It’s funny the things you develop senses for once you become a parent.
For example: I can hear, through a wall and a door and a haze of sleep at 4:30am, when Babygirl makes the first of many decisions to slowly push her pacifier — click, rattle, thump — through the bars of the crib and onto the floor. (Or, even better, into the book bin at the foot of her bed, or behind her crib in the dark recesses of the room. Because the only thing more frustrating than retrieving a pacifier at 4:30am, is hunting for a pacifier at 4:30am.)
The sound is whisper-quiet, but the act is a declaration: Let the Games Begin! Come ye, come ye, and witness the slow unraveling of two adults at the hands of an 18-month-old and a tiny piece of silicone!
A couple of weeks ago, after a four-hour, middle-of-the-night marathon of pacifier needing (screams), losing (clickety-thump), searching in the dark (“DAMMIT!”), and retrieving (peace…for about 30 minutes), I stumbled into the kitchen and put away all the pacifiers. Which is to say, the three that I could locate after all the crafty stashing executed by Babygirl this past month.
We just have to re-condition her not to NEED it all the time, that’s all, we reasoned. It only takes a few days, right? Well, actually, that’s never been our experience, having managed to produce the single most stubborn firstborn child on earth, but as they say, every kid is different. So maybe, with Babygirl, this type of behavior modification would be a short(er) process.
The sleep improved within days, with both children back to sleeping until 6am (which in our house counts as sleeping in).
But what has not improved is Babygirl’s ability to re-set. Once she’s crying, she’s CRYING, and please don’t get in her way or attempt to soothe her. It will not work. She will cry while you sing, she will cry while you read, she will cry while you change her diaper and put on her sweater and strap her into the stroller because you can’t take another minute of the crying reverberating off the apartment walls. She will take that cookie or sip of water you offer and THROW it on the floor: Please don’t insult me with these snacks while I’m crying. You know what I crave.
Babygirl is generally an exceedingly pleasant and independent child. But there are two times a day when she is what you might describe as tenuous. As long as she is distracted she will play happily, but if she sets her sights on that which she cannot have (tiny Legos, plastic produce bags, forks from the dishwasher, her pacifier), she will commence the crying.
“Pah-tchi! Pah-tchi!” she sobs, banging on the top silverware drawer where we keep them. Then: “Up, Mommy! Up!”
These times happen as follows: in the 15 minutes between my husband’s departure for work and our departure for school drop-off; and the 25 minutes or so before dinner. As you might imagine, nothing eases a working mommy into the day like trying to put on make-up, get LittleMan’s shoes tied, and pack up the backpacks while an 18-month-old pulls on her hem and screams in her ear. Similarly, a half-hour shriekfest does not easily transition into a relaxing evening meal. So we tend to get into a bit of a toxic cycle where Babygirl screams, Mommy gets frustrated (i.e. raises her voice just a teensy bit), and LittleMan — just to feel like part of it all — takes a wrecking ball to his 222-piece Lego Walking AT-AT then cries because it’s broken.
June Cleaver, I am not. But tenacious, I am. (We are reading a lot of Star Wars lately. Can you tell?) I do not give up on the possibility of restoring peace to the galaxy. “Suppertime!” I sing (yell) out in my happiest mom voice as I attempt to slice an avocado and flip an omelette while juggling my screaming daughter and retaining all my fingers.
I have made breakfast-for-dinner. There are Yoda-shaped pancakes and green eggs. At least one child is delighted.
As for the other one, I pop her in her high chair, and I give her a pacifier.
And then I pour a glass of wine.
See? That’s all there is to it.
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