Knee Deep in Potty Training

“Poop regression”...I never anticipated googling those words when we started potty training (or ever, really). Then again, I never thought I’d be writing a blog called The Tao of Poop either. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I’d ever make it to motherhood, but I digress. What I really want to talk about is how useless expert advice on the internet is in general.

When I google “poop regression”, I have very specific needs around its sudden appearance in my life. I want to know why my daughter has decided to start pooping in her pants again after a six months stretch of using the potty, and I want a child expert to tell me how to fix the situation.

I mean, Claire’s not revealing any truths. I have NO CLUE what’s going on in that diabolical little head of hers. And I'm desperate. I practically had a ritual burning of the Diaper Genie when (I thought) it was time to get rid of it. I was just about ready to add an "ed" to train as opposed to an "ing". Now, we have swiftly veered off course.

Google, I'm looking for a roadmap!

My search query brings up a plethora of information on the subject. Seems like a good start. Yet, website after website pretty much tells me the same thing. None of the advice is helpful, despite it’s authoritative tone or air of commiseration.

I get LOTS of reassurance that I’m not alone and that my problem is common. Great. They might as well say “put that into your pipe and smoke it” for all this touchy-feely empathy helps me actually solve my problem.

Then, the standard line about why poop regression happens just pisses me off or makes me more confused...

"Perhaps, your child wasn’t 'truly' potty trained to begin with."

"What?" I want to yell at the computer, “You don’t know me! How dare you judge me! It’s been six months! Six months, dammit!...So, ok, calm down; you're yelling at a website," I say to myself. "Keep reading. If it isn’t that, how about..."

"There’s likely been a big change in your child’s life that’s caused the sudden regression."

Now, I just look at my daughter like she’s the Sphinx. "What has happened to her?? Is she ok??" I think, desperately, "Speak child, speak!!!" 

I finally get to the solutions that the experts have to offer, which are always just plain common sense, e.g. not helpful....

"Wait it out, be kind and gentle, get her on the potty at regular intervals."

"C'mon, can't you do better than that?! I’m looking for something that I can hang my hat on, expert people! I could've figure that out on my own!" I implore to the computer screen.

But it isn’t the experts’ fault. Really, I'm just mad at myself. I'm mad that I had a fight with a computer. I'm mad because I should have known that I would have been better off praying to the porcelain gods than looking for any wisdom on the internet.

And The Tao of Poop does know better. The Tao of Poop knows that my daughter is her own person, and that any designs I have on being her puppet master are limited, at best. There’s a lot about Claire that I will never understand and that I need to just roll with. For some reason, my daughter seems to like to throw a monkey wrench in things. C'est la vie!

It's a bitter pill to swallow, so I go on a futile and fruitless search for answers to impossible questions.

In the meantime, here we are, again…waiting it out…knee deep in...

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Photo Source: Manish Bansal This photo has been altered, and it's use does not suggest that the licenser endorses me, it's use or this blog. License

Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

 

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Are All Toddlers Sadists?

Because my daughter is a sadist.

Well, "sadist" implies intent and, as far as I know, she doesn’t plan to hurt her parents. I do imagine that Claire was a pro-wrestler and/or a professional torturer in a former life, though. The pro-wrestler Claire knows all about simple, blunt force – pulling hair and beards, bouncing up and down on bladders or livers, an uncomplicated whack here or there. It’s all pretty straightforward and packs a punch.

The torturer is practiced in the art of finesse. These attacks usually involve some sort of subtle rearranging of internal organs or intimate contact with the viscera of the body. Claire will take one, tiny thumb and search the face for a sinus cavity to dig into. She’ll find the tender spot in the mouth where the teeth and gums meet, like she’s seen Marathon Man one too many times. She’ll reach through the skin and wrap all her fingers around a cheekbone or neck muscle, squeezing it like she’s checking a loaf of bread for freshness. There’s uncanny knowledge of just how far to twist the nipple, Adam’s Apple or ear lobe, in order to induce pain.

I try to breathe and tell myself that it’s all good fine motor skills practice. I try to remember that there’s so much in the world that Claire wants to explore, including its internal workings.

But when I imagined having a baby, I didn’t think I’d be the subject of a real life version of the game Operation.

