Model Behavior

The good news is that Jack's eyes look like they are returning to their normal baby blue, non-goopy state, with no sign of infection from either his brother or sister. The bad news is that Baylor is throwing a temper tantrum, kicking and screaming on the floor.

Temper tantrums are becoming a several-times-daily occurrence, and I'm coming to truly understand that, no matter how great my kids are at the core, they are carnal-natured and are therefore prone to quite devilish behavior, particularly when they don't get their way(s). Temper tantrums also kind of snuck up on us. One second we had two sweet-tempered, mild babies, the next--BAM!!--finicky toddlers with a fierce desire to get what they want now. I like to tell myself that hey, it could be worse, we could have triplets, but the truth is, it's pretty hard having two going through this stage at once. Sure, from the get-go each boy has had a built-in playmate and best friend, but each boy has also gained an automatic enemy and fellow vier for Mom's attention. Add a poopy baby sister to the mix, and you get even more snarls, hits, and wails. It could be worse, but it's seldom easy.

A big part of the problem is that Jack and Baylor don't have the greatest communication skills quite yet. They do their darndest to tell me their hearts' desires, but the truth is, Mama is sometimes a little slow to interpret the various grunts and gestures. And you know how toddlers are: dramatic, impatient, and short-fused. If I can't figure it out immediately (or if, heaven forbid, I do figure it out and subsequently refuse them their demands), well, watch out. 

To try and circumvent such communication issues, we have been working harder and harder on some simple sign language that relates to their most pressing needs, including the need to be polite and patient. We have been using some signs for a looong time now, but the boys are just now getting to the age where they are extremely observant and very quick to mock our behavior. Therefore, they pick up on signs after just a couple demonstrations, and boy, is this helping our problems. If Baylor can quickly communicate his need for milk by just signing it to me (it so closely resembles the action of milking a cow) instead of melting into hysterics, then we have avoided a collision and jumped a major hurdle. (Lots of mixed metaphors, I know. It's a dramatic time.) Today we successfully, after many days of teaching and modeling, managed to coax the signs for "please" and "thank you" out of both of them, a feat that I consider worthy of a parade. "Please" involves rubbing circles on your chest with your hand, and Baylor gets the point across by patting his chest. If you want to say "thank you," you press your fingers to your lips and then move them outward--Jack just pokes the side of his head. But he said "thank you," I promise, he did! He gets praised, all the same.

And so we clumsily sign to one another, trying to avoid melt-downs and the dreaded act of discipline. Don't get me wrong; I am a big believer in discipline, and I will occasionally apply the wooden mixing spoon to whichever bottom deserves the sharp sting of (admittedly mild) corporal punishment. When I say "dreaded," I simply mean to convey how draining, how time-consuming, how utterly tiring disciplining our children truly is. To 100% effectively discipline (and guide and teach and model and nurture and grow and love--of course all these things work together), I have to be on top of everything 100% of the time, and believe me, that's impossible. Sometimes I don't see who started the fight, and I will instead walk away to let them work it out between themselves, a practice that may not be the wisest for not-quite-2-year olds. My philosophy of ignoring bad behavior (to an extent) in order to make it go away naturally usually works (negative attention is still attention!), but sometimes it doesn't. I try to never smack a bottom in anger, but a couple of times I have used a sharper tone than is necessary, which only results in guilt, a flare-up of anger at myself, and a fresh wave of tears on the offender's part. Again, all of this is compounded by the fact that I have two little hoodlums to keep in line at all times, plus a helpless, immobile baby to cart around while chasing said hoodlums around the house. (But here my wise and insightful sister would interject with, "Christine, just be glad you aren't Kate. She has eight to keep in line at all times, six of whom are going through the exact same stage at the exact same time." How right you are, Candice, how right you are. Two is heaven in comparison.)

The one thing about temper tantrums that really bothers me is that you can't control when or where they will occur. Sure, kids throw fits. We have all seen it happen in the grocery store, and we've all been horrified at how ill-prepared to deal with such fits so many mothers are. (My favorite was "The Screamer" in Target who simply stuck fast to her place in line and hollered at her two school-age boys to stop messing with the empty cashier stations. Her threats were obviously empty, as they simply ignored her and continued their destruction. She never did anything but yell, and they just ignored her. How impotent will she be when they are teenagers, free to leave, drive, and talk back?) God help me when that day at the grocery store comes. So far our boys' temper tantrums have been confined to their own home, with the notable exception of this past Sunday at church. We attended our town's Greek Orthodox Sunday service to witness the Aukermans' daughter's infant baptism. No one can really blame the boys for getting restless half-way through the service--it was long, they were tired, and there was no nursery to entertain two rambunctious 19-month old toddlers who love to run. Stephen and I (and the rest of the congregation) had no problem with him taking them to the back of the sanctuary and letting them run their energy out within the confines of the foyer and back pew. Shoot, Baylor ran up the middle aisle in the middle of the baptism and earned several adoring looks and giggles before he ran back to his daddy. Fine. But I absolutely drew the line when he (dear Baylor... is he getting the brunt of the blame in this post? He does have a flair for the dramatic.) got mad at us for whatever it was we weren't letting him do (Run naked during communion? Scream at the top of his lungs in the middle of the liturgy? Break open the incense and suffocate us all with clouds of heavy perfume?) and began to wail loudly, kick the seat, and bang his head against the pew in classic puttin'-on-the-mad fashion.

No siree. Nuh-uh.

That kind of behavior does not happen, especially not in public, especially not in a place of worship. I shot the meaningful "take that kid out and do whatever it takes to get him to understand" look to my husband, who dutifully carted off his screaming son to forcefully and gently reinstate order. A kind gentleman who has over and over again praised my husband and our family leaned over from the pew behind me and said, in a thick Greek accent, "It's okay, no one cares. He's okay." I simply nodded and thanked him, and didn't go into just why it most certainly was not okay that my son was flipping a hissy fit just because his parents said "no." The point wasn't whether he was making others uncomfortable or not; the point was that he was disobeying our authority, acting out, and actin' a fool to boot. I don't care how cute he looked with those strawberry curls and that porcelain, Victorian face--he couldn't simply be ignored or lovingly coaxed into obedience. Action had to be taken.

Thus concluded our first PDR-- public display of rebellion. Baylor cried a little, got cuddled, and then, in his own clumsy, toddler way, repented, content to play with his brother under the supervision of his dad. The baptism continued, with most of the congregation oblivious to the little family drama playing out in the back. And I hope that we handled it well, performed admirably as parents, and helped to mold Baylor into the godly, manly, and good person we know he will someday grow to be. For now I will just content myself with a stinky, sticky toddler with a short fuse who, thankfully, has yet to learn the word "no."

Oh, no, wait, double that.