Playin’ The Edge

So I’ve managed to scrape together two important things to know when you’re a parent.  First the 80/20 thing.  Pareto must have been a parent because I’ve realized that 80% of the time the I love my kid and love being a parent.  And then 20% of the time, or at least that’s what it feels like, I’m about to kick myself, or him, to the curb.  That’s where the yoga breathing comes in.

I took Angus swimming for the first time and felt so bad for the teacher.  There were only two boys in the class but man, it was like herding cats.  And not regular sane cats, but nutty insane cats.  Cats on PCP.  There were lots of the people in the pool, it was noisy, there were a zillion distractions and my kid was not grasping the concept of “teacher” and  breaking every rule.  I was mortified.  That was a 20% moment.

But it all comes out in the wash, because 2 or 3 classes later I had relaxed a little and Gussie seemed to be hearing at least every third word the teacher said.  I noticed there was a little red haired boy shivering and crying in the corner.  Poor guy.  And I thought heck, at least Angus is having fun even though he’s half listening.  But see the red-haired kid probably sits for hours at home and colors.  He probably tells his Mom he can’t wait to clean up his toys.  My kid spends more time imitating the Tasmanian Devil.  So it all comes around.  That’s the other thing I know from parenting.

And then there was the screaming girl.  She’s about 5 or 6.  She was the only one in her class and maybe that was by design because the teacher would hold her to help her swim   and the girl would scream at the top of her lungs, 4 inches from the teacher’s face, “STOP STOP PUT ME DOWN STOP STOP!!”  Nonstop.  For the full 30 minute lesson.

And the Mom was sitting on the side of the pool looking like she wished the concrete would open up and swallow her.

But see her 80/20 might be different.  Because I’m sure this little girl is a handful alot more than 20% of time.  But I think for this Mom the 80/20 might be over her daughter’s lifetime.  Because I look at that girl and think, my god if they can channel even some of that chutzpah, that I’m-gonna-tell-the-world-what-I-think-dammit, she will save babies.  Millions of them.  She will fix world hunger.  And that’s no mean feat when I read that the price of medium grain rice in Thailand doubled in price since last year.  Her mother will watch her win a Nobel prize.  And hopefully it will all be worth it for her then.  Because it has a way of coming around.

Here’s another example.  Parenthood comes with a bunch of them.  My kid was playing with a neighbour kid we’ll call Will.  He bit my kid so hard it broke the skin.  It was like a baby vampire mark.  It was wild, I’ve never seen anything like it.  Did it upset me?  No way, cos I know things come around.  I got him settled down, we talked it through and they went back to play. 

Sure enough, Angus traps him in the Tickle Trunk (you Mr. Dressup fans know what I’m talking about).  He stands on the lid and then the trunk collapses, crushing a screaming Will inside.  Yup, they were even.  One kid in need of a tetanus shot, the other in need of some therapy.  It’s all comes around.

So Gussie and I do this thing where he comes in the door at the end of the day,  I squat down to hug him and he takes a running leap from 12 steps away into my lap and body slams me with his full 35 pounds of weight, arms wrapped around my head.  That means he’s happy to see me.  It’s quite a balancing pose, I’d highly recommend it.

And then I say, “I *missed* you today”. And he says, “I missed you too!”

Last night after the usual body slam welcome he ran into the kitchen and found his yellow blankie on the floor.  Yellow Blankie is the Soft Source Of Comfort That Could Not Be Lived Without.

He yells, “Yellow Blankie!  I *missed* you today!”

Then he grabs it and runs out of the kitchen yelling, “I missed you too!”

That yellow blankie.  Always muscling in on my thing….

Some days HoneyBunny is such a better parent than I am.  And that’s OK.  Hopefully between the two of us Angus will grow up only slightly damaged by slack parentage. 

The other night our child did not want to go to sleep.  And we’re spoiled because that’s usually not a problem.  Usually our challenge is more around avoiding the destruction of our house by the Tasmanian Devil. 

We both took a turn trying to settle him down.  I tried to work my calming yoga mojo on him.  I stroked his temple.  I talked to him in my Savasana voice.  I felt like I had him.  Then just as I was about to walk away he jumped up on the bed and starting bouncing on it.  Yup, he was the picture of relaxation.  My yoga mojo is some powerful shit.

So we let him go for a few minutes and then he got really upset with unconsolable crying.

So it was HB’s turn and he went and and I couldn’t hear what was going on, but a few minutes later he came back and Angus was quiet.  And stayed that way.  I said - what the heck did you do??  He says it’s something I told him about, but I don’t remember anything about it.  I’m glad somebody did.

He calmly said, ”Angus, you don’t have to be this upset.  You just don’t. You’re cozy in your Big Red Bed.  You’re surrounded by your friends.  Look, you have Puppy (and Puppy barked).  You have Frog (who gave him a kiss). And you have Mitch Monkey (also a kissy guy).  You have your friend Yellow Blankie.  Look how he likes to snuggle with you.  You don’t have to be this upset.  You’re OK.  Mom and Dad love you.  You can go to sleep now.”

And he did.

You can imagine how scary it must be to feel a force of emotions when you’re three.  Heck, it’s scary when you’re an adult.  Which is why we usually ignore our feelings any day than give them a few minutes of stage time in our lives.

If you’re anything like me you start catastrophizing - how will I do whatever upcoming task when I feel so crappy?  I make it even worse by assuming I’ll feel this way forever and making grandious assumptions that this one emotion will cripple me and cause my life to end up in the trash can.

