Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Whatever Works

             A friend of mine with a newborn baby told me recently of her struggles to get her daughter to sleep. The baby, she said, would fall asleep while nursing, but, unless deeply asleep, would wake up if she tried to move or lay the baby down. I had two very strong reactions to hearing this. One was to thank my lucky stars that my girls nap more readily than that. Dee Dee is a piece of cake, and Sylvia, although resistant at times, requires nowhere near that kind of attention. Thank God, because I couldn't give it to her, even if she did. I barely have time to pat her back for ten seconds while shooing Townes out of the room with my other hand.
             My other reaction was pure empathy. How I hated nap time with Clayton! Only three more years until he won't need a nap, I calculated on a daily basis. I planned my day-- car rides, walks, runs-- to coordinate with nap times, stressed myself out over his endless screaming, nursed him until my nipples hurt, kicked myself when he fell off the bed after I'd nursed him to sleep there and didn't have the courage to move him. And all the while, I felt guilty, as if his difficulty sleeping was my fault, a "problem" I hadn't figured out how to "fix." And no wonder, really. My bookshelves were full of books passed on by other mothers: The No-Cry Sleep Solution, Fixing Your Child's Sleep Problems. Everywhere I turned, I heard well-meaning advice, most of which served only to make me feel that I wasn't doing it "right." I felt heartless if I let him cry and spineless if I didn't. I worried that the naps I coaxed out of him in the jogging stroller didn't "count," akin, as one author wrote, to an adult sleeping on an airplane. (That book, I think, should be banned, until airplane seats are like comfy hammocks that cradle your entire body, with fresh air and passing scenery.)
            With a few years' perspective under my belt, and more experience mothering infants than I ever anticipated, I want to write my own parenting-advice book. Ironic, really, since the only advice I'd ever allow myself to give to new mothers is to avoid parenting books at all cost. Still, if I did write a book, I would call it Whatever Works. Does your baby only fall asleep at the breast? Read a lot and sleep yourself and don't feel guilty! Does your baby only sleep in the stroller? Go for a lot of walks and don't feel guilty! Does your baby need a destination-less car ride? Enjoy the scenery, park in a shady spot with a good book (maybe donate a few extra bucks to the Sierra Club?) and don't feel guilty. (I struggled with writing that last phrase for a good long while, because even now, when I extend our trip home around the neighborhood, praying that the few extra miles will miraculously make Clayton take the nap that he has all but given up, I still feel guilty.)
              But even as I mentally compose the book jacket summary for my imaginary Whatever Works book, I wonder just how far that philosphy really goes. The other day after we had been to toddler gymnastics, Clayton refused to get in his car seat for the drive home. The other kids were all buckled in, but he was obstinately climbing around in the van. I could sense him gearing up for a real power struggle, one that would inevitably end with me physically pinning him down while I buckled him in, a technique that was getting harder as he fast approached (or topped?) forty pounds and which made for a very tearful (and loud) car ride home. But, as he climbed between his sisters to the front seat, he spied an almost empty bag of M&Ms on the console. They had worked so well during potty training that I had tried them a few days before as an incentive for "going to school happy" since his sobs of "Don't leave me, Momma!" and "I don't want to go!" were wearing me down.
               Now he said, "I want an M&M."
               "M&Ms are for good boys who listen to their Mamas and get in their seats," I told him.
              Within seconds he was buckled in and we were happily on our way, a tantrum averted by one blue M&M. Whatever works, I thought, and truly I did not feel guilty about that particular candy bribe. But the incident reminded me that my "whatever works" philosophy did not, could not, extend indefinitely. I am not above using the grocery store's offer of "free popcorn for kids" to get us through the aisles in one piece; one too many poops in the backyard convinced us to up the ante for pooping on the potty to half a mini ice-cream sandwich. But neither am I willing to make food-- even one measly M&M-- a "get out of a tantrum free" card, especially since I know enough about almost-three-year-olds now to accept that tantrums are like sneezes (or maybe more accurately, but indelicately, farts): you can try to put them off but they're bound to happen anyway. Watching a movie on a rainy Saturday morning is fine once in a while, but I never want to live in a household, never mind run one, in which television becomes the easy answer to "Momma, I want to do something!"
