Tantrums

I used to think they didn't really exist, tantrums. Or perhaps my child was just too sweet, too happily adjusted, to succumb to them. Tantrums of the full blown, body thrown on the floor, heels and fists pounding, banshee-shrieking variety - these were just toddler myths of the "uphill in the snow both ways" variety, told to scare new parents into buying lots of parenting books they won't have time to read.

I mean, sure I've witnessed tantrums on tv comedies featuring stereotypically frazzled parents and dysfunctional families. And I may have caught a glimpse or two in a random Target toy aisle, fit being pitched by a dirty, snot-faced street urchin a la Oliver Twist while a harried mom with frizzy hair aims menacing threats involving a lot of under the breath "if you don't stop this instant, I'm going to..."

But in this family, we practice gentle but firm no's followed by reasonable discussions of rules and expectations that produces an agreeable, respectful child who desires and receives structure and boundaries.

We practice this for about two seconds. And then watch as Violet throws herself to the floor in a dramatic swan dive of disgust and loathing and begins to pound the floor like a prize fighter going in for the KO. And the shrieking. Oh the shrieking. Neighbors walking their dogs can be seen pausing across the street with concerned looks on their faces. Their dogs whine. Somewhere a wolf is howling in commiseration.

Because as it turns out, I have a typical two-year-old after all. Now, seeing as most of my friends don't have a child of this age yet, I don't have too much advice to go on. (Naturally, I never behaved this way as a wee lass, so I don't even have any "I told you so's" from my own mother to rely on.) So allow yourself to learn from my experience.

When such a tantrum strikes, such as this weekend's nuclear meltdown involving the wrong color snack bowl or... something, there are a few choices. I've tried all of them.

Choice One: try to physically remove your child from the situation. This involves picking them up. You have lots of practice in carrying your child - her 30-ish pounds aren't that big of a deal. You once carried her all over the grocery store while simultaneously pushing a cart full of food and juggling a cell phone.

Your child will be ready for this, however. They will go completely limp, inexplicably adding 50 pounds of dead weight to their small frame. Picking them up will be like trying to haul an 80-pound eel out of the water. It is next to impossible. If I'm ever jumped in a dark parking lot some night, I'm merely going to lay down on the ground like a dead fish - it is an insanely effective strategy.

Choice Two: attempt to reason with your child. Topics to discuss include: why you are right and they are wrong, how life is unfair, how the pink snack bowl is dirty and (fill in the blank with your treason) is actually for their own good. Use a calm, soothing voice that will hopefully be heard over the wailing and gnashing of teeth.

When this fails utterly, you may move on to distracting, cajoling, and finally, bribing. Note that the bribe should be the exact thing that caused the tantrum in the first place (oh, you wanted the pink bowl? Here, I'll wash it off, just take it!) It will be resoundingly rejected.

Choice Three: stare, flummoxed, at the red, splotchy, writhing thing your child has become. Possibly recoil in quasi-amused horror. Find your spouse so they can witness what obviously comes from their side of the family. Attempt to restrain your laughter. When that fails, physically remove yourself from the scene of the crime, lest the thing hear your laughter and try to put its grubby, snotty paws on you. Bonus points if you can make it out of the room with either a good book or ear plugs.

Return when the hurricane has finally blown itself into exhaustion and has morphed back into your sweet, loving child, albeit much snottier. Do not, under any circumstances, mention what caused the tantrum in the first place. In fact, your best bet is to just avoid eye contact altogether as you hold out a variety of peace offering snacks. In the pink snack bowl. Because you are not an idiot.

Don't Ask, Won't Tell

When you first get married, most people wait a subtle 9.7 seconds before asking when you are going to start a family. If said inquisitors are related to you, they seem entitled to the question much soon than that. And there seems to be a direct relationship with the length of time you've been with your significant other and how soon you're expected to procreate. If you've been together more than two years prior to the wedding, you can expect to get the question hurled at you on your trip back down the aisle.

