Randomly it seems, I have had several conversations recently with parents both young and old on boys and their inherent "boyishness." That uncanny, seemingly-uncontrollable need to play video games, shoot things, push, yell, destroy, etc. I have seen it already in my own sweet boy. One minute every thing's hunky-dory, the next minute he is running wildly down the hall with a chunk of his sister's hair. He is not allowed within ten feet of a library book lest we find bits of paper scattered throughout the house. He luckily has not discovered guns yet in any form, but I know he will and I am already dreading it.
Here's a story from my retired neighbor: his sister is a Quaker and worked very hard to keep guns and violent images/play away from her son. The son made guns from sticks and his own hand, loving to play "shoot the bad guy." This son is now a Navy Seal, a "professional warrior" the neighbor called him. Now, that is a pretty admirable job, protecting our freedom and all, but how did he get from Quaker to Navy Seal, one wonders?
Yesterday at the library two pre-school aged boys were playing guns with a couple of the arch blocks the library had. They were running, screaming, rolling over tables and ducking for cover behind the "nursing mamas" rocking chairs. Finally one ran up to my sensitive girl (who had been carefully constructing her princess castle), took his "gun" and smashed princess-land to smithereens. I sat bolt upright in my chair, unsure as to what my role should be. My daughter hung her head for a few seconds, then silently ran into my lap to "cry it out." Luckily for me, one of the lovely children's librarians had seen enough and rushed over to scold both boys and mamas. One mom made her son apologize and they left soon after. My daughter got over her trauma and rebuilt her castle. Still, the whole incident left me wondering: were these "bad" boys, or were these just boys?
This is an issue that I truly struggle with. I don't want to raise a violent boy. On the other hand, I want to raise a strong boy, an assertive boy. I want both of my children to know how to change the oil in their car, cook a souffle, and defend themselves if needed. More than anything, I want them to be their own selves, but of course, the best version of themselves. I guess, like most moms, I just want it all. That's not too much to ask, right? I'm just not quite sure yet how to walk that line. How to encourage their natural likes and strengths without raising a child who will one day make another child cry.
This is not intended to be a commentary on the "gun" issue. Maybe I will curse you with my ambivalence on that particular subject another day. I am just wondering how it is that one raises a "good" boy, a good man? A man's man and yet a modern man. A man who can protect himself and his family from an assailant or a dishwasher disaster. A man who can cook an omelet and sing a soothing lullaby. It occurs to me that my own husband has many of these qualities. Hopefully that will at least give us some advantage. Of course, as I am writing this, my son is pushing his sister and making her cry, so that's all for now!
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Friday, September 23, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
"Pick up your Little People, and put them in the bin!"
Strange title, right?
But, since I have said this exact sentence approximately 17,000 times in the last three days, it happens to be permanently trapped in my head.
My son is not quite two. He is gorgeous, sweet and full of life. He is, unfortunately, the most stubborn human I have ever met. Ever. Ever, ever, ever.
It's not as though we expect him to be folding his own laundry and mowing the lawn, but we are working to teach him the basic skill of picking up after himself, at least a little. I know I should not compare, but I can tell you for a fact that his sister was doing this by his age. Him, not so much! Every day, he takes the giant plastic tub full of Fisher Price Little People (and their dogs, swings, helicopters, picnic tables, grocery carts, etc.) and dumps them onto his floor. Often, the dumping of the bin is clearly more of the point than the actual playing with the toys. Then, at the end of the evening, there is the nightmarish fight to get him to put even a few of them back into the bin with lots and lots of "help" from the rest of us. Truly, for the effort it takes the entire family to get him to do it, and the effort he goes to to not do it, we could have carved our own collection of little people out of firewood! So, here's what we've tried:
Repetition, repetition, repetition. Repeating that exact same sentence over and over and over and over (you get the drift) in a neutral but firm tone. Nothing!
Threatening with (and then following through with) time-outs for not listening to Mommy/Daddy. Did this for over an hour today. Nothing.
Putting in crib by self with no toys for a few minutes, then coming back and saying "Are you ready to help clean up now?" Nothing.
Leaving room, saying "Tell me when you are finished picking up." Nothing.
Physically picking the child up and dipping him down to pick up toy, then turning so he can drop it into the bin. Great fun for him, hooray, new game! Murder on an already troublesome back.
Making it a race "Who can pick up the most toys the fastest?" Nothing.
