Venn Diagrams FTW Plus Say Goodbye, In Dog

A couple weeks ago, the girl and I had a rough patch. It was exhausting and infuriating, and followed close on the heels of a couple months of trading illness. The collective household was rundown, pining for Spring, and just a mite peevish. Now, the homefront norm -- at least with the under 4 y.o. set -- is debate over every possible thing, market haggling over bedtime variations, selected water glass, cutlery facing the wrong way; harsh words over block tower aesthetics, the slowness of adults, furniture climbing constraints, etc. This, we are used to. We get pulled in; or we skillfully manoeuvre around the verbal roadblocks (“Re-routing,” intones parental GPS. “Re-routing…re-routing~~”)

This rough patch, however, delivered us into different terrain. Without a pause, we had left the suburbs for…What? Off-roading in the wrong vehicle, with towering bramble hedges, hostile natives, and a high potential for ambush. To be fair, on my daughter’s end, there’s probably new construction underlying – and fueling – most behaviors. I DO know that a lot of our emotions must be listened to and then also grown and shaped by our peers and elders  – and ALSO that preschoolers are often “trying on” emotional ways of being. But it’s disquieting when a person shorter than a yardstick seems capable of contempt and menace. In short, one of the few highpoints from the week was doodling the following Venn diagram:

"Our daughter's in the center, right?"

A brief, inspirational selection:

• “If you do not do [X ridiculous thing], I will take your skin off” 
• “No YOU just don’t REMEMBER because I’m SMARTER THAN YOU”
• Silent, grim plotting [inferred]
• Sitting on top of a play structure, chortling, while the girl she has pushed to the ground cries. Glances triumphantly at father, as if he will share the moment.

Disclaimer: We have no kitten.

In truth, the following proportions may be more accurate:

On the more innocuous side of things, our daughter often informs us of surprising skill sets. While we think the world of her, we are apparently we of little faith, as far as she's concerned.

Yesterday evening* I was driving her home from preschool. *Also from a couple weeks ago.

"Sooooo," she begins from the darkness of the backseat. I turn down the radio. "I was thinking: tomorrow we could go to gymnastics."

"Uh hunh."

"Gymnastics won't be open, but they have a lot of ice?"

"Ohhhkay"

"So we could go and skate on it."

"Hmmm. Well ~~"

"Oceane [preschool classmate] says I'm not ice skating, I'm SLIPPING. But I can ice skate, so we could~~"

"Is there actually an ice rink?"

"~~No but there's a lot of ice and it's cold. And Daddy [principal ferryman to gymnastics] doesn't believe that I can ice skate. He doesn't want me to be in the parking lot. So I have to TRUST him and show him so he believes it. You. And Me. And Daddy, we can all go."

"So usually when people ice skate, they wear special shoes?" I steer and make eye contact with her through the rear view mirror. "And they have metal blades on the bottom and so you wear them and go along, wooooosh in them, across the ice--" I make weird slicing motions with my hands and arms.

She peers at me. "Maybe. But I don't think so."

Oh the certainty~~!  Part bluster, part wish. Or verbal doodling. Maddening, but fascinating. The first couple times she professed an enthusiastic love for something i just cooked, I relaxed into pleasure, ready to file the recipe into the child-friendly section of my mind. And then, less then two bites later, she sniffed:"Actually, I don't really like this. What are my other choices?" Wait, whaaaat? I have given up on trying to debate that one. It seems like she has warm up reactions, or specific faux-social reactions that she tries on; then abandons. And where does the true preference reside? I suspect she knows a small portion of the time, but she's game for playing whatever the role demands.

In any case, we have thankfully -- if mysteriously -- swung back to a more pleasant part of the behavioral spectrum. Whatever, however, we'll take it! She turned four on Monday (!!!) and so far, she is pretty much like a 3 year old, but more cake-filled, and armed with a Frozen bike.  

Favorite snippet from this morning, while out on her scooter. Two larger dogs lunge at their fence, across the street, as we draw level to their house. 

