The Stroller Chronicles: Parts 1, 2 & 3

Toddlerhood just wouldn't seem complete if it didn't involve major stroller difficulties. And I don't mean challenges with the actual stroller (although I really need to lodge a complaint with Maclaren about how much trouble I have locking that Triumph), I mean struggles that involve fruitless attempts to actually get the kid in his most used mode of transportation.

Part 1

On a wet Friday, I had taken the day off of work and Stu had asked me to do the evening day care pick up, which was more than fine with me because  it's far more pleasant to be the picker upper than the dropper offer, and I am the designated dropper offer. The kid is actually delightful at drop off and I feel extraordinarily lucky that he gives me hugs and kisses on demand and then on cue, as soon as I say "Okay, Mommy has to go to work now," he scrambles out of my arms and gives a toodle-oo wave as he wanders off towards his teacher and some train tracks. But at pick up, the kid run towards you at break neck speed with a smile on his face that says something along the lines of "OMG I didn't know you were going to be here! We haven't seen each other an AGES! You must have crossed desserts and jungles, traveled over mountains and through valleys, across continents and oceans to reach me and I can't believe how lucky I am to see your face!"

So I'm more than happy to be on pick up duty, whenever possible. However, based on last Friday evening's course of events, I'm going to have to rethink the whole thing. As we strolled home through the Italian Market, which is mostly covered, I noticed increasing rainfall. As we passed by the vendors, I said to the kid, "You know what, kid? It's really raining. When we're done walking through the market, we're going to have to put the rain cover on the stroller." From below, I heard a little "No want to cover." I gave my usual reply--the reply I give when I'm attempting to avoid a conflict because I know I'm going to say "no" when it actually comes down to it. "We'll see!"

We'll see indeed. When we got out from under the safety of the Italian Market covering I made my first attempt to attach the stroller cover. The kid was having none of it. There was kicking and screaming and pulling of the cover, the stroller, my hair, and anything else in arms' reach. I tried the always-unreasonable method of reasoning, "But it's raining, sweet pea. You're going to get wet. We have to use the cover." Which was met with more screaming and kicking and an admission that the kid didn't actually care if he got wet. In fact, he went so far as to ask, "Is Mommy getting wet?" I couldn't lie. Of course I was getting wet--and more wet with every passing moment that we stood in the street. "Well, sweetie, Mommy is getting wet because I have to walk you home and there is no cover for me," (lest I go for the one handed stroll while holding an umbrella which always proves unsuccessful). This was a poorly chosen response. "Nooooo cover!! Charlie want to get wet too!!" Crap.

I was suddenly inspired. This is it, I thought to myself. This is my moment to try my recently read methods of Dr. Karp! He would, of course, save me. He had been the light in the dark of the newborn months. He would again be my shining beacon of hope. My light saber against the Darth Vader of toddlerhood! I looked around and surveyed how many passerby were in earshot as actually putting Dr. Karp's prescribed method of quelling a tantrum and getting what you want into action entails sounding like a moron in public. His point is that talking to your kid in his suggested method which will allegedly stop tantrums in their tracks is likely far less embarrassing than the results of said public tantrum if it continues. So I swallowed my pride and tried to belt out, "No want cover! Charlie mad mad mad! You no want cover! Want to get wet! Charlie want to get wet!"

I'd tried this at home and it's actually worked, but here, out in the open, out in public, next to the traffic and under the rain, it didn't seem to be working at all. At home, the kid would pause and smile when I started Karp's suggested "toddler-ese." Outside, nothing. Nada. Zilch. Well, at least nothing effective. There was still plenty of screaming and pulling of breakable things. Maybe I wasn't doing it right. According to Karp, you have to hit the "sweet spot" which means you have to almost match your kid's level of intensity, but not quite. I knew I'd have to try again. I tried and the only thing that happened this time was that the kid became more enraged, began to remove the stroller straps which keep him oh so nicely strapped into the stroller and began an attempt at escaping from the stroller. Luckily, his feet and and the foot rest were so wet, he couldn't get any traction in order to mount his escape. I'd have to try this again.

And as soon as I opened my mouth to do so, I knew I wasn't going to. I chose bursting into tears as a more appropriate method of dealing with the situation. It's likely that I matched the level of my kid's intensity, but perhaps not in the way Dr. Karp had intended.

