Call me Mother of the Year.
It seems that it's been quite awhile since I've posted something without complaining about the Wonder Toddler. Make no mistake, the temper tantrums are still frequent and loud. However, I'm grateful that I can focus on the positive for a change.
Peanut has hit a couple of major breakthroughs this week. I've rediscovered the joys of stickers, and noticed that they're not just for restaurants and peacekeeping missions. Now that we have a sticker chart, Peanut will on occasion deign to sit on the toilet without a screaming fit. Today was a bit more interesting.
First thing this morning, I point out the need for the potty. Screaming ensued. For once, I kept calm, and told him that when he was ready, we would go into the bathroom. Sure enough, thirty seconds later there was a small voice requesting potty assistance. The second he got on there, there was a need for stickers. And many hugs. And much rejoicing.
I'm taking this as a victory because I think Peanut's finally getting that this isn't so much about thwarting me, but having control over himself. It's another step toward independence, and really, isn't that what everyone wants? Plus, the Diego and Thomas underwear are really cool. I'm not sure just how long this will last, but right now, it just doesn't matter. I'm off to rejoice and congratulate.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Master Peanut, Quite Contrary
Call me Mother of the Year.
Proving once and for all that my kid is too smart for my own good, Peanut has discovered the power of the contradiction. Luckily, he has yet to perfect this art.
We have introduced new and improved weaponry in the battle against diapers, and it's getting pretty entertaining for friends, relatives, and anyone else who doesn't live in this house. Peanut will inform Boomer and I that he would like to go to school, play with cohorts at school, etc. Boomer and I will gently tell Peanut that he can't go to school and enjoy it if he isn't potty trained. Amid some tears and a remarkable increase in volume, Peanut invariably declares those delights unfit for his enjoyment.
What????!!!!
Not even his beloved trains are enough of an incentive. In fact, there is nothing Peanut wants more than outsmarting, outfoxing, and infuriating his mother. Diapers are the way it's been so far, and diapers it will be until the end. Or so he thought.
Peanut had earlier discovered the joys of stickers. Now he realizes that if he ceases the temper tantrum and goes on the potty, there are stickers for his very own. We have finally caught his interest. Still unwilling to do anything in it, but at least he deigns to sit on it and look at books. It's progress.
However, I'm hoping this progress isn't slow; we have five weeks until preschool starts.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Proving once and for all that my kid is too smart for my own good, Peanut has discovered the power of the contradiction. Luckily, he has yet to perfect this art.
We have introduced new and improved weaponry in the battle against diapers, and it's getting pretty entertaining for friends, relatives, and anyone else who doesn't live in this house. Peanut will inform Boomer and I that he would like to go to school, play with cohorts at school, etc. Boomer and I will gently tell Peanut that he can't go to school and enjoy it if he isn't potty trained. Amid some tears and a remarkable increase in volume, Peanut invariably declares those delights unfit for his enjoyment.
What????!!!!
Not even his beloved trains are enough of an incentive. In fact, there is nothing Peanut wants more than outsmarting, outfoxing, and infuriating his mother. Diapers are the way it's been so far, and diapers it will be until the end. Or so he thought.
Peanut had earlier discovered the joys of stickers. Now he realizes that if he ceases the temper tantrum and goes on the potty, there are stickers for his very own. We have finally caught his interest. Still unwilling to do anything in it, but at least he deigns to sit on it and look at books. It's progress.
However, I'm hoping this progress isn't slow; we have five weeks until preschool starts.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
This Scene Again, Just Once More
Call me Mother of the Year.
I find that Dante's Inferno left off the tenth circle of hell: potty training a recalcitrant toddler.
There has been some small success this week. Peanut, under extreme protest, has finally found his way to the potty. There has been much cheering from all concerned parents, grandparents, aunt, and cohort mommies. Granted, said cohort mommies were congratulating me rather than Peanut, but that's okay. They've either been there, there now, or about to be there, and fully understand that this is as much my battle as his.
With all this ado (about something), one would think that Peanut would find this encouraging. In fact, the opposite is happening. My contrary toddler scorns all adulation, turns up his nose at rewards, and downright ignores blatant bribes in an effort to stay as far away from potty training as possible. I'm not amused. Neither is he.