PS [shouting]: "WHAT...ARE YOUR NAMES??" They bark at us.
PS [to me]: I think they are saying, in dog, 'WE DON'T KNOW WHAT OUR NAMES ARE, BUT WE ARE DOGS'"
ME: Or maybe they're saying, 'HEY, don't come in our backyard! This is our house!' Because dogs tend to be very protective and they don't know us.
PS [pauses then shouts]: I GET IT! 
PS [to me]: I was letting them know I understand and we won't come over.  
Me: Ohhh, okay.
PS [shouting over her shoulder]: WOOF! WOOOF, WOOF!!
PS [to me]: I was trying to say goodbye, in dog. 

Give me a Bottle and the Open Road

The Little One has definitely turned a corner. One of a million, I am told. Possibly we thought we had already arrived at the "terrible twos" (/some say three is the beast//others say, there IS no such thing! to any of it -- which only says to me that No-Such-Things got off super-easy and are now irritatingly free to blissfully dismiss all the developmental oppositionality that occurs to the rest of us). For about six months, she has been crying princess-and-the-pea style numerous times a day, which is met with varying levels of patience by the taller people in the house. So we're good with that, or at least pretty good most of the time. It's possible that questions like, "Can we NOT cry about EVERYTHING?" may have escaped lips. Maybe this morning, maybe not.

Two days ago, amidst red-faced wailing about having three packs of markers versus two packs of markers in her reach, she frantically dashed all reachable markers to the floor, before attempting to launch herself across the dining room table at me, ALL while bellowing at me. The bellowing didn't work out so well, as she was heartily out of breath; the words were incomprehensible. Still, she bellowed and glared. It took a little while for her to recover from this. The force of it was daunting; and became more so, when the intensity level was repeated later on in the day. Rick and I were sitting on the kitchen floor, trying to play a nice ball of catch between the three of us; this was foiled after she decided all balls must be covered with blankets and absconded with. We kept snagging balls from the corners of the room and at least threw back and forth to each other; but she seized that one from us as well, blanketed it and ran away. I forget what caused the latter-day crying, but it presented as a running wail. She was mostly naked, scream-crying and running circles between rooms. In the doorway, she added a volley of foot-stomping and eyed us, with our hopeful outstretched arms. We were like magnets. She felt pulled toward us, but would yank herself away: "No! No! NOOOOoooooooooooo" It was almost laughable, but for the fact that she was clearly having a hard time. And sharing the exhaustion.

Yesterday, she added hate into the mix. I had never heard her say she hated anything before. And this was clearly experimental. Hate as confidential, hate with a smile. "I hate applecots," she announced, though this only seemed to apply to apricots cooked in oatmeal. "I hate cheese," she said later. The absurdity of this statement was only surpassed by "I hate bread," which I didn't bother to acknowledge. At the end of the day, she observed, "I hate toothpaste," after sucking it off the toothbrush, as she usually does.* While the protest/loud processing behavior is pretty exhausting for all involved, it *is* interesting to actually be able to see behaviors emerge, and to see someone clearly trying on different ways of being. Obviously, we're all performing our public selves -- and even aspects of our private selves -- but how often is it the case that we actively need to incorporate brand new ways of self expression or being? Hey Guys, today I started hating stuff! Well, not really hating them. But I said I hated them. It's a little glitchy... 

Her sole daytime nap is usually more of a downtime/quiet time. Which is usually more of a singing time, mixed in with some shouting. But lately if I drive her more than ten minutes in the afternoon, she's out like a light-- usually a few minutes away from our destination. So today I decided on the drive nap. One of the few remaining beautiful days, I have a new car that's actually fun to drive, we're golden! I shifted from a podcast to some chill music, the backseat was pleasantly quiet, and I had the pleasure of drifting off with my thoughts.

From the backseat: "...Sooooooo...HOW was your YOGA??"

This question was delivered in exactly the tone of an awkward exchange between two barely known acquaintances, who had not anticipated speaking to one another. One person has decided they, at least, will break the silence.

"It was great, honey, thanks. How was your storytime?" She liked it and noted a handful of standouts from the library. She started flipping through her Curious George early reader (which is not to say she can read~). Loudly: "Theeeee End!"

"Oh you're all done, then? We can look at that more later after we get back home."

