Which Season Are You Better At Mothering? Newborns, Infants, Toddlers, Preschoolers, etc.

Were you the perfect mom for a newborn?  Are you finding yourself with a knack for the testing toddlers? Maybe your crafty and playful side is a grand match with preschoolers versus your awkward days with infants. Who knows, you may be the meticulous, superstar soccer mom balancing school schedules, practices, recitals, dinner and bedtime. Or maybe you remember your wild teenage days which will keep you one step ahead of your raging teen.

Today, with my 3 1/2-year-old pushing the envelope at every waking moment, I'm starting to think this isn't my best inning in this game of parenthood. If this were Survivor , I'm pretty sure he's on the verge of outwitting, outplaying and outlasting me...even making a fool of me twice as I chased this naked little boy down in our neighborhood - and that was just today!

It wasn't long ago, though, I felt like a pro. Or maybe in hindsight I feel that way, though I probably didn't at the time. Keeping steady, I'd study my hand and play the right cards. I read all the books on raising happy babies and toddlers and kids. I could redirect rather than raise my voice. And he listened, brilliantly.

And then he turned two. He started testing me, but was a child of respect and "no" meant no and "don't" meant don't. Sure, he'd try all the crazy things boys like to do. He'd climb too high at the playground. He'd make me crazy trying to get him strapped in his car seat. He couldn't resist grabbing anything in his reach.

And now...he's 3.

And he's calling my bluff.

The book 1-2-3 Magic used to work like a charm for me. Now he counts to three for me. When we get to three, he laughs. I take him to his room for time out and he repeatedly opens his door - taunting me to give in or give up.  When I say "stay here" -he goes there. When I say "stop" -he runs.

The wildest part of this ride is that when he's not testing me, he's an angel.  The most polite, sweet little boy I've ever met. He thanks me for taking him to the park. He gives me many hugs throughout the day expressing "Mom, I just love you sooo much, I'm going to give you a great big hug now!" And he does.  And its wonderful. He likes to snuggle and he loves to read with me. But lest I leave just a moment of time for him to get bored or distracted...game on!

I've started reading more books on discipline and am trying to dedicate my every day to being consistent with my discipline and establishing a routine.  I know our big move has heightened sensitivities in our home and we've all been adapting.  This may not be my strongest season of motherhood, but I know overall I'm a great mom and there will always be moments like these test our whole soul.  And drive us just a little bit mad. So whether you're in your strongest quarter of your game or struggling to get through to the next period, remember that beyond everything you are a fantastic mom...otherwise you wouldn't care enough to worry about it!   At least that's my mom told me! ;)

Going From Firm to Sweet in a Millisecond - The Emotional Switches in Motherhood

A state characterized by the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements; one sign being a rapidly changing mood- from happy to sad to angry for no apparent reason.  Schizophrenia.  If my sons were aware of medical terms-and doctors-this is no doubt what they’d diagnose me as.

At least that’s how I feel many times in our day.

Last night, for example. It’s bedtime.  We had woken up at 5:00 a.m. followed by zero naps.  I wore them out at the playground with a group of 10+ kiddos under the age of 5 for a solid hour at the very minimum. They ate a hearty meal of SpaghettiOs with extra meatballs at dinner; bath; books; brush; the usual. At 7:45 p.m., I kissed their precious foreheads and bid them a good night and sweet dreams.  I closed the door behind me and sat on the couch before realizing I hadn’t poured that glass of wine yet.  A few minutes went by.  Silence.  Ah!  I stood up to pour that satiny red into my glassy best friend.  Ultimate relaxation imminent in just minutes.

“Mommy, I’m thirsty.” I hear my oldest calling from behind his door.  At least, he wasn’t opening it (that means he is aware there are rules).

Thoughts dart in my mind.  Stand firm and say no.  He’ll get the idea and know you are not a pushover.  The other voice says, just give him a cup of water and maybe that’s all he really needs and that will be the end of it tonight.

I give him a cup of water.

“Good night, mommy.” He disappears back into his room like the good little almost-three-year-old that he is. 

Ten minutes later, following a potty break, a sip of water and a clean diaper for my youngest, and a tuck in for both; I find myself standing in between their beds.  “Mommy, sing one more song.” A voice in my head explains that the boys shall get no more songs otherwise I am a pushover and this will happen every night until they’re sixteen.  The other voice says to sing one more song just in hopes that this will be the last call of the night. 

In the firmest, most non-pushover voice I can muster, “Okay, I’ll sing one more song.  But THAT IS IT!  NO MORE GAMES!”

[Enter sweet tender mommy voice]

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy…”  Who in normal society actually does that?  There is rarely an instance that you will be talking so firm to someone and switch into sweet sing-songy mode so rapidly.  This is the schizophrenia I’m talking about.  I mean, can you imagine talking to your boss at work…
[Firmly] Leah, I’m really disappointed in your performance on the analytics report.  You’ve miscalculated the numbers and your writing is quite illegible. [Softly] But have I ever told you how nice your hair smells.  Every time you walk past me in the hallway I just think to myself I am so glad I hired you and that I really like you a lot.”