On a more positive note, Claire is starting to get the gist of "gentle hands" after the millionth time. I have reason to be optimistic that her torturous ways are merely temporary. If the situation doesn't continue to improve, I see a bright future as a CIA operative.


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Fifty Shades of No

The phrase “rules were meant to be broken” was tailor-made for children. There should be a phrase for parents that goes something like: “rules were made to be repeated".

My toddler has recently morphed into Ms. Independent, so I’m just beginning to get the lay of the land of "no". I’ve noticed that there are many shades to her burgeoning ability to test me. Much to my dismay, she tries each one on for size several times a day:

The Ignorer: I’m going to pretend I’m fully engrossed in this play-doh, while you ask me to pick up the almonds I just threw on the floor.

The Evader: If I run away from you fast enough, I can surely keep this cap-less pen in hand. I’m enjoying this game, anyway. It’s hilarious listening to you repeat “Gimme that, gimme that” over and over, as you chase after me. So go ahead and catch me. Then, we get to do it all over again...

The Defiant One: I hear you saying, “don’t sit in that puddle”, I’m gonna do it anyway. In fact, I’m going to stare directly at you, while I do it. I dare you to try and stop me.

The Equivocator: “I want to carry that!”…”No, Mama, you carry that!”…”I want to carry that!” “Mama, you carry that!”…

Sly as a Fox: If I’m extremely quiet and hide in this corner, there’s no way you’ll notice I’m drawing on myself with magic marker.

The Determinator: I am determined to wear you down by returning repeatedly to the thing you said not to do and/or touch. You will relent. I've got time.

The Terrible Twos: Tantrums are a great way to get my way, no?

The Bully: If I yell my request at the top of my lungs, it will be granted. You just needed to know that I really, really wanted it. Or, maybe, you're hard of hearing.

The Flirt: I know that if I look at you and giggle as I bat my eyes, I can do whatever I want.

Just Plain “NO!”: Self-explanatory and loud, preferably someplace like the library where the sound of my voice can pierce through silence, reverberate against the walls and/or pierce people's eardrums.

As I said, I’m new to the land of "no". I’m sure there are more seasoned moms among you, who have more to add to the list. Please feel free to do so. I would appreciate the heads up about what's in store for Claire and me down the road...

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Photo Source: Wikipedia Commons: Sfs90, Simbolo No Revocatoria Lima 2013 

Braggy Mom or Bloggy Mom?

I would not have the following conversation with a mom friend of mine:

Mom friend: “How are you today, Rachel?”

Me: “I’m great, mom friend. Claire just said an 11-word sentence, which was grammatically correct. It was one of the most awesome things I’ve ever heard. It made my day!”

I would share that sentiment with my husband, Claire’s grandma or a friend who doesn’t have kids. My friends without kids would probably say something in return like, “Cool! Is an 11-word sentence good?”

I was reluctant to start a post like this too, even though it's the truth about Claire's current state of language acquisition, as well as my feeling about her blossoming ability to share her thoughts with me.

After all, I’m breaking serious mom etiquette. I’m not supposed to a) admit to keeping track of my child’s development so blatantly as to count the words in her sentences or b) be bragging about her mad skills in any particular area. If you google “bragging mom”, you can find tons of articles shaming such officious behavior.

I’m by nature a rule follower. I fear I’m exposing an obnoxious, squawking side of myself that is derided by mothers everywhere.

It’s precisely because of my fear that I swing to the opposite direction in daily interactions, which is equally annoying. I find myself being apologetic, diminishing my daughter’s very own strengths. I can see the wheels turning in other mom's heads as they compare their child to my daughter:

“I can’t get over how Claire talks. Sarah doesn’t say a word yet,” mom friend said, recently. “Do you think she’s autistic?”

“Wow, I want Max to hang around Claire more often,” another mom friend said. “Why can’t he say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ like her?”

Another mom was more direct: “I’m jealous! I wish Cassie talked like that,” she said.

I can’t take these statements. I don’t like feeling that Claire and I have made other people feel bad or uncomfortable. I just can’t seem to help responding by sharing Claire’s weak spots. She does not have the greatest gross motor skills, and could care less about figuring out how things like puzzles and blocks work.

