Melt Downs Here, There and Everywhere

Life with two toddlers can be interesting. You are always walking on eggshells, wondering what might set them off on a crying jag. They get upset at the smallest of things, but that small thing could result in you bolting from a restaurant and taking refuge in a car from the stares of a thousand fellow diners who wonder why you can’t control your child.

How do they make tears appear on demand? It is an unexplained phenomenon. How do they get so fired up about the smallest thing? They cry better than the cowardly lion in the Wizard of Oz. And how can they completely go insane over something as small as a sticker not sticking to their shirt?

I have two children who are as different as night and day. Tyson is mellow, laid back and a “good listener” when it comes to obeying mom and dad. Sydney is….well, she is going to read this some day, so let’s just say she is the, er, opposite.  The battles we are going to have during her teen-age years are going to be epic. If I don’t have a heart attack before then, it will most certainly come during one of her ginormous fits over not being allowed to stay out all night with her bad-boy boyfriend.

But they are two-of-a-kind when it comes to melt downs. On any given day, we have a couple of crying fits out of both of the children. Over the damndest things.

Here are the odd things that can make either one of my kids go into a crying fit:

Sydney

The radio not playing her favorite song.

A song on the radio sung by a man instead of a woman.

Me singing a song. (This brings others to tears, too….I just beat you to the joke you were thinking. Ha Ha.)

One of the dogs touching her as it walks by.

Any clothing item she is wearing, any part of her body, or any toy she is playing with getting even a single drop of water on it.

A sticker not sticking to her clothing. (She has even awakened in the middle of the night and cried long and hard to the point where I have to go in and settle her, all because the sticker she put on her pajamas before she went to bed is not there at 3 a.m.)

Going to bed.

Waking up.

Not getting to wear her Halloween costume anytime, anywhere, any day.

Her shoes being too tight. (Not too small, mind you. The same shoes she wore the day before and will wear the next day. Just on THIS day, they are too tight.)

The sun going down.

The moon not being visible at night.

Dinner time.

Her dad calling her Sydney Grace Gregg. (It is JUST SYDNEY dad!)

Tyson 

The dogs staring him down when he has a snack in his hand. (Not actually stealing the snack, but just looking like they might steal it.)

Anything other than Team Umizoomi being on the television.

The robot in Team Umizoomi swimming in an Olympic-style race. (No idea. But he can’t seem to watch this episode without cowering and crying.)

Not being allowed to push a desk chair around the house. (It might be a good workout for him, but we don’t need any scrapes on the wooden floor.)

Not getting to go to bed. (Unlike his sister, he likes to sleep. He is ready to go down about 8 p.m. and gets cranky if you delay.)

Sitting him in his bathtub seat rather than just letting him rough it alone in the tub.

Tearing his food into bite-sized pieces rather than letting him chow down on something that would necessitate me performing the Heimlich maneuver.

Not letting him eat the top of a crayon. (I’ve caught him with blue or green tongues more than I care to admit.)

That’s just a start. If I were to track the things that upset them to the point of anger/tears for the next six months, this list would be 1) as long as Kirstie Alley’s grocery list and 2) as crazy as a lunch date with Amanda Byne and Lindsay Lohan.

Yes, Syndey’s list is much longer. That is either because she is a girl, because she is older or because she is a drama queen. You make the call.

I can laugh now. But when we are going through these little mini-fits, laughter is the furthest thing from my mind.

Sydney and Kanye: Two Peas in a Pod?

If it is sacrilegious to admit your children annoy you, then let the shouts of “Satan!” come my way.

I love my daughter more than anything on earth, but this new “Terrible Twos” phase she is apparently hitting early is putting her just a notch below Kanye West on the annoyance meter.

Here are a few things Sydney has taken to doing that I am certain are designed to entice me into child abuse and get me sent away so she can spend her days eating nothing but cupcakes:

Spitting out her food. Somehow, she has come to believe that if she is eating something and decides – mid-chew, mind you -- she doesn’t want it, she can simply spit it out. This could be in her high chair, or while she walks around the house.

This is obviously unacceptable. And I have told her so. Loudly. Over and over.

The other day she took a couple bites of an apple, slowly opened her mouth and nonchalantly let the contents drop to the floor.

My wife’s response to this was, “Well, you know, she doesn’t like the skin.”

