When I was pregnant with my son, I did a lot of future planning and had many projections for how we were going to spend his early formative years together. Drunk with love, high on hormones, intoxicated by the intuitive mothering pull towards my unborn baby - it was easy to convince myself that I had my whole new-parent plan already mapped out and set in stone ... even though I'd only had two ultrasounds and hadn't quite crossed that third trimester mark yet. I was absolutely terrified of other people's newborns, yet strangely had such overwhelming feelings of familiarity with the life growing inside me, I was confident and certain that I wouldn't run scared as soon as he was born and put into my care. I spent a great deal of time sitting in his unfinished nursery, carefully calibrating and fine-tuning how I was going to react and respond to just about every single need that my infant could possibly manifest. I knew how I wanted to nurture him, how I wanted to shower my love onto him, and how I'd do everything in my power to make sure his environment was happy, safe and secure. I had no idea how easy and natural that part was going to be, especially the first year. But until you've had to pry off a sweaty, screaming toddler mid-tantrum from your pants leg, you have no idea how challenging your role will be going into that second year. You get tested, and retested, and then when you think you know what to expect out of them, they throw you for a loop and redefine the art of being bad.
It's worth looking back at my misconceptions and laughing now, especially since I got the pleasure of three babies in under two years. Clearly, I focused too much on how to take care of an infant, and didn't invest enough time strategizing how I'd have to learn to compromise with a toddler. Granted, the newborn stage isn't a complete cakewalk. There's several weeks of sleepless nights due to their incessant every-two-hour feeding marathons, coupled with the urge to check in on them when they finally do sleep for a decent stretch to make sure their breathing is normal. But seriously - aside from making sure they have full bellies, dry diapers and adequate sleep (often at the expense of your own zzzzz's) ... newborns are relatively easy. My son was a new mother's dream: Never cried unless he was hungry, smiled at you just for meeting his gaze, sat still in his little bouncer seat and charmed anyone who had the good fortune of walking in the room and becoming acquainted with him. The twins have proved to be a little more high-maintenance (they're girls, what did you expect?), but all in all, they aren't much trouble right now, either. You'll notice the subtlety in which I don't project any farther into the future with them. Let's just say my lessons have been learned ever since my toddler son put his doting mother through a grueling six-month course I affectionately refer to as Handle It School.
What I'd like to know now, is ... Where did my sweet, docile baby boy GO? Once the 18th month hit, he morphed into an opinionated little rebel-rouser with the short temper of a rattlesnake and a set of lungs that, turned up full volume, could rival the shrill pitch of a police siren. I toss around the phrase "opinionated" as if the little fella can actually speak in cohesive sentences and express himself outside of the toddler vernacular of "mo" (more), "no" (his answer to every question) and "mine" (which applies to his things, things that aren't his yet, but are about to be, and every other thing in his immediate radius), but I assure you - the little boy is quick to elaborate on how entitled he is to his opinion, and he's not afraid to act it out for us, lest we be unaware. Sometimes these opinions are expressed through body language, such as the arched back/head thrown towards floor sentiment that really means HELL NO, I WON'T GO. Then there's the more complex theatrics that illustrates his aversion towards taking medicine, which is his rendition of a lockjaw-patient-shape-shifting-into-a-snapping-turtle. There's also the wordless miming of raising one eyebrow (how does he do that? I'm envious) that clearly communicates to whoever is trying to get him to eat that one more bite of food that they're going to be wearing that spoonful if he has his way about it. Naptime really brings out the thespian in him, and he has about fourteen different soldiering personas for fighting sleep. Those range from the noiseless, sneaky belly-crawl out of bed to the incessant chattering that he belts out at the most ridiculously loudest decibel imaginable, all because he's realized that the one thing I can't put an absolute stop to is the range of noise he can emit from his vocal chords.
