Fodder's Day

From Webster:

1: something fed to domestic animals ; especially : coarse food for cattle, horses, or sheep2: inferior or readily available material used to supply a heavy demand <fodder for tabloids>

— fodder transitive verb

Perhaps the second entry is less applicable (outside of being "fodder" for my blogging), but that pretty much sums up our Father's Day. What started out as a well intentioned family fun ended up as cattle feed, and we all know where cattle feed ends up coming out...you guessed it, Father's Day 2009.

I am at a bit of a loss to describe the behavioral phase we've entered. Call it forceful determination, early on-set defiance, surges of testosterone, a precursor to what our teenage years will look like, you name it. Whatever it is, there isn't a moment of a second of a day that starts with the sentence or thought, "Okay, Mommy." Mostly it goes something like, "I want to do it," "I don't want to," "Screeeeech," "Shriek," "NOOOOOO!" And I find it ever more painful, if not impossible, to use a system of positive rewards when the rewards never get associated with the positive behavior. We're in the land of time outs and privileges being curtailed, which makes everyone around here decidedly grumpy and eager for our favorite time of day, sleep time.

And so with our first break in weeks from this monsoon we've been having, the Dad thought it would be a nice change of pace to check out the local Irish Festival downtown (editors note, this would be the same Irish festival we were forced to bail out of last summer because he was having a meltdown - hypothesis - could it be that Captain Kid hates the Irish???). I had some bad feelings going into the whole experience but we decided to lunch at the local pub, which seemed to be at the center of the whole hubbub. And let's just say that after an hour long (excruciating) sit-down lunch where both the Captain and the Dad barely sat down, the whole debacle ended with someone being forcibly removed from the premises, sobbing like a baby; and no, I'm not talking about some drunk Irishman. Much grumbling ensued and the Kid was brought home and unceremoniously tossed into his room for a 2 hour long "nap," which consisted of shoutouts every 3 minutes or so of, "Did I rest, Daddy?

We have always had behavior problems where the Captain's been concerned, as I am sure you will find documented under tags of "oh behave" and "tantrums." But we seem to have hit a funk and are increasingly unable to break the cycle. I've tried it the Montessori way and I've tried it my way and guess what, neither one works. And with the first report card documenting "Needs Improvement" on every aspect of his social skills, I'm somehow thinking that no one is nominating us for parent of the year. And things aren't getting much better at his new summer daycare (I've already been called out for his behavior), as evidenced by my conversations with the Captain about his daily activities:

MM - Did you make any friends today?

CK - Ummm, yes.

MM - That's great! What are their names?

CK - Umm, I don't know. I'll tell you tomorrow.

Gumph. It's tomorrow.

Au contraire, mon Capitán.

We've entered the universe of reverse psychology. I never imagined when such a transition might occur, but as it turns out the Captain has entered his contrary phase. As a point of reference, any sentence we begin with, "Do you want to..." meets a resounding response of, "NO, I didn't want to right now." We are patiently waiting it out, to be sure, but it's led to some rather dizzying conversations and scenarios.


Tonight was Captain Kid's first batter-batter baseball game up in Baltimore.






Not only was it a test of his ability to sit through one whole inning, it was a social test for me, with a party hosted beforehand by my company. I can tell you that he was the only kid there running around and raising a ruckus. He's also the only kid who had the pleasure of a big foam hand, which he insisted he get, only to be followed by a declaration that he never wanted it, only to be followed by tears because we took it off his hand, only to be followed by a suggestion that we just put it back where we found it, okay? He then declared that he didn't want a hot dog until I said he couldn't have one, at which time he seemed shocked and dismayed that I would deny him a hot dog. I'm never sure which side of the argument I'm supposed to be on, further frustrated by the fact that there's just no rational reason for us to be in conflict, and my brain is starting to explode with each dizzying level of argument.


I just keep thinking that nothing I studied in law school could possibly prepare me to lose each and every argument with a tenacious toddler. How can one use logic against the illogical?


Yes, I realize this isn't uncommon and I know he's just asserting himself. You could tell me all about your kid and how he/she went through the same thing. Yes, I know that we're in another one of those "phases." But I keep thinking, when do those fucking phases just end?

In search of the great out side.

It was once really cute.

Captain, you want to get your shoes and socks? Answer: out side.

Captain, where do helicopters fly? Answer: out side.

Where do you want to go, sweetie? Answer: out side.

See? Adorable, huh? It's seemingly the answer to most questions and fits just fine. Yet, somewhere in the south of France it stopped being adorable.

In the Captain's mind, "out side" has taken on a grander meaning. It's in the car. It's out of the car. It's up a staircase. It's in the pool. It's in a closet. In fact, "out side" now means whatever it is he wishes to be doing. Which is why the Dad and I were utterly confused as he had a tantrum around dinner time the other night whilst we were chillin in southern France. Normally we wouldn't have been so indulgent to discover the true hidden meaning, but when he started pounding his fists and having yet another tantrum in the middle of a dinner party, we became determined to shut him up. Defeated and feeling completely mediocre, yet aware that the only way he would settle down would be with food in his tummy, we followed him all over the 9th century domaine to find out where the fuck out side was.

