Mom Poem

At
the end
of the
school day,
my sweet
angel
who
never,
ever
EVER
seems
to
stop
talking,
Leaned in
and
whispered,
church-mouse quiet:

"I got a yellow."

Adding yet
another color
to his behavior chart
did not surprise, but

Dare I ask?

"What were you doing that you got a yellow?"

His response?

"Talking."

To think that we were
once convinced
That he would
never,
ever,
EVER
say a single word!




Go visit Kat Bouska of Mamakat fame, and check out the rest of the bunch she inspired this week with her writing prompts.  My choice for this week was  2.  Write a poem inspired by the last conversation you had with your child.

The Mystery Biscuit

"Honey...why is there a biscuit in the middle of the living room floor?"

My journalistic instinct is such that when I heard my husband's question, I had to get up from the breakfast table and immediately go to where the action was. Larry might have been mistaken; it's happened before. On this occasion, however, he was correct--there was indeed a biscuit in the middle of the living room floor.  It was quietly laying there, minding its own business, possibly waiting for butter to fall from the skies.

I kicked at it with my foot, to make sure there were no bugs attached to the biscuit, before picking it up.  It was as hard as a rock. After some discussion, we chalked the incident up to random weirdness, which is a normal occurrence at our house. Opening the back door, I threw the biscuit on the grass for the birds to eat, letting our dog Maisy outside as well. I closed the door, and forgot all about it.

Two hours later, the same biscuit was back, right in the middle of the living room floor. I kicked it with my foot when I was carrying a basket of laundry to the laundry room.  It made some noise as it hit the kitchen floor. I put the basket down, and said my usual "WTF?" (Cursing in initials was okay, I decided, at least until Zane starts figuring out what WTF stands for.)

I squatted down next to the biscuit and checked to make sure that there were no tiny legs underneath.  I picked it up.  I shook it.  I looked for holes that would indicate worms or other tiny critters.  It was a stale biscuit, nothing more.  My legs had fallen asleep from squatting by this point, so I just sat on the floor and pondered the situation.

How did the biscuit get back inside the house? 

We hadn't had biscuits for breakfast in several days.  I had thrown the leftover biscuits out into the back yard at least two days ago.  The biscuit did not just walk back into the house all by itself. There had to be an explanation.

I wasn't usually that inattentive to my housework--I am sure that I would have spotted a random biscuit if I had dropped one.  There was a possibility that my son had been kicking the biscuit around like a tiny soccer ball, except that I had threatened him with a noogie if I caught him kicking soccer balls in the house again. Larry would have eaten the biscuit, not thrown it on the floor.

That left the animals in the house.  The cats were immediately eliminated as suspects. Pounce never leaves the upstairs, and Zena is all about living, squeaking things. Cats aren't big on carbs.

Maisy, however...

I took the biscuit and walked to the door. Maisy followed me, tail wagging.  I opened the back door, and Maisy ran outside.  I tossed the biscuit out in the middle of the back yard, closed the door and waited.  Maisy ran over to the biscuit, sniffed at it, and then picked it up in her mouth.  She marched proudly back to the door, head held high.   The biscuit in her mouth was practically invisible.  I opened the door, and Maisy happily brought her prize back into the house...dropping it in the middle of the living room.  She gave the biscuit a lick, and then lay down next to it. 

Mystery solved.

Somewhere, in Maisy's doggy brain, the biscuit was a play toy, not food. Not just a play toy; her ALL TIME FAVORITE play toy!  We kept waiting for her to forget the toy, or to move on to another toy. Every time we tried to get rid of the biscuit, either by throwing it outside or dropping it into the trash, Maisy would find it again and bring it back to her spot on the rug. I guess she thought that we were playing an elaborate game of Fetch? 

Dogs are weird.

P.S. We were finally able to replace the biscuit with a new ball. After two days.

Goodnight

 Mamakat's awe-inspiring prompt: Share something your child taught YOU about parenting.

When I was younger and going to college, I read all the child development books. I read all the behavior management books. I took many courses on working with children, managing children, etc. Once I began working as a school psychologist, I observed many children in their natural habitats and in the classroom.  I made recommendations to parents and teachers.

"Mama, I need to tell you something."

"Go to sleep, son."

