Tag Archives: attachment parenting the older child

Surviving 3.5 and 5.5: a cheat sheet

Illustration for Cheating Français : Illustrat...

In the spirit of the Orange Rhino “No Yelling” Challenge:

If you’ve been reading me for a while—and if you know me in real life—then you know I’m usually this “pee in the driveway if you want” kind of parent. Just a leetle on this side of permissive, you could say. But I hope you’ve also noticed that Saint Jane also, ya’ know, loses it with her children—yells, gets irritated, frustrated, wants to run away…

And, to date, never more so than at three-and-a-half and five-and-a-half. Cinder and Flora, at both of those ages, drove me to the very edge of sanity and made me mine for immense reservoirs of patience within myself I didn’t know I had. And despite those, I still yelled and snapped. But without them, I would have snapped ever so much more…

As Ender, who has been simultaneously my easiest baby and my most frustrating child (paradoxes are what makes life interesting, right?), starts the path towards three-and-a-half, I thought I should remind myself of a few strategies that saw me through it the first two times. The cheat sheet strategy was an absolute lifesaver with Cinder—and as I dug it up out of old journals, I wish I had put it into action when Flora was struggling through Sensitive Seven… I think I might still, because I suspect Sensitive Seven might become Extra-Sensitive Eight—and I hope it sees me through Ender’s crazy 3.5 with some sanity intact. Without further ado, here it is.

The premise is this: a certain level of crazy on the kids’ part is normal at this stage. I can’t control it. What I can control is my own behaviour and my own reactions. To that end:

I made a three column cheat sheet that looked like this:

1. When Cinder says/does…[thing that drives me crazy]

2. DO NOT SAY [in small print my knee-jerk, channeling the worst of my angry-inner-voice response]

3. SAY or DO THIS [desired response in big letters]

and taped it to the fridge, because somehow, most of the unstellar performance on my part occurred in the kitchen. Upon reflection, I should have had another copy by the front door, because that would be conflict spot number two.

With Ender, I might put this sheet up in the bathroom as well. And maybe have another one in the car…

So…

1. When Ender yanks Flora’s hair / tries to destroy her art work

2. DO NOT SAY Stop it you little monster!

3. DO SAY: Ow, that hurts! AND Take Ender away and redirect him to something.

Because most of the time we all know WHAT we WANT to say or do, right? The problem is remembering that ideal in the frustration of the moment.

Related life hack: It also helps me at times like this to remind myself of my long-term parenting and living goals are and how most daily irritants don’t really impact them. Writing them down somewhere on the cheat sheet might be helpful—I might try that this time ‘round. You know, something like, “What’s really important to me is a peaceful, respectful house. Not a clean house.” Or “I want my children to be confident, strong willed-adults. That means I do not get instant obedience now.”

And… persevere, with a smile when possible.

Unrelated life hack: It’s not even that I’m an introvert; some days, I’m an outright misantrope. Here’s a an interesting post on Finding Balance as an Introverted Parent, by Vanessa Pruitt, from Natural Family Today. Now, I’m not a great fan of looking for balance myself (I prefer to seek harmony), but although Pruitt uses the “B” word, she writes about useful strategies.

 

 

What children mean when they say “I’m bored”

English: A bored person

I feel like I ought to apologize for a string of didactic posts. Just remember as you read–I’m no expert. I’m a mom thinking out loud… this is my point of view. What’s yours?

“What do I say when my children say ‘I’m bored?’”
or
“Help! They keep on saying they’re bored! In this house? With all this stuff?”

Is this something you hear a lot? I’ve recently unearthed an exchange on this topic that had been a life-changer for me and I was lucky enough to encounter it just as my kids were starting to talk. So it means that I hardly ever hear “I’m bored.” It doesn’t mean they don’t say it, though… Paradox? Not really. Read on.

It’s a pretty simple reframing, really. When you hear “I’m bored,” do not treat it not as a synonym for “entertain me!” or “find me something to do.” Instead, think of it as a child’s attempt to communicate to the obtuse parent in simple words the child hopes the parent will understand a very complex feeling.