“Oh, OK, I guess we’ll let her turn our living room into an apple orchard because she doesn’t like the skin. She doesn’t like being confined to our yard either, so maybe we should let her take her toys to the middle of the street and play.”

Chirp. Chirp.

That’s the sounds of crickets. Sarcasm doesn’t go over well in my house when the wife is the target.

Believe me, I am going to break Sydney of this habit or I will end up in the graveyard of failed parents, alongside Dina and Michael Lohan and whomever parented Amanda Bynes. Throw in those teen moms from MTV, too. We’ll have a hell of a party.  

The only saving grace on this one is we have dogs that follow her around and scoop up her remnants shortly after they hit the floor. They stalk her as a tiger does its prey. I think sometimes she does it just to see the dogs eat it.

Is my child the only one who does this?

Throwing her plate of food on the floor. For a while, we had her “trained” to say “all done” when she felt she had eaten enough. She’d often say this with great exuberance, “All Done!” and that was our cue to immediately clear her plate and get her out of the chair.

Now, she seems to have eschewed our agreed-upon signal for the distressing act of dumping her food on the floor. Where does one learn this? If you know me and my rather large physique, you know very little food ever gets dumped off my plate, so this cannot be something she is learning at home.

Again, thank God for the dogs. I never have to worry about carpet stains because they are on those stray morsels faster than Kim Kardashian scurrying to her next red carpet interview.

Nevertheless, this brazen act is similar to spitting out her food and does not go unpunished.

But I am just not sure a 22-month-old mind yet comprehends the whole concept of “right and wrong.” I’ll keep trying, because, at some point, either she’ll get it or my heart will explode in frustration and I’ll fade blissfully from this earth to a place where all children happily eat all the food on their plates – including their vegetables -- carry them to the sink on their own and hand wash them to spotlessness.

Totally ignoring me. The other day, I asked Sydney 15 times to look at me so I could show her something. She was playing no further than five feet away. Somehow, she managed to keep her back turned through all 15 pleadings.

This is a remarkable skill, when you think about it. This single-mindedness and ability to block out the world around you might lead to great things. I imagine this is how Stephen Hawking is when he is working on some serious physicist stuff.

It is also a growing trend. She regularly has a very nonchalant attitude when it comes to taking directions from others. Perhaps she is practicing for her teen years.

I can’t wait for those golden years when she essentially serves as dad’s gopher, fetching a newspaper or beer, or picking up things his 50-year-old body refuses to bend for. I still remember when I was about 8 and playing outside with my friends, hearing my dad call “Brian!” several times and running inside to see what he needed.

“Can you change the channel for me?” he asked. (This was before the days of remote control.)

Ahh, the rites of fatherhood. When do I get there with Sydney?

Until then, I’ll continue to repeat simple commands like, “It is time for bed, let’s go upstairs” and she’ll continue to stack her Legos, like daddy’s voice is a dog whistle her ears are not attuned to.

So those are my top three complaints as of now. It is important to note that this is a fluid process, and as we conquer one annoying habit, another soon pops up. If you ask me six months from now, this list will be different and, perhaps, quite longer.

Now, I could also do a post on all of the things that I adore about my daughter, from her recitation of the ABCs in order to get everyone to clap for her; to her getting excited and shouting a 25-word diatribe, of which only about five are actual words you can understand; to the ultimate daddy-loving symbol of affection, the “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” I get when she runs into my arms upon my arrival from work.

But that would bore you. Or seem like bragging. Or paint me as a nice guy.

Call me a guy who likes to go against the grain. Even if it is sacrilegious to the shrine of parenting.

Baby 2.0

I’m on the die-before-you-retire plan.

Anyone who really knows me, knows how much this depresses me. I am a man of leisure. I certainly look forward to a time when I can sleep until noon and play poker late into the night. Hell, I might even take up regular exercise when I retire because I will have so much free time on my hands.

But that when is now a lot more of an if.  I don’t see it happening.

I’m having another baby.

That means I will be 65 when my second – and last (I plan on getting the snip job!) – graduates high school. Then, I will have four years of college tuition to look forward to. Multiplied by 2.

I guess what I am saying is, if I was a betting man, I’d pony up to the window in Vegas and place my money on the chances of me dying before I retire.

But the truth is, I’d probably die a lot sooner without these kids in my life. Kids reinvigorate you. They give you a reason to live. I’m excited I have a second one on the way.