All that time, there was a little voice inside my head. It was a smug and superior voice who said  "I will have the best behaved children on the planet, because I have amassed a vast and intricate knowledge of children and behavior modification."

"Mama, I REALLY need to tell you something."

"GO to sleep, son."

Then I actually had a child, my own little bundle of all that is good in the world.  When my child started becoming independent and telling me no while he toddled away from me, I started using the tricks of my trade.

"Mama, I really, REALLY need to tell you something!"

"Go to SLEEP, son."

Positive reinforcement? Been there. Negative reinforcement? Done that. Clear and consistent rules established. Discussion of why certain rules are important? Completed. Use of visuals to illustrate age appropriate concepts? Check. Ignoring unwanted behaviors? Check.  Use of 'broken record' when child uses distractors to delay?  Got those, too.

"Mama, I HAVE to tell you something!"

"Go to sleep, SON."

I broke out the sticker charts for potty training.  The boy started 'needing' to go to the potty every five minutes because he knew that after the tenth sticker he would get a treat.  Who knew that a two year old could figure the relation between the number of stickers and the treat and use that information to solve a problem? I consulted my books. 

"Mama, please, I really, REALLY need to tell you something!"

"GO. TO. SLEEP. NOW."

We started using coins, and a bank, and having him 'buy' items that he wanted with his coins.  This worked out great, until we realized that he had conned his grandmother into buying him what he wanted, so he wasn't all that keen on earning what we had purchased.

"Mama, I HAVE to tell you something!"

"WHAT????  What do you have to tell me right now, when you are supposed to be asleep?"

"I love you, Mama." 

"---? Awww. That's so sweet.  Now go to sleep!"

What has my child taught me, four years into this parenting experience?  My son, with no formal schooling, has taught me that while books on parenting can be helpful, there's no substitute for experience.  The more I 'know' about parenting, the more I experience the realities of raising a responsible, independent adult,  the more I realize that I don't know a damn thing.  And that is okay. 

This boy, this cherished and precious part of my life, who drives me nuts sometimes,  is my textbook on parenting.  It's the same, yet different, book that every parent writes with their own children, as they grow up, and older, together. It's a book that reveals all the secrets of the Universe that can be found in the eyes of a child, and in the love of a parent.  That is the best parenting book in the world.

Brat or Not?

I was reading this opinion column on CNN today. It kind of annoyed me.

I am just like everyone else in wanting to eat in a restaurant undisturbed by screaming children. I don't enjoy being out in public and having my enjoyment disturbed by rude children who are out of control. I laughed as loud as everyone else when Bill Cosby did a comedy sketch about a boy on an airplane named Jeffrey.

However, I have a problem with the assumption by Mr. Granderson that a child who is out of control in a public setting has a permissive parent who is allowing him to behave in that manner.

My child is not a brat. Let's start there. And I am not a permissive parent, by any stretch of the imagination. I don't allow my child to run amok in public places. I make every effort to keep him in his seat in restaurants. I make every effort to keep his volume level at an acceptable decibel level. I have regularly removed my son from public places when he is behaving poorly out of respect for others.

My son, however, is three years old.

He is going to be loud.

He is going to be messy.

He is going to want to play in places where playing is not allowed.

These are age-appropriate behaviors.

Am I to sequester my son from all outside contact with the world until he's 21 because he might irritate someone by behaving like a child?

What if my infant has an ear infection, or is sensitive to the pressure changes involved in airplane travel, and screams in pain when the plane takes off and lands? Am I being a permissive parent then?

What if my child has special needs, such as autism? Does it make me a permissive parent, then, when I suddenly have a child tantrumming because there's a new menu at Chili's or the tables have been rearranged at the local pizzeria?

I don't think so.

How is my three year old child going to learn how to behave in a public place if I don't put him into public places? How will he ever understand what is permitted in society, and what is not, if he never interacts with society?

It's easy to misinterpret and mislabel a parent's inability to control their children as permissive or lazy parenting. There may be something else going on, however, and it is ignorant to lump people into one group based on some characteristic that is deemed unappealing.

Yes, my child is going to misbehave in public on occasion as he gets older. I will speak to him in a low voice, give him a consequence, and yes, I will give him "The Look". And sometimes, despite all my efforts, my child will still run amok.

It has nothing to do with my being permissive, and everything to do with being a kid.

