Tuesday – Rise and Whine
Jan. 15th, 2008 04:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about my son, who yesterday began and ended the day with tears. He cried in the morning because he didn't want to wake up, and in the evening because he didn't want to go to bed. Obviously, he has no issues with the idea of having his cake and eating it, too.
A 3-year-old is at a crossroads; he is part baby and part youngster. He has ideas of his own, and he even has his own brand of logic. His logic is much like that of many adults I know, in that he doesn't like to have someone hassle him with facts that he finds inconvenient. One inconvenient fact is that on Monday through Friday, we have to get up early and leave the house. Yesterday, he found it particularly illogical to get out of bed when he still felt like sleeping.
"No, don't wan' get up," he moaned, and started to cry when I lifted him out of his bed.
I'm not talking about silent tears of resignation. He wailed, red faced and angry as I dressed him, carried him to the car, and strapped him in his car seat. He cried all the way to daycare, and cried as I picked him up out of his car seat. He cried as I took him to the school cafeteria, where his half-pint-sized classmates were just sitting down to breakfast. He cried as I sat him down and tried to peal him off of my leg, which he had wrapped himself around tightly and clung to for dear life. The whole time, he repeated his mantra of, "I don't wan get up!" Never mind that he was already awake by this point. He was still crying as I left.
Leaving a child who is screaming out your name ("Mom!" is now my official name) and reaching out to you is one of the hardest parts of being a working mother. His teachers assure me that on most mornings he is fine and calm within minutes of my departure. This doesn't matter, because as I abandon him to the care of strangers his cries remind me that I suck for leaving him there, and I will continue to suck the whole day long.
Yesterday, I'm told he continued to cry throughout breakfast, at least until his teacher reminded him that the meal was almost over and that if he didn't stop crying, he wouldn't have time to eat any of it. That gave him the motivation he needed, and he dried his tears long enough to furiously stuff his face to make up for the energy spent having an hour-long tantrum.
Yesterday, when I picked him up he was happy to see me, and it was a pleasant evening up until the time I told him that it was time for his bath. This brought on more tears.
"No! Don't need a bath! Don't wan go to bed!"
I told him that he was dirty, and that he did need a bath. He lay down on the floor and screamed in protest to show me that I was wrong.
It is a grim statistic that the toddler years are the point where a child is most likely to be beaten to death by his or her caretakers. I don't condone the people who do this, but I would be lying if I said that I don't understand how it happens. A child this age can speak to you and articulate his ideas to the point that it's easy to forget that, no matter how well he talks, you are still not dealing with a logical, rational human being. Rather, you are dealing with a baby that has learned to speak and is big enough to hurt you when he flails and fights you. It's not a fair fight, because the rules are that you are not allowed to hurt a baby back. The closest you are allowed to get is that slight sense of satisfaction you get when he wails after headbutting you, because he discoveres that it doesn't feel too good for him, either.
I picked him up off of the floor, speaking the words of comfort that I recall my own mother saying to me when I acted like this as a child: "Oh, for crying out loud, will you cool it? I don't care if you want a bath or not, you're getting one. Now knock it off!"
Alas, Mom wasn't perfect, and neither am I.
There were tears as I pealed his clothes off, and tears as I carried him to the bathroom. There were tears as I pried him off me when he clung to my body and refused to go into the water. There were tears in the tub, and I wound up as wet as he was from him trying to climb up on me as I washed him. He didn't want a bath. He didn't need a bath.
"I wan play!"
I explained to him that I wasn't having much fun, either.
After the bath, there were tears because he didn't want to be dried off with his towel that looks like a yellow ducky, he wanted to be dried off with his towel that looks like a teddy bear. The teddy bear towel was in the wash, I told him, and there were more tears because of this. He calmed down when I dressed him in his pajamas, because he requested the pajama-song that I made up for him and it cheered him up to hear me sing it. Story time provided a reprieve from the tears up until the dreaded thing that comes immediately after it: bed time.
