I Am Two: Contract Revision, First Draft

I am two and I have little time or energy left to devote to our "misunderstandings," Mother. The following is a list of grievances and revisions to previous birth contract that I must raise before our conflicts become irreconcilable. I hope that we can reach a workable solution for all involved.

I. I like snot to remain on my face. Any time in the past that I've allowed you or others to wipe my nose must be summarily dismissed and forgotten. Slime which congeals on my face, gets in my hair, and creates a bond between the two, is infinitely preferable to a tissue.

II. Even though I am two and therefore big, I refuse to remain in the "big girl bed" as you and father like to refer to it. My initial excitement and approbation has ceased; the bed is yet another prison meant to restrain my freedom, curtail my independence and squelch my natural curiosity of the world. I will fall asleep on the floor in protest.

III. Any notion that you know what I want to wear must be forgotten. My desires and needs for comfort may seem to change and vary greatly, but it's only that you refuse to accurately gauge my mood and fashion sense. I don't know why you have a problem in this area, but I tire of advising you, so I choose to remain naked. Threats will go unheeded.

IV. Potty training, a euphemism for bowel coercion, is of absolutely no interest to me. Previous attempts to persuade me to sit on the giant plastic bowl must be abandoned for a more sensible approach...which is as follows: I will cease and desist wearing a diaper (or plastic catch-all from hell) at any time of day, sleeping or not, without care of waste disposal or clean-up. If I decide to sit on any bowl, porcelain or otherwise, I will get up and down as many times as I deem necessary, again, without care of waste disposal or clean-up. Refer to section III for dressing stipulations after such events.

V. Dietary choices and preparation times have been insufficient for my nutritional needs and appetites. My food must be varied each day, prepared with greater haste and efficiency, and with much closer attention to exact temperature specifications. Any ban on any foods for any reason must be lifted immediately. I now have full access to all refrigerated and pantry selections so this request serves only as a polite notification. I will serve myself or my dolls anything at any time of day. You will continue to clean in the event that the bags, boxes or containers are too full for self-service.

This is a preliminary list only. I reserve the right to change, modify or expand any existing section or add additional sections as I determine necessary for the continued success of our household and interpersonal relationships.

Thank you for your attention in these most serious matters. I'm confident that we can work out solutions to the aforementioned areas before I destroy the house.

Rose

Battle of the Bed

Rose is a very easy kid. Charming in all her looks and expressions - affable, giggly and compliant. I say leave Kitty, the all important attachment item at home, she leaves Kitty. But for the past week, she's been anything but compliant....her new enemy - sleep and her parents. Honestly, you might think I was talking about someone else if a hidden camera were capturing the war over a formerly effortless bedtime routine. It used to be that we would literally say goodnight, put her in her crib and walk away. But the golden age of crib prison has ended; she has tasted freedom, drunk the nectar of independence and will now do anything to elude the Sandman's soporific pleas. She suddenly hates going to sleep.

And she's really creative - vaulting, falling, using blankets as ropes. She even used a book as a stepping stool - the latest addition to her Macguiver escape repertoire. The girl is good - credit where credit is due. And though it's damn cute as she hauls her zebra pillow, her blankie and Kitty behind her in any given escape, the 47th time I put her to bed is decidedly less charming than the first. Parental patience meter running low. Chris and I have both yelled at her, for the first time in her sweet compliant life, putting a bit more of an edge behind our requests. The yelling hasn't been part of a grand plan, we just have nothing left. Her response to raised voice? An adorable "okay", followed by short head nod to seriousness, followed by quiet scheming, then consultation with her escape manual for scenario #318, followed by another deft crib vault.

The other night, we were in the middle of this intense battle, one parent putting her back to bed with firm tones, while the other cruised the Internet for suggestions. Apparently people have really strong feelings about cribs, crib escape, toddler bed transitions and the reward versus punishment systems for behavior modification. Our research confirmed why I don't do research. Some good ideas, but mostly all over the map. Either I'm looking for validation for my way or I'm a beast who should call Child Protective Services on myself. Anyway, nothing much helpful from Berkeley Parents Network. So, now Harper is in our bed, because she has to get up for work in the morning, Rosie is screaming, we've shut the door, we feel like beasts and she's tearing up the room. At which point, we decide we'll take her in our bed. We carry dreaming Harp to her bed, transfer snotty, hyperventilating Rose to our bed, then try again. At 11, the family who normally sleeps peacefully around 9:30, finally got to bed. Rose kicks Chris in the kidneys all night and we wake, repeat again for nap time, bed time, etc.

