So, it's a hot, sunny day at the park, and I'm sitting on the bench, wondering how to solve a problem that I don't understand. I don't realize that understanding the problem is tantamount to seeking a viable solution.
This being a neighborhood park finds me sitting next to a neighbor whom I hardly know. Even so, confusion has risen so high that it doesn't take much for my mouth to open wide enough for waves of frustration to pour out. All I need to hear is ...
"Annie, whenever I see you, you're cheerful, smiling, kidding around. Today, you're so quiet, and you look unhappy. What's wrong?"
That's all it took. Place the right key in the lock, watch an army of suppressed frustration march out of the fortress as fast as the draw bridge descends ...
"I'm a teacher, who loved other people's children so much, I couldn't wait to have my own. I was the happiest pregnant woman this world has ever known. I'd sit on the floor and insist that my husband's enthusiasm match my sense of joy while watching our child's gymnastics roll around in my womb. With each pregnancy, love for my unborn babe bloomed in direct proportion to the extent that my abdomen stretched outward bound. I'd picture our happy little family swinging on swings, splashing in warm bubble baths, snuggling up, reading picture books in the wicker rocker, baking chocolate chip cookies, and though we actually enjoyed all of that, a lot … I never expected to feel so frustrated so much of the time …"
Deep sigh ...
(It's not as if I knew myself to be the mother of the decade, carrying the child of the century inside me ... I'd simply sensed that would be true. I mean, with so much love to give, how could I go wrong?)
"Wow, Annie. You sound really disillusioned to me."
And just like that, another pipe dream popped, because my neighbor's simple perception had hit the nail on the head, piercing my wall of denial as quick as a pin pops a balloon. It's not that I loved my kids more in the womb; it's just that no one in the know had told me to expect that the real labor of love begins after birth.
Truthfully I loved my children so much that I wanted them to be raised by the best mom I could be. And in my mind's eye, the best of moms had some clue as to how to get their kids dressed and fed without wanting to yell "Hold still, RIGHT now! Open up, chew and swallow! I couldn't wait to see you stand up and hear you talk! Now, I'm begging you not to stamp your feet, to say okay instead of "NO!", to lie still while I'm dressing you, and to sit still when I'm feeding you!!!!! Oy vey!!! Someone help me save my sanity … pleeease!
One day, while my dad was watching his grown daughter cajoling (fighting a losing battle with) an independent two year old, Grandpa had the 'nerve' (good sense?) to say, "Annie, I think you're afraid of him. If you can't control a two year old, what will you do when he's sixteen?" Double Oy Gevalt!
So here I am, sitting on that bench in the park, mind spinning, shoulders slumping, smile flagging, spirit sagging, tongue wagging, revealing my frustration to an almost stranger ... "I'd no clue that as an expectant mom, my expectations of motherhood had soared over the moon."
As much as I loved my boys, aged more than two and less than one, I felt utterly perplexed as to how to get my teeth to stop gnashing, every morning, before my little energizers were changed, dressed and fed.
You see—just as when I'd changed schools at the age of ten and expected to be ring master with a new group of fifth graders —it was the 'kiddles', not me, who were running the show, and that did not portend well for our future because, as Dad had so piercingly pointed out, I was supposed to be the adult in charge and my little guys were supposed to cheerfully follow my lead ... right?
Ha! Fat chance of any adult being in charge of a two year old mind!
Mind you, this was many years ago ... Doctor Spock was our parenting authority, meaning that the teachings of Dr. Rudolph Dreikurs' logical consequences had barely begun to be whispered, here or there. Thank goodness, I was inclined to open my mind as well as my ear ... because ... solving problems with tykes by way of logic is not what had transpired in our apartment, as of yet. Actually if asked what enabled me to sleep soundly, most nights, I'd respond ... shear exhaustion.
If you're a parent with a memory, I need offer no examples of this battle of wills that proves classic, universal and timeless between parents and offspring. However in case you're contemplating kids and I'm scaring you off from what proved to be one of the most enriching experiences of my life, let me entertain you with what took place when #l turned two-and-a-half and a mom with two babes in cloth diapers was ready for her first born to pull up big boy pants, meaning that I had determined that he would choose to use the potty and leave babyhood to his chief rival—that being an adorable, cooing, six month old little charmer, whose innocent smile, could do no wrong—unless the two year old expressed another point of view:
When number two made his debut, it's likely that number one said to himself, "Huh! Will you take a look at that little kid … whoever he is … he's having far too much fun with MY mom! I sure hope he's not planning to stick around, stealing my sun for too long! Hey! Go find your own lap! That one's mine!"
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