             Anyway, part of the satisfaction of parenting, I think, comes from holding the line. When Clayton is sobbing violently about wanting to watch "just one more video," what he really wants, ultimately, is to know that his hysterics, no matter how theatrical or extreme, are not going to change the limit I have set. In this way, raising kids is not so different from running a high school classroom. It turns out toddlers and teenagers both want to know what the "rules" are, and make it their job to test them, just to make sure you know, too. That Clayton ultimately appreciates that I didn't let him watch "just one more" I find out for sure at dinner, when he tells his dad about his day.
           "It was time to turn the videos off, and I wanted to watch one more and I cried, "Wa, wa, wa!" and I had to go to my room," he reports cheerfully.
          "And did you get to watch one more?" his dad asks.
           "No, I didn't," he says matter-of-factly, as if it were a stupid question. "It was time to turn them off."
           So, I guess "whatever works" only goes so far. I was more than happy to let the girls sleep in their carseats, instead of their cribs, for the first six months of their lives. People raised their eyebrows, but, hell, it worked for us. They slept well and we could easily move them around the house to "shove binkies" and jiggle them to sleep, while still managing to cook dinner, play with Clayton, or even watch an occasional episode of The West Wing. But if we always took the path of least resistance with Clayton, we'd have a dirty-haired, grubby-handed, M&M-eating video addict who poops standing up by the fish pond and smears play dough all over the coffee table while standing on his sisters' heads for a son. (In addition to our mulch-eating daughters.)
           I suppose parenting involves a gradual shift from "whatever works" to something else, something harder and more complicated that I haven't yet found an alliterative catch-phrase to describe. I do know that now that Sylvia's waking up numerous times a night again, I'm just going to nurse her without feeling guilty, without wondering if I'm perpetuating her wakefulness by "rewarding" her with milk every time she cries, without trying to "fix" it. Because, ultimately, all these months without an uninterrupted night's sleep are just a blip, just a fleeting moment in the span of her life and of ours. There will be time enough to wonder if I'm doing it right soon enough. For now I'm treasuring doing whatever works.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

"You really have your hands full!"

          Yesterday was quite possibly the hardest day of work in my life. It seems worth trying to record so that in the future I'll be able to remember just how challenging this time was, for whatever that's worth.

6:45        Townes arrives and Clayton wakes up. An excited "Townes is here!" is soon replaced by "That's my train!" and "That's my truck." A few hurried bites of cereal are squeezed between "More milk!" (Townes) and "That's my milk!" (Clayton). Soon it's "Get down?" (Townes) and "Momma, tell Townes not yet!" (Clayton).

7:00-9:00    God, who knows. Lots of poopy diapers, snotty noses, and crying babies while running constant interference between Clayton and Townes. One time-out for Clayton in his room leads to me finding him contently building towers with his blocks when I open the door. Townes wants to play blocks, too. "Perfect!" I think, "We'll play blocks together." True, block towers and crawling babies aren't the best combination, but at least the boys will be engaged and content for a little while. But when Clayton closes the door, Townes bursts into tears, even though we're all inside. "Ama (open) door!" he screams. Console, console; negotiate, negotiate. Townes cries when the door is closed; Clayton tantrums when it's opened. I put Dee Dee in her pack-n-play, wanting to get her morning nap over with so we can leave the house, and all the conflicts it seems to generate, as soon as possible. She's not really sleepy yet; I can hear her fussing in protest at being put down so early.
               "We're leaving!" I announce. "Everybody down the stairs!"
                "Blue car!" Townes says happily through his pacifier.
                "Momma, tell Townes to be careful!" Clayton instructs me as he heads down the stairs.
