I'll Never Leave Your Pizza Burnin'

All I wanted today was some leftover pizza.

Was that too much to ask? A nice, lukewarm, slightly soggy slice of pizza and a somewhat cold can of diet coke. And some time in front of the computer.

Things were on their way to working out nicely. All I had to do was get the kids to take naps--something I was certain would happen based on their eye-rubbing, bi-polar demeanors, and the fact that they'd both been up since 5:45.  So certain was I that they were minutes away from crashing that I even optimistically pulled my pizza from the fridge, placed it on some foil and stuck it in the toaster oven.  I would soon be dining and writing in peace and quiet.

Except that Elsa was having a total freak-out in her crib after I put her down. I think she banged her face on the railing, but I can't be sure. Lately, whenever I put her in the crib when she doesn't want to be there (like, all the time), she kneels in front of the bars, grabs onto them like a wrongfully imprisoned captive, and wails. Only I think she may have gotten too big for her britches and actually tried to pull up, thus hitting her chubby, tear-streaked face on the wooden bars.

This happened while I was trying to get Rollie some lunch. I've been employing this new discipline technique with Rollie (which I'm sure you'll be hearing about soon), and part of the idea is to give him choices throughout the day so he feels like he's got some sort of control over his life (unlike mommy, who feels like she has absolutely no control over anything whatsoever, except for possibly her bladder). So the choice he was grappling with at the moment was if he wanted to take a nap now, or eat his lunch first and then take a nap.  He chose to eat first.  But that was part of the deal.  To actually EAT.

Apparently he didn't get that part. Because as I returned from settling Elsa back down (ie, loosened her Kung Fu grip on her crib bars, popped her pacifier back into her mouth, replaced her horizontally in her crib and rubbed her back until she stopped hyperventilating and passed out), Rollie wasn't upholding his end of the deal.  Oh no.  I entered the kitchen just in time to see his peanut butter and jelly sandwich sail through the air and land at our dog's feet.  And before I could snatch it up and cram the sandwich into his sweet little mouth (thus abiding by the Five-Second Rule), our dog gobbled it up.

Without a word, I snapped Rollie from his booster chair and hauled him into his room for some Time Out (also abiding by the new discipline technique--calmly placing the offender in Time Out until he's ready to behave like a human being--meaning that Rollie will be in Time Out until he's twenty-five).

Unfortunately, this new technique does not coincide well with Potty Training.

I realized my mistake as soon as I closed his door.  I barged back into Rollie's room to see him lying on his tummy, a dark spot spreading across the carpet beneath him.

He looked up, eyes wide, and said, "I went pee-pee, Mommy."

I closed my eyes, breathed in deeply, began counting to ten...and smelled burning pizza.  Sigh.

Eventually they both took naps.  And I had a bowl of cereal for lunch.  But at least I got in some peace and quiet time.  Somehow, that always eclipses everything, doesn't it?

Yell-Fest '09

I think there's something going around. Some sort of illness that saps you of your patience, leaving your nerves raw and exposed and susceptible to your children trampling on them and destroying any sense of self-control you used to have, turning you into a threat-screaming, arm-yanking, head-in-hands-crying monster.

I think I caught it at the pool. I took Rollie there the other day to hang out with some friends and enjoy the hundred-degree August-in-Florida weather the only way possible--drenched in chlorinated water.

Everything was going fine. Elsa was chillin in her little floating lily-pad, grinning and splashing and kicking her chubby legs. Rollie was making me hold him so he could paddle and kick without sinking to the bottom. Everyone was having a grand old time.

Until it was time to leave.

I gave Rollie a warning. Five minutes, I said. Elsa was starting to get ornery, wilting like a fat little buttercup, and I was getting hungry. Rollie wasn't ready, but what kid is when there's a giant pool with water fountains and a huge slide and all kinds of toys floating around like nuggets of deliciousness in a bowl of fun-soup? Every request I made for him to come get his towel was ignored, so I started pulling out the warnings, the countdowns, the outright threats for him to get over here now, or else.... Still Rollie wouldn't come.

Finally I went over to physically remove him from the shallow end of the pool. His legs flailed, his fists pounded, he threw his head back in a primal scream of rage. It was a full-on tantrum, something he doesn't do very often (honest!). I asked him if he was really hitting me, and he even stopped for a moment, as if surprised by his own gall. But then he went right on hitting me. Sigh.

I was able to manhandle him into the car, and drive home without further protest. What I didn't know was that I must have either inhaled or ingested some microorganism that wormed its way into the recesses of my brain and started to grow.

Once we were home, Rollie wasn't interested in taking a nap, eating lunch or keeping his clothes on. Every attempt of mine to feed, cloth or make him rest was thwarted as he dodged out of my reach, yelling 'nooooooo!' and tearing around the house naked. And while normally the sight of my son streaking through the living room and crashing into the couch makes me laugh, this time I lost it.

"ROLLIE!" I hollered. "YOU STOP THAT! RIGHT! NOW!"

I was loud. I mean, seriously my throat was sore for a few hours afterwards. If our neighbors had been home they may have come knocking to make sure everything was okay.

