Lately, I seam to spend every evening asking my husband why I find it so difficult to be nice to our 3-year old son Nathan. He is intelligent, sweet, loving and cute as can be. So why do I feel like I’m being followed around by my own personal red-headed version of Jar Jar Binks? My husband tells me that only something produced by my own genetics would know so intimately which buttons he needs to push.
Take the other day as an example. It was after lunch and Nathan was poking his head up over the window sill, looking out at the decaying late winter vegetation.
“Mommy, why is there a muffin crumb up in that tree?”
“That’s dead leaves Nathan.” I replied, my hands deep in sudsy water.
“Why is it dead leaves Mommy?”
“Because its still winter sweetie.”
“But why is it still winter mommy?”
“Because its February.”
“But why is it February Mommy?”
“It just IS Nathan.”
“But why, mommy why? Mommy, you’re not saying anything. Why, Mommy, why?”
Ever seen a 3 year old have a temper tantrum over the fact that a bunch of dead leaves in a tree was not a muffin crumb? I have.
Earlier that morning, I woke up to find Nathan standing on a chair pushed up to the counter, six previously unopened one liter juice tetrapaks before him. He was carefully tasting from each one in turn.
“I’m having my juice mommy,” he joyfully announced as a stream of liquid cascaded down the front of his jammies and pooled around the bottom of the chair.
When I signed up for his parenting gig four years ago, I never expected that I might be irritated by my own progeny. Frustrated, yes, worried, yes, but irritated? Irritation is reserved for the obnoxious offspring of “other people”. You know, the ones who obviously don’t discipline their children properly or why would they be screaming for the box of fruit loops in the grocery isle? Irritated by my own child, never! Or so I thought.
Now I stand, watching my 3 year old holding his uneaten sandwich over the floor, like a cheesy ransom note, while I say, “Nathan, please don’t drop your sandwich on the floor.” Guess what happens next. And screaming for the fruit loops? Can we say grocery store melt-down? Everytime.
The day would go on, my mood and temper rising up the ramp of impatience like peanuts on the conveyer belt to the crushing machine, when finally I am broken like a stale cracker under a bare foot. I yell at him over something minutely meaningless, like him forgetting to flush the toilet. Much screaming and yelling in sues, with Nathan inevitably spending much of the rest of his day in “time out”.
At the end of the day, when I am tucking Nathan into his bed, he reaches for me, wrapping his thin alabaster arms around my neck and whispering in my ear, “I love you mommy.” I almost cry, thinking of how many times I said the word “No” that day. Finally, I feel the knot in my eyebrows unfurling.
Perhaps it is my behavior that needs to be nudged in the positive direction. The next day I stick little post-it notes all over the house with the words, “Be Nice to Nathan” written in washable purple ink. One on the bathroom mirror for those nights that he screams while I comb his hair, one on the fridge for when he decides to grab the box of cheerios from the pantry and make a run for it. I put them everywhere. Little yellow reminders of the hug at the end of the day. Telling me, this moment is fleeting, chose your words softly, as he will only be my little 3 year old Nathan once.
Take the other day as an example. It was after lunch and Nathan was poking his head up over the window sill, looking out at the decaying late winter vegetation.
“Mommy, why is there a muffin crumb up in that tree?”
“That’s dead leaves Nathan.” I replied, my hands deep in sudsy water.
“Why is it dead leaves Mommy?”
“Because its still winter sweetie.”
“But why is it still winter mommy?”
“Because its February.”
“But why is it February Mommy?”
“It just IS Nathan.”
“But why, mommy why? Mommy, you’re not saying anything. Why, Mommy, why?”
Ever seen a 3 year old have a temper tantrum over the fact that a bunch of dead leaves in a tree was not a muffin crumb? I have.
Earlier that morning, I woke up to find Nathan standing on a chair pushed up to the counter, six previously unopened one liter juice tetrapaks before him. He was carefully tasting from each one in turn.
“I’m having my juice mommy,” he joyfully announced as a stream of liquid cascaded down the front of his jammies and pooled around the bottom of the chair.
When I signed up for his parenting gig four years ago, I never expected that I might be irritated by my own progeny. Frustrated, yes, worried, yes, but irritated? Irritation is reserved for the obnoxious offspring of “other people”. You know, the ones who obviously don’t discipline their children properly or why would they be screaming for the box of fruit loops in the grocery isle? Irritated by my own child, never! Or so I thought.
Now I stand, watching my 3 year old holding his uneaten sandwich over the floor, like a cheesy ransom note, while I say, “Nathan, please don’t drop your sandwich on the floor.” Guess what happens next. And screaming for the fruit loops? Can we say grocery store melt-down? Everytime.
The day would go on, my mood and temper rising up the ramp of impatience like peanuts on the conveyer belt to the crushing machine, when finally I am broken like a stale cracker under a bare foot. I yell at him over something minutely meaningless, like him forgetting to flush the toilet. Much screaming and yelling in sues, with Nathan inevitably spending much of the rest of his day in “time out”.
At the end of the day, when I am tucking Nathan into his bed, he reaches for me, wrapping his thin alabaster arms around my neck and whispering in my ear, “I love you mommy.” I almost cry, thinking of how many times I said the word “No” that day. Finally, I feel the knot in my eyebrows unfurling.
Perhaps it is my behavior that needs to be nudged in the positive direction. The next day I stick little post-it notes all over the house with the words, “Be Nice to Nathan” written in washable purple ink. One on the bathroom mirror for those nights that he screams while I comb his hair, one on the fridge for when he decides to grab the box of cheerios from the pantry and make a run for it. I put them everywhere. Little yellow reminders of the hug at the end of the day. Telling me, this moment is fleeting, chose your words softly, as he will only be my little 3 year old Nathan once.
I love muffins!!! (the muffin top with butter is the best) ...Come to think of it, its quite sad that all dead leaves are not muffin crumbs. That would be wonderful.
ReplyDelete"Dont worry Nathan, Aunty Jac is also upset that dead leaves aren't muffin crumbs" Lets pout together.
XOX Jac