                 I rescue Dee Dee from her pack-n-play (she is reliably cheerful), and get everyone downstairs and buckled into their carseats to a chorus of "My paci!", "I want toast!", "My truck!", "I want more books!" I'm up and down the stairs gathering books, diapers, pacifiers, water bottles, but at least they're safely (if loudly) buckled in if I have to leave them unsupervised for a second.

9:15    We're off! I outline the day for them: riding bikes at the park, storytime at the library, then home for lunch, quiet time, videos. That, I think, should cruise us easily 'til 2 o'clock when Don has said he'll probably be home-- today is an early release day at school.
           We get to the park, and I get everyone and all their "wheels" unloaded: stroller for the girls, bikes for the boys. We head onto the tennis court and the boys bike around happily for a while. We're all content for the most part, except for when Clayton "accidentally" crashes into a crawling Dee Dee.
           Soon, though, it's "I want to do something else!" so we head up to the playground. Clayton insists on the one baby swing, and even knowing how ridiculous it is since he easily outweighs the others by almost twenty pounds, that is one battle that I don't have the strength to fight this morning. So Clayton goes in the baby swing ("Momma, push me higher!"), little Townes on the "big boy swing," Dee Dee on my back in the Ergo, and Sylvia still in the stroller. I push the boys while trying to angle Sylvia out of the sun and keep the stroller rocking.
            Another mom approaches with her little girl. "You've really got your hands full!" she says. I bite my tongue to keep from saying, "You know, you're the first person who's ever told me that," and proceed to talk her ear off: "Well, it was great for the first two weeks, Clayton was much more manageable, but now the 'sibling' squabbling has begun, blah, blah, blah." Turns out she works part time and tag teams childcare with her partner, so she's probably not quite as starved for adult conversation as I am. Still, we have an interesting conversation about gender and parenting while we push swings and I pretend I'm the troll under the bridge in the Three Billy Goats Gruff.
            "Do you feel the same maternal instincts for Arena (the little girl whom her partner had birthed)-- Trip, trop, who's that crossing my bridge?-- as for your other daughter?" Meanwhile, poor Dee Dee is rubbing her eyes desperately and banging her head against my back, which she does when she's tired. I'm still rocking Sylvia in the stroller; she's got her feet up on the bar like it's a foot rest, sucking on her paci. The boys move into the sandbox and after a while I check the time. It's 10:35, time to go if we're going to make storytime at eleven. But the thought of loading everyone up and unloading again at the library feels overwhelming, and I think of my father's timeless parenting advice: don't make happy children happier.
           "Do we want to go the library or are we happy here at the park?" I ask Clayton.
           "We're happy here at the park," he says.
            A few minutes later another mom arrives with two little kids in a double stroller and one more in an Ergo. Again I bite my tongue so I won't say, "Looks like you've got your hands full!" Still, finding another mom caring for multiple little kids is rare, and I want to talk to her. "Are they all yours?" I ask instead, helping her four-year-old cross the monkey bars.
           "I want to do that!" Clayton announces, so I help him, too. He's hanging onto the bars with my help when Sylvia, whom I've stopped rocking for the moment, starts to cry.
          "I need to put you down so I can help Sylvia," I tell him, but he won't let go. Sylvia cries harder; she's lost her pacifier. "Come on!" I coax. "Let go! I have to help your sister!" But still he hangs on. I don't want to leave him hanging there; it's a long drop. Now Sylvia's really gearing up. Finally I manage to yank Clayton's hands free from the bars and retrieve Sylvia's paci.
           Clayton wants to swing again, so back to the swings we go. I'm feeling cruel for keeping Dee Dee awake so long, and I'm starting to get thirsty and hungry. I look at the time and it's pushing eleven.
           "A few more minutes and we're going to go home for lunch," I tell the boys.
            Clayton looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "No, Momma," he says. "The library's next!"