Realizing we were now both soaked and not any closer to home, I stood up, wiped my tears as if I were in a scene in a great triumph-of-the-human-spirit Oscar-winning movie, folded up the stroller cover, shoved it into a bag, and turned back to the kid pronouncing, "Fine. You want to get wet? Get wet. But you had better sit down for the entire ride or I am getting that cover."

The kid paused. He looked at what I hoped was my extremely serious face (although perhaps it was hard to tell under all the water streamed across my face) and gingerly placed his wet buttocks back in the seat. We walked home without another word and without any attempts at escape.

Part 2

The following Monday morning, was, until 7:55 a.m., progressing beautifully. The kid got up with nary a "No, Mommy! Go away! Charlie still sleeping," which happens with such an alarming frequency that I'm already dreading adolescence. He picked out his clothes without a fuss, scooted down the stairs with great alacrity, inhaled his oatmeal in record time, and played independently as I ran around the house in my usual five-minutes-to-day-care-departure shuffle.

I chirped my usual "Okay bud! Time to get in the stroller!" The kid smiled at me devilishly. "Charlie want to run!" I wasn't ready for a fight, so I thought it would be most brilliant of me to turn his desire to exercise into a game that would put him right where I want him. "Okay, bud! Let's run! Let's run to the stroller!" Oh, the subtlety. Oh, the nuance. Oh, the genius.

Oh, the level of frustration that began to build as I chased him around the house. By the fifth lap I was chanting "C'mon, bud! We have to get in the stroller!" to absolutely no avail whatsoever. And when he decided he was done with his cardio and it was time for some toning in the form of carefully crawling between all the chair legs tucked underneath the dining room table, I knew it was time to just pick the kid up.

"Nononononononooooooo!!!!! Want to go under the table! Want to go under the table!" I thought about Dr. Karp's advice. I gave it a half hearted whirl and realized that recovering from Friday's incident, I just didn't have successful toddler communication in me. I tried to plop the kid in the stroller and he pulled that ridiculously annoying straight body thing wherein children avoid having their tushies meet the seat in which you are attempting to place their bottoms. That's when my raised voice began to ring out over the kid's screaming. But it was when he flipped his whole body over and threw his stomach onto the stroller so that the unlocked stroller (of course, because I can never get that damn McLaren locked) rolled away from his body and he almost landed face down on the hard wood floor that I really lost it.

I have never yelled at the kid in this way before. But sometimes the pressures of the relentless fighting with an unreasonable and unpredictable kid is combined with the pressure to get out the door to get to work on time and the realization that your wish is rarely ever their command and you just might lose is a recipe for some old school yelling.

"CHARLIE!! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW!!"

That didn't do it, so I did put one of Dr. Karp's tactics to use. The old clap and growl. Usually the kid laughs when I do it (literally, you clap and then growl like a bear), but Mama Bear had had it, so he looked at me in a somewhat perplexed fashion instead of giggling.

"MOMMY IS MAD MAD MAD!" This is actually a Dr. Karp phrase. I believe, however, that I used it out of its correct context.

But you know what? It worked. That kid sat down and didn't squirm once until we were at school. As I posted on Facebook that morning, I didn't feel good about yelling at him, but I did feel good about getting work on time.

Part 3

The other morning, the kid was playing with his toys as I was washing dishes. I heard his little footsteps padding around the living room as he announced, "Mommy is mad mad mad." I rushed over to him to say, "Oh, sweetie, Mommy is not mad today. I was only mad the other day when you weren't a good listener."

"I am a good listener."

Yeah, okay. Um, NOT.

But sometimes, he is a good listener. On this morning, the kid took my hand and practically escorted me to the stroller. He waited next to my legs as I readied the straps. He even backed into the seat without a single prompt.

You take what you can get.

How to Catch an Early Subway. Or, How to Get to Work on Time. Or, the Rain Jacket Sweatshirt Debacle

It goes something like this: 

The kid: Mommy, do uppies all the way to 'cool (read: carry me to school). No want to sit in the stroller. No want to sit in the poopy.

Me: Do you have poopy in your diaper right now?

The kid: Um, yeah. 

The kid nods his head energetically. I stand behind the kid and pull his paints waistband and diaper away from his waist to inspect the diaper for any poopy. I have my suspicions as there is no foul odor emanating from this area. And as I suspected, there is no poopy. However, there is effort and grimacing so I wait a few minutes. You never know when it's coming. Sometimes it's seconds away and sometimes it's moments. Sometimes it's a full 24 hours away and then you're in trouble.

