Three Tiny Tyrants
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1/30/2019 0 Comments The Man In The Yellow HatPrison life with the trio is the constant chaos of a tornado of destruction whose touch-down never ceases. Rather, it moves from room to room, the cacophony of my “redirection” a.k.a. exasperated yelling falling on their deaf ears. From knocking two hours worth of folded laundry off the couch during a three way wrestling match in the living room to mixing up a batch of “mixey yuck” (their words, not mine) in the bathroom, their curiosity and natural inclination to rough and tumble play lend themselves to disarray and messes wherever they go.
As the frustration mounts in my chest and my patience wears thin, I pause to wonder how The Man in the Yellow Hat maintains such a calm demeanor while George wrecks his house and every project he has ever worked on. Somehow, even in the midst of destruction, he understands the curiosity that motivates George's every move and takes the time to understand this motivation and explain the reasoning behind why it's a bad idea and what a good idea would look like. While I know that I'm never going to have the calm demeanor of a cartoon character who never “actually” cleans up these messes and who never loses his job despite allowing the constant havoc wreaking caused by his monkey, I can pick up on his ability to explain rather than yell; to treat my littles like the small humans they are, rather than miniature adults who ought to know better than to make and leave a mess while figuring something out. So, as I walk into the kitchen only to discover open cabinets and milk and food spilled all over the counters and floors, the trio having disappeared from sight, I channel my inner Man-In-The-Yellow-Hat, call out a loud “BOYS!” and then hand my monkeys the sponge and towels to help clean up while I give them some pointers for how to make a smaller mess the next time they decide to flex their independence and get their own snacks.
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1/23/2019 0 Comments SchoolDazeSchool day mornings are the worst. The whining, the lunch making, the inability to find necessary school items that are literally in front of their faces. I usually spend 78 minutes of the morning getting the boys ready for school, leaving me with a cool 12 minutes to throw on some *hopefully* clean, professional looking clothes and gulp down a cup of hot coffee. This morning was no different. All was going fairly smoothly, and with five minutes left to leave the house, I have all three dressed and packed up, until the moment came that I insisted Little wear a coat in the 4 degree weather. Cue the tears. "But a coat is TOO BUMPY!" he shouts, as I struggle to forcibly put a coat on his stiff arms. "If you get frostbite, your arms will FALL OFF!" I shout back, to no avail. I consider finding pictures of frostbitten appendages on my phone to scare him into winter clothing but the clock is ticking. Instead, as he wails and flails, I kiss Tiny goodbye, carry Little's boneless body to the car and attempt to position his now writhing chest into the proper car seat position. With one hand holding him down, I swiftly buckle him in and pull the tighten cord before he can buck out of his seat again. The whimpering from Little evolves into full fledged screams as I buckle Big into his seat as well. I check my watch: 6:58am. I have no doubts that the neighbors can now hear Little's wails of despair and subversively check for lights next door and across the street, hoping desperately that we get out of the driveway before they realize the half human howls are coming from our house. I close the door, hop in the driver's seat and peel out of the driveway. I hit the gas, hoping that we beat the bus that occasionally slows our progress. Little's screams have now devolved into non sensical whining and screeches. Big, ever the peacemaker, calls out from the back, "But I'm not crying!" I smile at him in the rearview mirror. Gold star for you, buddy. The only thing worse than one crying tyrant is two crying tyrants. Upon hearing Big's proclamation, Little just increases the volume of his cries. It's only 7:02am and my ears have had enough. We pull into the school parking lot and the minute I unbuckle Little, he pulls off his coat, stomps his foot, and stares defiantly at me. I consider abandoning him in the car as we lock eyes. Tick, tick, goes the clock. Finally, I relent and wrap his coat around his body and carry him into school, while Big grabs my pocket and trails behind. Once inside, the school staff stare silently at the mixture of snot and tears that now cover Little's face as he sniffles his way down the hallway. I check my pockets for tissues but come up empty, so instead use my gloves to wipe away the sludge and make his face more presentable. I make a note to wash my gloves when I get home, knowing full well that I will forget to do it. As I get the two settled in, and explain Little's red face away for the daily "health check", I blow hugs and kisses from the window and, feeling as though I've already worked an 8 hour shift, head out to my day job. 1/13/2019 0 Comments AffirmationsIt has been a long, tiring week of early mornings and late evenings with the trio. As darkness falls, so too falls the reign of tyranny over the dwelling. The despots that rule become the small snugglers that I once carried, and power shifts as they plead with me to lay down and begin our nightly ritual. Each must have a snuggle, a song and their affirmations - my fervent hopes in planting the seeds of who they will grow to become. As I feel each warm body next to mine, my desperation and frustrations from the day melt away, and I feel blessed to work for this tiny kingdom and its maniacal monarchs.
This night, I lay next to Little and repeat his nightly affirmations, "You are brave; You are strong; You are kind; You are happy; You are smart; You are silly; You are good; You are loved, always and forever." He turns his small head toward mine and tells me that he, too, has affirmations for me. I breathe in the clean smells of his freshly shampooed head, envisioning the messy bathroom I still need to clean, and stay a moment longer to hear them. "You are huggable; You are snuggable; You are Kissable; You are the warmest mama ever." These words followed by the tight embrace of his tiny arms. As he chokes me with his loving hug, and I hear Tiny and Big calling for me, I smile in the knowledge that, in their eyes, tomorrow's tears and tantrums and trials and demands will be met by the warmest mama ever - even if my heart is feeling frayed and frustrated and my voice betrays it. At the end of the day, despite the failings that come from being pulled in too many directions by too many demands, love is enough to lift the walls of imprisonment and fill up my cup when it empties. 1/4/2019 0 Comments karmaTo start the new year right, I've instituted a new form of restorative justice into our lives. It's called "Karma's a B*tch" and so far, it appears to be working. Here's how it goes down: Little hits Big with a drumstick. Five minutes later, Little whacks himself in the face with the drumstick as it wildly bounces back from a particularly fierce pound. Little cries about the drumstick whack. I shrug my shoulders and give him a singlularly worded consolation, "Karma."
Tiny steals Little's unicorn stuffy and hides it as Little cries for Sparkle (the unicorn)'s return. Tiny laughs mercilessly while Little cries, and refuses to give up his hiding spot. The wrestling match that ensues over Sparkle's disappearance bleeds into dining room and knocks into the table. Moments later, Tiny's 657 million piece Lego Batman rig rolls off the dining room table, smashing into it's original 657 million pieces (minus the 2 that rolled into the air duct). Cue Tiny's wails of sheer horror, and my nonchalant shrug. "That's karma, buddy." How is it working, you ask? Well, hopefully, it's teaching my pint sized overlords that kindness matters and you get back from the universe what you give out. Mostly, though, its given me intense satisfaction of justice served without having to serve any actual justice. Thanks, karma! Keep up the good work! |
AuthorAnna Christine is a working mother of three boys. She is a teacher, writer, learner, and a fierce advocate for inclusion. Writing is her catharsis for the tough days of parenting. Her writing has appeared on ScaryMommy: Archives
January 2019
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