            I try to explain that we're too late for storytime, that we can go to the library but there won't be kids or Ms. Morna, only books. His disappointment is killing me-- this was not the chain of events I'd outlined! I check the time again: eight minutes until storytime. Well, maybe we can make some of it, I think, if we leave right now. I pull Clayton out of the swing and he immediately climbs into the front of the stroller, but I don't have time to negotiate about how he's too big, it's too heavy... I muscle the stroller over the mulch and onto the path, Townes trailing behind. I collect the bikes from the tennis court, rush to the car. Girls buckled in, boys buckled in, stroller loaded, bikes loaded, granola bar found for boys begging for a snack, and off we go. It's a quick drive to the library. Out comes the stroller-- oh, goddamn it, the bikes are on top!-- out come the girls still buckled into their carseats (I simply can't stand to get them out), out come the boys (granola bars discarded onto the floor, I see), out come last week's library books. Once inside, routine takes over-- Clayton is immediately engaged in the book Ms. Morna's reading, the girls sit in their carseats looking dazed, Townes watches the girls, looking dazed himself. I pull books to check out for this week off the shelf from where I sit. I am desperate to get Dee Dee home to bed as quickly as possible when this is over. Before I know it, Ms. Morna is singing, "Two little hands wave bye-bye!" The girls get loaded back into the stroller, then we're at the counter checking out the books. I am amazed at how smoothly things are going, but my stomach is on edge, waiting for something, or rather someone, to fall apart.
           "What about Three Billy Goats Gruff?" Clayton insists. In a more relaxed moment, I had suggested we check it out from the library since he had liked our game at the park so much. I send him over to ask Ms. Morna to help us find it. If teaching high school students has taught Don and me anything, it's to raise our kids knowing how to talk to adults. And if taking care of four kids myself has taught me anything, it's to know when to ask for help! Ms. Morna, the angel that she is, soon appears with an urban version of the three billy goats. "Good enough!" I say and we're off. I prop the doors of the library open so I can push the behemoth stroller through. Clayton heads out the door, but when he gets outside he plops down on the sidewalk so he can read The Three Cool Kids.              Everyone is loaded up, again, library books slotted next to Clayton in his carseat, stroller dumped on top of the bikes. The girls are losing it and cry all the way home. Clayton's begging, "Momma, read this book!" from the back. Townes looks like he'd be asleep already if not for all the screaming.

12:00     We pull into the garage, girls still crying. I hate to leave one screaming in the car while I carry the other upstairs, so I opt for the Ergo. I have to lay Dee Dee down on the garage floor while I put it on since she won't bend her legs to sit. Finally, she's in the Ergo, I've got Sylvia in my arms, but, uh-oh, the boys are still buckled in. Clayton I can do one-handed, but Townes is harder. Dee Dee starts to cry again; I've accidentally banged her head into the van door as I reach to unbuckle Townes. Oops. I put Sylvia down so I can reach Townes carseat-- more tears. Clayton's still carrying his book: "Momma read the Three Billy Goats Rough?"
           I put Sylvia in her booster, throw a pizza in the microwave, pour milk into sippy cups. "I don't WANT pizza!" Clayton announces. Any other day, any other moment, I would have said, "Tough, that's what's for lunch," but at the moment I don't have the energy to hold that particular line. The quesadilla Townes didn't eat for lunch yesterday is in the fridge, so I give that to Clayton. Within minutes, though, he's coveting the pizza Townes isn't eating for lunch today.
          After the boys (or rather, Clayton) eats, I change Townes' diaper and we head down the stairs for quiet time. I've thrown some banana puffs on the girls' trays to keep them happy for a few more minutes. Halfway down the stairs I remember Clayton hasn't peed, so back up we go.
         "Momma, say, 'Look at Clayton peeing on the potty, Townes." Dutifully, I repeat my line, although Townes is already watching intently.
