One night last week, at 11:40 p.m., we heard footsteps out on the landing. Matt went out to find Lily galloping around with The Sound of Music's "Lonely Goatherd" piping from her music player. The week before, I forgot to bring water with us when we went out to run errands. As Lily did some fake crying, I apologized and said that next time, I would remember. She calmed down and said, matter-of-factly, "Next time, you will bring a princess cup with water in it, and I will say, 'I'm thirsty! I'm thirsty!' and you will give it to me, and I will drink it. You need to do your job." On Monday night, frustrated, I think, that I was sewing and Matt was mowing the yard, Lily smacked Corin.
Whoever singled out the "terrible twos" to warn parents was full of it, at least where my child is concerned. What's getting me are what I can only call the "theatrical threes." Here is a longer example.
Last month, Lily was having a rough afternoon, and I needed to get dinner started. Though she was clearly tired, she had not napped, and she did not want to come downstairs with me. So I just left her up in her room to play and went down to the kitchen. As I got going with the cooking, I heard her at the top of the stairs asking me to carry her down. I told her that I could not carry her just then and that she could walk. She has had mastery of the stairs for many months now. "I can't walk," she replied. I repeated that she could, trying to keep it as a cheerful "you-can-do-it" statement rather than exasperation. But she started to cry. I offered to come get her when I was done cooking. She continued to cry. I told her that if she came down herself, she could watch Cinderella while I cooked. She continued to cry. And when I continued to hold firm with "I'm cooking. You'll have to come down by yourself," the crying escalated into a complete meltdown: sobbing, shrieking, and pounding on the floor, repeating, between the incomprehensible bits, "I can't walk!"
This was a whole new level of fit for me, so I put Corin in his Bumbo chair and went upstairs. As I turned the corner of our staircase, I could see her on the upstairs landing completely lost in her tantrum. It seemed clear to me that she had gone beyond just testing her limits into the realm of overpowering emotion. It was no longer a matter of not wanting to walk down the stairs or sibling jealousy or any one thing in particular. It was something more along the lines of "I'm unhappy. Everything is unhappy. All I can feel is unhappy, and that makes me more unhappy."
I do not remember what it was like to be a toddler, of course, but I do remember some of what it was like to be an adolescent, and watching Lily in that moment was like watching a tiny teenager. I remembered a bit of what it was like to feel overwhelmed by your emotions as by an ocean wave--to have an intense feeling take over nearly all of your awareness. And my frustration with her melted into pity, and I sat on the top step and hugged her until she was calm enough to listen a little. "I know, sweetheart," I said. "I know what it's like to feel so much. It must be so frustrating to have so many things that you can't control- even your own body that is always growing. I know that you feel angry sometimes. It's hard being three, isn't it?" She nodded and calmed down more as we talked, and to be honest, I was feeling like a pretty good mom...until she realized that I wasn't going to turn on Cinderella because she hadn't come down by herself as asked. Then the fit started all over again.
I would like to say that that afternoon was an isolated incident, but I can't. It was the first of several very intense tantrums that have been challenging me lately-- and perhaps giving me a preview of what life is going to be like in ten to fifteen years' time. I am not trying to make an excuse for her when I compare her to a hormonal adolescent or talk about overpowering emotions. Her tantrums start out with defiance, and I don't want to ignore that. But I can sense a difference between her "normal" "I-want-you-to-know-I'm-mad" fits and these more sporadic and much more intense "I'm-so-mad-I-can't-control-it" fits.
I know that she's tired. She is in the process of giving up naps. We have traveled for five consecutive weekends (that is subject matter for another post), and she has also started having night fears that she's never had before. I suppose that the same delightful imagination that gives her Thaddeus the Gargoyle comes with the liability of nighttime monsters and fear of the dark. But I don't think that this is purely a sleep issue; I think that, like a teenager, she's just growing so much so fast that it's hard for her to stay level all the time.
I'm doing my best to meet the theatrics with love and calm, but if nothing else, at least I've driven home the idea that I acknowledge that it's challenging for her too. We have started doing charts on our fridge where she gets a sticker every time she takes an afternoon nap, has a good afternoon quiet time, or goes to bed at night without drama. When she fills up a chart, she gets a reward chosen from a set of little images we put beside the chart. Just a few days after that first big meltdown, she filled up her second chart and chose to take a trip to her favorite Austin food truck, Hey Cupcake. I had read once that a good method of positive reinforcement is to let your child hear you praise him or her to others, so as I was paying for our cupcakes, I told the guy behind the counter that we were there because Lily had filled up her chart with stickers for good naps and bedtimes. "Yeah," Lily chimed in seriously. "It's hard being three."