Finally, after several nightmarish evenings in a row of this, hubby declared enough is enough. Now, every Little Person, accessory, car, house, zoo, or anything that has the misfortune to resemble a Little Person product is packed away and on the top shelf of the kid's closet. He has already asked to play with them at least once. Apparently, the toys are now in "time out" and can reappear in a few months when baby boy can be more cooperative in their day-to-day maintenance. Maybe we are terrible, monster parents. Maybe we are the smartest parents in the world. I really don't care at this point, my brain needs a break from that sentence!
But, since I have said this exact sentence approximately 17,000 times in the last three days, it happens to be permanently trapped in my head.
My son is not quite two. He is gorgeous, sweet and full of life. He is, unfortunately, the most stubborn human I have ever met. Ever. Ever, ever, ever.
It's not as though we expect him to be folding his own laundry and mowing the lawn, but we are working to teach him the basic skill of picking up after himself, at least a little. I know I should not compare, but I can tell you for a fact that his sister was doing this by his age. Him, not so much! Every day, he takes the giant plastic tub full of Fisher Price Little People (and their dogs, swings, helicopters, picnic tables, grocery carts, etc.) and dumps them onto his floor. Often, the dumping of the bin is clearly more of the point than the actual playing with the toys. Then, at the end of the evening, there is the nightmarish fight to get him to put even a few of them back into the bin with lots and lots of "help" from the rest of us. Truly, for the effort it takes the entire family to get him to do it, and the effort he goes to to not do it, we could have carved our own collection of little people out of firewood! So, here's what we've tried:
Repetition, repetition, repetition. Repeating that exact same sentence over and over and over and over (you get the drift) in a neutral but firm tone. Nothing!
Threatening with (and then following through with) time-outs for not listening to Mommy/Daddy. Did this for over an hour today. Nothing.
Putting in crib by self with no toys for a few minutes, then coming back and saying "Are you ready to help clean up now?" Nothing.
Leaving room, saying "Tell me when you are finished picking up." Nothing.
Physically picking the child up and dipping him down to pick up toy, then turning so he can drop it into the bin. Great fun for him, hooray, new game! Murder on an already troublesome back.
Making it a race "Who can pick up the most toys the fastest?" Nothing.
Finally, after several nightmarish evenings in a row of this, hubby declared enough is enough. Now, every Little Person, accessory, car, house, zoo, or anything that has the misfortune to resemble a Little Person product is packed away and on the top shelf of the kid's closet. He has already asked to play with them at least once. Apparently, the toys are now in "time out" and can reappear in a few months when baby boy can be more cooperative in their day-to-day maintenance. Maybe we are terrible, monster parents. Maybe we are the smartest parents in the world. I really don't care at this point, my brain needs a break from that sentence!
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Supervised Visitation
We have a dog. His name is Achilles and he is a nine-year-old Siberian Husky. He is beautiful, cuddly, and full of character. A few years ago he was selected as Rachael Ray's pet of the month and was featured on her website for several weeks. He is very loved and well cared for. We have had him since he was six weeks old. He has never been abused, neglected, or treated poorly in any way. He used to occupy a cozy bed in our room and a prime spot on our Christmas cards. He lives with my parents now because last September, while my husband was away on business, he bit my beautiful baby on the face.
Sorry, didn't mean to shock you.
So here's the situation: My son loves Achilles. Always has. As a matter of fact, he can't leave him alone. As soon as he was able to walk, he was after that dog. He loved to "pat" Achilles, get right in his face, try to ride him, you name it. I always joked that it was a good thing Achilles was such a good dog. The only time I had ever seen him show any aggression was years ago, when I was approached by a shady looking man at Riverside Park in my hometown. My sweet puppy bared his teeth, growled, and suddenly looked like his close cousin the wolf. Shady man quickly departed and Achilles got a pat on the head and an extra treat.
Anyway, so back to baby boy. My husband had been away on business for about a week and a half. Achilles always did tend to get nervous when the "alpha dog" was gone, often not eating well and patrolling the house. To make matters worse, my son often liked to pull his tail, touch his feet, and generally do little things that Achilles probably did not like. I should have known. I should have known. It's easy to say that now. So, the three of us (my daughter, son, and myself) were playing in my daughter's room. My son toddled off toward our bedroom. We have a glass door to the outside in there and he liked to look out the window. So, after a few seconds I slowly got up to follow him. Suddenly, I heard growling and barking. In the nano-second it took to get there, I found my son curled up on his back near the dog's bed and Achilles over him making noise. To this day I don't really know if he was still growling or whining or what. In a fog, I grabbed his collar and put him outside. I picked up my son and realized that he had several pure white scratches covering the right side of his face. I think by this point I was muttering "Oh my God!" My daughter was yelling "What did Achilles do to Brother?" and at some point, she peed her pants. I took my son to the changing table, examined hus face, called the doctor, and told my daughter to put her shoes on so that we could take a trip to the doctor. At some point, I came to my senses, ran to the neighbors with my now screaming and bleeding baby, and told them what had happened. They took over from there. The husband got my son and myself into our car while the wife stayed with my daughter.