After you finally have a baby, people back off for oh, a year or so before they'll start hinting around again. If motherhood has been particularly traumatic or the tears are still welling up in your eyes at the mention of round two, you might get cut some extra slack. But by the time your child is two years old, pointed glances will be made at your stomach (no, that's just a taco bump) and disappointed sighs will be heard when you  accept that offered margarita, proving once again to the world at large that you are not, in fact, harboring a bun in the oven. Unless by bun, you meant taco.

Because the problem is, most people who know you will know that you want another child. And as the two-year mark comes and goes, it becomes obvious that the time has come. That you're not getting any younger. That you've always wanted your children (relatively) close together. And woe be it to you if you've breathed a hint of "we're trying" or "this is the summer". Because that tantalizing hint just invites scrutiny, and then worry, and worse still, pity when another margarita is ordered and another taco is consumed. (Even though I happen to like my margaritas right now, thank you very much.)

And that is why, even though we see those speculative glances, and we know why you're oh-so-subtly offering margaritas, blatantly hoping I'll decline with a secret smile, we're currently operating under a "don't ask, won't tell" policy. Because the answer is no, not yet, we'll let you know.

Unless the question is "Is that a taco?" In which case, the answer is yes.

Now where's my margarita?

Making Peanut Butter

 Matt and I are not overly crunchy-organic-composting-granola hipsters. Sure, I want to eat healthy. And if there is an organic option available for a comparable price, I'd consider. I'm trying to be more aware of what I eat. But I'm also a realistic busy working mom. So I'm not beating myself up over some of the food choices we make. After all, easy mac is just so... easy. But I have noticed that there are so many added ingredients to things, ingredients that I can't pronounce and have no idea what they do. So when I can identify everything on the label, I'm more inclined to buy.

Ingredients.

Recently Matt decided to make our own peanut butter as a daddy-daughter-date night activity. And while I gave him plenty of bonus points for creativity, I also left the house in an extra hurry that night! Cooking with Violet tends to be a frustrating mess. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. We eat a ridiculous quantity of PB and it seemed fairy easy to try at home, so why not? Surprisingly, the results tasted great, and even the texture (usually my sticking point) wasn't bad. We blew through the first batch and have a second round chilling in the refrigerator as I speak. Violet loves PB on toast in the morning (and it's certainly better for her than fruity loops).

A partner in crime.

 You'd have to check with Matt for the exact ingredients and recipe, but apparently all you need is 16 ounces of unsalted dry roasted peanuts, a bit of salt, a few squeezes of honey, and some oil to bind it all together in the food processor. Easy!

Adding a pinch of salt.

Starting the grind.

Official taste test.

Violet Baby

Feeding Violet Baby. Little Tiny Baby is sharing the chair.

Violet would like to introduce you to her baby, aptly named Violet Baby. (Which is still more creative than most of the names I came up with for my childhood toys. I tended to name all my teddy bears by the color of their fur, hence the slightly racist-sounding Brownie Bear and Whitey Bear.)

Violet has become quite attached to her little baby, insisting on having her in the car, at daycare, and of course, at night. She (the doll) has been forgotten at Target (we made it to the parking lot before we discovered her MIA) and taken to Sunday School (where she stays in the backpack and waits for Violet to come get her.

Getting ready to hit the road.

Violet has also adopted a voice for her doll. The other day I heard Violet screeching in an awful high-pitched croak. When I asked her what she just said, she promptly "translated" for her doll. I've used the doll as a means of convincing Violet to do something; when Violet doesn't want to get dressed, often her baby doll will get to put on her clothes, resulting in Violet quickly changing her mind and trying to beat her doll to the punch. Ah, the means we parents go through to get the results we need!

One proud mama!

Up Against the Wall

I was inspired this weekend to make a new photo collage on our walls. Some of these pictures were previously up in our sunroom, but as we've been gradually converting that space into Violet's playroom, they just don't go with the decor any longer. So with a few new pieces in hand and some pinterest inspiration, I got to work.