Sometime in mid-May of next year, little baby Gregg will arrive! He or she will blast into this world via c-section, just like sister Sydney.

Will it be a boy or a girl? Doesn’t matter. Last time, you will recall, I was 51 percent hoping for a boy. This time, I really am 50-50. My experience with a girl has been so positive, I would happily do it again.

Either way, I should find out in December. We already have names picked out for either gender. That’s better than last time, when we could only agree on girl names. By the way, I proposed no stripper names this time.

As I have stated many times in this blog, I never had a strong desire to have children. Brooke wanted two and I wanted zero. We compromised on two.

My fears are the same this time around as last time. I’ve done nothing for the last two months but obsess about a bigger house and adding an additional income stream. I’ve also wondered what would be the best line of work for someone who doesn’t want to be forced out before age 70.

I have zero energy now. How do I add another little Tasmanian devil to the mix? Sydney doesn’t even sleep through the night yet. Now comes another one who wants to party deep into the night, ala Lindsay Lohan? I don’t have enough money to go around now. How do I add another day care bill, a mound of diapers and 50-gallon drums of baby formula to my monthly tab? I have the patience of an angry bee now. How do I mix in another child who will spend nights tormenting me by sticking their hand in the VCR every five minutes, chewing electrical cords when I am not looking and pounding my computer keys while I am trying to check my fantasy league progress?

But what is different this time around is I know the reward. Having Sydney in my life has truly been the greatest experience of my 46 years. That smile can turn my day around in an instant. She does something silly every day that makes me laugh out loud. Her daily development provides a deep sense of interest and pride. I’m sure all of the same will occur with Baby Gregg # 2.

Plus, I know what to expect. When the baby does nothing but cry, sleep and poop for four months and has the same expression for me that he or she has for a brick wall, I will know that somewhere around the corner is coming that first hint of recognition of daddy and it will be accompanied by a smile that melts my heart.

In fact, this is my chance to get a kid who actually likes me. Sydney does nothing but call for mama and cuddle with mama 24/7. I’m as popular as Mel Gibson at a bat mitzvah with my own daughter. Maybe Baby Gregg #2 will have an affinity for daddy.

That is just one of the things that is going to be different this time around. I’m going to assert myself. No baby classes. No more taking the heat for not being excited enough. No nipple confusion. No $400 strollers. No letting the baby bounce off the bed.

I’ve learned some lessons.

This pregnancy is going to be all about me. When Brooke’s back hurts, mine is going to hurt more. When someone asks how she is feeling, I am going to blurt out my aches and pains. If there are any gifts to be doled out this time around, I am going to ask for something for my man cave.

I might even gain 50 pounds in sympathy weight. Oh wait…I did that last time.

I’m going to focus all the attention on me. The first pregnancy was for her. I’m going to enjoy this ride.

I better. For the next 22 years, I am going to work my rear end off, slaving decades past the issuance of my Golden Buckeye Card and AARP membership. It is going to be all about Sydney and her little brother or sister. I have to get them through college, or die trying.

A funny thing happened on the way to retirement…          

Oh Where Have you Gone Wile E. Coyote? Chica's selling for $250 a pop!

If you talk sprout to anyone my age, you are talking beans. But I have discovered a whole new Sprout as a parent.

As near as I can tell (and this whole column will be about my observations and thoughts as opposed to me actually looking things up…what fun would that be?) this new Sprout is like the old PBS we had when we were kids. It is a learning channel for kids. It is the station that plays Sesame Street.

Why Sprout? I have no idea. I imagine there is a lot of incredible market research behind it. Or, maybe it just sounds great to kids. These are people who are fascinated by furry puppets who eat a lot of cookies, so it doesn’t take much to make them smile.

I am not sure how we found Sprout, but now that we know where it is, it seems to run on an endless 24-hour cycle in our home. Most of you know I am an ID Channel addict. Not anymore. Now I am a Sproutlet. Yes, that is really what they call their followers.

Don’t get me wrong. My daughter doesn’t sit for hours and watch cartoons. It is more background noise than anything – something we turn it on to keep her entertained in between activities and naps and meals. And most of the time, if we are watching, we are explaining things to her, so it becomes a learning experience.

Kids take their Sprout seriously. I have even seen a Sprout Live insignia at the bottom of the screen while I was watching. Why in the world would children’s television need to be live? This is not CNN with breaking news. The Cookie Monster ate another cookie? Got it. No need to break into regular programming.