I think back to the newborn to first year period with him: The joy of seeing him hold his bottle for the first time. The clumsy little bowlegged, tippy-toed walk he first attempted. The glee we'd all share in when he'd patty-cake his little hands, or how we'd all laugh and think it was cute when he unceremoniously tossed his sippy cup to the side when he finished his drink. Then it abruptly ended, and although the cuteness lingered and the smiles and joy never dissipated, a new level of disobedience gave rise in that boy, and so help me - there's days when I wonder if someone came into our home and reprogrammed him with a bunch of insolence software. I realize that most boys are rambunctious, and perhaps some of the fire that kid has comes from the bullheadedness he inherited from his 'rents, but some days I'm certain that the fabled "Terrible Twos" is just a diversionary tactic used to blindside mommies and daddies when they're feeling comfortable with the fact that there's still a good six months or so before that kind of behavior is due. It sneaks up on vulnerable newbie parents and we're left stunned, unable to render any kind of authoritarian role over them because we still consider them our sweet, cuddly little angels of innocence. All it really takes to snap you back into reality is having a nearly-full sippy cup hurled at you from a distance of about six feet. It's the knowledge that sinks in when you realize that they meant to do it, when out of the corner of your eye, you see them triumphantly grinning because they know their cup connected with your face. Sure, you correct them for the offense. You forgive them easily, because that's what good, loving mothers do. You go on about your day, trying to act like it didn't rattle you much, even though your left cheekbone hurts like hell.
I never got the humor behind the incredibly popular ReasonsMySonIsCrying website, and used to think to myself: Why on earth do people find it funny that their children are feeling anguish? I also never understood why they'd take photos of their kid's throwing fits, until mine started doing it. They happen so spontaneously that it becomes dangerously entertaining, kind of like watching a funnel cloud turn into a tornado. You know the shit is about to hit the fan, you'd be well-advised to hunker down, 'cause it's about to be Get Your MommyPants On time where you have to deal maturely with the situation. It's just that they happen so randomly, and so often, that you know how to discern actual anguish from just a routine meltdown that can be quickly tuned down by a simple distraction like whistling, or holding them in a bear hug and covering them with kisses (ooooh, but he hates that when he's mad!). Sometimes you've just got to enjoy the fireworks - even though you know it's about to set the yard ablaze. I believe in letting my son express his frustrations, and I never want him to feel like he has to hold anything inside, as I believe that can pave the way for some communication barriers in the future. I fully realize that there will be a time when he can express his feelings without falling on the floor and venting red-faced rage, but right now, this is the best he can do.
I don't believe it's healthy to laugh at your children for any reason, because you certainly don't want them left feeling taunted, or belittled in any way. But after going through the whole "mommy understands you are mad" routine, let them know how silly they looked while throwing a tantrum. It gets my son EVERY time. I urge you to try it! After the situation has been diffused and your child has calmed down, throw yourself on the floor and start spazzing out like they did, complete with the noise and the flapping of hands/kicking of feet. This cracks my son up, and the laughter is contagious, and before you know it, we're both acting ridiculous. He forgets that he thought the world was ending five minutes ago when I wouldn't let him bludgeon the T.V. with the pointy end of his stick horse, and I forget that my precious little boy looked upon me with a homicidal glare when I took away the stick horse his Poppa gave him.
I'm learning lots of valuable lessons with my son that I hope I will be able to apply when his twin sisters hit their Mean Toddler phase, knowing full well that it's going to be a whole other ballgame due to the fact that 1) there's TWO of them, and 2) girls are, by design - more difficult than boys. However, I think it's important that I've nearly completed this first "test" as a new parent and still have (most of) my marbles intact. I have concluded that if you get through the sometimes scary, sometimes maddening, oftentimes nerve-fraying 18-24 month period, the rest of it is just a long string of happy discoveries, new accomplishments, artsy little macaroni plates, and other such whimsy. If you manage to make it through without tearing your hair out (most of it will fall out anyway), your parenting skills will have reached a critical mass that will render you capable to deal with anything parenthood has to throw at you, and most importantly - you'll do it effectively, efficiently, and with a honed sense of humor that will keep you from crumbling.
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