"No, don't wan' go to bed! Wan' read more stories!"
I told him mommy would fall asleep if she tried to read another story, and so there wasn't any point in even trying because he wouldn't get to hear how it ended. As I carried his stiff, protesting, unhappy body to his bedroom, I pondered about the fact that I never spoke about myself in the third person until I had a toddler.
After a few more tears, his room went quite when he fell asleep. This happened rather quickly, I might add. Crying takes a lot out of a little guy.
This morning began with him protesting that he didn't want to wake up, but without quite so many tears. I think he is still restocking after Monday. Eventually, maybe he will learn to endure the ritual of getting out of bed with a little more stoicism, but I don't have much hope. The truth is, when my husband's alarm goes off he slaps the snooze button and whines, "I don't wanna wake up! Ten more minutes!" If I tell him he must get up, he makes whimpering noises. Why? Because he staid up late working on some project or another (the adult version of "I don't wan' go to bed!")
I'm afraid the aversion to getting both in and out of bed seems to be a genetic trait. Until science finds a cure, days around my house are destined to begin and end with a copious amounts of tears and protests.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A 3-year-old is at a crossroads; he is part baby and part youngster. He has ideas of his own, and he even has his own brand of logic. His logic is much like that of many adults I know, in that he doesn't like to have someone hassle him with facts that he finds inconvenient. One inconvenient fact is that on Monday through Friday, we have to get up early and leave the house. Yesterday, he found it particularly illogical to get out of bed when he still felt like sleeping.
"No, don't wan' get up," he moaned, and started to cry when I lifted him out of his bed.
I'm not talking about silent tears of resignation. He wailed, red faced and angry as I dressed him, carried him to the car, and strapped him in his car seat. He cried all the way to daycare, and cried as I picked him up out of his car seat. He cried as I took him to the school cafeteria, where his half-pint-sized classmates were just sitting down to breakfast. He cried as I sat him down and tried to peal him off of my leg, which he had wrapped himself around tightly and clung to for dear life. The whole time, he repeated his mantra of, "I don't wan get up!" Never mind that he was already awake by this point. He was still crying as I left.
Leaving a child who is screaming out your name ("Mom!" is now my official name) and reaching out to you is one of the hardest parts of being a working mother. His teachers assure me that on most mornings he is fine and calm within minutes of my departure. This doesn't matter, because as I abandon him to the care of strangers his cries remind me that I suck for leaving him there, and I will continue to suck the whole day long.
Yesterday, I'm told he continued to cry throughout breakfast, at least until his teacher reminded him that the meal was almost over and that if he didn't stop crying, he wouldn't have time to eat any of it. That gave him the motivation he needed, and he dried his tears long enough to furiously stuff his face to make up for the energy spent having an hour-long tantrum.
Yesterday, when I picked him up he was happy to see me, and it was a pleasant evening up until the time I told him that it was time for his bath. This brought on more tears.
"No! Don't need a bath! Don't wan go to bed!"
I told him that he was dirty, and that he did need a bath. He lay down on the floor and screamed in protest to show me that I was wrong.
It is a grim statistic that the toddler years are the point where a child is most likely to be beaten to death by his or her caretakers. I don't condone the people who do this, but I would be lying if I said that I don't understand how it happens. A child this age can speak to you and articulate his ideas to the point that it's easy to forget that, no matter how well he talks, you are still not dealing with a logical, rational human being. Rather, you are dealing with a baby that has learned to speak and is big enough to hurt you when he flails and fights you. It's not a fair fight, because the rules are that you are not allowed to hurt a baby back. The closest you are allowed to get is that slight sense of satisfaction you get when he wails after headbutting you, because he discoveres that it doesn't feel too good for him, either.
I picked him up off of the floor, speaking the words of comfort that I recall my own mother saying to me when I acted like this as a child: "Oh, for crying out loud, will you cool it? I don't care if you want a bath or not, you're getting one. Now knock it off!"