Potty training now looks and sounds like a war zone. Peanut screams and hits as we go into the bathroom. Trains, sippy cup, books all have no calming effect. The screaming can last upwards of thirty minutes. This could be longer, but honestly, I stopped timing. I don't want to know. Even after I get my way and am congratulating Wonder Toddler, he will look me in the eye and inform me that he's "never sitting on potty ever again". I can't make this up.
However, I am taking heart that my fight is nearly over. He is finally nearing the end of the diaper run, and there is the potential that he won't have to change his own diaper before he graduates college. Then again, knowing Peanut, he will.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I find that Dante's Inferno left off the tenth circle of hell: potty training a recalcitrant toddler.
There has been some small success this week. Peanut, under extreme protest, has finally found his way to the potty. There has been much cheering from all concerned parents, grandparents, aunt, and cohort mommies. Granted, said cohort mommies were congratulating me rather than Peanut, but that's okay. They've either been there, there now, or about to be there, and fully understand that this is as much my battle as his.
With all this ado (about something), one would think that Peanut would find this encouraging. In fact, the opposite is happening. My contrary toddler scorns all adulation, turns up his nose at rewards, and downright ignores blatant bribes in an effort to stay as far away from potty training as possible. I'm not amused. Neither is he.
Potty training now looks and sounds like a war zone. Peanut screams and hits as we go into the bathroom. Trains, sippy cup, books all have no calming effect. The screaming can last upwards of thirty minutes. This could be longer, but honestly, I stopped timing. I don't want to know. Even after I get my way and am congratulating Wonder Toddler, he will look me in the eye and inform me that he's "never sitting on potty ever again". I can't make this up.
However, I am taking heart that my fight is nearly over. He is finally nearing the end of the diaper run, and there is the potential that he won't have to change his own diaper before he graduates college. Then again, knowing Peanut, he will.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Thwarting Mommy
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut is up to no good. This time, it's so inventive that it's infuriating.
Once again, I'm fighting the potty training battle. Peanut is oblivious at best and furious at worst. He's still refusing to go anywhere near the bathroom, still tries to sneak away from diaper changes (boy, does that fail miserably) and still insists that the potty is "too big" for him.
Last week, Boomer and I decided new tactics were in order. I put Peanut in underwear and forbade him from sitting on the furniture and on the carpet. He had a few toys and was able to eat lunch on the floor, which was totally cool for him. He was told that he couldn't sit on the furniture until he went on the potty, and he needed to keep his underwear dry.
I kept checking on him, and he obeyed. The underwear stayed dry for three hours. He even told me that he needed to sit on the toilet (but didn't do anything). That's when I realized what he was up to.
The kid figured out how to pull down the underwear and relieved himself on the floor. Underwear was dry, and potty was avoided. Mission accomplished.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Part of me is excited that he knows to keep himself dry, and that's the main thrust of this battle. On the other hand, he still wants no part of toilet training.
Right now, I'm using all accomplices and showing Peanut the coolness of underwear. Maybe cool weapons will finally win the war.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Peanut is up to no good. This time, it's so inventive that it's infuriating.
Once again, I'm fighting the potty training battle. Peanut is oblivious at best and furious at worst. He's still refusing to go anywhere near the bathroom, still tries to sneak away from diaper changes (boy, does that fail miserably) and still insists that the potty is "too big" for him.
Last week, Boomer and I decided new tactics were in order. I put Peanut in underwear and forbade him from sitting on the furniture and on the carpet. He had a few toys and was able to eat lunch on the floor, which was totally cool for him. He was told that he couldn't sit on the furniture until he went on the potty, and he needed to keep his underwear dry.
I kept checking on him, and he obeyed. The underwear stayed dry for three hours. He even told me that he needed to sit on the toilet (but didn't do anything). That's when I realized what he was up to.
The kid figured out how to pull down the underwear and relieved himself on the floor. Underwear was dry, and potty was avoided. Mission accomplished.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Part of me is excited that he knows to keep himself dry, and that's the main thrust of this battle. On the other hand, he still wants no part of toilet training.