Flip, flip, flip... "Theeeeee End." I remain silent, internally cursing myself that even if she stayed awake at home, I could have  been doing something right now. At least one of us craved downtime. "THE. END."

Me: "..."

Daughter: "You didn't say! You SAY."

I had clearly ignored the social contract. "It's quiet time, honey. Time to rest and relax, so I'm not going to talk more ~"

"It's NOT quiet time, I have this lovely BOOK TO READ and I am not rest and relaxing. SO it's NOT quiet time." So obviously, there was no sleep involved.

But NO! There was! But only after an empty milk bottle was lobbed into the front passenger seat, some fitful crying. But then, silence, or rather, better than silence: a light babyfied snore. So there I was, able to just be with myself, driving along country roads, past rock quarries and church signs, past crossing signs limited to deer and tractors; rolling through Norvell and Napoleon to a soundtrack of old Breeders songs and ambient electronica. What more did I know at the end of the day than at its beginning? Not much, but thankful for mobility, for witnessing developing personhood, and thankful thankful thankful for true respite.

*Our common and ineffectual remonstrance: "ToothBRUSHING not toothSUCKING!"

On the Brink!, Plus a Message from the Department of Product Development

"We* are at a developmental crossroads." I have been saying this for weeks now, to anyone who seems baby-focused. Or, closer to the truth, to anyone in close proximity for more than twenty minutes or so.  But it feels true; mammoth appetites, mammoth sleeping, random fussiness, almost almost taking a step away, vocalization strings shifting and shifting.

Last week, we hit some new, disquieting territory. We're still in the same neighborhood, but things feel a bit grittier, dodgier: how much time will we be spending here? The O.Y.O.** has most definitely burst into outraged tears when something has been taken away (a doll, a crumb, a bookmark, used tissue) or merely not granted her (one's phone, a serrated knife, keyboard access, a second meal simultaneous with the first). But now, now, she may have an extended crying fit, emerge from it with the aid of a distracting whatsit -- but then comes a moment when her face freezes. An almost visible cartoon bubble forms above her head: "Waiiiiit a minute! I was upset about the thing! The thing is still missing to me!"*** She was almost been duped by happiness, but noooo: she will right this ship; and outraged crying starts anew. Oi.

I can only imagine we are witnessing the birth of tantrums. Woeful, but not like we could sidestep them. My social worker child development friend advised me to refer to them not as "tantrums," but as "dysregulations," because the periods of (...full body demonstrative loudness...) reflect the child's inability to manage their big feelings. The feeling is huge, it needs an outlet, and the child hasn't learned how to manage (/regulate) it yet. Having the episodes is part of them learning how to manage themselves...alrighty. I can see how the different terminology removes the idea of the young one "misbehaving" somehow, when it is developmentally appropriate. But I won't lie, "tantrum" is more satisfying: good shorthand and more descriptive... 

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 And now a word from the Oyo:

CEO, Archived Stock Photo

RE: Product Development and Enhanced Features

I'd like to take this opportunity to announce last week's limited roll out of Cry Premium ©. While audience size currently prevents statistical analysis, participants fell within target demographic and response has been heartening. I am confident that Cry Premium's © usability will be viable across numerous scenarios, with a varied audience. Early reactions point to --> Resounding Success.

At a glance, Cry Premium ©:

• 20% louder than Standard Cry ©
• 33% more shrill 
• faster ramp-up (from 0-60 in under 10 seconds)
• feature enhancements include: reddened face, greater full body engagement (back arch, mattress slap, accusatory finger point)
• Highly customizable duration
• Pause and re-start function

Early Feedback (participant texts):
"This is terrible, my ears are literally ringing"
"😟 I'll be home soon"
"Good luck to us all"

Watch this Space for Future Announcements, with potential discussion points including: Cry Deluxe© and Howl©

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*wherein we is indicative of the Baby we, more plebian than the royal we, though no less entitled for its commonness, due to classic maternal hyper-focus and the smallification of one's sphere.
**as in The One Year Old. But I'm lazy. Let's just say Oyo from now on, hey?
***Like the French conjugation of missing, right? I miss you = You are missing to me, which I always liked because it nicely calls up the idea of absence as presence.