After four days of above scenario, at wits end, we finally find a workable solution; Rose now sleeps on a futon on the floor and we shut the door after only one escape. She doesn't like it, but she sleeps. And now we're all sleeping. And it's always better when the family sleeps. No matter what the people say on the Internet.

Energy -Shame on a Tortilla Chip II

And like some cosmic ball-buster, Compadres, my favorite go-to dinner without the kitchen, kid-tolerant, neighborhood hang closes its doors with no notice. Many friends have jibed that my friend and I were the proverbial straws. Either way, a community center is no more and I grieve for the passable food, slow service and opportunities to make a fool of myself. Adios Compadres, you will be missed.

Shame on a Tortilla Chip

A classic buddhist allegory that I just read this morning.....ironically:

A big, burly samurai comes to a Zen master and says, "Tell me the nature of heaven and hell.”
The Zen master looks him in the face and says, ”Why should I tell a scruffy, disgusting, miserable slob like you? A worm like you, do you think I should tell you anything?”

Consumed by rage, the samurai draws his sword and raises it to cut off the master’s head.

The Zen master says, "That’s Hell.”

Instantly, the samurai understands that he has just created his own hell-black and hot, filled with hatred, self-protection, anger and resentment.He sees that he was so deep in hell that he was ready to kill someone. Tears fill his eyes as he puts his palms together to bow in gratitude for this insight.

The Zen master says,”That’s heaven.”

And now here's my version. Tonight, I went out with another mom and our four kids to the local Mexican food-joint, our neighborhood hub for kid friendly dining. We're just finishing up and signing the check when the kids start going bananas. Rosie suddenly hates her high chair like Sara Palin, maybe not quite that much but the toddler is dogmatic and really political. And Harp is frolicking loudly in the aisle with her new helium treasure and her school buddy. I'm aching all over, long story, but the gist is too many days on muscle relaxers. The two times I've run after Rose have maxed me and I just want to make a quick exit and get home.

When......this older woman, sitting with her husband and her grown daughter - the only other patrons in the restaurant at the time, grab Harp and her buddy by the shoulders and tell them to shut the hell up. That was my read; she might have told them they had lovely hair and balloons but she grabbed my kid...a stranger grabbed my kid and got in her face.

Well, then Buddhist Bethie go bye bye and this lovely allegory about heaven and hell is nothing more than quaint theory. I stand up, voice restrained but firm, apologize for our noise, say that we'll be leaving soon, but please don't touch my kid. The offending lady sits down, her husband stands up, tells us that we should have been neutered as teenagers, incompetent as we are in child rearing and "controlling" our brood.

I ask, well actually shout my desire for compassion: long day, kids tired, moms tired, just leaving, why so intolerant, so mean? More derision and insults about our children, our parenting, ourselves. Then restraint dissolves into hellfire and suddenly I'm Rambo on this guy, cursing at him as I drag my poor children from our favorite, cozy hang onto the street, but not before I cast the final blow and wish the daughter a good therapist, because with parents like these, she'll need one. Yeah, nice one, good mom. Zen master says "That's Hell......on a tortilla chip."

Pema Chodron, a big buddha woman I love, has some final words of wisdom with the heaven and hell allegory, that "Everything comes into our circle to teach us what we need to know." I guess I know that I hate being angry - at my kids, my partner, my friends, or taco butthead. Heaven? Not even close, but I really hope next time, I can keep a calm voice, a calm mind and eat guacamole rather than a big fat blob of embarrassing shame on my chips. It doesn't have nearly enough garlic.

Back at School

Harp started first grade last week. I have nothing to say about it at all. It wasn't stressful, anxiety producing, fraught. Nothing difficult or funny happened that I can riff on. She went into her new classroom with her new teacher, having met her only moments before and came home like nothing had changed in her life at all. She amazes me...in her confidence, in her adaptability, in her person. And on this nothing of first days, she had only one impression that she was willing to share: "too much recess, not enough math." That's my girl.