Screamers Anonymous

Yelling is the new spanking, or so I've read recently in parenting magazines. It's no longer socially acceptable, and hasn't been for awhile; instead, time-outs, calm-but-firm instructions, distractions and praise for good behavior have taken their place. Also, saying "no" should be limited lest kids build up resistance and the word loses its punch. And don't even think of using, "Because I said so!" That's gone the way of tube socks.

The response to all this? My guess is that most parents have stopped yelling ... out in public, anyway. Of course, some were never screamers and some don't care--they'll shout their way through the check-out line in any grocery store where long waits and off-limit candy racks bring out the best in every child. (Ha!)

I'll admit it, sometimes I raise my voice a peep. Ok, I can howl like a blood-thirsty werewolf if I'm tired, hungry and provoked. Oh all right, ya got me. I've been known to screech even on a full stomach. I'm not proud of it. And the "new rules of parenting behavior," make me feel guiltier. I don't want to scream. I try to hold back. But then ... siiiiiggghhhh ... out it erupts like the fiery hot lava from Mt. Vesuvius.

The main trigger these days is refereeing Boss and Stinker. Mostly, it's blowing the whistle on Boss who is yanking toys out of Stinker's hands, throwing Lincoln Logs at his head, lying too close to him with flailing legs that could take out a tooth, pushing him over--sweet and gentle little things like that. In other words, he's acting like a 2-year-old. In the worst way. Stinker, who for about three short weeks, didn't care much about these infractions, now gives a rodent bum and lets out his trademark pterodactyl scream in protest.

Usually, I intervene somewhat calmly at first: "Please don't take toys from your brother. It's not nice and it makes him sad. You need to ask for that nicely or give him something else to play with."

Boss: "No, dat's MIIIIINNNNEEEE!," he squeals. He's not convinced, not even a little.

Stinker looks at me and cries. I give him another toy. Boss rips it away.

I'm now in devil voice mode--growling through gritted teeth. "Did you hear what I said? We DON'T take toys from other people! You wouldn't like it if someone did that to you. Don't do it again or you get a TIME! OUT!"

I move Stinker 3 feet away from Boss and give him a third toy, which is promptly stolen again. Boss tries, unsuccessfully to juggle all three items in his arms. I'd laugh if I wasn't so annoyed. Stinker goes reptile, I get madder, Boss remains a jerk.

"That's it! TIME OUT! " I roar. "Get on the couch! NOOWWW!"

I calm Stinker down, set the timer, turn off the toddler tunes, explain to Boss why he's in the penalty box, mutter some choice words under my breath, and get some tea. I feel lousy. We all feel lousy.

I think about my yelling and find myself grateful that Hubbo has allergies so we can keep the windows shut in the summer. Some lovely next-door neighbors just moved in with their toddler and I'm excited for a future friendship between all of us. But what if they hear me? Will they think I'm crazy? Do other moms do this? Am I the only closet yeller?

I'm guessing I'm not, and that makes me feel a little better. The thing is, it's not really affirmation that I'm after; I just wish I could be Mary Poppins and insert sugary spoonfuls of sweetness into difficult situations.

When that doesn't work, I'll guess I'll remind myself that Mary Poppins is fiction--a cheerful yet ridiculous bunch of bull hockey. Or I'll try yelling "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" at the top of my lungs. It's hard to say that in the devil voice--much less a scream.

Connect the Tots (Momsters, Too)

An important part of stay-at-home-momhood is remaining connected. It doesn't matter if you're an introvert or extrovert--hell, even a haricot vert is better off with some companionship. A nice herbed butter, perhaps.

For me, connecting isn't just a way to spice things up; it's essential after one to two days at home. Beyond two days and I'm ready to bounce a Hippity Hop right off a cliff. Same with Boss, who starts barking, “Go on venture!” He'll demand to go anywhere--the grocery store, mall, park, gramma/pawpaw's. He'd be glad to just ride loops around the neighborhood, actually. We've even done a few get-out-of-the-house-but-stay-in-the-car trips like watching a train arrive at the local station or inching our way through the car wash. But those are band-aids; for a true fix, we need people.

Building connections takes time and practice, though. Some weeks we have a play date or two, while some welcome us with a blank calendar and a cold shoulder. Those are the long weeks, and they're more common in the winter time when getting out takes more effort (Coats! Hats! Mittens! Scarves! Boots! Puffy clothes in tight car seats! Exasperation!). It also comes with fewer choices--pretty much nothing outdoors, at least for this cold weather wimp. (Exception: If it snows, I'm all about fun in the Winter Wonderland.)

