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Measurable Brain Activity Toddlers Just Don't Understand (sorry to rip you off there, Fresh Prince(oh yeah, and DJ Jazzy Jeff - you too) I'm pretty lucky overall, I think. I don't have a very tantrumy (yes, that's a word, I just made it up) toddler. In fact he's rather calm and as reasonable as a toddler can be most of the time. But dammit, when he gets going he can really put the place up. Take today for instance, I thought we were having a perfectly reasonable discussion about him sitting in his stroller so I could stroll him around the loop (yes there IS a groove worn in the floor of the kitchen, hall and living room of our house, why do you ask?) and get him to go to sleep. He however, misunderstood my intentions, apparently believing that I was about to dangle him over a pit of vipers by his ankle. He responded in a reasonable way to what he understood to be about to happen, I however, felt the screaming was out of proportion to the suggestion of a stroller ride. It's this sort of communication breakdown that causes divorces you know. Luckily, The Boy doesn't have a lawyer and is a little young to be considered an emancipated minor (I think you have to be able to actually sign your name to the papers - oh yeah and be able to say emancipated, before that can happen) so we are still together. Anyway, so I plunk the boy in his stroller (no mean feat when said boy is stretched out like a piece of 2X4 but I did it - Mombie wins again!) and begin our stroll through the house when suddenly tears start streaming down his face in what us veterans recognize as a change in tactics. Sadly, knowing you are being manipulated does not prevent tears from causing Mombie heartache. I caved and asked him what was wrong. Apparently, he was plunged into the depths of despair because he was unable to find his ladybug windmill (a lawn ornament with revolving wings on a sharp metal pole - the perfect toddler toy). I too was plunged into the depths of despair because I knew that until we found the ladybug windmill he would be unable to sleep (frantic with worry perhaps? I dunno.). So I start the search, it is nowhere to be found. I start to panic thinking that he will not nap and hence I will not write, when I have this stroke of genius. Daddy must know where the ladybug windmill is, but Daddy, you see, is at work. So he can't tell us right now, but when he gets home he'll find it for us. For some reason, the ploy works and The Boy settles into a nap. I get to sit at the computer and write. All is well and Mombie wins again. Of course, once The Boy wakes up and is once again wandering the wilds of the living room, he finds the damn thing behind the couch. I wonder, briefly, if I could have saved myself some hassle by letting him look for it earlier when the crying started but then I smarten up and realize that I'm in this parenting thing for a long time and if I start second guessing myself now I'll be putty in his hands in no time flat. So: Mombie wins again! © Christine C. Hennebury 2004 |
