Carseat Kerfuffle

A post this week on another blog got me thinking. About how some things are so much easier said than done. And how we sometimes do things even when we should know better. And about how little kids can throw giant hissy-fits over carseats. It prompted me to dig into my archives for this little gem from when Miles was almost 2:

We have not had a smooth start to the new year. It’s as if the minute the ball dropped, evil spirits conspired to make my life difficult. For one thing, Miles has turned into a Terrible Two virtually overnight. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo that his birthday’s not till June.

It started one day when I was picking him up from the sitter and, instead of running towards me, he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. This kicked off a fun game of catch-me-if-you-can, culminating in me wrestling him to the floor to get his coat on. Then, once we got home, he refused to come inside. Once in the house, he refused to take his coat off, and so on and so on.

Then came the Talbot’s Parking Lot Incident. Let me set the scene for you: that morning, we’d joined my neighbor and her 2 sons at an indoor playground. I won’t reveal the name of the place, but in my opinion it should have been called Ultimate Lawsuit Zone. It was mayhem, people. Picture hoards of tiny Vikings pillaging inflatable villages. Picture Lollapalooza for kids, with mosh pits and crowd surfing and torn shirts, only with juice boxes instead of beer.

My son, clearly born without the fear gene, took off like a bullet the second we stepped inside. Panicked, I ran around looking for him, only to spot him whizzing down an unbelievably steep slide with his arms up. Not even remotely concerned that no one was at the bottom to catch him. My poor neighbor was trying to keep her 3-year-old from being trampled alive and feed her 5-week-old at the same time. After 40 minutes of this, we’d had enough. Sweaty and frazzled, we parted ways in the parking lot.

But I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I just HAD to pop into the Talbot’s outlet for a minute to check out the kids’ stuff. Let me tell you: no amount of 70% percent off Christmas clothing could make up for the saga that ensued.

Miles started getting antsy in the store, so we left. Once back at the car, however, he adamantly refused to get back in his carseat. Back arched, teeth bared, legs kicking, arms flailing, the whole bit. Although I outweigh my child by over 100 lbs. and can carry a half-dozen bags of groceries at once, I physically could not force his stubborn little body into the carseat. The more I tried, the madder and meaner he got.

I stopped and took a deep breath. Passersby were staring. I feared someone would call Social Services. Fine, I thought, have it your way. So I let Miles run amuck in the car. He crawled into the front seat, beeped the horn, turned on the windshield wipers and generally had a grand old time. After awhile, I tried again to get him into the carseat. Same scenario. By this time we both had scratches on our faces and were out of breath. I yelled, he screamed. Neither of us was giving in.

Finally, in desperation, I called C. at work: “I am stuck in a friggin’ parking lot with your stubborn son and you better come get him into his damn carseat before I leave him by the side of the road!!” He did.

At this point, Miles was sobbing and heaving hysterically. He smacked away anything we tried to give him -- a drink, a snack, a toy. Thinking it might soothe him, we headed for the Chick-fil-A drive-thru. We sure as HELL weren’t letting him out of the carseat again! Waiting for our food, I saw a woman walk by with a baby on her hip and 3 other children under the age of 6. Calmly, peacefully, all holding hands, like it was NO BIG DEAL. I hated her on sight.

Since that day, the carseat showdown has become a near-daily experience. Once, I bribed Miles with an old cereal bar that had probably been on the floor of the car for 6 mos. Another time, I sang "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and tickled him. I even called my mom and tried to get her to distract him over the phone. Some things worked, most didn’t. All I know is, this year can only get better.

The Terrible Threes?

I don’t know what’s going on around here. My formerly sweet 3.5 y.o. son has morphed into a teenager overnight. Emotional outbursts, tears, name-calling, aggression, refusal to eat, streaking, night-waking – all out of nowhere! What the heck??

The other day, for instance, I picked him up from preschool like I always do. We were getting out of the car and I noticed a couple of empty juice boxes on the floor. (Nothing out of the ordinary, sadly.) “Let me grab those and throw them away,” I said casually. I picked them up and tossed them in the nearby garbage can.

Then Miles went nuts. And that’s putting it mildly. “NOOO!!!! I don’t WANT you to throw them away!” he screamed, tears of rage streaming down his cheeks. “NO, MAMA, NO!!” He then proceeded to kick the trash can until it fell over, spilling garbage onto the ground. What the … ?

Chalking it up to low blood sugar, I ignored him and carried the baby into the house. Miles followed, and seemed to have calmed down somewhat. I made his lunch and he began eating it silently. I poured him a cup of milk without him asking. (Normally, he begs for milk, chugs it immediately and then wants nothing to do with his food.) When he noticed this, he said, “Why did you give me milk?” Me: “Because I know you like it.”