Right now, I'm using all accomplices and showing Peanut the coolness of underwear. Maybe cool weapons will finally win the war.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Band-Aids
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been a busy few weeks. We've been finishing up the moving sequence, renting the townhouse to the most awesome people, and entertaining friends and family. Peanut has been busy keeping up with his latest project: acquiring band-aids.
I realize this is a rite of passage for all children. Amass as many band-aids as possible as badges of honor. I'm certain Nana and Grammy will be happy to share stories of how Evil Twin, Boomer, and I decorated our childhood selves with cartoon adhesives. Peanut, being Peanut, has taken this to the next level.
Not content with merely plastering band-aids on himself for no apparent reason, Peanut has been sprinting across concrete and climbing up brick walls on his knees. He sees bloodshed, he gets band-aid. End of story, at least I thought. I gave the toddler way too little credit. Being an investigative child, he figured out that if the scabs are picked off incessantly, there is cause for more band-aids. Coolest thing ever. I'm in need of stock in band-aids. And new excuses for them. Seriously, how much longer can I possibly pull off "No, really, he does this on purpose"? Or worse, "No, he hasn't figured out this particular cause-and-effect yet"?
I am assured, once again, that this too will pass. After all, no great harm ever came from a couple of skinned knees. Or shins. Or elbows. I figure if he goes for a band-aid on his nose, it's time to be worried. And hand him off to Boomer. Who can tell horror stories. Maybe not.
Call me Mother of the Year.
It's been a busy few weeks. We've been finishing up the moving sequence, renting the townhouse to the most awesome people, and entertaining friends and family. Peanut has been busy keeping up with his latest project: acquiring band-aids.
I realize this is a rite of passage for all children. Amass as many band-aids as possible as badges of honor. I'm certain Nana and Grammy will be happy to share stories of how Evil Twin, Boomer, and I decorated our childhood selves with cartoon adhesives. Peanut, being Peanut, has taken this to the next level.
Not content with merely plastering band-aids on himself for no apparent reason, Peanut has been sprinting across concrete and climbing up brick walls on his knees. He sees bloodshed, he gets band-aid. End of story, at least I thought. I gave the toddler way too little credit. Being an investigative child, he figured out that if the scabs are picked off incessantly, there is cause for more band-aids. Coolest thing ever. I'm in need of stock in band-aids. And new excuses for them. Seriously, how much longer can I possibly pull off "No, really, he does this on purpose"? Or worse, "No, he hasn't figured out this particular cause-and-effect yet"?
I am assured, once again, that this too will pass. After all, no great harm ever came from a couple of skinned knees. Or shins. Or elbows. I figure if he goes for a band-aid on his nose, it's time to be worried. And hand him off to Boomer. Who can tell horror stories. Maybe not.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Warning Labels
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm pondering warning labels these days. I realize they're a common sense measure for parents who, let's face it, don't always use their common sense and must therefore rely on others. Like me.
Peanut has had his fill of warning labels. I've been pointing out that we do not need to investigate the cleaning supplies, the knives, or (more recently) the very pretty, very breakable china. After this week, however, I'm wondering where Peanut's warning label is.
It all started last weekend, at a friend's party. She decided that I could leave my child with her. After a phone call an hour later requesting my presence "to sit on my child", I decided I should really know better. Apparently Peanut was unclear about why the moonbounce was not an appropriate venue for human bowling. Into older kids.
Fast forward to last night. Peanut and Boomer were playing in the backyard, and the tricycle was introduced. There was, as usual, much rejoicing. Peanut's into pedaling hell-for-leather into the brick wall and announcing that he's okay as soon as the wall stops him. I'm not crazy about this game, but Boomer has assured me that it's a guy thing and Peanut will survive. Naturally, as soon as our backs were turned, Peanut decides to attempt to avoid the wall and ends up hitting his hand on it, scraping three fingers. No permanent damage, but it did require medicinal kisses and sippy cup to make it all better. Dinner helped as well.
