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.

Month 25: The Year of the Truck

Trucks and trains and tricycles, oh my! Guess it’s no secret what 2-year-old boys like, huh? 95% of Miles’ birthday gifts featured wheels of some sort. First, an entire new fleet of trucks arrived, including a dump truck as big as a dishwasher. Then, a whole new set of Thomas trains steamed into our living room.

If you’re lucky enough not to be intimately familiar with Thomas & Friends, you might not know that all these vehicles have names, as well as faces. Thank goodness they’re printed on the bottom, because otherwise I’d have no clue when Miles asks, “Where’s Percy?” Um, is he the green one?

Even the books he got were in keeping with the theme: there’s “Little Blue Truck” and “Smash! Crash!” about two mischievous trucks who like to -- yep, you guessed it. We’ve read that one 6 times already. Coincidentally or not, the birthday cake I made was a yellow dump truck hauling a load of malted milk balls. It was a big hit with the 2-year-old set. It came out pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. Especially considering the 94-degree weather this weekend. Heat and humidity do bad things to buttercream, people.

I used to think that parents who were strict about sugar and sleep routines were uptight. Back off and let the kids have some fun, thought my naïve, childless former self. At least on their birthdays! Now I know better. It only takes one junk food-fueled meltdown by an overtired toddler to teach you that you don’t mess with bedtimes and blood sugar. Maybe if I’d waited to mention the cake until AFTER dinner…?

As joyous as it was to watch Miles delight in his birthday loot, I swear he morphed into a Terrible Two overnight. Not that he’s always been a picnic, mind you. He’s just trotted out some extra-obnoxious behavior the past couple days. For instance, my old standby maneuver for when he won’t come when I call him backfired big time. We’re walking the dog, Miles takes off, I call after him, he ignores me. So I say, “OK, then. I’m going home. See ya later!” But instead of chasing after me, this time he says, “OK, bye!” and takes off in the opposite direction. So there I am, running after HIM with a dog and a bag of poop in 94-degree weather. Good times.

Then there was the hissy fit over the T-shirt. Even his birthday clothing featured cars and trucks, except for the requisite pile of New England sports paraphernalia from my in-laws. However, Miles was reluctant to stage a fashion show so we could take pictures of him in the “Big Papi” shirt. He only had eyes for the dune buggy shirt. So he screamed and cried and threw himself on the floor and could only be consoled by another reading of “Smash! Crash!”

His bad moods pass quickly, at least, and before long we were again playing happily with the convoy of construction vehicles that has invaded our home. At one point he paused in his vroom-vrooming, looked up, and said hopefully, “Cake time?” And, being the sucker mom that I am, I said, “Sure, sweetie. Let’s have some more birthday cake.” At least it was a break from the trucks.

PRESS O’ THE WEEK: Check out my SATC post in The Baltimore Sun.