The conventional advice on “I’m bored” tends to be to present the child with a list of tasks, ranging from fun (“Do you want to go swimming?”) to unpleasant (“You’re bored? Here’s a list of household chores to do. Which one are you doing first?”). People who dispense the latter form of advice swear by it, saying that if they do it for a while, they never hear “I’m bored” again. Of course they don’t. They’ve “trained” the child not to say it. But the feelings that prompt that statement probably remain, and the child is left to cope with them on her own, for better or for worse, and generally, in those tender years, for the worse.

Remember how I said I don’t hear “I’m bored,” even though they say it? That’s because when I hear “I’m bored” I run the little translator, and instead I hear:

“I’m out of sorts, I have these weird, unsettled feelings, I’m not happy, but I don’t know why, I can’t settle down to anything, Help!”

When I hear this, instead of “I’m bored,” I realize it requires a totally different response.

There are other code phrases my children―and perhaps yours―may use instead of “I’m bored.” In our house, it’s often “I don’t know what to do,” or “I’m lonely” (in a house full of people, with a backyard generally full of kids!) and the like.

My response to all of these phrases is generally some variation on detaching myself from whatever I’m working on and attaching myself to them―focusing on them fully. I might ask them to come sit with me, have a cuddle, talk nonsense for a while, and see if I can help them figure out what’s going on. Often, I don’t need to do much figuring: they just need a bit of that reconnect time to ground and move on.

I resist the urge to become a calendar coordinator and offer them ideas for things they could do. That is not what they are asking for.

Sometimes, they can’t settle no matter how much cuddling or listening I give, and they can’t sort or articulate what’s going on. That’s when I do become an activities coordinator, but an autocratic one. I don’t offer a list of choices. I unilaterally implement a change of scenery. “Let’s go for ice cream.” “Let’s go check out the garden.” Or, two birds with one stone: “Help me get supper going, and then we’ll read.” Or, “Let’s go to Banff,” if I’m feeling extra adventurous and able to do a whole day trip! And we go.

Try it the next time you hear “I’m bored.” Activate that little translator, and hear:

“I’m out of sorts, I have these weird, unsettled feelings, I’m not happy, but I don’t know why, I can’t settle down to anything, Help!”

And watch your response change.

“How to help 10-year-old boy with existential angst”

That’s the top search landing people on Nothing By The Book this week, but I’m not sure that you’re all finding the post that you’re seeking for. I think it’s this one: A love letter to the boy who’ll set the world on fire. I also think How I got deprogrammed and learned to love video games might contain some insight for some mothers of 10-year-old boys trying to understand what is going on inside their game-controller wielding sons.

I’m processing a bigger exposition on the changes my own 10–almost 10.5–year-old is going through, because it’s massive. The biggest one since five/five-and-a-half (I wrote about it here, Five is Hard: can you attachment parent the older child), and just as part of the solution at five was to make his world bigger, that certainly seems to be part of the key now.

But, that later. For now, I hope the love letter and the video game piece help you–spark off some ideas for what your little man is going through and how you can support him.

Jane

Game controller

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The 2 a.m. phone call: why sleeping through the night is irrelevant

It’s 2 a.m. The telephone rings. It’s dark and I’m groggy as I race through the house for the telephone. I don’t get there in a time and I’m in a brief moment of panic as I crouch beside it and wait for it to ring again. My Flora’s sleeping out of the house this night and this phone call can only be about her.

The phone rings again; I pick up; the panic subsides. Yes, it’s Flora. Sleep over fail. She woke up in a strange place, a strange bed and is frightened. Wants to come home.