It's not only objects that need warning labels. I'm seriously considering posting one on Peanut's forehead for all to see:
WARNING: Do not leave child unattended.
Call me Mother of the Year.
I'm pondering warning labels these days. I realize they're a common sense measure for parents who, let's face it, don't always use their common sense and must therefore rely on others. Like me.
Peanut has had his fill of warning labels. I've been pointing out that we do not need to investigate the cleaning supplies, the knives, or (more recently) the very pretty, very breakable china. After this week, however, I'm wondering where Peanut's warning label is.
It all started last weekend, at a friend's party. She decided that I could leave my child with her. After a phone call an hour later requesting my presence "to sit on my child", I decided I should really know better. Apparently Peanut was unclear about why the moonbounce was not an appropriate venue for human bowling. Into older kids.
Fast forward to last night. Peanut and Boomer were playing in the backyard, and the tricycle was introduced. There was, as usual, much rejoicing. Peanut's into pedaling hell-for-leather into the brick wall and announcing that he's okay as soon as the wall stops him. I'm not crazy about this game, but Boomer has assured me that it's a guy thing and Peanut will survive. Naturally, as soon as our backs were turned, Peanut decides to attempt to avoid the wall and ends up hitting his hand on it, scraping three fingers. No permanent damage, but it did require medicinal kisses and sippy cup to make it all better. Dinner helped as well.
It's not only objects that need warning labels. I'm seriously considering posting one on Peanut's forehead for all to see:
WARNING: Do not leave child unattended.
Call me Mother of the Year.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Best Friends Forever
Call me Mother of the Year.
As regular readers have discovered, the Peanut has hit the Terrible Threes with a vengeance. My confidence has taken quite the beating, as has my patience. Peanut is still convinced that he's in charge, and I'm merely a spectator in his play. Or is he?
Make no mistake, the tantrums are still frequent and loud. Peanut is still pushing all my buttons, and Boomer's arrival home is the highlight of both of our days. Still, there is a change afoot.
Peanut is usually far more eager to distribute hugs and kisses to pretty much everyone but me. This includes family members, Boomer, Doggy, Mommy Cohorts, salespeople, etc. I'm at the very bottom of his list. Over the last few days, however, he's been the one to initiate the "I love you" sequence. I'm happy to reciprocate, because really, I lap up any affection from the Wonder Toddler I can get.
This morning was the best. As SuperWHY was on television, Peanut comes tearing over and gives me a hug. As I hug back, he mumbles something unintelligible. Toddler will be my second language.
"What is it, Peanut?"
He raises his head and, comletely seriously says, "Best friends forever, Mommy?"
My heart melts. Finally, for one brief moment, everything's okay. My child doesn't hate me, and the tantrums just don't matter. My baby loves me, and it's all I need.
Yeah, Peanut, best friends forever. I love you, too.
Call me Mother of the Year.
As regular readers have discovered, the Peanut has hit the Terrible Threes with a vengeance. My confidence has taken quite the beating, as has my patience. Peanut is still convinced that he's in charge, and I'm merely a spectator in his play. Or is he?
Make no mistake, the tantrums are still frequent and loud. Peanut is still pushing all my buttons, and Boomer's arrival home is the highlight of both of our days. Still, there is a change afoot.
Peanut is usually far more eager to distribute hugs and kisses to pretty much everyone but me. This includes family members, Boomer, Doggy, Mommy Cohorts, salespeople, etc. I'm at the very bottom of his list. Over the last few days, however, he's been the one to initiate the "I love you" sequence. I'm happy to reciprocate, because really, I lap up any affection from the Wonder Toddler I can get.
This morning was the best. As SuperWHY was on television, Peanut comes tearing over and gives me a hug. As I hug back, he mumbles something unintelligible. Toddler will be my second language.
"What is it, Peanut?"
He raises his head and, comletely seriously says, "Best friends forever, Mommy?"
My heart melts. Finally, for one brief moment, everything's okay. My child doesn't hate me, and the tantrums just don't matter. My baby loves me, and it's all I need.
Yeah, Peanut, best friends forever. I love you, too.
Call me Mother of the Year.
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