I wait.

I look at the clock and wait another minute. Of course, today,  I have a million things I have to do immediately upon arrival at work. I so need to make the early subway this morning, which isn't really early as it's the one that gets me to work on time, but it's early in that it's the one I can only catch if I hightail it to 'cool, speed through unpacking school accoutrements, and do a quick uppies and headie down without much conversation with the teacher. C'mon poopy! Poopy c'mon (which can be sung to the tune of Hang on Sloopy.)!

Me: Okay, bud. I don't think poopy is coming. Let's put on our jacket.

I reach for a light rain jacket.

The kid: Noooooo!!! Don't want to wear that jacket!! Want to wear the other one!!

Me: Which one?

The kid: The other one! The sweatshouurt!

Me: The sweatshirt? It's like 100% humidity out there. And it's going to rain. Let's wear the rain jacket.

The Kid: Nooooo!!!! Don't want that one! The other one! The other one!

Me: But look! Mommy is wearing a rain jacket just like yours! That's silly!

I make a play for getting an arm in a sleeve. The kid shakes me loose with a howling "Nooooooooooooo!"

Me: All right. Fine. Wear the sweatshirt. Get sweaty. See if I care!

Giggles abound as the kid puts on his unbeknownst-to-me-until-this-morning beloved sweatshirt.

The kid: Do zipper by self!

Oh, christ. I'm all for independence and self sufficiency, but we are bordering on being late enough that I'm going to miss that early-but-not-early subway. But, Happiest Toddler on the Block says we have to let the little cave-toddlers/pre-historic beasts feel confident. Oh..all right! Damn it!
 

I watch the kid struggle until he caves. "Mommy do it!" All right!! We are zippered! "Time for the stroller bud!"

"No!" And we're off! And not off as in we're in the stroller and leaving for school, but off as in commencing a mad dash across every inch of the first floor of our not very big row house until the kid runs into the farthest back corner of the kitchen at the end of the house. There's no escaping now! Except that it is very difficult to pick up a kid who has tucked himself into a corner and refuses to let you get anywhere near his armpits so you can pick him up. I squirrel my hands under there, manage to turn him around and carry him--arms flailing and legs swinging--to the stroller. Much to my surprise, he gets in without a struggle.
 

And then...
 

The kid: Noooooo! No want this jacket! Want the other one!

Me: The other one? The rain jacket?
The kid (through whiny tears): Yeeessssss.
 

A ha! This is the jacket I wanted him to wear in the first place. Victory! But time! There's no time!

Me: Okay, you can wear the other jacket, but no getting out of the stroller! We're staying in the stroller! You got that kid? We will change your jacket while you are in the stroller. Here we go.

Not really sure what I was thinking but via some miracle akin to the Flashdance bra removal maneuver of 1983, I wrangle the sweatshirt off and shove arms into sleeves and tuck the rain jacket in between buckles and seatbacks until it is securly fastened.

And then...

The kid: Nooooo! Want the other jacket!!

You have got to be kidding me.

The kid: No want this jacket!

Me: Well, that's the jacket you're wearing. We're not changing again.

The kid: NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! NO WANT THIS JACKET!

Me: You want the other jacket? Here it is!

I hand the kid the jacket.

Me: How about you just HOLD the sweatshirt?

Kid: Yeah!

Huh. How about that. And off we go!

On the way to 'cool, I ask the kid if he would like some water. It is indeed 100% humidity and as sweat is pooling in every place imaginable on my body, he has a sweatshirt splayed across his lap. He's probably dehydrating. He wants water, but I am by no means allowed to remove the sweat shirt from his lap. I can barely hold on to the stroller, the sweat has made my palms so slick, and he's practically under a blanket.

Whatevs. I caught the early subway with about 16 seconds to spare. Probably because I never took his rain jacket off when I left him at 'cool.