Whoever singled out the "terrible twos" to warn parents was full of it, at least where my child is concerned. What's getting me are what I can only call the "theatrical threes." Here is a longer example.
Last month, Lily was having a rough afternoon, and I needed to get dinner started. Though she was clearly tired, she had not napped, and she did not want to come downstairs with me. So I just left her up in her room to play and went down to the kitchen. As I got going with the cooking, I heard her at the top of the stairs asking me to carry her down. I told her that I could not carry her just then and that she could walk. She has had mastery of the stairs for many months now. "I can't walk," she replied. I repeated that she could, trying to keep it as a cheerful "you-can-do-it" statement rather than exasperation. But she started to cry. I offered to come get her when I was done cooking. She continued to cry. I told her that if she came down herself, she could watch Cinderella while I cooked. She continued to cry. And when I continued to hold firm with "I'm cooking. You'll have to come down by yourself," the crying escalated into a complete meltdown: sobbing, shrieking, and pounding on the floor, repeating, between the incomprehensible bits, "I can't walk!"
This was a whole new level of fit for me, so I put Corin in his Bumbo chair and went upstairs. As I turned the corner of our staircase, I could see her on the upstairs landing completely lost in her tantrum. It seemed clear to me that she had gone beyond just testing her limits into the realm of overpowering emotion. It was no longer a matter of not wanting to walk down the stairs or sibling jealousy or any one thing in particular. It was something more along the lines of "I'm unhappy. Everything is unhappy. All I can feel is unhappy, and that makes me more unhappy."
I do not remember what it was like to be a toddler, of course, but I do remember some of what it was like to be an adolescent, and watching Lily in that moment was like watching a tiny teenager. I remembered a bit of what it was like to feel overwhelmed by your emotions as by an ocean wave--to have an intense feeling take over nearly all of your awareness. And my frustration with her melted into pity, and I sat on the top step and hugged her until she was calm enough to listen a little. "I know, sweetheart," I said. "I know what it's like to feel so much. It must be so frustrating to have so many things that you can't control- even your own body that is always growing. I know that you feel angry sometimes. It's hard being three, isn't it?" She nodded and calmed down more as we talked, and to be honest, I was feeling like a pretty good mom...until she realized that I wasn't going to turn on Cinderella because she hadn't come down by herself as asked. Then the fit started all over again.
I would like to say that that afternoon was an isolated incident, but I can't. It was the first of several very intense tantrums that have been challenging me lately-- and perhaps giving me a preview of what life is going to be like in ten to fifteen years' time. I am not trying to make an excuse for her when I compare her to a hormonal adolescent or talk about overpowering emotions. Her tantrums start out with defiance, and I don't want to ignore that. But I can sense a difference between her "normal" "I-want-you-to-know-I'm-mad" fits and these more sporadic and much more intense "I'm-so-mad-I-can't-control-it" fits.
I know that she's tired. She is in the process of giving up naps. We have traveled for five consecutive weekends (that is subject matter for another post), and she has also started having night fears that she's never had before. I suppose that the same delightful imagination that gives her Thaddeus the Gargoyle comes with the liability of nighttime monsters and fear of the dark. But I don't think that this is purely a sleep issue; I think that, like a teenager, she's just growing so much so fast that it's hard for her to stay level all the time.
I'm doing my best to meet the theatrics with love and calm, but if nothing else, at least I've driven home the idea that I acknowledge that it's challenging for her too. We have started doing charts on our fridge where she gets a sticker every time she takes an afternoon nap, has a good afternoon quiet time, or goes to bed at night without drama. When she fills up a chart, she gets a reward chosen from a set of little images we put beside the chart. Just a few days after that first big meltdown, she filled up her second chart and chose to take a trip to her favorite Austin food truck, Hey Cupcake. I had read once that a good method of positive reinforcement is to let your child hear you praise him or her to others, so as I was paying for our cupcakes, I told the guy behind the counter that we were there because Lily had filled up her chart with stickers for good naps and bedtimes. "Yeah," Lily chimed in seriously. "It's hard being three."
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