Rollie even stopped and stared at me.

"Don't be mad, Momma," he said in a very small voice.

That's when I started to cry. Which is something else I hardly ever do. I just stood there and buried my face in my hands. My shoulders heaved, my nose ran. I was losing it. I had flashbacks of my mother, sitting at the dinner table as the squabbling and name-calling bounced around her, pinballing from one sibling to the next. She would bury her face in her hands, or sometimes just burst out with a diatribe that usually included threats to leave, move out, and never look back. No freaking wonder.

I got it together enough to apologize to Rollie for screaming. Then I strapped he and Elsa into their carseats and left the house. I didn't know where I was going. Rollie wasn't even wearing pants. But a change of scenery was in order, as was something from Starbucks. Sometimes a nice mocha frappaccino makes everything a little better.

The next day, though, Rollie pooped on the floor. Yeah, I screamed at him again. Not because of that, but because as I was trying to clean it up, he rolled on top of Elsa, bowling her over like a big, chubby pin. She started crying, he started yelling at her to stop crying, and then our dog started barking to go outside.

"ROLLIE!" I shrieked. "GET IN YOUR ROOM!"

Poor Rollie. He jumped up, wide-eyed. Really though, his room was the safest place for him--if he hung around near me any longer, I was liable to smack his freshly wiped little butt. It's funny how I spend so much effort trying to get him to control himself and his impulses, when really if I'm pushed far enough, all I want to do is scream and hit and throw things, too. I guess we all have a melting point.

I apologized to him again for losing my cool, but I started to worry that I had started a bad trend. I didn't want to spend my days yelling at Rollie and counting down the hours until he was in bed so I could consume an entire box of wine and pass out on the couch by 9. And if I have to scream at my son when he's only two, how am I supposed to get his attention when he's ten? Maybe I should start saving up for a bullhorn. Ay-yay-yay....

But I really do think it was a passing phase. Now that a few days have gone by, I think the little worm is gone. Maybe he found another host, or maybe he just curled up and died. Because right now, even though he's supposed to be taking a nap, Rollie has just sprinted past in a diaper and a pair of green rain boots, and all I want to do is laugh.

Momma Don't Got Your Back, Son

It's your typical afternoon in the Scott household. I'm taking a stab at preparing something edible in the kitchen, Elsa is writhing around on the floor, somewhere between semi-irritable and completely miserable, and Rollie is busily arranging our throw pillows so that they rest between the couch and the coffee table, forming a tunnel he can crawl through.

Soon I tire of Elsa's pathetic whines for food, sleep and attention, and so I sit her in her little activity tri-pod and ask Rollie to entertain her. Then I retreat to the kitchen, my back now to my children. I hear Elsa whine a few more times, but then her mood suddenly brightens, and she begins to chuckle.

"Thank you, Rollie," I call. "You're a good big brother."

His reply is a loud, "UGH!" and I hear the pitter-patter of feet on wood. Except we don't have a wooden floor.

I'm almost afraid to look.

When I do, I see Rollie, clad in just a diaper, standing atop our coffee table, Elsa looking on in total delight. Then he leaps over the tunnel he built and lands on his back, feet in the air, and yells, "Tah-DAH!" Elsa laughs and squeals, egging him on.

"Wow," I say. "That's quite a trick, Rol." I don't scold. I don't yell. How can I, really? I'm the big idiot who told a two-year-old to entertain his little sister. I didn't specify no acrobatics on the furniture, no flying leaps in your diaper, no attempts to defy gravity in the house. In fact, I pull out the video camera, because this is one of those moments that's even funnier in retrospect.

Then my husband comes home. Cue the lighting crash.

We're back in the kitchen, my husband and me, and in the middle of telling me about his day, my husband suddenly shouts, "Rollie, get down from there Right Now."

I don't have to look this time. I know damn well Rollie is doing the ol' jump-from-the-coffee-table-and-onto-the-couch trick.

Apparently, Rollie made it known that he wasn't about to get down from anywhere Right Now. Because my husband springs into action, striding across the kitchen and into the family room. Dadda means business.

"Rollie," my husband says, "we don't stand on the coffee table and we don't jump on the furniture. That's naughty. I know Momma doesn't let you do that, right?"

Rollie doesn't respond. I don't know if he's trying to protect me, or if he really doesn't know if jumping on the furniture falls under my umbrella of restricted behavior. And I hate to admit it--I really do--but I'm not about to turn myself in. All I do is stand in the kitchen and try like hell to not meet my son's questioning, confused eyes. And I make a mental note to delete the footage I took earlier, the proof that not only do I indeed allow Rollie to jump on the furniture, I encourage it.

Much to my relief, my husband drops the subject and starts horsing around with Rollie on the floor, and all is forgotten. By them, anyway. I'm left wondering just what is worse--letting Rollie hurl himself from various elevated surfaces in the house for my daughter's amusement, or not coming clean about it. Does that make me a bad mom, or a liar? I guess it makes me both. Well, at least I learned my lesson....Next time I tell Rollie to cheer up his sister, I'll add the clause: No Furniture Jumping--Dadda's almost home.