It's the Little Things

To file under Never Thought I'd Be THAT Parent:

Today at the playground, I almost had a seizure over the fact that my kid proactively played with another boy. Subsequently, I nearly collapsed upon the cold hard concrete in a complete rapture over the fact that he successfully climbed up one of those spiral poll things, announcing "Mommy, I can do this!" with each step. The kid has always been one of those playground lurkers who watches all from afar and well, has not shown much evidence of being blessed with a lot of physical prowess. So these small triumphs make me want to rent a billboard on the local highway announcing these accomplishments. The level of my pride today is akin to the highly embarrassing moment when I was accompanying him to a "Little Tumblers" gym class when he was 17 months old and I burst into tears as we held on to a parachute and marched in a circle with all of the other kids and parents singing "The Wheels on the Bus." (Re: this link, maintaining my "image of a mom" status, I have no idea who the GiggleBellies are, but who could resist such a name, or the tripped out, funkified version of one of the most boring kids songs known to man.) Dork that I am, I could not believe that my little guy was willingly participating in this activity and actually just doing it, smiling and singing the whole way. Like a real live kid. That I made. Amazing.

I'm not sure if my self-esteem is so low that it never occurred to me that a little fella I created could possibly achieve anything or it's just that it's so rewarding to see the creature that lived inside of you for nine months participating in the world. But either way, I have given new meaning to the term "proud mamma.

Case in point: our daycare sends each kid home with a daily written report of everything that transpired in your kid's hours away from home, from nap time to amounts of food ingested to numbers of diaper changes and the diapers' contents. Then at the end of each sheet are teachers' comments on your kid's behavior and activities. Needless to say, I am overwhelmed by the following reports from his first week at school (don't ask me how many times I've read each one of these. and don't bother to ask me if I'm keeping them in a file for all eternity. you already know the answer):

• "Charlie is using full sentences when he talks to his teachers. He shared his toys all day. He loved playing on the playground."*
• "Charlie did a wonderful job playing with another buddy during free play! He is doing a great job sharing with all the Beetle Bug Friends"**
• "Charlie was very happy to be at school. He engaged in circle time and played a running game with friends at the park."***

* I am getting weepy as I type this. I kid you not.

**As you may have already discerned for yourself, Beetle Bugs is the name of his class.

***When I first read this report, I thought the handwriting said a "winning" game. I asked myself what kind of game 2-1/2 year olds were playing at which they could actually win since my kid barely knows what a game is, and then I leaped right to: "My kind won a game!?!? Whaaaahooo!! Oh yeah!!!" I then I thought better of all of that and figured out that it said "running." I'm still proud of the running. Even if there was no winning involved.

And yes folks, I am even proud that today at the park, the kid pooped. It runs that deep. Too bad I forgot to bring diapers with me. Not so proud of that.

Facebook Made Me Do It

Over the summer, I began a status update on Facebook, only to be told, by Facebook, that I had exceeded the character limit. Facebook politely asked me if I wanted to edit my post as a note. Seemed like a good idea at the time. The following is what came of that status turned note. It made me want to blog. Again (for those of you who know my previously ill-fated blogs "America's Next Top Novel" and "TV On a School Night"). Of course, in my post-kid life I have less time, never get to the movie theater, barely watch TV, and takes moths to finish a single book (except for Stress Free Potty Training, which did not make me feel any less stressed about potty training and nor did my kid miraculously potty train after I finished reading it). But clearly, I feel compelled to write, or at least overshare. And so it begins. Again.

