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Bribery – or – The “Reward System”

I find myself bribing SB (Small Boy) quite a bit these days.  At first I felt sort of guilty about it and would slink through the grocery store slipping him little toys – I must have looked like a drug dealer, talking out of the side of my mouth, sunglasses on…anything to keep him happy for 20 minutes so I could shop in peace.

Then, while we were standing in line one day, I had a spiritual awakening.  Or something like that.  I heard a mom tell her son, who was clearly not happy, “if you behave, you’ll earn a reward”.  A reward?  It’s not a bribe?  Hey, this could work!  So now we earn rewards – and I don’t have to feel like a total loser mom for bribing my son anymore.

I was giddy with the possibilities, and ok – maybe I got a little carried away, but who wouldn’t when faced with the chance to not be a loser mom?   I made charts, spreadsheets, bought stickers, more stickers and even more stickers.  Poster board?  Bring it on! I let SB decorate his charts, put his stickers on, and we were all very pleased with ourselves.  Then, tragedy struck – guess what happened?

SB got sick of stickers and charts, that’s what happened.  So now our dog spends a lot of time with stickers on her, and they’re EVERYWHERE – the floor, the couch, walls, our bed, the bathroom, you name it.  Between the stickers and the mini mosaic tiles stuck all over the place (who was the masochist who invented those?),  I truly don’t think it’s possible for our house to look any uglier.

Another drawback to the bribery/rewards plan is that every time we go somewhere now, SB expects a reward.  My husband (or Big Boy- BB), simply can’t understand how the Hot Wheels multiply like rabbits – but he doesn’t spend much time running errands with SB.  If it costs me 94 cents to buy a little car and push a happy, contented boy around the store, then it’s money well spent.  Or at least that’s what I try to tell BB.  He’s still pretty skeptical.

Clearly this is going to have to end soon, since I can’t really picture myself bribing a teenager with the promise of a new car, or an adult – “son, if you come to visit us we’ll buy you a new house”.  That would be a bit excessive, even for Southern California.

So we’ll have to start tapering off – I’m not real sure about how I’ll do that, but I’m going to figure out a way to reward myself this time.  No new cars for SB?  A massage for me.  That could work…

Does anyone else out there resort to bribery – I mean rewards?

How to Survive Tantrums (No Really – HOW??)

We’ve apparently entered the nuclear tantrum phase of the Terrible Twos.  Screaming, crying, throwing and during one thrilling episode recently, projectile vomiting. 

 The other night at bedtime he did something he wasn’t supposed to – after I said “don’t touch that” a few thousand times, he touched the forbidden object.  Drawing from my extensive Internet reading, I held my ground, turned off the light and said goodnight – no books.  That’ll show him who the mama is!

 My standing firm resulted in the dreaded Nuclear Tantrum Eruption.  Oh what fun…

 The screaming is deafening, but I figured out how to tune that out months ago.  Crying can tug at my heart but I’m rough and tough.  Throwing?  I duck.  But projectile vomiting?  Holy cow.  I thought I was on the set of the Exorcist and that he was going to float up to the ceiling. 

 So of course I went back to the Internet for advice, after taking an informal survey of the moms on my street. It appears that SB is the only kid on our block who’s figured out how to elevate tantrums into a horror movie.  I guess I should be proud of his creativity, but right now I’m too busy trying to get barf off the carpet.   I’m contemplating replacing the carpet in his room with concrete, installing a drain and simply hosing things down if this continues. 

 So back to the Internet.  Here’s the advice I found:

 Ignore the tantrums

Don’t ignore the tantrums

Distract him (how?  Really?)

 

And my favorite – hold him so he knows you care.  This won’t work for two reasons:  One, it would be like trying to hold an angry tiger, and two:  I don’t want to be near the barf eruption.  I draw the line at being mauled AND thrown up on at the same time. 

 I’d love to hear from anyone out there who’s been through this and survived.  And can you also recommend a good concrete company? 

