Friday - The Scientist
Mar. 9th, 2007 03:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreFor someone with nothing but time on my hands - or so the rumor has it - I can't seem to find any of it for myself. I have gone on a few interviews (one of them was promising) and sent out countless resumes. But the most challenging thing I find myself doing is being a mother.
Before, mothering was something I paid professionals to do for me and that I only practiced on evenings and weekends, kind of like a hobby. Now, to stretch out that severance check, the professionals only do the work for me two days a week and I am learning the nuts and bolts of the job myself.
One lesson I have learned is that getting on the computer with my son in the house is not an option. If I am on the computer, my son insists he must be on my lap. But he is hard to work around. He sees the buttons on the keyboard, and he knows that buttons are for pushing, so he pushes them. He sees me moving the mouse, so he wants to move it, too. It is easier to just give up and go play with his blocks with him, or maybe watch a Baby Einstein video. I do my job searches online while he is down for a nap.
The other big lesson I've learned is one of ownership. When I was a child, I had the idea that children belonged to their parents. Now I know better. Parents belong to their children. A child's needs come before the parents' needs and wants. My son made this clear the other day when he pointed to my lap and announced, "My lap!" before climbing on it and making himself comfortable. He is not wrong. I am his mother. My lap belongs to him. My time belongs to him. If I have macaroni and cheese on my plate and his plate is empty, my dinner belongs to him. This is the natural order of things.
Mind you, my belonging to him does not mean he is in charge. Part of belonging to him is setting limits for him to live within. His job, at age 2 and half years, is to test every limit I put in place. When he throws a toy across the room, I tell him that he will have to sit in Time Out if he throws anything else. Like a tiny scientist, he feels compelled to test this, even knowing that Time Out an unbearable ordeal that he will have to endure should my statement be proven correct. Nevertheless, he bites the bullet. He looks me in the eye, picks up a toy, raises is over his shoulder, and pauses to make sure that he has my attention.
"Don't..." I tell him slowly.
He throws the toy deliberately, and then looks at me to see what my reaction will be. I shake my head sadly.
"That does it, you have to go to Time Out."
"Noooooooo! No, no, no, no, no!" He protests and wails as I physically carry him to the only empty and boring corner I can find.
The Time Out corner can have no toys in it. It must be a barren and joyless place. It happens to be in the dining room, under the kitchen counter. If I don't watch him while he is there, he will creep away from the dreaded corner and try to escape. I use my bare toe nudge him back toward the spot where he is supposed to carry out his sentence. He is screaming in anger and anguish. Tears like fat raindrops spring from his eyes and race down his cheeks in rapid succession. I set the kitchen timer to countdown to his payroll hearing: two whole minutes, one for each year he has been alive.
Sometimes I give time off for good behavior and set him free early. Sometimes, one minute and 30 seconds is all I can bear of the big sad eyes that stare at me so reproachfully from his tear-stained face. At last, the time comes. His debt to society is paid.
"Okay, you can come out now," I tell him.
He stretches out his arms to be picked up. A second ago, he was mad at me for punishing him. Now, he is grateful I have freed him. When I lift him out of the corner, he clings to me and I comfort him. There are no hard feelings. He had to throw the toy, to see what would happen when he did, and I had to play my role in the drama, as well. When he is certain that this is one boundary that is consistent, he will stop testing it. But like any scientist, he knows that it is important to duplicate the results of his experiment, to make sure that the reaction he got was not just a fluke.
I carry him to the living room, where he spots a tricycle that needs riding, so he wiggles to be set down. He points to a chair.
"Sit, Mommy!" he tells me. His tone is so authoritative that I almost comply before I realize that I am being ordered around by someone who weighs less than 30 pounds and who is not the boss of me, whatever he thinks.
"Say please," I tell him.
"Peace," he says, softly.
Close enough. I sit, and he shows me how good he is at mounting and riding the little red tricycle. He steers it over to me and hands me a toy to keep me occupied so that I won't want to leave. It is important to him that I be where he can see me. Despite my insistence on irritating things like Time Out, I belong to him. I am him mother. My lap and my time are his. Not to mention any macaroni and cheese I might have.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
Before, mothering was something I paid professionals to do for me and that I only practiced on evenings and weekends, kind of like a hobby. Now, to stretch out that severance check, the professionals only do the work for me two days a week and I am learning the nuts and bolts of the job myself.
One lesson I have learned is that getting on the computer with my son in the house is not an option. If I am on the computer, my son insists he must be on my lap. But he is hard to work around. He sees the buttons on the keyboard, and he knows that buttons are for pushing, so he pushes them. He sees me moving the mouse, so he wants to move it, too. It is easier to just give up and go play with his blocks with him, or maybe watch a Baby Einstein video. I do my job searches online while he is down for a nap.
