon nap phased out. Problem is, now they get super cranky and tired in the early evenings. It’s a bit of a rough transition. Their general routine is:

7:30 a.m. – Wake, nurse
8:30 a.m. – Breakfast
10:30 a.m. – Nap
12:00 p.m. – Wake, sometimes nurse
12:30 p.m. – Lunch
1:00 – 4:00 p.m. – Out and about
4:30/5:00 p.m. – Evening meltdowns begin
6:30 p.m. – Bath, nurse, read books
7:00 p.m. – Bed

I’m thinking it’s time to move up bedtime. I just keep forgetting. Aside from the occasional bad dream or teething, they still sleep solidly through the night.

Eating

We’re down to nursing two or three times a day. They don’t drink much whole milk, though — maybe three or four ounces a day. They just don’t seem to like it much, which is fine with me because the organic stuff is expensive.

They eat pretty much anything in the way of solids — that is, when they’re not scooping up food and dropping it over the side of the high chair. I still haven’t given them any nuts, honey or soy. They’re pretty good at using a fork and spoon, though I don’t offer utensils all the time.

Personalities and behavior

I hate to continue to peg one twin as “the happy twin” or “the serious twin.” They both have their own sense of humor, likes and dislikes, funky moods.

Elise loves: sleeping, birds, swings, avocados, squash, sucking her left thumb (so much that it has a callous), bananas, being held, dance and music, Yo Gabba Gabba, reading

Althea loves: avocados, Yo Gabba Gabba, reading, sucking on her sleep sack (which both girls now use as blankies), bananas, swings, kitties, making people laugh, playing in the sand, pointing at different body parts

As I posted earlier, we’re going through a pretty exhausting clingy phase. And tantrums are becoming pretty commonplace, though they’re thankfully short and not terribly loud. Althea’s tantrums remind me of those weird fainting goats — she arches her body backward, then slowly and dramatically lays on the ground, carefully placing her head down so as not to hurt herself. Meanwhile, Elise opens her mouth into a perfect “O,” turns bright red and cries.

Milestones

The girls are excellent walkers; people actually comment on how mature their walking skills are. There’s none of the tip-toeing or awkward knee-bending of a toddler. They can go up and down stairs (well, when they notice the stairs), get off beds and couches by themselves and sit on rocking horses the right way (which was apparently a difficult concept to grasp).

They don’t have many words yet. Both girls say Daddy, but only Althea says Ama. They both say bebe (baby),  “bah” for ball and “peh” for pelo (hair). But they understand a lot. They can point to their hair, ears, eyes, nose, mouth, tongue, feet, hands, stomach and bellybuttons (all in Spanish, I might add!). They recognize that a baby can exist in various places and in various forms — as a picture on the yogurt container, or a cartoon on TV, or a real baby in person. They know when it’s mealtime and bathtime. They understand sientate (sit down), and they raise their feet to put on socks and shoes.

I know that they understand “no,” mainly because it’s their favorite word to use and their favorite command to defy.

I’ve hesitated to post about this because I thought it was just some random thing. But it’s lingering — no, festering– so I need to share so that I might help other clueless, first-time parents.

The girls’ first year was full of plenty of tribulation, but overall, it was relatively easy as far I imagined raising twins would be.

Now? Ummm, not so much. For the past month or so, the girls have shown that they are regular kids.

It started with some extra-needy days. Elise would whimper for attention. Althea would need to be held. Teething, I figured, or just a random needy day. Hell, I’m 32 and I still have those days.

But weeks later, I’m pretty sure this isn’t random.

Some days aren’t too bad. I have to pay more attention to one daughter over the other, or we need to get out for extra playtime to distract. My patience is tried, but not broken.

Other days, though, are exhausting. Ex. Haus. Ting.

From the moment the girls wake up until bedtime some 12+ hours later, it seems like someone is constantly crying, whining, begging and clinging. Demanding to be constantly entertained. Rejecting food and drinks. Pushing the other sister, fighting for my attention, whining for no apparent reason. They’re really starting to understand requests and directives, and they’re blatantly defying them.

It’s maddening. Yet the defiance is somehow more manageable to me than the inexplicable crying.

The inexplicable crying ALL. DAY. LONG.

When Chris checks in with me during the week and asks how the girls are doing, I try to explain to him how tenuous my nerves are:

“I’m about to lose it.”

“Incessant crying since 9 a.m. Where are you?”

“Contemplating taking a leisurely walk on I-75 during rush hour. Leaving the girls at Toys R Us.”

From my conversations with other moms, this clingy-crying stage is painfully common at this 1+- year-old mark.  Thing is, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t end.

Ever.