Establishing Good Boundaries Takes Time

As a result of several behavioral experiences in Zane's daycare career thus far, my husband and I have a morning ritual as we drop Zane off at La Petite.

"Zane, no hit, no kick, no spit, and walking feet," we tell him as we are getting him out of his car seat. We do this because it is important to state the boundaries of a situation clearly and concisely(you can't assume that they know what to do, you have to tell them the expectation). Zane dutifully repeats what we have said, and then off he goes to 'school'.

Yesterday when we arrived to pick up Zane, Ms. YoGabbaGabba!(that is what Zane calls her) informed us that she had observed Zane while he was working on a puzzle. Whenever a peer would join him, she reported, Zane would address that child by name.

"Ethan, no hit, no kick, no spit, walking feet," he told the boy. His teacher imitated my son's 'bossy' tone perfectly, so I could picture it. Then it was Alejandro's turn, then Sierra, all the way down the roster of his classmates.

Larry and I thought it was great that Zane was able to repeat 'the rules' without us being around. Ms. YoGabbaGabba! then told us the punchline: immediately after bossing all of his peers to use 'walking feet', Zane got up and ran to get another puzzle.

So we still have work to do. But at least Zane didn't hit or kick or spit, which is an improvement.

Friday at the McDonald's Playland

When Zane has a reasonably good day at daycare(meaning that he didn't hit anyone), we will stop at "HAPPY MEAL PLACE". We don't know why Zane calls McDonald's the "HAPPY MEAL PLACE", but we roll with it. When we get to the local Mickey D's, the line at the drive thru is humongous. Crap.

"Well, I guess we could just go in," I said. Larry looked at me as if I was a pod person. I looked right back at him and repeated myself.

"Are you sure?" Larry asks. We are always hesitant to take Zane places because of the unpredictability of his behavior, mostly just because we are just too tired to deal with it. But really, the only way that a child learns how to behave in public is by being in public. So we maneuvered the car through the maze of the line through the drive-thru and parked the car.

I told Larry to take Zane to the play area while I got the food. Zane didn't want to go to the play area, and he had a small fit in the line while we waited, which included the usual throwing of the self on the ground. I think I did a good job of ignoring him while he did that. Larry was finally able to get Zane to the play area after I handed him his HAPPY MEAL, but I think it cost him some dollar amount to be named later. I got the food(this is the slowest McDonald's on the planet, I am pretty sure), and took it into the play area.

Zane and Larry were sitting at two different tables, because apparently Zane was feeling independent. Zane was eating, I sat down. There were a lot of other kids running around and playing on the playscape or whatever it is called. I noticed that most of the children were not actually eating anything, but that's probably true of most 'child-friendly' places. I bit into my hamburger, when a kid of about eight ran by, hollering at the top of his lungs.

"YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE, COPPER!!!!!!!"

I spit out my bit of hamburger and guffawed. Larry snickered. Anyone but Jimmy Cagney uttering those words and you just have to at least chuckle quietly. I think that is a federal law or something, at least until the Supreme Court makes a decision.

Suddenly Zane decided he wanted to play, but he wasn't finished eating. He wanted to take his food and his drink with him to play. I referred him to the rules, which included a statement indicating that food was not allowed in the play area. Zane disagreed vehemently with this, and again threw himself down on the ground after Larry took the drink and HAPPY MEAL box away. I repeated the rule.

"Want Ketchup," Zane said, in a classic attempt at distraction. He jumped up and raced for the door separating the play area from the actual dining area. He was wedged in the door by the time Larry finally caught up with him. When Larry freed him, Zane zigzagged through the legs of the many people waiting in line and ran up to the counter. He banged his hand twice on the counter.

"Want ketchup," he said. Everyone waiting in line laughed, luckily. Larry helped Zane get his ketchup and brought him back to the table. Thus sustained by the appearance of ketchup, Zane finished his meal and ran to play. Larry was with him at first. I noticed that Zane kept wanting to climb up the slide, and Larry was determined that Zane not do this. He was afraid that Zane would get hurt by the bigger children. Zane was not interested in listening to his daddy, and a small meltdown ensued.

