"Don't Cry Over Spilt Milk"

is the mantra that runs through my head, when I'm trying to find a Zen place in the face of a day’s worth of toddler chaos. Unfortunately, a few hours into said day, I start talking back to the voices in my head.

“But this is the THIRD time she’s literally spilled her milk! You said I can’t cry. What about screaming? PLEASE let me scream, please! I’ll feel so much better,” I say plaintively.

Some days, I do scream….but I don’t feel better.

Other days, I remember that I actually subscribe to the philosophy that making messes is part of the process of learning. On good days, I teach my daughter a spirit of experimentation and a love of discovery, unencumbered by the fear of the outcome of her endeavors. I remember that I really love this quote from Roald Dahl.

(Dahl was referring to stuff like climbing trees, but giving a toddler a glass of milk qualifies as “risk” in my book.)

On good days, I give her the space to make messes, so she can learn to clean them up. I show her that mistakes can be opportunities and that mistakes can be fixed.

I am a believer.

What no one told me was how much tension would exist between my tolerance level for chaos and my philosophy about how to grow a healthy child and learner. 

How about when motherhood seems a feat of endurance? Bad days where the disaster around me seems to be keeping pace with my internal state of mind. Days when I feel less of an idealistic teacher and more like Sisyphus.

That's when it's best to let go the mantle of both idealist and Sisyphus. I need to strip away my beliefs about how things should go.

Nothing stands between Claire and me -- our relationship is at its most essential.

I see a child just being. I see a mom loving her child and her child's beingness very, very much.

At the heart of the matter, that's all we need to remember.

Connect with: Bloglovin', FB, Twitter, G+, Pinterest


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.)

 

<center> <a href="http://taoofpoop.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" src="http://i.imgur.com/FJIJWl.jpg"/></a></center>

Wonder and Fear

My two year old, Claire, ran straight through the front door, bursting with news to share with a particular member of the family about her trip to Grammy's house.

"Look, Lloyd. Grammy gave me chalk. It's red and orange and pink," she said over and over again excitedly. He listened patiently, while sniffing the pieces of chalk she held under his nose.

Yes, Lloyd is our cat. He is Claire's good friend.

I was grateful to Lloyd, the cat, for being so obliging. I was in awe of the magical world of my child.

In Claire's world, sticks of chalk might as well be nuggets of gold. Cats are confidants who will be sure to concur with you on just about anything you tell them. The world is surprising and new and everything is possible.

But wonder has a shadow side, too.

"Pink scary," Claire said, while we were at Grammy's house. She gestured to the bathroom door with one hand and clung to my pants with the other. Grammy's pink satin robe hung on the back of the door. Claire became fixated on it as unfamiliar and mysterious -- an object of terror.

I tried to coax her toward the door to look at it. I wanted her to believe that the robe was something mundane and ordinary. I wanted to talk her out of her fear.

"Look," I said. "It's like a coat. See the buttons."

Sometimes, reassurance does the trick. Not this time. For all Claire knew, the robe was going to leap off the hanger and swallow her whole.

I started thinking about how fear springs from the same place as wonder. I stopped trying to reassure her. I decided just to be with her.

Each night, Claire sees the moon and I swear she believes it has risen for her and her alone. With great joy, I go along with her on this flight of fancy. I realized that I need to be able to roll with her when she's suspicious of the everyday too.

In time, Claire won't see the world as such a magical place anymore. For now, I want to treat this magical world with respect and empathy.


Connect with: Bloglovin', FB, Twitter, G+, Pinterest

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

Hidden Treasure

theartreference.blogspot.com

  

Claire has turned our home into a scavenger hunt of sorts. An Easter Egg Hunt without the eggs, if you will.

When I find a random ball or blocks under a chair or table, it’s barely worth a yawn. I’m much more surprised when I open the door to the hall closet and happen upon a piece of apple. Or when I’m booby trapped by a trail of Cheerios crunch, crunching under foot, as I walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I’m most intrigued when it seems that Claire has specifically placed things in certain spots…The half of a cracker that’s perfectly wedged in the small round hole of a toy… The square piece of cheese that has come to rest exactly in the middle of the metal coaster on the side table…The sippy cup straws and primary colored crayons that seem made to go together in a cup on her easel.

I have weighed the idea of keeping her in the highchair to eat. But then I would be more concerned about how I look as a housekeeper than Claire. Really, she’s a toddler. I’m  happy to get food in her, even if it means she’s on the run and food ends up elsewhere.

Plus, I remember reading the truism that the creativity of youth is rarely tidy. Her various hidings are evidence of how she engages with and transforms her environment. Her serendipitous, little presents are like interior decorating, toddler style.

On the other hand, I am less happy to find a piece of food that’s been hanging around for awhile -- like a desiccated old man calling out for cockroaches and/or mice. Likewise, my patience wears thin when she’s hidden my keys.

I draw the line at hiding keys. Unfortunately, like most toddlers, she remains completely undeterred by this line in the sand!