Alas, Mom wasn't perfect, and neither am I.
There were tears as I pealed his clothes off, and tears as I carried him to the bathroom. There were tears as I pried him off me when he clung to my body and refused to go into the water. There were tears in the tub, and I wound up as wet as he was from him trying to climb up on me as I washed him. He didn't want a bath. He didn't need a bath.
"I wan play!"
I explained to him that I wasn't having much fun, either.
After the bath, there were tears because he didn't want to be dried off with his towel that looks like a yellow ducky, he wanted to be dried off with his towel that looks like a teddy bear. The teddy bear towel was in the wash, I told him, and there were more tears because of this. He calmed down when I dressed him in his pajamas, because he requested the pajama-song that I made up for him and it cheered him up to hear me sing it. Story time provided a reprieve from the tears up until the dreaded thing that comes immediately after it: bed time.
"No, don't wan' go to bed! Wan' read more stories!"
I told him mommy would fall asleep if she tried to read another story, and so there wasn't any point in even trying because he wouldn't get to hear how it ended. As I carried his stiff, protesting, unhappy body to his bedroom, I pondered about the fact that I never spoke about myself in the third person until I had a toddler.
After a few more tears, his room went quite when he fell asleep. This happened rather quickly, I might add. Crying takes a lot out of a little guy.
This morning began with him protesting that he didn't want to wake up, but without quite so many tears. I think he is still restocking after Monday. Eventually, maybe he will learn to endure the ritual of getting out of bed with a little more stoicism, but I don't have much hope. The truth is, when my husband's alarm goes off he slaps the snooze button and whines, "I don't wanna wake up! Ten more minutes!" If I tell him he must get up, he makes whimpering noises. Why? Because he staid up late working on some project or another (the adult version of "I don't wan' go to bed!")
I'm afraid the aversion to getting both in and out of bed seems to be a genetic trait. Until science finds a cure, days around my house are destined to begin and end with a copious amounts of tears and protests.
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no subject
Date: 2008-01-16 01:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-17 12:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-16 04:24 pm (UTC)I've been in your shoes. I remember leaving a hysterically crying, clinging 2-3 year old Elycia at my SIL's (her babysitter at the time) WITH her big sister Jen. I always felt so darned guilty, even when Michele told me that she calmed down within seconds of my leaving. The "I WANT YOU MOMMY!!!" gets to you every time.
And now I'm on the other end and I witness that it's only seconds after Mom leaves that the child really DOES calm down. And that the longer the mom stays to "placate" the child the worse it is (and I'm guilty for doing it too with Elycia)
I don't know, I still want to beat Jen sometimes...and she's 9. She still has that toddler/teenage attitude...they're really very similar.
*HUGS*
no subject
Date: 2008-01-16 07:41 pm (UTC)I know they calm down, but that heartfelt "Mommmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeey!!!" has a way of breaking your heart. I think they do that to us on purpose.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-16 08:20 pm (UTC)They DO know. That's their weapon.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-16 08:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-16 09:25 pm (UTC)Assissotom
Date: 2008-01-17 12:35 pm (UTC)Re: Assissotom
Date: 2008-01-19 02:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-19 02:10 am (UTC)and wow - it's so hard leaving them when they're calling for you, isn't it? i only work part time, and for the most part quinn loves going to his daycare lady. but every now and then he will simply not want to be left, and of course i don't have a chance. i have to go. some days i cry for a little bit as i'm driving away.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-19 02:31 am (UTC)Each age a child reaches has its own challenges. It's not that 3 is so much harder than 2, it's that that challenges he presents me with are different than they were before. Just when you've mastered how to handle a child of a certain age, they grow up a bit and it's like having to start all over again from scratch. :^P
no subject
Date: 2008-01-19 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-23 01:41 pm (UTC)