Now that spring is here, outdoor options are starting to bloom, beginning with the park, various gardens and, of course, walks in the neighborhood. Truthfully, I haven't discovered what else exists for a 2-year-old and 9-month-old, but I know a field of opportunity must be out there.

Meanwhile, I keep my antennae up for recommendations online and via word of mouth. So far I've learned how great libraries/bookstores and their story times are. They're short, free, social, educational and fun; our Barnes and Noble even sports a Thomas the Tank train table for some post-book chugga-chooing in a cute little nook. Indoor gym/arcade places like Oasis are also fun and pretty cheap. We had a good time for a $4 admission (plus snacks), even though Boss planted himself in the firetruck ride and decided, rather greedily, that he owned it for the afternoon. Some places, like our helicopter museum nearby, are excellent as well, but pricier. And various restaurants, such as the eatery at our local airport, are an exciting way to entertain kiddos who can watch runway activity while munching pancakes. We've also recently discovered a free indoor playground at the mall, and are ready, age permitting, to try our hand at free art classes there as well.

Even if I just trade small talk or share an eye-rolling moment with another mom, the exchange reinforces a common bond. We're all parents, raising our crazy, demanding, lovable kids, hoping to give them a world of joy, respect--and their own tools to connect.

Goddesses, Freedom and Going B

Yesterday I discovered that I'm a goddess. A goddess of mediocrity, but a goddess nonetheless. I finally got a lesson on folding the double stroller, stuffing it in the trunk (think Grinch cramming loot up chimneys), and successfully opening the huge contraption. I took a chance of forgetting all three steps between the 7 am pre-coffee run-through and the 1 pm outing, but I did it. Said like a proud two-year-old: All! By! Self!

Unfortunately, I am not the most proficient with mechanical-type things or stuff that requires plugging in. (Or items that are computerized, have moving parts or require tools). But I am getting there, one small victory at a time.

Case 1: Soon after I was laid off and began plunking my rear on the family room rug as much as I did in my office chair, I noticed how disgusting and visible the refrigerator vent was. Someone had stuffed a fur coat under it at some wild party. Believe it or not, it didn't take (too) long to remove the filth collector, scrub it up and refasten it. I didn't even curse, cut myself or the usual—give up and wait for Hubbo to help, I mean, do it. (And yes, I realize that the vent is neither mechanical nor meets any of the above specs, but close enough.)

Case 2: Well, after much brain-scratching, I couldn't really think of a Case 2, aside from the stroller. I know, I know. Very sad. But perhaps we could count dismantling a bed frame (and muscling a double-sized mattress and box-spring out of a room). I also hung some art and resurrected the 8-foot Exersaucer, but I'm not sure those count either. Instead of baby steps, we'll call them tiptoes.

Along with boosting my patience, adopting a Type B (or at least A-) mindset and landing a dream job, one of my goals after the layoff was to become more self-sufficient. I'm sure my fourth attempt at fastening the silo to the Fisher Price farmhouse would have worked, but I let it go and Hubbo snapped it in faster than Old MacDonald yells E-I-O. “Show-off!” I mean, “Thank you!”

I'm not in any hurry, but some day I'll learn to text, use a drill and master a host of fancy things in between. For now, though, I'll enjoy my little triumphs, the freedoms they deliver and a honking bite of ambrosia.

(P.S. Hey, some half-whacked immortal sounds one step closer to going B!)

Insanity by Design

Most people appreciate a pretty home; I'm no different. Well, maybe a little different. Probably more than the next guy, I love buying art and other random décor. I love planning rooms and envisioning new shades of cocoa or canyon sun on the walls. I love flipping through catalogs and playing rich decorator. That's not to say I'm good at any of it, but I like it all none the less.

The trouble with design desires when you're unemployed and a mother of tots is obvious, though: no time and no budget. But that's not the only challenge. When you're home most of the time, you notice your surroundings all the more, and little(ish) flaws like ancient track lighting and stained grout begin to fester. Soon you're feverish, desperate for any change, and making poor design choices as a result.

Recently, for instance, we replaced an ugly old ceiling fan with an ugly new ceiling fan. We'd been looking on and off for months (years?), so one day in a crazed desire to do something productive while racing against the nap clock, I found one online, liked the price, thought I liked the fan and then ordered it … straight out of 1977. It actually looked fine, until Hubbo spent a few hours installing it. As soon as it was done, well, it blew alright. And don't even ask me about our new deck color. Ok, I'll give you a hint: cat diarrhea.