Whining and Dining

Last night, as a special treat, we took SB (small boy) to a restaurant for dinner.  Not anywhere fancy with tiny portions and giant prices, just one of those tropical themed places with all you can eat French fries and lots of TV’s.  All day long I talked it up – how he had to be a good boy, listen to us, use his manners, not pick his nose (his new favorite pastime), and all the stuff parents say that kids instantly tune out…

Giddy with the thought of not having to eat at home,  we came prepared.  Here’s what I had in my purse to keep SB entertained:

Six toy cars

A helicopter

Buzz and Woody

A truck

Little M&M’s (the last resort)

My husband (or BB – big boy), also had his pockets loaded with toys, so we were cautiously optimistic.  Then I realized that that’s the phrase police always use right before things go terribly wrong.

So we sat down, ordered our drinks, and SB happily played with his crayons for about 30 seconds.  Then things started to go terribly wrong.  Go figure.

Here’s a sampling of what we said during our 45 minute eating frenzy (more civilized people would refer to it as “dinner”):

TURN AROUND RIGHT NOW (what is the never-ending allure of people sitting behind us? And of course they’re crabby and old and hate kids)

Sit down.

Get that crayon/french fry/straw out of your ear/nose!

Get out from under the table.

Put your shoes back on.

Ok, forget it, just give me your shoes.

Where’s the other shoe?

How did it get to the table behind us???

Sit down!!!!

Get your feet off the table.

Do NOT lick the table!

SIT DOWN!!!

DO NOT SMEAR THAT BOOGER ON THE WALL!!

 

And then we left.

As we were scrambling to escape before our server saw the carnage we left behind, we passed a table with four, count ‘em, four toddlers and two shell-shocked parents.  There were menus all over the floor, crayons flying and kids jumping everywhere – total chaos.

I felt great.

Sick Days…

SB (small boy) isn’t feeling well today.  Not sick enough to be in his bed sleeping, but just sick and crabby enough to make me wish I were oh, say, swimming in shark infested waters in a meat suit instead of being home with him.

So in an effort to soothe the SB (small beast), I took him to the toy store to pick out something to help get us through the day since it was too early for cocktails.  After he had a mini-meltdown when I vetoed the $70 garbage truck, he found this pretty cool little light up car with stickers.  Easy, right?  Wrong.

I needed to pick up a few things at the market, so after I wrestled him into the cart (always fun, even more lively when he’s in cranky terrorist mode), and off we went.  But – and here’s where the fun really began, apparently putting the stickers on the little car was much more important than buying groceries, so I had to stop every five feet to put a stupid *@#&@ sticker on.  And then tragedy struck – one of the stickers FOLDED IN HALF AND WE COULDN’T UNFOLD IT OHMYGOD!!!  Screaming ensued.  By SB, although I really wanted to join in.

And so we left.  Without groceries.

Now we’re back home and my master plan is slowly unfolding.  I’ve laced his juice with Benadryl to help with the runny nose and – let’s face it – get him to go to sleep, and rented a very annoying movie about talking chipmunks.  Snuggly pillow bed, and off to dreamy SB land.  My hope is that when he wakes up he won’t be acting like that kid in the Omen anymore, because I’d really hate to have to change his name to Damien.

The absolute worst part of sick days is that time drags by slower than when I’m on the treadmill at the gym.  I feel like a hostage in one of those old movies where they etch a mark for each day of captivity on the wall and stare longingly out the window, dreaming of freedom.  Right now it’s only noon and my husband (or BB – big boy) won’t get home until 6:30, which might as well be a million years away.

I may just invent the Benadryl Martini today.

Body After Baby?

Do you think the world would be less crowded if women knew beforehand that they’d never get their thighs back after giving birth?

I see photos of celebrities who are back to size zero three weeks after having a baby, and all I can think that someone needs to be force-fed a cheeseburger.  Obviously I didn’t check the box at the hospital that offered the 19 hours of personal training per day – instead I opted for the Lactation Consultant.  Duh…

I keep saying that I really need to lose this baby weight, and then I realize SB (small boy) is almost three.  Huh?  And so it goes like this:  for a few weeks I work out feverishly, glare at the scale, try not to snack on all the goldfish/cookies/pretzels/chocolate bunnies laying around the house, and then things slide back to normal – running around (zero calories burned, why???), doing errands, keeping SB alive, etc.