First I found an arrangement I liked.

Then I traced the frames onto butcher paper and taped them to the wall.

Finally, I hired a handyman (and handygirl) to put them up. Matt nailed right through the paper to ensure perfect placement.

The finished product! With some room to grow!

A better look at the actual arrangement.

Another Day in First

School started again today.

I don't remember much of my first day last year, my first official day as a teacher. I remember the night before, my neighbor met me in the backyard, grabbed both my hands in her own, and prayed a blessing over me that had me in tears. The actual day itself, however, passed in a blur.

I woke up this morning without the nerves and butterflies I was expecting. Perhaps I'm an old hand at this already. Thanks to a last minute hire (can you imagine being hired to teach the day before the kids show up? Um, no.), everyone's schedule changed and I was greeting with the news this morning that I would have no specials today. That means no break from the kids. The only break we get to use the bathroom or call parents to verify transportation issues or, you know, breath.

And then it rained and recess got cancelled. Naturally.

And then the buses were delayed due to said rainstorm and the kids rolled out an hour later than usual.

So needless to say it was a long day. But a good day. And I'm hopeful this will be a good year. Which is needed, considering our entire curriculum has changed and we're having to figure things out as we go along. (Or maybe that's just me.) At least I know my stellar team will muddle through it together.

I'm trying not to get overly stressed out, despite the feeling that I'm already behind. How can you be behind when it's only been one day?

Matt has single-handedly been getting our family through this week. He has dropped Violet off at school, changed his schedule to pick her up (since I've been at work past six far too many evenings - let me take this time to point out yet again that teachers are not paid enough), put up with fast food dinners far too many times, basically managed our lives. Hopefully I can pick up the juggling act again one of these days.

Yet another fast food kids' meal toy. My poor child.

We're back in school, kids. Hang on for the ride!

Runny Noses and Hugs

Well, I've been back to school officially for two days, and I'm already under the weather. The mental and emotional fatigue is already keeping me up at nights, but physically, I'm convinced the building is trying to kill me. There are years of kiddie germs coated on every surface of that place; I don't care how awesome a job our custodians do in the summer, you can't erase that crud.

Naturally, a week at daycare has already given Violet a runny nose as well. It was bound to happen soon or later, I guess we might as well get this party started.

Violet has had a bit of a time transitioning back to school. The first day we hyped it up enough that she seemed fairly excited about going. She spotted her BFF Emma and their reunion was a beautiful thing (and involved  dropping trou to show off their "big girl" underwear to each other right there in the playground). The next day when I dropped her off, the shine seemed to have worn thin and she teared up when I left. By the third day, reality had firmly set in and sweet girl was in tears before we even left the house! Even with all her drama last year at drop off, she never boo-hooed before arriving at school! Poor thing, just about broke my heart with her big tears.

The good news is, she is always happy as a clam when we pick her up and the teachers are full of cheerful reports. She's been rockin' the potty at school, whoo-hoo! I think we can officially declare this potty training thing a success! Gold medal!

One fun part of daycare this year is how much Violet is now able to verbalize. When I ask her what she did at school, I get a fairly accurate report back. I also get to hear, "Mommy, I miss you when you go to work. Mommy, you miss me when I go to school? You come back to get me? I miss you, Mommy!" Melt.

And I don't know if it's all the recent changes, but Violet has become quite attached to her baby dolls. We have several floating around the house, but one in particular seems to be the current favorite. The baby doll gets to go to school with Violet and "sleep" in her cubby until the end of the day. I also get to hear, "Oh baby, I miss you!" and watch Violet lavish her doll with big hugs in the afternoon. So sweet. The doll is also a required part of bedtime and most car trips, so there definitely is a growing bond there. Perhaps there is some girlie-girl in my little sword-wielding, truck-pushing, keeping-up-with-the-neighborhood-boys daughter after all.

A Toddler's Brain

So true.

Spotted here via here.