You get priority service when you run into the ER with a baby who has bitten by a dog. Somehow, they knew we were coming. I still don't know, maybe my neighbor called, maybe I did. The next two hours were terrifying and painful, from watching them seal up my hysterical baby's wounds, to trying to explain what had happened to various people, including my frightened, angry, and confused husband who must have felt so awful being so far away during this madness.
My mom arrived by dawn the next morning. My husband cut his trip early and came home two days later, with the instructions that "that dog" better be long gone by the time he got home. My sweet husband had turned into full "protect the family from rabid beast" mode. I think we would all have been less frightened, betrayed, and angry if it had been a strange dog, but the fact that my son was assaulted by our beloved pet is something we are still all dealing with. For days I kept waiting for DHS or animal control or someone to knock on my door, with their forms and their judgement. I went from wanting the dog put down, to worrying that someone would come and tell me that he had to be put down.
My son is fine now. He still has some small scars which people tell me are not so noticable, but I see them every time I look at him. He still loves Achilles. I don't think either of them has any memory of the incident. I assume what happened is my son startled him while he was sleeping. He was likely frightened and cornered and reacted instinctly. I don't think he is a bad dog or that he meant to hurt my son. The wounds were fairly surface deep and not nearly as bad as it could have been. That being said, I will likely never fully trust him again and if (IF) he ever does come back to live with us full-time, he will probably be much more of an outside dog. For now, we are trying a "supervised visit" while my parents are staying with us for the weekend. I like having him back but I can tell that things will never be the same with us.
Oh my goodness, I'm sorry for rambling for so long. As you can likely tell, it is still a very raw issue for me. My chest if pumping and my hands are shaking just typing this "book." I don't intend to make people frightened of their dogs but I do want it stressed that any dog is still at heart an animal, acting on instict and likely to react aggresively if frightened, hurt, or cornered. I of course had heard to never leave a child alone with a dog and I basically followed that rule but I also had let myself get to complacent with my own beloved pet. I will always feel guilty about that. I will raise my children to love and respect dogs. I will also never again leave a small child along in a dog's presence, any dog, even for one second. It's hard as parents sometimes to walk the tightrope between being vigilent and protective, and giving your children the freedom to explore and grow on their own. Sorry, I know this is a little heavy for a sunny Saturday!
Sorry, didn't mean to shock you.
So here's the situation: My son loves Achilles. Always has. As a matter of fact, he can't leave him alone. As soon as he was able to walk, he was after that dog. He loved to "pat" Achilles, get right in his face, try to ride him, you name it. I always joked that it was a good thing Achilles was such a good dog. The only time I had ever seen him show any aggression was years ago, when I was approached by a shady looking man at Riverside Park in my hometown. My sweet puppy bared his teeth, growled, and suddenly looked like his close cousin the wolf. Shady man quickly departed and Achilles got a pat on the head and an extra treat.
Anyway, so back to baby boy. My husband had been away on business for about a week and a half. Achilles always did tend to get nervous when the "alpha dog" was gone, often not eating well and patrolling the house. To make matters worse, my son often liked to pull his tail, touch his feet, and generally do little things that Achilles probably did not like. I should have known. I should have known. It's easy to say that now. So, the three of us (my daughter, son, and myself) were playing in my daughter's room. My son toddled off toward our bedroom. We have a glass door to the outside in there and he liked to look out the window. So, after a few seconds I slowly got up to follow him. Suddenly, I heard growling and barking. In the nano-second it took to get there, I found my son curled up on his back near the dog's bed and Achilles over him making noise. To this day I don't really know if he was still growling or whining or what. In a fog, I grabbed his collar and put him outside. I picked up my son and realized that he had several pure white scratches covering the right side of his face. I think by this point I was muttering "Oh my God!" My daughter was yelling "What did Achilles do to Brother?" and at some point, she peed her pants. I took my son to the changing table, examined hus face, called the doctor, and told my daughter to put her shoes on so that we could take a trip to the doctor. At some point, I came to my senses, ran to the neighbors with my now screaming and bleeding baby, and told them what had happened. They took over from there. The husband got my son and myself into our car while the wife stayed with my daughter.