But stop me now, or I could go on about the multi-problematic sun room, the rotted wood siding, the driveway, the trim I'd like to repaint (all over the house), the basement, the master bath, the new carpets that are bubbling up--no, it never ends. And I remind myself that it never will--it's called home-ownership. If I give two hoots about design/decor, then I will always be remodeling my abode--at least in my head if not in actuality.

So, what's next? Sure, getting some projects done as time and money allow. But more than that, it's the old-but-wise trick of finding what I do like and focusing on that. Why'd we buy this money pit, I mean, house in the first place--little touches that give it character. If I don't like the trim, look at the art, right? It's not rocket surgery, I remind myself, it's glass half full. Glass half full! Glass half full! Glass half full!

It's a bit like kids and cute vs. annoying. Yes, it's irritating when Stinker blasts pureed squash out of his mouth motorboat-style, but it's also kind of adorable (more so when I move to the side). It's frustrating when Boss puts chips under his place mat then pounds them into crumbs, but something about it makes me chuckle. It's draining when I'm trying to fasten a diaper around squirmy legs and little hands grabbing at the junk, but who can't grin at that?

Keeping my glass half full requires work--I have to pour the bottle after all. But I'm taking a sip and gazing at the good, starting with one of my favorite pieces in the house, a scene in fabric of a woman in black holding a white cat. A beautiful, wonderful mess.

Head Games or The Boy Who Mistook His Brother for a Shelf

One of our issues in Toddlerville right now is Boss's incessant desire to use Stinker's head as a shelf. Whether it's his hand, foot or toy of some sort, that's where Boss wants it--on the smooth, pumpkin-colored top of his unsuspecting little brother.

Sometimes the object--often something small with wheels--is tossed at Stinker's noggin from a few feet away. But it may also be dropped from above or smashed on the head with (only, she says) moderate force. On rare occasions, it may even arrive via a short, bumpy ride up an arm.

Usually, Stinker is pretty good about this invasion, like a lazy cat withstanding a slight tug on the tail. He merely looks at me or Hubbo with a halfhearted smile that seems to say, “You see what's going on here, right? And you'll be intervening any moment then?”

Balls of all sizes, Thomas the Tank Engine and his myriad cohorts, race cars, books, a half-chewed bite of bagel--they're all game for Stinker's ledge. It's as if Boss decreed the head his portable side table, and he's practicing future moves such as putting his mug down or slamming an ant with a paperback.

While “Please get OFF your brother's head” has become as common an utterance in this house as “I'm exhausted and in desperate need of caffeine,” it does no good. Time-outs help, but one every 30 minutes seems a tad extreme, as do helmets and individual playpens. Physical removal of Stinker from Boss's presence is about the only thing that truly works since he hasn't mastered crawling and can't escape on his own. Distraction is second best, but if it involves an inanimate object that's smaller than, say, a football, take a quick guess as to where it will be … siiiiiggghhhh … HEADed!

Hair Scares and Other Tressful Times

We've had some hair issues in this family lately--some good, some bad, some surprising, some expected, and yes, some ugly.

The good: I've saved quite a bit of money skipping my hair appointments, so go me! It's good for an unemployed budget. Of course, my ponytail is now a horsetail and I'm three steps away from wearing mom jeans, God help me. My hair is also several shades of brown with some silver highlights. But hey, maybe I'll inspire a new trend in patchwork coiffure.

I'll skip the bad for a minute because that goes along with the ugly.

The surprising: When Stinker was born, he came out with a lovely head of copper hair. Our sweet little ginger! And it didn't fall out and return in a different color, like Boss's did. We're guessing it came from Paw-paw. Love! It!

The expected: Having shed a small dog after I stopped nursing Boss, I expected the same thing to happen when I stopped nursing Stinker—and it has, as it's fairly common due to hormonal changes. So, after every shower, there's a tarantula hovering around the drain. Despite Hubbo's hair fetish, this does nothing for him; apparently he likes hair on the head. Ah well, so much for my subtle shower foreplay. On a good note, my hair is growing back and is temporarily wavy around the hairline, which I like.

Now for the bad and ugly. Part 1: We have a cat named Robots who pulls his hair out. It's a nervous thing. He bites off tufts (apparently this soothes him, according to the vet) and he spits the black fluff all over the carpet, chairs, beds, etc. He's especially careful to aim for light-colored areas for maximum impact. Anyway, there's no scabbing or related problems with this habit other than he looks like a mangy, patchy, pathetic puss. It also doesn't feel as nice as a supple pelt would, but that's OK. I give him lots of love when he chases me into the bathroom for some toilet lap time, his favorite.