Sean runs over to get her—and we’re both briefly grateful about the place we live, where sleepovers take place a couple of doors down instead of across the city—and a short two minutes later, she’s in my arms, face pressed against my chest. She’s whispering “the whole story”: how it was so fun, and they had a great time, and she had no trouble at all falling asleep, and then she woke up, and it was dark and strange and she didn’t want to stay…

I listen and then shush her, tell her to go back to sleep. She presses tight against me. Now that she feels perfectly safe and secure, she also feels embarrassed that she bailed. I reassure her in a sleepy voice… and shush her again. “Now sleep, Flora, sleep.”

She presses against me. On the other side of me, Ender flips over, rolls. But doesn’t wake. It’s doesn’t happen very often these days that I find myself squished between two little bodies and I take a sleepy minute to savour the moment.

And I think about how much parenting takes place in these dark hours—when, really, we’re at our worst. Exhausted. Unconscious. Still on duty, but too tired to perform.

None of that ends when the baby (toddler, preschooler, kindergartener!) “sleeps through the night.” Our Cinder actually reached that milestone relatively quickly—sometime around two years. And so what? A few weeks of blissfully uninterrupted sleep followed. Then came the night terrors. When the first wave of those subsided, he got out of diapers—and had to get up to pee in the night. Six times a night, it seemed (probably just once or twice). Then Flora arrived and being awake for Cinder became irrelevant because I was waking up for Flora. When she nightweaned, she started waking up at 3 a.m., raring to go for the day. When she’d sleep late (aka, until 5 a.m.), Cinder would have night terrors. Inevitably, on the nights both kids slept soundly, the dog would have diarrhea… Or, naturally, I would have insomnia.

As I’m cataloging the different stages of post-child sleep deprivation, Flora presses her closer against me. “I’m going to roll over; you can hug my back,” I whisper. “Can’t I roll over with you?” she whimpers. “No, stay there—Ender’s on the other side.” I readjust, so does she. “I like your soft side better,” she sighs. Her head is between my shoulder blades. But her breathing is winding down—sleep is almost there.

“Mom?”

“Sleep, Flora.”

“Does Monday come after Sunday?”

“Yes. Sleep, Flora.”

“Is tomorrow Sunday?”

“Yes. Sleep, baby.”

“And then Monday?”

“Mmmm.”

“Good. I have plans on Monday.”

And she’s asleep. Ender does another flip. But doesn’t wake up. I send a prayer to Morpheus—or should I be petitioning Ra?–that neither of them wakes up with the sunrise. It’ll probably be a four pot, not four cup, coffee day, tomorrow, I think as I feel my breathing reach the sleep rhythm. And I’m out.

I don’t  belittle or dismiss sleep deprivation. It’s tough. There’s a reason sleep deprivation is a form of torture. And each family needs to find its own unique solution to ensuring all members—especially the primary caretaker—gets enough sleep. But “sleeping through the night”? That’s irrelevant. Because kids keep on needing their parents at night, long after they wean. Sometimes just for a minute, for a quick squeeze and reassurance. Sometimes for longer. But if not exactly forever—for a long, long time.

Ender wakes up that morning, by the way, at 5:30 a.m. I curse Morpheus and tell off Ra. Then we tiptoe downstairs. I make coffee. Pull the electronic babysitter—aka Backyardiggans on Netflix—onto duty. Cuddle the Ender. Write most of this post.

Flora streaks downstairs at 7 a.m. “Hi, Mom, I’m going to Meghan’s!” she calls. “Hug? Kiss?” I holler. She backtracks. Hug. Kiss. And for Ender. And for Maggie the runt terrier. And she’s off.

I look at Ender. Hug. Kiss. Soon, I’ll roll off the couch and make the second pot of coffee. By the third pot, I’ll be ready to face the day.

Pot number four, I decide to save for the inevitable afternoon crash.

Koala sleeping on a tree top

 (N.B. For those concerned about my caffeine intake, I should clarify they’re pretty small coffee pots. It was a purchasing mistake. We thought the small press would make us drink less coffee. Nope. It just makes coffee drinking a more labour-intensive process. Live and learn. On the plus side, the cafe is always fresh.)