Round 2 of losing his sh*t: “I don’t WANT milk!! I don’t wanna hafta pee!!” More screaming, more tears. I couldn’t keep myself from laughing. This child has never passed up milk in his LIFE. And as for the peeing? That’s our excuse for not giving him more milk right before bedtime. At this point, I’d lost my patience and sent him to his room. There was stomping and door-slamming and other assorted ugliness. I half-expected a pack of cigarettes to fall out of his pocket.

I repeat: what the HECK?! It’s not like this was just a bad day, either. There have been a handful of other uncharacteristic, out-of-the-blue outbursts recently. Even at school, which was a first.

My son used to be a champion eater, too – he once declared veggies his favorite food – but that’s all changed. Every meal is a fight to the death over every little bite of scrambled egg or chicken. He would consume an all-popcorn, fruit, and milk diet if we let him. But protein? Forget it.

I know you’re not “supposed” to battle with kids over food, but I see no way around it. The “let him starve, he’ll learn” philosophy leads only to meltdowns and more stress for me. And yes, I realize that it’s a power struggle, but I think I do a pretty good job of offering my son choices and letting him have SOME autonomy.

And don’t even get me STARTED on the clothes. When he’s not stripping naked and running around the house, he’s having a hissy fit over a certain pair of jeans or an uncool shirt. (Basically, anything without a truck, dinosaur, or superhero on it.) The kid would live in his pajamas if left to his own devices. We may have a budding Hugh Hefner on our hands.

Plenty of people warned me that the threes are even worse than the so-called “terrible twos.” (Thanks, people. Helpful.) But I don’t know what you’re supposed to do about it. Fortunately, there are glimpses of Miles’ former personality in between all the drama. When he snuggles up next to me to read a book, say, or kisses his baby brother on the head. Other times I catch myself thinking, “Who is this pajama-clad punk and what have you done with my son?”

PIC O’ THE WEEK: “Check out my new choppers. And, yeah, I know how to use ’em. Mommy’s got the teeth marks to prove it.”

Mama Don’t Know Jack

I know toddlerhood is all about kids asserting their independence and testing limits and all that, but my WORD, what a pain in the butt it can be! Some days Miles has to argue with me about EVERYTHING. No, this is not new behavior. But now it’s even infiltrated our previously pleasant reading time.

Here’s an example. I was reading Miles a counting book of his. It starts with “One ostrich playing the organ” and goes up to “Ten tiny turtles playing trumpets.” Except my son adamantly began arguing with me from page one: “No. No, Mommy, dat’s NOT a organ. Dat’s a pee-no.”

“You’re right, it does look sort of like a piano, but it’s actually called an organ.”

“No, dat’s not a organ.”

Whatever. Moving on… Except he kept this up throughout the WHOLE BOOK!! Those 6 bees were not playing bongos, they were playing drums, he insisted. The 7 eagles were most certainly NOT playing electric bass, they were playing guitars. Duh, Mommy! And don’t even get me started on the newts -- excuse me, “lizards” -- playing nose flutes!! (BTW, what the heck ARE nose flutes?) Finally I just threw down the book in frustration.

But that tricky little toddler of mine, sometimes he purposely baits me. “What’s dat, Mommy?” he’ll ask innocently, pointing at a guy on a ride-on lawn mower across the street.

“That’s a lawn mower,” I tell him.

“No! Not a lawn mower, dat’s a TRACTOR,” he crows, pleased with himself for outsmarting his dim-bulb mom.

My friend S. grew so irritated with her older son’s superiority complex that one day she blurted: “I am 34 years old! I have a college degree. You are 7. Do you really think you’re smarter than me??” His prompt reply: “Yes.”

But back to the toddlers. Have I mentioned the temper on this kid?? God forbid I walk up the stairs ahead of him when HE wanted to go first. Or if I dare take too long refilling his sippy cup. The funniest thing I’ve read all week is from “Naptime is the New Happy Hour,” by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. She’s describing her toddler daughter’s temper tantrum one morning:

“… because I committed the cardinal sin of starting the coffeemaker without giving her ample opportunity to push the button. Actually, as per our tradition, I’d asked her if she would like to push the button, but it seemed she and Elmo were having a private moment and I was intruding with my rude question … But a minute later, when her bionic hearing picked up the sound of coffee brewing, she went completely mental. ‘You pushed the button! I wanted to push it! MAMA! PLEASE! I need to push the button!’ she screamed as if I wasn’t in the same room with her or even the same country. “

Oh, I’ve been there, sister. You better believe I will never again choose what floor I want on an elevator as long as Miles is around.

TIP O’ THE WEEK: I just renewed a bunch of my subscriptions for less than $5 apiece at BestDealMagazines.com. They don’t have everything, but they do have Wondertime, Redbook, Working Mother, and tons more.