The other big lesson I've learned is one of ownership. When I was a child, I had the idea that children belonged to their parents. Now I know better. Parents belong to their children. A child's needs come before the parents' needs and wants. My son made this clear the other day when he pointed to my lap and announced, "My lap!" before climbing on it and making himself comfortable. He is not wrong. I am his mother. My lap belongs to him. My time belongs to him. If I have macaroni and cheese on my plate and his plate is empty, my dinner belongs to him. This is the natural order of things.
Mind you, my belonging to him does not mean he is in charge. Part of belonging to him is setting limits for him to live within. His job, at age 2 and half years, is to test every limit I put in place. When he throws a toy across the room, I tell him that he will have to sit in Time Out if he throws anything else. Like a tiny scientist, he feels compelled to test this, even knowing that Time Out an unbearable ordeal that he will have to endure should my statement be proven correct. Nevertheless, he bites the bullet. He looks me in the eye, picks up a toy, raises is over his shoulder, and pauses to make sure that he has my attention.
"Don't..." I tell him slowly.
He throws the toy deliberately, and then looks at me to see what my reaction will be. I shake my head sadly.
"That does it, you have to go to Time Out."
"Noooooooo! No, no, no, no, no!" He protests and wails as I physically carry him to the only empty and boring corner I can find.
The Time Out corner can have no toys in it. It must be a barren and joyless place. It happens to be in the dining room, under the kitchen counter. If I don't watch him while he is there, he will creep away from the dreaded corner and try to escape. I use my bare toe nudge him back toward the spot where he is supposed to carry out his sentence. He is screaming in anger and anguish. Tears like fat raindrops spring from his eyes and race down his cheeks in rapid succession. I set the kitchen timer to countdown to his payroll hearing: two whole minutes, one for each year he has been alive.
Sometimes I give time off for good behavior and set him free early. Sometimes, one minute and 30 seconds is all I can bear of the big sad eyes that stare at me so reproachfully from his tear-stained face. At last, the time comes. His debt to society is paid.
"Okay, you can come out now," I tell him.
He stretches out his arms to be picked up. A second ago, he was mad at me for punishing him. Now, he is grateful I have freed him. When I lift him out of the corner, he clings to me and I comfort him. There are no hard feelings. He had to throw the toy, to see what would happen when he did, and I had to play my role in the drama, as well. When he is certain that this is one boundary that is consistent, he will stop testing it. But like any scientist, he knows that it is important to duplicate the results of his experiment, to make sure that the reaction he got was not just a fluke.
I carry him to the living room, where he spots a tricycle that needs riding, so he wiggles to be set down. He points to a chair.
"Sit, Mommy!" he tells me. His tone is so authoritative that I almost comply before I realize that I am being ordered around by someone who weighs less than 30 pounds and who is not the boss of me, whatever he thinks.
"Say please," I tell him.
"Peace," he says, softly.
Close enough. I sit, and he shows me how good he is at mounting and riding the little red tricycle. He steers it over to me and hands me a toy to keep me occupied so that I won't want to leave. It is important to him that I be where he can see me. Despite my insistence on irritating things like Time Out, I belong to him. I am him mother. My lap and my time are his. Not to mention any macaroni and cheese I might have.
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Not to mention any macaroni and cheese
Date: 2007-03-09 11:22 pm (UTC)Re: Not to mention any macaroni and cheese
Date: 2007-03-10 03:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-10 02:14 pm (UTC)I most definitely belong to Camie...as do Greg and her older sisters...
Thursday she HAD TO HAVE potato chips. We had none in the house. Greg went and bought some for her. She didn't want to share with anyone!!! Even me!! *gasp* (She's MY baby she usually isn't selfish towards me) But of course her sisters got some anyway. :P Greg accuses ME of spoiling her so, but he does his fair share, and then some, too.
They're so precious at that age.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-10 02:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-10 03:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-10 02:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-10 02:19 pm (UTC)http://www.bloggingbaby.com/2007/03/09/portrait-of-a-working-mom-the-day-off/
no subject
Date: 2007-03-10 02:52 pm (UTC)Oh, and fair warning: The "terrible twos" start at about 18 months of age, and end somewhere between the 3rd and 4th birthday. You will get to enjoy this stage sooner than you think - and for a lot longer than you would suspect you should just going by the name of it.
There is an upside to this age, though, that everyone forgets to tell you about. You get to see the little personality begin to come into full bloom (Ian is just a little bud now, wait until his petals all open). He will start talking and charming your socks off of you, and to kiss and hug you, and enjoy bedtime stories, and so on. For all of the frustrations you will have to endure, there are plenty of "wow" moments that will make it all worth it. ^_^
no subject
Date: 2007-03-11 08:54 pm (UTC)