If this continues, my thighs are going to take over the world soon.  And I can’t even talk about my abs/stomach.  SB once said, “Mama, you’re like a really soft pillow!”  AARGH.  I’d rather he said, “Wow mama, I can bounce quarters off your abs!!” but clearly his vocabulary’s not that extensive yet.

And then there’s Spanx.  I thought this was the solution to all my problems, but then I realized that whoever invented the damned things must really hate women.  I can’t tell you how many pairs I’ve thrown out at fancy schmancy events after a few glasses of wine.  Ladies, you know the drill – go to the restroom, hyperventilate trying to pull them down, get friction burns trying to pull them back up, and then you finally stop sweating and sit down – and they roll down your stomach.  Sexy.

So I’ve decided to keep exercising, but also to be ok with certain parts of me being a soft pillow.  Because really – how much longer will SB be a snuggly little guy anyways?  As far as the rest of me goes, I’m busy fine-tuning my Spanx workout video.  Stay tuned.

Home Décor With a Small Boy – Or, How to Live With Chaos

Back before SB (small boy) came into the picture, our house looked fairly nice for two people who were born without the decorating gene.  We had tchotchkes from the places we’d traveled, some interesting photos and paintings on the walls, and overall things matched fairly well.  I don’t think Architectural Digest would have beaten down our door, but our house looked presentable.
Now our house looks like Walmart after a Midnight Madness sale – trashed, stuff everywhere, chaos, and two stunned people who can’t understand what the hell just happened.  The worst part is that everything breakable or dangerous is at least four feet off the ground in order to keep SB alive.  I suppose this decorating scheme will be handy if there’s ever a flood.
As I sit here writing this, I’m looking around our living room and here’s what I see: three ears and a mouth for Mr. Potato Head; about 10,000 Hot Wheels festively strewn across the floor; assorted dog squeaky toys (she’s in on this too, I know it); and for some reason only two year old boys know, there’s an ambulance and a dump truck on the couch. 
In a desperate attempt to have one measly area in our house look presentable, we painted a wall a color called Juicy Cantaloupe, and hung our photos and candle sconces back up.  It looks really pretty…until…you look down.  Then you see a Thomas the Train table piled high with tracks, trains, helicopters and assorted boy stuff.  And that’s right next to a giant red Lightening McQueen chair.  FAIL.
As a result of all of this, I’m starting to think that the trick is to not look down.  Sort of like my “if you’re feeling fat, only look at your head when you pass a full length mirror” theory.  So from now on we’re only going to have tall friends over, and then simply force them to look up while they’re here. 
Denial wins again.

A Boy and his Toys

Our house is filled with toys – some good, and some that make me want to rip out my hair.  Boy toys: cars, trucks, trains, and an entire fleet of emergency response vehicles.  Most of the time our house looks like a FEMA command center, or a toy store that was hit by an earthquake right before the hurricane tore it apart.  In other words, messy.
The good toys are the quiet ones that don’t break in the first five minutes SB (small boy) tears into them, and they encourage creativity, imagination, blah blah blah. 
Oh, but the bad toys…I’m convinced that somewhere, in a little room with no windows, some evil person who hates parents is chuckling maniacally and designing very annoying toys. 
For instance – I once bought this little cat piano toy that looked pretty cool.  And it was, until we actually turned it on.  I think the employees at the company that made this must have had a contest to create the most annoying sounds in the world, and the winning noise was installed inside this damned cat piano.  And naturally SB LOVED, LOVED, LOVED it. 
Then there was the needy, neurotic stuffed talking puppy.  This one actually gave me the creeps – it was like a weird obsessive stalker toy.  It kept saying, “hug me” and “I love you SO MUCH”.  I was convinced that it was just a matter of time before it crept up the stairs at night and smothered us with puppy love while we were sleeping.  
And the worst part of all?  The packaging.  What the HELL are they thinking?  I’ve learned never to promise SB that I’ll give him his new toy outside of Target or wherever we are, since I rarely carry around a welding torch and dynamite.  Are the toy makers worried that a gang of rogue gorillas is going to trample the boxes?  Do they really need 6,000 wires, tape, and staples to secure one stupid $2.99 dump truck in a box?  I just don’t get it.
Does anyone want to start new business with me?  Non-annoying toys that – get this – you can actually remove from the box within five minutes.  Let me know.  And feel free to share your toy horror stories, there has to be a lot of them out there!