First it was by the pool. Then it was inside. Then it was out in front of the domaine. Then it was in the car, sitting in his car seat. Then it was out of the car for a brief moment, only to be quickly followed by it being inside the car. Then we went back into the house, climbed stairs. At times out side was at the top of the staircase. Then it was at the bottom. It was under a table. It was in Dad's arms. On and on and on, all the while chasing him with hamburger on a fork, praying for him to take one bite and stop crying.

Perhaps in a toddlers mind, out side is about what can be. I mean, we really do make it sound so great. It's the place where young dreams are made. It's where playgrounds live and fresh air is free. It's where you find bottle caps and other trash just lying on the ground like a prize to be claimed. But like Dorothy over the rainbow, the Captain always seems to be chasing his heart's desire, which is always moving, always someplace where he is not, always something out of reach, and never in the comfort of Mama and Dad's arms. Oh, I know that he won't spend every second of every day running to find out side and that eventually there will be days where he even enjoys the comfort of sitting still.

Then again, maybe toddlers aren't so different from grownups. I mean, who amongst us isn't still searching for out side?

Vive la toddler.

As anyone might have guessed by the eerie silence and cobwebs collecting on my blog, yes we did make it to Southern France. It's true, there are times where I believed you might be hearing from me sooner as we had many conversations about cutting out early, but I'm glad we stayed and now we can tick it off the Captain's "you never take me anywhere" list. He even has a new t-shirt to prove it.

I suppose I should back up a minute, however. By the day we left, I was aching and miserable and the Captain had broken out in a full body rash. The road trip, which began at noon and ended at around 7pm, was pretty much what we expected. Dad grumpily driving the whole trip because I never developed the love for the standard transmission, the Captain only conking out for about a 50 minute nap, Mediocre Mama whaling out choruses of "William Wants a Doll" and "Doe a Deer." Probably about 2 hours of serious whining total. We actually felt lucky.

We arrive at the domaine and it is exactly as explained, a beautiful 9th century domaine with former monastery and all the death traps you could desire for your toddler. You can check out the vitals here with photos. The Dad and I were given a cozy little room with single beds we shoved together with blankets in between for the inevitable hopping into bed the young Captain would be doing. Of all the travel missteps, sleeping fell #1 on the list.

As a rule, the Dad and I do not let Captain Kid sleep in our bed. We've seen the pitfalls and though we know many who swear by it, it's just not our style. The one and only exception to said rule is during travel, mostly because he ALWAYS wakes up in the middle of the night and enjoys the novelty of going, "Hey, isn't that Mediocre Mama and Deviant Dad lying there? Perhaps I'll scream my head off and they will feel embarrassed enough by the noise to let me into bed." And so, we felt doubly embarrassed when he did it in the middle of the night with our gracious hosts next door, so he slept with us for much of the trip. All of which wouldn't matter so much, except his sleep habits are looking more and more like the WWF these days, complete with jumping on top of us, lunging off the bed, and full on kicking that I'm not even sure he's awake for. Thus, I ended the trip with bruises up my rib cage and on my chin.

What's worse, of course, is that his usual 11-12 hours of sleep a night was looking more like 6 or 7 in his strange environs, making him crabby and more surly than usual. Which wouldn't be a problem, but for the fact that the word "no" sent him into perpetual tantrums, a little bit more dangerous in a 9th century domaine with lots of stone floors and rough edges. One morning we declared it was breakfast time, cooked for him, and he decreed that he wanted to go "out side" (more on that in tomorrow's exciting post). So we obliged, went outside for his breakfast when he re-affirmed "out side" and pointed to the grass and pool." We said, "No, breakfast first." And so began the hour and a half long temper tantrum that only ended when we shoved him back into bed and he passed out for the next 3 hours. As it turns out, other locations in a 9th century domaine that, as a rule, are not good for toddler tantrums include treacherous staircases with a sundial strategically placed at the bottom of the staircase, sort of acting like a spear if you had a really bad fall, next to a pool with no fence, on the ledge overlooking the vineyards with about a 10 foot drop off, and generally in close proximity to gracious friends who are attempting to relax on vacation.

Sigh. Que sera.

Hyper-drive.

Today I actually got off the bus two stops early because I was so mortified by the Captain’s kicking, bucking, ranting, screaming tantrum that I was happier to walk the extra distance than endure the uncomfortable glances from well-meaning Spaniards. Well, it was a combination of factors: (a) he was behaving satanically and (b) some helpful grandmother had a bag from a local toy company in her hand and naturally he was reaching for, and so she thought it would be cute to dangle it in front of his face and wag her finger saying, “no no no!” I wish I was so cruel as to taunt other people’s kids when they were acting up. Of course, if you thought I had trouble with the Momtourage before

So this is actually my second act of desperation in the last week on the subject of the Captain’s tantrums. Last Friday after weeks of visitors, sleepless nights, Dad at work for weeks on end, I finally lost it. Having spent two and a half hours chasing him at an aquarium, followed by 3 sessions of fighting his shoes on while he bucked in my lap and smacked me in the head, followed by 3 hours of chasing him around Dad's office event, followed by 2 glasses of red wine and a glass of champagne, it finally dawned on me...I am in over my head. I thought I might be when I started this blog, but I’m really now convinced of it. I have now come to understand that managing the Captain is akin to performing in the biathlon. Sure, I don't have to shoot at a target after running cross country to chase CK, but I feel there should be some points earned for finally catching him and then wrestling him into his stroller.