Over the past week, I decided to take some notes on what I was watching. I realized that I started to actually know some of the songs they sing on this channel and that led me to believe I was developing “mush head.” This is a disease I attach to parents who spend too much time around kids. Stay-at-home moms or dads are especially susceptible to this. They only talk about their kids, they frequently revert to baby language and tones and they tend to break out in kids songs on a regular basis. Try to discuss the nation’s debt crisis with them and you get a blank stare before they say, “Numbers? Oh, let me tell you about the Counting Song…1, 2, 3, 4 … one less than five, one more than three…” Yeah, I really don’t know the words, but you get the picture.

So, while taking notes to ensure my child was watching quality television, I came to the following conclusions:

·         Cartoons are much more educational than when I was a kid. They try to teach your kids life lessons, along with reading, writing and arithmetic. I watched something that had a bear family in it and they lived in a house that was apparently in the country. They were “rural” bears and the house next door went up for sale and a “city” bear family moved in. There was friction between the daddy rural bear and the daddy city bear because they did things differently. In the end, they became friends and the moral of the story was, just because someone is different, doesn’t mean they are bad. Good life lesson. We didn’t exactly get that kind of information from watching Wile E. Coyote try to blow up the Roadrunner.

·         There is some kid named Caillou who has his own cartoon show. Caillou? Seriously? Were Fred, Joe and Ricky already taken? What are we teaching our kids by giving main characters names like this? Caillou looks a lot like Charlie Brown, so why not call him Charlie? 

·         There is a show, called the Wiggles, about guys who dress up in funny outfits. I have no idea what this show is about, but Sydney seems to like it. They do a lot of singing. She likes anything with singing. But why are they called the Wiggles? Can anyone answer that for me? They need to keep this stuff simple for old guys like me. There is another show called the Pajanimals that features – yes, you guessed it – animals in pajamas. Now THAT is simple.

·         The old Thomas the Engine book is now a show. But he has seven or eight other engine buddies to help him out with his adventures. Cool.

·         There is this little bird called Chica who is apparently the rage with kids. Chica talks with a high-pitched squeak. Sydney loves her. You are supposed to “sing along with Chica and do the tweet, tweet, tweet!” I know Chica’s fandom has hit Justin Bieber-like levels because my wife got the idea to get on Amazon and see if she could find a stuffed Chica for Sydney. Average price? Are you ready for this? You are not, I promise you. Sit down for a sec. Ok, average price….$250. ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FREAKING MIND? Sydney will get version 6.0 of Chica, when the price comes way down.

·         They do some birthday songs on there and they recognize kids for their birthday. “Hap-pee Hap-pee Birthday to you, to you, to you!” I can’t get the damn song out of my head. I guess the idea is, if you are watching from home and see your name or picture on TV, it is a big deal. It is like Willard Scott for toddlers. But here is my problem with it: parents put their 2-year-old kids up there. They are 2! They barely know their name. They aren’t going to take time out from drooling to even enjoy it and they certainly will never remember it. These are the same kind of parents who take their kid to Disney at age 3 or have huge birthday parties for them when they are still in diapers. If you are going to do this stuff, make sure it is a time in life when they get maximum value out of it.

·         At night – which in kiddie land is about 6 p.m. – they have a Good Night show, or something like that. It features a chick who looks like Lindsay Lohan before the booze. She talks to what looks like a big couch pillow shaped like a blob. But his name is Star, so I think he is supposed to be a star. Makes sense with the good-night theme.

·         Even the commercials are geared toward kids. Sydney is fascinated by a commercial for lights that display images on your ceiling at night time. It looks like an old projection machine and you can project an image of hippopotamus or something like that into your room. When that commercial comes on, she stares intently throughout. I would buy it for her, but it would keep her up at night and if you follow this blog, the one thing Sydney does not need it less sleep. Let me correct that: the one thing Brooke and I do not need is less sleep.

The bottom line on cartoons is our parents had it a lot tougher than us for two reasons:

1) Cartoons were not as educational back in the day. We can justify all of today’s TV watching as learning. TV watching = learning = good parenting. Yeah, that’s it.  

2) We have smart phones and can play Words with Friends or surf the Internet to keep ourselves entertained while the Wiggles are wiggling away on the screen. This, my friends, helps ward off mush head.