I do also make a point to share the strengths that I see in each child. Sarah has amazing emotional intelligence. Max is a great problem solver. Cassandra has a long attention span. I mean what I say too. If there's one thing that I learned as a teacher of kids with special needs, it’s that all children have strengths. We are better off focusing on a child’s strengths and interests than comparing him or her to others.

But it’s human nature to compare. I do it too. That’s fine. It’s also inevitable that we want to celebrate our own children’s abilities.

Yet, as I go to hit the publish button on this post, I’m still worried about how you will view my words. I'm praying that you'll see me as less of a braggy mom, and more of a bloggy mom wanting to shine some light on a complex issue. (You do, don't you? Please tell me you do!)

I doubt I’ll be doing any such bragging to my mom friends any time soon either. I’m probably going to stick to being proud of Claire with my husband, grandma and friends who don’t know any better.

I have made a pact with myself though. I refuse to diminish my daughter any longer. That stance is ridiculously excessive. It’s a projection to think that other mothers even want this kind of reaction from me anyway.

Besides, even if they do, Claire deserves a mom who errs on the side of singing her praises, not one who is worried about people seeing her as a braggart. (You don't, do you?)

How do you feel about sharing your child’s accomplishments? How about when others share their child’s accomplishments with you? Is there a difference between 'bragging' and 'celebrating a child'?  Do you ever find yourself comparing your children to others?


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Photo Source: Jeremiah John McBride, Flckr 

Dueling Drama Queens

Source

Tantrums are reaching a fever pitch in this house. The toddler is not the only offending party. She and her mom (that would be me) take turns dawning the drama-queen crown. Wait, let me explain. I have an excuse for my bad behavior.

(My daughter does too. She's a toddler. Her excuse is better.)

I've been sick the last few days. And not just with a garden-variety cold. This bug was flu-like. I swear even my eyelashes hurt. Light and sound aggravated the pain. You can probably guess which of these two triggers my daughter exacerbated. Her cries, yells and demands were like daggers to my head.

I needed relief. It was not coming quickly enough.

At this point, a part of my reptilian brain decides that yelling "Stop! I just can't take it anymore" (and things of a similar ilk, sometimes laced with profanity) is a good idea. Momentarily, I actually feel better. But amping up the temperature of the situation is not a great long-term strategy. It doesn't work for me or my daughter. In the end, I don't know who ends up feeling worse. Probably me since I'm the one who is supposed to be the adult (or at least act like one a good deal of the time).

I don't have much else to say, other than to qualify the confession above by saying that I don't behave this way with the regularity that it occurred during my recent convalescence. Really, I was just wondering what the rest of you do when there's no relief in sight, when you have had it, when you don't have any more resources at your disposal and you can no longer rise above yourself.

And, please, don't tell me to walk away and take a break. My daughter just follows me. And cries louder (my eyelashes start hurting again just thinking about it).


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Eat, Mess, Learn

Mashed avocado hangs precariously from the bottom of Claire's plastic spoon, as she inches it to her mouth like a drunkard.

I want to intervene, badly. I know the odds. In the race between speed and gravity, gravity usually prevails with a baby learning to eat from a spoon.

"Oh, no!" Claire says, rubbing the glob of green that has hit her shirt further into the weave of the fabric. In the process, she elbows the sippy cup off the table and onto the floor.

”Yup. I was right. I win,” I think.

If my baby could talk better, she would respond with something like, "But who needs to win, mom?" Why you spoiling all the fun?"

Each meal is new adventure for Claire, an opportunity to investigate properties, try new things, practice hard-won skills. She's part explorer, part scientist, part conqueror of the world -- planting her flag gloriously atop a mountain of guacamole. When I look at it from a baby's perspective, I'm happy to serve as her guide, to be the Sacagawea to her Lewis or Clark.

The problem is that I don't always see things the way Claire does. Instead, I see the big, giant mess she leaves in her wake. And the chaos that I am left to clean up.

The funny part is that I'm not considered the Donna Reed of housekeeping anyway (my husband would concur). I often wonder how moms with greater perfectionist tendency than my own deal with the amount of daily mess that toddlers make (and I'm clearly not talking only about disarray in the eating arena here). It must be a challenge.