Incidentally, who the fuck came up with that kooky sport? I’m going to invent a sport where you have to chug two liters of scotch and then shoot at a moving target like a pickup truck or something…oh wait, I think such a sport might already exist in Alabama. What’s that called, a regular Saturday night?

So, as I was saying, my little Friday night act of desperation resembled any other Friday night act of desperation. No, I didn’t drunk dial anyone; but I did do some creative googling. Did you know that if you google hyper kids over one-and-a-half-million hits come up? Which is all very comforting in the abstract, but not terribly reassuring when you are the mediocre parent of a very hyper child. And so I did find some sites and poured over those parenting manuals that I so handily tossed to the back of a closet. No, after all that I don’t think he’s ADHD (more likely I was just PMS) and I would hate to label him even if he did present such signs, and furthermore I do think Ritalin is the devil's tool. However, I think I do understand why so many parents, teachers, doctors and strangers on the bus get tempted down that path.

Now of course the whole thing seemed worse because in addition to the Captain’s insanity on Friday my cousin and I were chit chatting about kids and he said that personal exposure to several nameless kids have made him less keen on the idea. Umm, you mean my kid? Guilty.

No good time goes unpunished...

Apparently the Captain had some rather strong opinions about my leaving him with the babysitter all day, because boy did I get an earful. Here's how my evening unfolded...

• Arrived home at 7:30 to poopy pail. Shove babysitter out the door and the fun begins.
• Chased the Captain (who apparently spent his entire day snacking on sugar cubes, espresso and redbull) round the apartment, let him lock me in a closet, watched the meltdown building...
• 8:15, the meltown begins (Insert crying, kicking, screaming here).
• 8:30, put the Captain down for a quickie nap in hopes for a dinner out when Deviant Dad came home. Enjoyed a quick episode of Sex and the City and the first 20 minutes of Charmed.
• 9:15, Deviant wakes up the Captain to go to dinner and the meltdown continues. I send Deviant out with his sister for dinner.
• 9:30, attempt to feed the Captain some oatmeal, which he rebuffs.
• 10:30, after pacing, begging, tv-watching and bribery, realize I'm beat. Put Captain back down for the night, no supper in his tummy and curl up on the sofa in the fetal position awaiting the return of Deviant and SIL with my sushi.

Does this mean that I'm doomed to a life of buy now, pay for it afterwards with my child? I contemplated the pattern and it would seem that every time I get a babysitter there's a wake up in the middle of the night/meltdown scenario after the fact. It made me think that, although only 18-months, maybe the Captain is already making his gripe list and plotting his revenge. I ought to know - Deviant wrote his gripe list years ago.

Flashback to an evening, oh, maybe nearly 10 years ago. Deviant and I decided to shack up after college, much to the MIL's chagrin. She made us sleep in separate rooms when we visited and Deviant started on a rant about all the ways his parents wronged him growing up; and thus, the gripe list was born. It was long and to be sure I can't recall it all, but here's the shorthand on Deviant's upbringing:

• Until he was 10, they fed him carob and told him it was chocolate;
• They took him to Disneyland and told him he didn't need to see Disneyworld because it was "the same thing;"
• They fed him Blackstrap Molasses mixed with milk and told him it was chocolate milk;
• When his sister was small and whacked him in the face with one of those old metal seat belt on purpose (she admits), breaking his tooth in the process, they figured he'd done something to provoke her and took her out for ice cream;
• They gave him wheat germ;
• His Mom had a Buckaroo Kids small soft drink coupon for Roy Rogers. She changed the expiration date and used it until he was 16;
• I want my MT-wha? No cable until he was 22;
• For his birthday one year, his parents took him and some friends to see All of Me (a PG rated Steve Martin movie) for his 9th birthday. When they got to the scene where he spanks Victoria Tennant, she removed Mat and all his friends from the theater and left before it was over; and
• She also made him watch Yentl. Twice. When he walked out of the theater the first time because he hated it, she made him go see it again.

Ah, don't worry. We love the MIL and FIL to pieces. But it just goes to show you how a few bad choices could turn into a list you'll pay for the rest of your life. Oh, and just to give my parents fair play:

• They hired Mrs. Savoy to watch me while they worked. I probably could post a whole section on this, but for now, lets just say this: Lunch Lady;
• Knee patches;
• My boy hair cut that they told me was the Dorothy Hammil look. Check out my photo on the side and you tell me...;
• The Volcano project. Alright, repeat after me. A spray painted towel stapled to a board does NOT resemble a volcano;
• Sleep away camp; and
• After years of begging for a dog they finally break down and get one...for my sister.

Alright, better get the Captain to the park before he adds another one to his list...