But I *know* that it’s better to give the feelings some stage time and I *know* that once I give them their due they’ll pass.  Or at least I know it logically, now I just need to know it in the heat of the emotional moment too.

So next time I feel some heavy duty feelings I’m going to use HB’s technique.  I don’t have to feel overwhelmed by it.  I’m surrounded by people I love and comforts I cherish.  I just need to relax.  Feel it.  Let it go.  And then sleep.

Before I had kids I said, “wow what a commitment, 20 years of your life”.   But now I have one.  Yesterday I was reading about a mother of a 9 year old and she said, “yeah at this age they don’t really want to hang out with you as much”.  And I know that.  My friend has a nine year old who runs out of the house to her friend’s and isn’t seen for the rest of the day except for a quick check-in call.  My friend spends the time sleeping.

It ocurred to me yesterday that next school year will be my son Angus’ last one at home before Kindergarten or Preschool or whatever it is.  I guess I’ll find out soon enough.  He’ll be halfway to not wanting to hang out with me as much any day now.  That’s crazy talk.

There are parts of motherhood that are so intense, I think I will *never* forget them - surviving them is challenging enough. 

It doesn’t seem like that long ago we were changing his diaper every couple of hours and now he’s slamming the bathroom door in my face because he can pee on his own thank you very much.  So I spend the time sleeping. 

When my Mom visited recently she said, “wow Angus is so busy”.  Seeing a sentimental bonding opportunity I said to her, “well us kids must have been busy too right?”.  Now let’s look at the background here - I had three - count ‘em - three brothers.  They were *all* busy.  I probably had my moments too.

And she said, “you know I don’t really remember”.  What??  How the heck do you forget something like *Busy*?  We’re not talking about an odd occasional thing.  A Busy kid is busy 12 hours a day, 7 days a week.  It’s only when they’re sleeping that they’re still and angelic.  The rest of the time it’s Manage the Business (wear them out) or Try to Cope (alcohol helps).  I was stunned.  And no my Mom doesn’t have Alzheimers (diagnosed).

And the crazy thing is that I do remember.  I have two little brothers 4 and 6 years younger than me.  I remember her bathing them and me and my older brother would shake our heads in amazement while we listened to the friggin’ tsunami happening in the bathroom as they splashed and back stroked and dove like whales. 

And the funny thing was that my mother had already transformed.  While she would have hung us up by our big toes, for them, she was holding her cool.  She either became alot more Zen or the alcohol was helping. And she’s transformed even more now if she can’t remember how crazy they were. 

But that’s why they make such good grandparents.

HoneyBunny and I snuck out in a snowstorm the other night because his Mom was visiting and we *always* take advantage of free babysitting.  And the thing that takes new parents a while to figure out is a) your kid is always going to be better behaved for other people, and b) if it’s a grandparent, they don’t really care anyways. 

They just don’t get too freaked about the things that drive you nuts.  Your kid is not going to sleep?  They think it’s a sign their grandkid loves them and doesn’t want to be without them.  Heck, take advantage I always say.

The fact is, Motherhood messes with your head.  What seemed like a long childhood for my kid, now seems practically over except for homework and the loud music.  Here’s hoping I’ll choose to remember the right things too.

I stayed overnight at a friend’s cottage with the girls this weekend.  We were out in the woods that shone yellow, orange and red in the fall sun.  I got home on Sunday to a 3 year old who is generally a sweet kid but sometimes gets into a mood.  It’s a pretty obstinate mood. Or maybe “persistent” or “strong-like-ox” are more generous ways to put it.

So I took him grocery shopping.  He was clear that he was not sitting in the cart.  Being in relaxed cottage-mode I went along with it. But within the first 10 minutes I could tell that was a mistake.  He was being obstinate, sorry *persistent* about everything.  And our grocery list was going to mean at least a lap around the biggie-sized big box store to get everything. 

I put him in the cart and he freaked.  He has a strong bit of personality that doesn’t react well with saying what he wants and then not getting it.  And the reaction isn’t “poor me” it’s Moral Freakin’ Outrage.  And it’s not something that a cookie will distract him from.  It goes on. 

On my good days I tell myself that it’s this characteristic that will take him to Africa when he grows up to make life better for babies.  There’s got to be some purpose to this part of his him -  it’s strong.  It’ll mow you down. 

Everyone was looking at me in the store and I realized it was time to hightail it out of there.  He wouldn’t walk.  He kicked off his shoes.  He threw stuff. He wouldn’t calm down. So I carried my 35 pounds of hollering, crying child out of the store.  I was so angry I was shaking.  Thought on the way to the car: spanking is under-rated.  Thankfully I chilled out just a little and he only got a time out.  And after his Time Out I was at a loss for words - is it a worthwhile lesson to say “don’t be such a jerk next time”?

The rest of the afternoon I tried to process what had happened.  I was pissed off at myself for being off my game.  I had been completely out-maneuvered by a toddler.  What does this mean down the road when I can’t carry him?  What does this mean the next time we need groceries?   Maybe it’s time to start a crash diet.  Maybe I’m not cut out for motherhood.

Then we had a bath together.  And as I was drying him off he starting singing a little song he learned:     

And my eyes misted.  I felt all the anger and frustration and self-doubt ooze out of me as I listened to his sweet little voice getting most of the words right.  I was limp with love. My heart felt like pizza dough being stretched and pulled to fit a too-big pizza pan.  And I thought, it just doesn’t matter.  It’s enough that I love him to bits.  I can only keep doing the best I can.