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.
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