The Big World Out There

Warning – this may not be that funny.  I was going to write a wildly insightful and witty post about the difference between moms and dads, but I’m going to save it for when my sense of humor comes back.   Because after what happened in Colorado over the weekend, I’m not feeling very jokey.
I’ve been thinking about this for the past couple of days – we live in a world that’s wonderful and amazing 90% of the time, but that other 10% where the demons get in – my God.  I try my best to keep SB (small boy) safe – slathering on the sunscreen; buckling him into a car seats that looks like it belongs on the space shuttle; baby proofing our house so no one can ever open a door or a cabinet again without an engineering degree; flame resistant pajamas; organic food, and the list goes on and on.
But, and this is a big one – how do you keep them safe from delusional madmen who shoot up movie theaters, or schools, or whatever the insane voices in their heads are telling them?  And how do you teach them to not talk to strangers without turning them into fearful, paranoid people?  How do you tell them that the world is a wonderful place, full of fantastic things to explore, great people to meet, interesting places to go, but that there’s a small percentage of people out there that are hell bent on hurting other people?
My heart shattered for the victims in Colorado, and their families – but also for the parents of the crazy guy who opened fire.  Can you imagine?  The debate about gun control will rage on forever, and I’m not going there, but how, HOW, was that guy able to buy 6,000 rounds of ammunition on the internet?  It’s mind-boggling.  I’m not good at feeling helpless, but how do you keep your kids and loved ones safe in a world where crazy people can buy whatever they want online?  It makes the sunscreen and car seats seem so feeble and pathetic in comparison. 
If anyone has any answers, I’d love to hear them.  In the meantime, I’ll keep the faith and maybe squeeze SB a little tighter.  And give someone you love a hug.  It can’t hurt.

Fun With Food

So here’s how it goes at our house.  I buy food.  SB (small boy) either shovels it in his mouth with great enthusiasm, or he acts like I’m serving him a plate full of poison. 
The trick, I’ve figured out, is in the sales pitch.  I can’t call string cheese by its name because he’s decided, at the ripe old age of two, that he hates cheese.  So I call it “silly string” and he’ll eat it.  Those fruity/vegetable bars are called “raisin candy” and he eats those too.  Sucker.
Before I was a real parent, I couldn’t understand what the big deal was.  You cook something, they eat it, end of story.  So as you can imagine, reality has been quite a kick in the _____. 
Mealtime can go one of two ways:
A Good Meal (shoveling scenario):
I cook food, and if it’s something that the dictator in diapers approves of, two handed shoveling begins.  If I’ve really done a bang up job, MORE is requested at an urgent pitch to ensure he doesn’t starve to death and keel over at the table.  
A Bad Meal (poison scenario):
Our dog gets covered in rice/spaghetti/corn, etc.  Then the rest of my evening involves picking food out of a very furry dog.  Hilarity ensues.
Loud, anguished yelling begins.  If he’s really feeling feisty, the plate of terrible awful revolting poison gets shoved across the table, leaving us to intercept it before it hits the floor – a fun family game of table hockey!  Oh boy! 
Sometimes I have him help pick out what he wants (I know…) – we always have a big time at Costco or Trader Joes since they give away samples.  And this is where I get fooled EVERY time.  He loves the samples, so like a dummy I buy whatever it is if it’s reasonably healthy.  Then we scurry home, my heart leaping with joy and excitement over the concept that he might actually EAT SOMETHING NEW, and then at dinner he looks at me like I’m trying to kill him and we start another lively game of table hockey.  I’m now convinced that he likes the little cups the samples come in, not the food.

It’d be harder for him to play table hockey with little cups, so maybe I’m on to something.  Or we could just eat all our meals at Costco