And this isn’t the only instance.  This happens when we’re having a great time playing and laughing and in his excitement, Luke jumps up and knocks his brother to the floor.  My friendly aura is jolted and I’m forced to work up a tough love lesson I’m not quite fond of.  Or when he climbs on my lap and tells me, “mommy, I love you.”  Delighted, I go in for a kiss and notice he’s chewing.  I ask, “What’s in your mouth?”  He spits out black rubber into my hand.  I quickly scan the room spying my lone flip flop in the corner.  A chunk savagely torn from it.  I’m too relaxed to turn work up the energy to be mad, but I don’t want him to ruin any more of my shoes.  Or when we had a fun outing at the park and we chase eachother to the car, giggling all the while, and then he sneakily jumps into the front of the car while I’m buckling in his brother and refuses to climb into his seat-thus making me chase him from side to side-resulting in an I’m-over-it “you better get in your seat or… (or what-think fast!) or you won’t get that treat when we get home.” What treat?  Now I need to get him a treat if he gets in his seat.  Why am I going to treat him for finally obeying me after a few minutes of craziness?  Ah, the word craziness.  Maybe this isn’t a coincidence. 

Honestly, I’d rather be the sweet and happy mommy 24/7.   But I’m savvy enough to know that doesn’t work out too well for the kiddos in the long run.  I guess for me, who has always been pretty agreeable and the last person to ever start a fight, it’s hard to be that assertive and firm person I know I need to be. 

Or maybe I just over think it.

Speaking of Sleep...

I know you all have heard Samuel L. Jackson’s narration of Adam Mansbach’s Go the F*ck to Sleep, a vertible transcript of many a parent in the midst of their child’s bedtime idiocy. 

The very clip fell into my hands on the first eve of a new bedtime routine.  At no other point could I have related more.  Unless that point is now.  Several weeks later. 

But let’s flash back a moment.  In June, I took my first, very much earned and needed, trip away from all of my boys to spend a blissful weekend at a lake house in Tennessee with ten girlfriends, many of whom I hadn’t even seen since before I had Luke, almost 3 years ago.  The weekend was a mirror of the good ol’ college days… full of vivacious laughter, too much beer, gossip and reminiscence of a time when Hootie and the Blowfish dominated the air waves, everyone wondered if Ross and Rachel would end up together, and Drink & Drown was every Wednesday night at Mainstreet. 

With the precision of an anesthesiologist arriving just when you’re about to tussle with your husband in that “tranquil” birthing suite; I welcomed Sunday relaxed and ready to return to my family.   I’m sure I must’ve had some thoughts that their sleep would be disrupted with the brief change in our home.  I didn’t realize it was going to be a lasting change.  Night after night following my return, my 2 ½ year old refused bed.  He screamed and cried and kicked behind his secured door.  Then suddenly, one night it hit me; he wants freedom.  It occurred to me that my daytime-potty-trained son was becoming too independent to not have the freedom at night. 

Easy enough.  I’ve smuggly watched this one hundred times on Supernanny.  I was better than all of those moms.  I’ve got this under control, I thought.  I shared my master plan with my husband:  tonight, we set him free.  If he comes out, we simply put him back in his bed without a word.  He’ll get bored and we’ll win.

Excitedly, I share with my big boy that we have officially removed his safety lock.

“Honey, when you have to go potty, just come on out and we’ll make sure you go and then you just go right back to bed.” 

He seized the opportunity.  The freedom.  Immediately.  And five minutes later, he did again.  And again.  Each time, I did as I had studied and without a word, I returned him to his bed.  Before I knew it, almost two hours had gone by and I had lost my “me time” for that night. 

This continued.  Night after frustrating night, I felt myself losing.  I was no longer in control.  He was flat out manipulating me and my husband knew it.  Why wasn’t this working, I questioned my process wishing that Brit nanny was sitting with me, coaching me.  But she wasn’t.  I couldn’t process the situation any longer. 

I talked to my friends.  I talked to my mom.  Even now, I don’t exactly have an answer.  But we have found a compromise.  He gets three chances (and that is way too many chances!) to use the potty from the time we start our bedtime stories.  By the third chance, he gets to use the potty but the gate on his door.  For over a week now, he’s just been playing the game.   He will repeat our deal verbatim. 

“Three times and I get the gate.”  He recites.

“Yes, son.  But you don’t want the gate up.  You just want to stay in your room after the second time.”  I smile, encouragingly.

He’s playing the game.  He will reach the third potty break and say, “Okay, that was three.”  He hops back into bed, I have to tuck him in, put the gate up and then…finally…quiet.

I may not be able to actually use the F-word to enhance my wishes at bedtime, but you know as I picture my cushy couch and that empty wine glass awaiting me in the next room; I sure am thinking it.