You get priority service when you run into the ER with a baby who has bitten by a dog. Somehow, they knew we were coming. I still don't know, maybe my neighbor called, maybe I did. The next two hours were terrifying and painful, from watching them seal up my hysterical baby's wounds, to trying to explain what had happened to various people, including my frightened, angry, and confused husband who must have felt so awful being so far away during this madness.
My mom arrived by dawn the next morning. My husband cut his trip early and came home two days later, with the instructions that "that dog" better be long gone by the time he got home. My sweet husband had turned into full "protect the family from rabid beast" mode. I think we would all have been less frightened, betrayed, and angry if it had been a strange dog, but the fact that my son was assaulted by our beloved pet is something we are still all dealing with. For days I kept waiting for DHS or animal control or someone to knock on my door, with their forms and their judgement. I went from wanting the dog put down, to worrying that someone would come and tell me that he had to be put down.
My son is fine now. He still has some small scars which people tell me are not so noticable, but I see them every time I look at him. He still loves Achilles. I don't think either of them has any memory of the incident. I assume what happened is my son startled him while he was sleeping. He was likely frightened and cornered and reacted instinctly. I don't think he is a bad dog or that he meant to hurt my son. The wounds were fairly surface deep and not nearly as bad as it could have been. That being said, I will likely never fully trust him again and if (IF) he ever does come back to live with us full-time, he will probably be much more of an outside dog. For now, we are trying a "supervised visit" while my parents are staying with us for the weekend. I like having him back but I can tell that things will never be the same with us.
Oh my goodness, I'm sorry for rambling for so long. As you can likely tell, it is still a very raw issue for me. My chest if pumping and my hands are shaking just typing this "book." I don't intend to make people frightened of their dogs but I do want it stressed that any dog is still at heart an animal, acting on instict and likely to react aggresively if frightened, hurt, or cornered. I of course had heard to never leave a child alone with a dog and I basically followed that rule but I also had let myself get to complacent with my own beloved pet. I will always feel guilty about that. I will raise my children to love and respect dogs. I will also never again leave a small child along in a dog's presence, any dog, even for one second. It's hard as parents sometimes to walk the tightrope between being vigilent and protective, and giving your children the freedom to explore and grow on their own. Sorry, I know this is a little heavy for a sunny Saturday!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Sometimes, you've just gotta roll with it!
I have had the best of intentions to do lots of wonderful and outdoorsy things this week. Instead it seems that there has been lots of fighting, lots of yelling (ironic since this is what I "gave up" for Lent) and lots of my son running around with big wads of his sister's hair. It seems my beautiful baby has a slightly sinister side. Yesterday, I planned a picnic lunch and play date at our favorite park. Instead, the morning started bad and went down from there. By 10:45 my patience was gone. Instead of our great park day, I robotically fed the kids their sandwiches and fruit, and plopped them in their beds by 11am. Nearly in tears with frustration, I self-soothed with great quantities of hummus, carbs, and DVR'd Rachael Ray. And, what do you know, they both took really, really long naps! After we were all rested and calmed, we did manage to salvage the day just roaming our own neighborhood. We played at the playground, inspected the daffodils in the greenbelt, visited the turtles in the pond, and basically had a free-range day. The lesson I (hopefully) learned is that sometimes I over schedule our day, as if I am frightened of the prospect of a whole day at home with the kids. Turns out, sometimes an unscheduled day is okay. Maybe that's what the little monsters were trying to tell me yesterday morning!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Dinosaur ROAR!!! Wait, that was just my screaming toddler!
Well, Spring Break begins in Oklahoma with a sigh, weather-wise anyway. Luckily for us, we had my awesome sis and her kids to keep us entertained! With the zoo seeming like a chilly prospect, we headed to the Sam Noble Museum of Natural History or, as my daughter says, the "Dinoraurn Museum." It's pretty much our second home. Living in a college town means that we have access to big-city quality arts, culture and activities. Truly, it is the best of both worlds and a goldmine of fun and cheap kids' entertainment.
It would have been a wonderful day if I didn't have to spend most of the time chasing a wild, fearless, mommy-hitting toddler. There are times when I truly can see why people resort to the leashes. But, I digress. Natural history museums...find one near you!
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