Wake panting and disoriented from textbook stress nightmare at 6:06am. Can’t decide whether to get up, or try to sleep 14 more minutes before 6:20 alarm. Fall asleep at 6:18. Sleep past 6:20. No time to put unruly and yet helmet-like hair back. Wake up 2+ year old son at 7:00am to usual commands of “Mommy, go sit in chair by self. Charlie keep sleeping.” Scoot down the stairs with sun-block laden child in swim clothes at 7:22am. He asks if the oatmeal is ready. It is not, because we are out of oatmeal. 2 banana Yo-babies, one bowl of Raisin Bran (with extra raisins added by Mommy), one emptied dishwasher, and many washed dishes later, notice that it is 7:50. Five minutes until the stroller has to hit the road for daycare. Haven’t packed lunch yet, forgot the towel required for post- water play drying, have to go to the bathroom and still don’t have shoes on and haven’t put hair back. Scramble around for two minutes when thinking all will still be fine because even if we leave at 8, we’ll still be ok. The kid announces, “Mommy, poopy coming!” Really? Because the kid has a new penchant for saying it’s coming even when it’s not. “Can I check your pants?” “Don’t have to check, Mommy! Poopy is in there!” Yup. And not the kind that can be quickly changed in the living room. Attempt to make our way upstairs in an extremely rarely-executed timely manner, but first, take off rings because don’t want them to accidentally swipe any poop. Set them down somewhere sure to be remembered. Diaper change is relatively quick and without getting clocked in the face by a toy cutting board from the play kitchen, which is what happened last night. Back downstairs by 8:07. Late but can still make it by 8:30 which isn’t awesome as it’s not the requested arrival time of 8:20, but excusable. Before the kid is in the stroller, realize don’t have rings on. Can’t remember where I put them. Storm around the house whispering “dammit dammit dammit!” The kid follows screaming “dammit dammit dammit.” Trill “Nononono—we don’t have to say that! Mommy’s fine!!” Final “dammit” under my breath, which is of course, heard and repeated. Rings are found at 8:15am. Day care is 20 minutes away. Plunk the kid in the stroller and load up the 5 bags required of Monday morning’s schlep (Elmo backpack; Toy Story lunch bag; diaper bag filled with Monday replenishing of diapers, a blanket, and sheet; my work back pack, and own lunch bag of random crap), evenly divided between the bottom of the stroller (Damn you McLaren for making such a small under basket!), stoller handles, and shoulders. Exit house into Philadelphia pea soup of humidity. Hair is still not up and weight increases the minute I step outside. Begin to sweat before the door is locked. Pause to fumble for keys when a voice from under the stroller’s canopy says, “Mommy, don’t forget the water!” Back in the house searching for sippy cup. Back outside. And we’re off! Bolt and perform some ridiculous half run half walk while keeping bags from banging into hips and knees, attempting to make it to daycare by at least 8:35. At one traffic light, dude in a pick-up truck refuses to move because he is engaged in something other than watching his traffic light change from red to green. He is—without shame or any attempt to conceal his behavior—watching some young thing in cut off shorts and a ripped shirt cross the street and enter a coffee shop. Lament: my sweat, my hair, my slightly snug pants, the weight of the bags, and the loss of my youth. Nonetheless, curse him for not moving quickly enough (who has time for feminist politics right now?) and continue booking it until daycare door is reached--and because this is city daycare, with a very tiny double-doored vestibule entrance, all bags and children must be unloaded onto the street before folding the stroller as this is the only way you or your belongings or your kid will get through said doors. Unload the stroller and line up everything, including kid, on the front steps and attempt to lock the stroller before folding it. Some days lock works like a dream. Other days it has to be kicked wildly numerous times. Already know what today will bring. Get the thing locked, hoist it over shoulder and fill hands and arms with bags and manage to open the door for the kid who decides that now is the time to wrap his arms around legs and demand “Uppies!! Mommy hold you!” “Not now sweetie! Let’s get all of our things inside and go find Miss Gaby!” No such luck—pummel through the doors with stroller, 5 bags, sweat, hair, and child wrapped around legs. Dislodge everything, including kid, and make way to his room in the back. Swing by the refrigerator and drop off lunch bag. Can tell how late we are by the poor placement of the lunch bag now required. One remaining empty spot mocks me: “You are such a loser for being late! Now Woody and Buzzy have to be all the way back here!” Become anxious that Miss Gaby will not find the kid’s lunch. Oh my god, my 75th percentile weight child will starve because his lunch bag didn’t end up in its usual spot. Yes, it has his name in black marker across the handle. Yes, of course they will find his lunch. Sweat now blurring sanity as well as vision. Get to the back room and Miss Gaby approaches immediately to find out if the random shorts that have ended up in the kid’s cubby are his. They are not. “But doesn’t that look like his name written in there?” Why yes it does, but those are not my child’s shorts and of course, now worried about missing bus to work and already arrive late due to daily kid drop off duty. And still haven’t unpacked sheet and blanket or checked diaper stock and the kid still saying “Mommy hold you!” Relent. Pick the kid up. Do “headie down” first on the left shoulder and then he asks me to “move hair” (it’s an issue) so we can do headie down on the right shoulder. Hold him and sway back and forth until “Mommy has to go to work now.” Kid scrambles down from my arms and walks himself over to Miss Gaby. Am so proud and relieved since one week ago, on his first day at day care, they had to peel him off of me while he was screaming. Sweat a lot more on the way to the bus that is always late. Even later than I was this Monday morning.