There exists a book called “The Happiest Toddler on the Block” by Dr. Harvey Karp. I have owned this book since 2005 when I was parenting the world’s most challenging toddler. She once spent two hours putting on her own tights and shoes. Have you ever seen a 16 month old put on her own tights? All the while screaming “I do myself!!!!!” Nope? I promise, it would have you running for all the self help toddler parenting books.
So I get this book. I read this book. We both survive her toddler years. I now need to find “The Happiest Tween on the Block.” But that’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.
Flash forward to 2015. In my infinite wisdom I have decided that parenting tweens and a toddler is a solid life plan. Only this time the toddler is a boy. And in addition to his sister’s strong personality, independence and predisposition to overreact he has a love of muddy water, trucks, and jumping. To say that I was woefully unprepared to be his mother is an understatement. But we truck along together and mostly he likes me and holds my hand when we walk together, throws his arms around my and declares that he missed me when I return from the bathroom and only ever wants me to save him from his bad dreams. So I assume that I don’t suck completely.
He does however fly into terrible toddler rage. And he gets red in the face and kicks and throws and flails and it’s horrible. I’ve got to stop forgetting that he doesn’t want to get dressed at home, he likes to ride naked in the car. And I can’t tell you how many times I have committed the egregious offense of giving him waffles when he ALWAYS wants pancakes. So as the meltdowns reached an alarming rate of frequency I decided to try the wise old Harvey Karps advice. Show your child that you understand he’s upset, by matching your emotional level to theirs. (Loosely translated, it means “if they’re losing their shit, you lose your shit too, so they know that you ‘get’ their anguish.) Then, they will calm down and you can talk it out. So they feel their feelings are being heard and they will feel respected. Seems like manure, but it kinda works. But the shocked look on the face of a toddler who’s parent has just reacted to their meltdown by having one of their own, always made me wonder what they were actually thinking.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH. Bay max. I want Baymax. I wanna watch Baymax downstairs. AHHHHHHHHH.” This is what I can hear out of JT’s face.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH. You want Baymax. You are mad. JT is MAD MAD MAD MAD. AHHHHHHHHHH.” This is what JT can hear out of my face.
The look of shock on JT’s face is immediate.
Holy crap damnit. Is she yelling at me? No. She’s repeating what I say? Oh crap. I broke the mom. Maybe kicking her in the stomach was over the top. Does she have batteries? She’s forever drinking the coffee to get charged up in the morning. But that’s not quite the same as batteries. There are batteries in the kitchen. But I don’t know where they go. WOW she can yell loud. I can’t even hear myself talk. This is a little ridiculous lady. Get it together. Wait, she stopped yelling. Good, maybe she’ll be able to hear me now.
“I want Baymax mommy.”
Hey, she’s turning on Baymax. I wanted Baymax. I like Baymax. So if I yell until Mommy loses her marbles, then I can have Baymax. Note to self.
So I get this book. I read this book. We both survive her toddler years. I now need to find “The Happiest Tween on the Block.” But that’s a whole ‘nother can of worms.
Flash forward to 2015. In my infinite wisdom I have decided that parenting tweens and a toddler is a solid life plan. Only this time the toddler is a boy. And in addition to his sister’s strong personality, independence and predisposition to overreact he has a love of muddy water, trucks, and jumping. To say that I was woefully unprepared to be his mother is an understatement. But we truck along together and mostly he likes me and holds my hand when we walk together, throws his arms around my and declares that he missed me when I return from the bathroom and only ever wants me to save him from his bad dreams. So I assume that I don’t suck completely.
He does however fly into terrible toddler rage. And he gets red in the face and kicks and throws and flails and it’s horrible. I’ve got to stop forgetting that he doesn’t want to get dressed at home, he likes to ride naked in the car. And I can’t tell you how many times I have committed the egregious offense of giving him waffles when he ALWAYS wants pancakes. So as the meltdowns reached an alarming rate of frequency I decided to try the wise old Harvey Karps advice. Show your child that you understand he’s upset, by matching your emotional level to theirs. (Loosely translated, it means “if they’re losing their shit, you lose your shit too, so they know that you ‘get’ their anguish.) Then, they will calm down and you can talk it out. So they feel their feelings are being heard and they will feel respected. Seems like manure, but it kinda works. But the shocked look on the face of a toddler who’s parent has just reacted to their meltdown by having one of their own, always made me wonder what they were actually thinking.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH. Bay max. I want Baymax. I wanna watch Baymax downstairs. AHHHHHHHHH.” This is what I can hear out of JT’s face.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHH. You want Baymax. You are mad. JT is MAD MAD MAD MAD. AHHHHHHHHHH.” This is what JT can hear out of my face.
The look of shock on JT’s face is immediate.
Holy crap damnit. Is she yelling at me? No. She’s repeating what I say? Oh crap. I broke the mom. Maybe kicking her in the stomach was over the top. Does she have batteries? She’s forever drinking the coffee to get charged up in the morning. But that’s not quite the same as batteries. There are batteries in the kitchen. But I don’t know where they go. WOW she can yell loud. I can’t even hear myself talk. This is a little ridiculous lady. Get it together. Wait, she stopped yelling. Good, maybe she’ll be able to hear me now.
“I want Baymax mommy.”
Hey, she’s turning on Baymax. I wanted Baymax. I like Baymax. So if I yell until Mommy loses her marbles, then I can have Baymax. Note to self.
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