I got Larry to tag me in, and I figured that natural consequences would be the best way to get Zane to understand that he would be happier going down the slide instead of up the slide. So I let Zane go up the slide, knowing that there were about ten kids, all bigger than him, about to come rolling down the slide. I thought that all it would take would be one time of getting bowled over by another kid, and Zane would not be so interested.

Zane climbed up. I waited. No Zane. No anybody, actually. WTH??? Finally, Zane came down, followed by every single one of the bigger kids. WTH??? Those bigger kids, some of them as old at ten, waited for my son, a two-year-old, to go down the slide. I was amazed, and not sorry that my original expectation was incorrect. Kids surprise you sometimes.

But it was time to go. We had to bribe Zane with cookies to get him out of McDonald's, but it was worth it to get him out to the car. For those who would say, "Sayyyy--weren't you the only 'behavior specialist' your district had for years? Didn't you create almost all of the behavior forms currently in use in your district today? And you're saying that you bribed your own child? Isn't that in direct violation of every book on behavior ever written?"

To those people, I would challenge them to 'babysit' Zane for a couple of hours. Then we will talk.

Being a Mom is Hard.

On Friday I brought my son to the school district for an early childhood "screening". Zane had been receiving early intervention from the Brighton School since last year at the request of a developmental psychologist, but Brighton's services stop at age three. If he qualifies, the local school district will pick up the services starting on his birthday. Our main concern for Zane has always been his language, and we really feel that since he started with daycare and has been around other children, his language development has accelerated. His articulation hasn't always kept up, however. There are still times when I have NO idea what the heck that boy is saying, and I know that he probably thinks that I'm an idiot. He's probably right.

Based on Zane's behavior during the screening, which included climbing on tables, overturning tables, and generally causing mayhem in the play area, they asked to see Zane as soon as possible. Which turned out to be today.

On Saturday Zane was invited to a birthday party for Davis, a little girl that he knows. It was at the Children's Museum in New Braunfels. They have a neat setup with wooden trains that Zane is absolutely gaga over--the last time we were there that was ALL he would play with, for the entire hour. This time was no different--when it was time to go for the party, Zane had what is known as a conniption fit. We got him into the room where the party was and finally got him settled down with some cake.

Keep in mind that none of the other kids were having hissy fits about having to leave what they were doing to come have cake, and that these kids were all around Zane's age. So my son stood out like a sore thumb, and I could feel lots of eyes on him. He did sing "Happy Birthday", had some cake, and some lemonade. Larry left to go put our spare tire on the car, since right as we pulled into the parking lot our rear tire blew out.
So I sat in one of those little tiny kid's chairs with Zane, while the other kids were able to sit at tables by themselves, and I watched Davis open her presents. Zane's attention wandered, as it usually does, but at least he stayed seated.

Suddenly Davis pulled out a pink little toy train. Zane zeroed in on that and takes off for the front. The train had been put on the counter, within easy reach, and Zane went right for it. Everything was happening in slow motion for me. I told Zane, "That is not your train." I got to the front of the room as fast as I could, considering that I was sitting in one of those tiny chairs.

He disagreed vehemently and ran into a corner, screaming, "MINE!!!!" I had to stay calm on the outside, but inside my heart sank. I managed to get the train away and pick Zane up. He promptly smacked me a couple of times in the face, but to my credit I didn't drop him. I took him back to the back of the room and he continued to wail. As soon as he could convince me to let him down, Zane ran off, out of sight, straight back to the trains.

I can't describe to you the feeling when you realize just how different your child is from normal. Intellectually I know that it's possible that Zane is developmentally behind his peers in some areas. Emotionally I am trying to wrap my brain around the possibility that something else might be going on. Because the behavior my son exhibited on Saturday is not the kind of behavior that will get him through kindergarten, or the rest of life, in a happy manner.

So this morning Zane and I went back to the school district and while I filled out about four questionnaires about behavior, the speech pathologist and the LSSP(school psychologist) tried administering several different batteries to Zane. Usually I am the one giving the various batteries of tests, so I generally tried to ignore everything going on over there. The adults were smart and blocked Zane in so he couldn't run off, but it eventually ended up requiring both of them to sit beside Zane and give him immediate feedback to get him to respond to just about everything.

We have to wait for the results. Darn it. I want to know now. All this has been extremely difficult for me for some reason. Okay, not for 'some' reason. It's been hard because I want my son to be okay, whatever that means.