Part 2: Apparently Robots taught Boss that pulling out hair makes for happy fun time. Beginning in September, Boss began yanking out his glorious blond curls as a self-soothing mechanism; he'd do this in his crib where we never saw it happening. Most kids opt for thumb-sucking, but Boss likes originality. There's an ugly word for this condition: trichotillomania.

It wasn't until a bath one day when Boss's hair was wet and smoothed down that I noticed a gaping bald spot the circumference of a coffee cup, maybe even a doughnut (You're welcome for the visual; now go get a bite and come right back). Pow in the stomach when I saw it. We soon had his hair shaved down to try to even things out, but there was no hiding it lest we went 100 percent bald. I talked to the doctor, I did some reading, I fretted and I found lots of hats. He was too young for behavioral therapy or wearing gloves to bed. The good news? He'd likely grow out of it, said the doctor, if not soonish (whenever that was) then by the time he was in preschool or kindergarten and kids started making fun of him. Oh, now that was comforting.

One idea they did suggest was to let Boss pick out a “lovey,” ideally a hairy one, and take that to bed so he could tug on the lovey's hair instead of his own. We had him choose one of his neglected stuffed animals, a furry, cuddly teddy bear. Soon, the bear was exchanged for his Little People firetruck, then his Hess truck with matching tractor, then his dump truck, then various renditions of Thomas (the tank engine), then little race cars, and even a few boats of various sizes and snugly materials like metal and plastic. What can we say, the boy loves his fleet. And we love that his hair is growing back in, six-plus months later, one slow strand at a time.

As you read this, I implore you to rush to the closest wooden item you can find and give it a hard knock in regard to the statement above. In fact, bang, bang, bang on the door, baby! If you're outside with a Blackberry or some other whatchahoozy gadget, tag the closest tree, punch the air in confident victory (to summon the power of positive thinking), and worry not what the neighbors think. I assure you—it won't be as embarrassing as a palm-sized bald spot plaguing your 'do.

Honey, the Beast is Up (and I think it's your turn)

So far we've gone three days without a post-nap monster sighting. In other words, Boss has had three successful consecutive days of waking up more like an angel, or at least a pleasant little guy, rather than as Satan with a hangover and a hemorrhoid. Usually it doesn't matter if he wakes on his own, or if we--as Hubbo and I have dubbed it--“summon the beast.” The result is the same: When his eyes open, a scream erupts from his lips like a schoolhouse fire alarm. 

After a deep breath and hopes of a quick cool-off, I gently open his door and creep around various toys to open the shades, letting light in slowly. Things are quiet for a minute. Then, he greets me. 

“NAAAAAAAOOOOOOHHHHHH!” His legs flail, banging the back of the crib, and he thrusts around as if in a seizure.

I exhale defeat.

“OK, honeybun,” I attempt. “I'll come back after a few minutes to give you time to wake up.” 

"NAAAAAAOOOOOHHHHHHH! GOES DOWNSTAIRS!”

“OK,” I answer softly. “We can go downstairs.”

“NO GOES DOWNSTAIRS!”

I sigh.

He stands up, hands clenching the crib rail.

I stare at him, thinking of what to say next while trying my best to quash my annoyance and recall any tips from my stacks of parenting books.

“NAAAAAOOOOHHHH!” He throws himself on the mattress.

“We need to be more pleasant when we wake up; this is not good behavior,” I suggest feebly, which goes over as well as you'd imagine.

Eventually, after several verbal roundabouts, we make it downstairs, where the Incredible Hulk begins his transformation back into the mild-mannered Bruce Banner.

Later that night, as I'm wondering if something is truly wrong with Boss with his exasperating behavior, I Google “toddler very grumpy after nap.” The first post I read is about a 2-and-a-half-year-old with Boss's name who awakes like a madman. “This is about Boss! Hubbo must have posted this,” I conclude. But in reading more, I see I'm wrong; this kid has a sister, not a brother. I scan more posts and see tons of other parents who brave armor and stuff in ear plugs to confront their crazed nap-wakers.

“Thank God,” I breathe. He's normal, and I'm not the only parent pulling my hair out. The information is more comforting than my glass of merlot.