          I put an exhausted Townes into his pack-n-play, get Clayton set up on the futon, run to the car to get him the library books (he usually reads while Townes naps), and head back up to the girls. I throw a few more banana puffs on Sylvia's tray while I change Dee Dee's diaper and put her to bed. I then take off Sylvia's pants and diaper to sit her on the potty. I am so accustomed to her pooping on the potty that I am shocked to see that the diaper I am holding is full of poop; I guess she got tired of waiting for her turn. I've gotten her cleaned up and into bed (if not to sleep) when I think, "I still smell poop!" I look down and realize why: the front of my shirt is covered with unmistakable brown smears. I strip to my nursing bra and throw the shirt in the laundry, but I don't want to go into my room to get another with Dee Dee finally asleep. Plus, I'm starving. I'm finally putting cheese on toast after several trips to Sylvia's room to find her pacifier-- she's finally quiet-- when I hear the clomp, clomp of little feet on the stairs and Clayton appears at the baby gate. No, I think, it can't be...
           "I had a nice rest!" he announces. "I want to watch my videos now." I look at the clock. It has been over thirty minutes since I put him and Townes down, the minimum amount of "quiet time" I insist on.
           "Can't you do ten more minutes?" I plead.
           "I had a nice rest!"
           Reluctantly I set him up on the couch and put on one of the videos we checked out at the library. It seems loud, though, so I reach for the remote to turn it down and accidentally mash the wrong button. The screen goes blank.
          "Uh-oh, Momma!" Clayton says.
           I am sure I just changed the channel accidentally, but nothing I do seems to fix it. Meanwhile Clayton keeps repeating, "I want to watch my video. I want to watch my video. What happened to it? Your boobies!" He's pointing at my chest, and I realize I'm still in my bra.
           "Stop talking!" I tell him.
           He looks at me in surprise and something very close to indignation. "I want to talk!"
           "You're right," I tell him. "You can talk, but I can't fix this. How about you watch videos on the computer?" (Thank God for youtube!)
            I eat my cheese toast and try to clean up the kitchen from both its breakfast and lunch mess while Clayton watches old Bugs Bunny videos. I'm making some headway when I hear Townes crying. Already? I bring him upstairs and think, "This time I'll do this right." Townes doesn't like to watch videos, so I find a Thomas the Tank Engine sticker and coloring book that Clayton has long since lost interest in. I get out the markers and set Townes up at the end of the coffee table.
           Clayton looks up from his videos. "That's my book!" He grabs it from Townes, tears the cover, and throws it onto the floor. I close the laptop on Clayton's videos and haul him kicking and screaming to his bed for another time-out.
           Several minutes later: Clayton comes out of his room from his time out, Townes is playing with a train at the coffee table. "My train!" Clayton says and tries to pry it from Townes' grip. Townes gets mad and throws it, startling Dulce who has a painful lump on her head that was just diagnosed as cancerous the day before. Immediately Clayton grabs another train and throws it, nearly missing Dulce again. The rage I feel surprises me. I pick Clayton up to take him to his room-- again. I am not yelling, but somehow it's worse. I am practically growling at him through clenched teeth, all my anxiety about Dulce over the last few awful days channeled into that moment: I cannot stand to see her hurt any more than she already is.

2:00        The next round is less dramatic, but Clayton is still being a pest, flying his airplane around Townes' head, trying to make him cry. Townes obliges easily. By afternoon he is fragile, ready to go home.
I give Clayton a choice: play in his room or on the porch. Physical separation seems the best approach right now.
             "On the porch!" he says.
             "Okay," I say, and lock the door after him. Townes I take outside through the back door. It is several peaceful moments before Clayton realizes what's happened. He's trying to get back inside, but I call to him, "We're down here!"
            He's still on the other side of the fence, so I've got some leverage. I tell him he has to play nicely or he's going back in.
           The next twenty minutes or so are bliss, comparatively. Clayton is smearing play dough all over the driveway, Townes is riding his bike saying every twenty seconds, "Momma at work," the girls are eating play dough and pulling each other's hair, but relatively, there's peace. When Don finally comes home after three, we are the picture of domestic bliss.
          Don is going to take the lawn mower to a welder since the wheel fell off last weekend. "Why don't you take all three?" I suggest. "They might like the ride." I can't get them loaded up fast enough. When Townes' father finally picks up Townes twenty minutes later, I collapse into a chair on the porch. I'm supposed to go for a run but all I want to do is eat cookies. So I do.