I'm able to temper my own inertia about the Groundhog's Day phenomenon of toddler chaos by putting on my teacher's hat.  I find inspiration in the beliefs of the 19^th Century father of American education, John Dewey:

To 'learn from experience' is to make a backward and forward connection between what we do to things and what we enjoy or suffer from things in consequence. Under such conditions, doing becomes a trying; an experiment with the world to find out what it is like; the undergoing becomes instruction -- discovery of the connection of things. 

-Democracy and Education

I'm reminded to value the time that Claire gets to experiment, explore and play. It's the best way for her to learn about herself and her world, to gain confidence in her abilities and to grow more independent.

The part that Dewey leaves out in his philosophy is that the process of learning can be extremely messy, particularly when the learner in question is of the baby or toddler variety. Still, I’m a believer. His ideas embrace exuberant curiosity about everything around us; a quality I desire to instill in my daughter, even when I’m wearing my mom hat (or cleaning gloves, as it were).

Yes, being a mom is filled with daily banalities like rubbing Spray & Wash on green stains. Thinking about some of our great philosophers makes these routine things about motherhood feel a bit more heroic!

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Photo Source, Molly, Moom in Molly, Flickr. This photo has been adapted and does not suggest that the licenser endorses me, this blog or its use. License.

The ABC's of Feelings

Happy Hippo, Angry Duck

My daughter's first primer of emotions. We've been reading Sandra Boynton's Happy Hippo, Angry Duck to her since she was an infant. Teaching her about feelings is as important to our family as learning the alphabet.

I never learned how to make friends with my feelings as a child. Squash them down like a bug was more like it. In my family, showing emotion is considered a sign of weakness.

I'd like for my toddler, Claire, to learn to hold hands with her feelings, as she makes her way on this winding road called life. Over the years, I've witnessed how emotions tend to come out sideways if you don't.  

When I'm my best self, I'm able to put into practice what the experts suggest about helping children nurture their emotional self, such as learning to acknowledge feelings and name emotions. At other times, I realize that I still need to grow my own emotional life...and I'm just a wee bit older than the tender age of a child...

When Claire's angry and throwing one of her toddler fits (which involves a howl like a combination of a scream and crying). I try to breathe and soothe myself. But I feel my blood pressure rising. I feel like she's playing the violin on an attenuated nerve in my neck. I know she's got it in for me and only me, and I want to yell, "STOP! YOU'RE GIVING ME A CORONARY!"

Or when she's scared of the balloon; yes, I hold her and comfort her. Yet my own anxiety rises. "What? She's afraid of a balloon?" I think, as I project strange stories into thin air about my daughter's now entirely fraught future. "She's going to be afraid of everything! How's she going to manage in life, if she's scared of a balloon?!" I have to fight the urge to diminish her fear. I want so badly to say something like, "That's not scary. It's just a balloon!"

The worst is when she's sad. I want to sweep that icky feeling away like it's the bogeyman! I can't stand it when she's sad. When I see tears of hurt running down her face, I want to immediately make her feel better, bypass the big, bad emotion altogether. "Don't worry. Don't be sad. Let's make it better!," I find myself wanting to say -- discounting her feelings altogether instead of making space for her psychic reality.

Really, that's what I want to do with all of her emotions: make space for them. In my own life, I have found that when I invite my feelings along for the ride, they allow me to be the one in the driver's seat. I would like for my daughter to be the one driving too. 

Most of the time, I'm able to keep my thoughts in my head and let Claire be right where she needs to be. But it's far from easy. I find it hard enough just allowing me to be me, let alone Claire. 

Maybe, I need to start consulting the feelings book more often, as well.


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Photo Source: Pink Sherbet Photography, Fotopedia. This photo has been adapted and does not suggest that the licenser endorses me, its use or this blog.  License

Not Your Father's Old MacDonald

I doubt you'll ever find goats screaming like victims of torture over at Old MacDonald's place. But that's what my husband's teaching my daughter. He's obsessed with this video on Youtube, which, I must admit, is very funny. You should check it out. 

I'm not so sure that my daughter should be watching it, though. We're already so removed from nature as it is. We have to drive an hour plus from NYC to get to Stone Barns, which is a really cool working farm in Westchester County. The place is great, but, in truth, we go about once or twice a year for a couple hours.

Claire, George and chickens at Stone Barns

Instead, Claire has Youtube, which is right at our fingertips. Much to my dismay, she gets to learn about animals secondhand through a virtual source. She gets to see that the magic of computer technology transforms animals into burping, screaming and/or crying humans. Funny, yes. Educational, no.