I'm not sure what to credit for these last three days of calm wake-ups, but we did move nap-time up by about 2 hours (one was due to Daylight Savings; the other because it was getting close to 4 pm before Boss would go down on any given day). I'm also not sure how long this luck will last. But I do know one thing: I'll take what I can get and praise the toddler gods with all the Hokey-Pokey, Little Teapot dances they may ever want. The devil can go straight back to … well, you know.

Pterodactyl with a Megaphone

In many ways, today was like any other. We read a little Richard Scarry, watched some “Baby Caillou” (as "Boss" calls it,) tripped over toys, cursed at said toys (under my breath at least), threw a ball at "Stinker's" head (Boss), got a time-out on the couch (Boss), scared the cats with high-pitched giggles (Boss), and inspected soiled diapers (also Boss).

In some ways, today was also different. Before 10 am, we had two power outages—one in the wee hours of the night with Boss waking up screaming in a pitch-black room, and one just after he awoke in the morning. Not a big deal, since the house stayed warm and both events lasted less than 2 hours. During the morning outage, we focused on toys, books and breakfast, and we survived pretty well … except for the pterodactyl, that is—a very loud pterodactyl with a megaphone. Turns out that Stinker decided now would be a fun time to practice his piercing screams that resemble a bird of prey about to swoop down on a pack of fat rodents. Granted, I wasn't in a library or in a restaurant, so what's the big whoop? I'll tell you what the big whoop is: I have trouble with noise. I am a bionic woman reject—I didn't get speed, or silky blond locks or fingernails that cut glass; I got an overachieving ear that hears all noises great and small.

So when Stinker SHRIEKED again and again for no reason but to hear himself, I … well … I blew on his face. He stopped, but it didn't feel quite right; plus, he only stopped for two seconds before continuing. So I ran across the room and grabbed the best $1.29 investment I've ever made. Ah, yes, my ear plugs. My sweet, squeezable, accommodating, noise-blocking ear plugs! I shoved them like I was mashing gum on a leaking pipe, and, like magic, the shrill squawks were muffled. And wouldn't you know, Stinker soon stopped his manic bird impressions. He was no longer getting the rise out of me he once was. Score one for momster! … And score 1,000 for those glorious wedges of orange foam.

Girl Meets Boys

Growing up, I often imagined being a stay-at-home mom. Carriage strolls on balmy days, cookies in the oven, a pottery business on the side. Not that I've sculpted much beyond some Play-Doh worms, but I liked the idea ...

Flash forward a few decades to an editing job that was often rewarding, but also very stressful--especially as the economy tumbled--and I'd long to be, well, napping, with a cup of tea and a cat nearby. Hell, even in my car. But for years, I also longed for a maternity leave--three glorious months of, yes ... not working! And, of course, bonding with one of the greatest joys in the galaxy--a squeaky, lovable (and, admittedly loud) new baby.

My hubbo and I tried for that baby. And tried and tried. And tried some more. After six exhausting, expensive, exasperating years of trying, coupled with hundreds of appointments, needle stabs and breaking hearts, we finally reached that dream--a robust and healthy 9 lb. , 11 oz., 23.5-inch amazing boy. (Can you say PUUUUSSSSSSSH?!) And, I got my glorious, sunny 12-week maternity leave!

Two years, another boy, and another maternity leave later, we were feeling really blessed and incredibly lucky--only a tad bit like worn, tattered dishrags bouncing around in the dryer.

Then, one day last November, my ultimate fantasy came true: I became a stay-at-home mom. I was laid off after 18 years with my company, trading in my skirts and boots for jeans and fleece, and all the stroller rides and home-made cookies I could stomach. Plus, some artistic side thing yet to be determined (Interior design? Painting? Macaroni wreaths? Diaper castles?). The missing paycheck stung, no doubt about that, but I'm enriched in another way: I'm home with my boys, now two-and-a-half and nine-months old.

There's just one thing: If I had wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, hubbo and I could have figured it out three years ago … right? Then again, maybe I was afraid to ask myself, Would I be good at it with my renowned (Bahaha!) patience and adolescent sleep needs? Would I like being Domestic Dottie puttering all day around the workshop … on a strict budget? Would my brain turn to mush? Would I feel disconnected? Would my kids benefit? How would hubbo adjust? And my biggest concern, at least at the moment: Will I ever figure out how to use the @#*%$@# double stroller so we can have a proper excursion outside of the house?!

I don't know all the answers yet--they'll probably change day to day. But so far I've learned that not knowing is just fine. It's part of the experie … wait, I have a better word. It's part of the adventure.