In a few years, I think she might be old enough to join in on the fun. Until then, I think it's a good idea that she learn the real sounds that animals make first.

George would probably tell me to lighten up a bit. After all, it's only a video. In response, I would say that I'd be happy to make a deal with him. He gets the screaming goats video, if I get more family trips to Stone Barns when the weather gets warmer...


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Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

My little one is old enough for little white lies. She's not the one doing the lying. I am (hangs head in shame at this now public confession).

All of the sudden, my baby is a person who can understand others, have conversations and express her needs...which means I have begun to lie to her. It certainly wasn't part of my plan. My lying seems to have developed out of expediency…

When she wants to visit the neighbor's daughter and I don't feel like it..."Jane's at school right now" (on a weekend).

When she wants to watch Elmo on my smartphone for the thousandth time..."The phone's not working" (someday, it's going to ring at the same time I'm expressing this falsehood).

When she asks for a cookie..."they're all gone" (not really, just not interested in a sugar high right now and/or more for me later).

When she wants to go to the indoor pool at my gym..."The pool is closed" (way too much hassle to take her to the pool every time she asks). 

I could go on. There are more. And I have an overarching rationalization for them all. It's just that I reprimand her and say "no" so much during the day…."stay out of the garbage", "the markers aren't for furniture", "you can't come up on me while I'm cooking"…on and on.

Why not make a few of the "no's" not about her or me? Why not blame some of the "no's" on an external source? She seems to like these other reasons better too, which means fewer power struggles and tantrums.

That's better for both of us, right? 

But I know there are insidious downsides to this philosophy too. When she's a bit older, she's going to catch on and I'm gonna get busted in a lie. Talk about undermining my own authority. I don't think I'm ready for that interaction. Eventually, I'm going to have to really tell her the truth, which is that "mama sometimes says no, and you have to listen whether you like it or not". I'm merely delaying the inevitability of this stoic life lesson. 

And, ethically, can you ever really get away with a lie? I'm not sure. 

I don't know if I'm strong enough to be take a more ethically pure stance on this issue right now, though. It seems so much easier to tell her what we both want to hear. 

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 Photo Source: Stallio, Flickr, this photo has been altered and does not suggest the licenser endorses it or this blog.
 License

Are You There God? It's Me, Rachel

MEMORANDUM                                            PRIORITY: URGENT                                                                         

2/9/2013

To:  Powers that be

Fr:  Rachel Demas, The Tao of Poop

Re:  Toddler Tantrums

First, let me take a moment to thank you for the opportunity to engage in toddler tantrums at the tender age of 18 months old. While we thought our daughter was a bit young for such behavior, we remain optimistic that getting a jump on the situation now will serve as great preparation come the dreaded "terrible twos" stage. Actually, the terrible twos brings me to the central issue of this memo.

It was my impression that tantrums this frequent, illogical, random, protracted, unpredictable, overwhelming, and unmanageable should commence when my daughter reaches the age of two, preferably on her birthday and not a day sooner. To my knowledge, they are upon us now. The early onset of this situation has me shocked and confused, and brings me to a question and a request.

Question: Will my daughter's tantrums get worse when she turns two? Given our current circumstance, I don't see how this scenario is possible. I write seeking your reassurance that this fear is as irrational as my daughter's recent tantrums seem to me. Your reassurance in this matter will allow me to move forward knowing that, indeed, there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Request: Because my daughter's tantrums began at 18 months old, I would beseech you to relieve us of their burden by the time my daughter is two and a half. I realize I'm probably not the first parent to solicit your intercession on his or her behalf, and have no other special circumstances to report, which would have given my case additional merit. Further, I am aware that, as a first-time parent, I may appear naive about some of the vicissitudes of a toddler's behavior. However, I merely ask that you see the logic in my math. If the terrible twos start six months early (as, indeed, they have for us), I believe they should end six months early as well.

Please find attached requisite form OP-160 for your review. In advance, I appreciate that you have taken this missive under advisement. Further, I realize that you must be extremely busy with other pressing issues from desperate parents like me, so I would like to thank you for your attention in this matter.

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Photo Source: John Fera, Wikipedia, license