Viking Role Reversals

So, Bridget the Viking has been rapidly civilizing ever since her big sister Brontë started Kindergarten a few weeks ago.

Gone are the sudden, inexplicable tantrums that would alarm neighbors living two blocks away.

FullSizeRender.jpgShe doesn’t throw Legos at cats anymore, or refuse to eat anything while simultaneously screaming about how hungry she is. She’s actually using the potty (like a big girl) instead of calling me into the bathroom, 600 times a day, to watch her yell “DONE” (after not really trying), before running into the next room to pee on the floor.

At first, I was baffled by Brontë’s absence accomplishing what a million stern talks and time-outs couldn’t…

The more I thought about it, however, the more it started making sense: this is the first time Bridget is getting regular, one-on-one attention from mom.

Believe me, I’ve tried…but it’s tough to maintain focused attention on one toddler when there’s always another one feeling threatened, nipping at your heels. One who never quits jockeying for lap space or talking all the air out of the room.

I’m not kidding about that last part. Brontë will start talking at 4 in the morning and literally not stop until she’s sleeping that night. She talks frantically, sometimes even glitching while repeating the same question, over and over, when she’s too keyed-up, repeating the same few words until they garble as she panics in a desperate attempt to filibuster the house…

Which has got to be very intimidating for Bridget, who is two years younger than Brontë, which is a massive developmental gulf at this point. Bidgie might be struggling to pronounce the “t” in “water,” fighting to successfully bark out one-word demands in the rare breaks of big sister Brontë breathing during her hour-long dissertations about why Pinkie-Pie makes a better pony than Applejack.

Brontë also has more advanced psychological manipulation techniques up her sleeve. She can silently work Bridget into a screaming fit with just the right look or whispered catchphrase, which I finally caught one day in the rearview mirror, after demanding that Bridget stop shrieking in the car for the thirtieth time.

(Mind you, Bridget isn’t completely defenseless. She’s a dark horse who occasionally figures out quiet ways to get revenge.

Like that time I caught Bridget hiding the remote control under her blanket as Brontë went into hysterics about why her cartoon kept flipping off & on. Brontë was really freaking out, starting to wonder whether she was making it happen by waving her arms, when I finally caught Bridget doing it and Bridget kept a completely straight face until that moment.)

IMG_5276Well, I get it now… Bridget was really frustrated. She was angry and didn’t have enough skills to communicate what she was feeling, so she kept acting out. Because ever since Brontë started going to Kindergarten, Bridget has been talking more, stringing together entire sentences, and generally being a little angel who picks me flowers and does whatever she’s asked.

After dropping Brontë off this morning, Bridget and I took a walk to Starbucks so we could have some special time together, and she sat nicely in her chair (instead of jumping and climbing), had a civilized conversation with me about the current issues plaguing Sesame Street (instead of unpredictably screaming), and happily finished her hot cocoa and cake pop before wiping her hands on a napkin and throwing away her own trash.

On the walk home, the idea of building her own cow struck Bridget like a thunderbolt. She began gathering materials for her project (including dandelions, sticks, and Starbucks napkins), announcing she planned to paint it orange and pink and that she needed enough stuff to make it MOO.

(Given her obsession with dairy, I can only assume she was thinking up ways to access an unlimited milk supply.)

She abandoned the project upon returning home, however, deciding instead to line up Elsa, Anna, Ariel, and a shark on the couch so she could serve then all a bunch of coffee and tea. She also gave them napkins and little plastic cakes.

And that’s when Ariel started acting up.

She was apparently making a bunch of noise, because Bridget had to run over and frantically shush her. But Ariel kept at it, crawling on the furniture until Bridget ran over  to insist she “SIT STILL!” Bridget tried calming her with a baby blanket and toy, but Ariel just wouldn’t behave.

This went on for a while until Ariel completely lost it, jumping on Bridget until they were rolling all over the living room floor. Bridget marched the Ariel doll over to a chair, saying “That’s IT! TIME OUT!” before running away laughing.

I never would’ve pictured Bridget getting into law enforcement, but there it is.

 

 

 

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Ice, Ice Baby (AKA- Introverted Dog People)

I used to consider myself an introvert until I met my husband and started having conversations like the one we had last week.

We were driving to our very first Back-To-School night because Brontë is starting Kindergarten. It’s a milestone, so I was pretty excited.

But my husband seemed out of sorts. He kept braking the car, worrying about getting there on time (even though we were waaaay ahead of schedule) and kept ranting about how the church we live next to really, really needs to do a better job of trimming their hedges…

John: And WHY do they let people leave free sofas on the corner!? That just looks TACKY. Like our neighborhood is one GIANT GARAGE SALE.

Me: Umm… are you alright? is there something wrong?

John: I just WANT TO BE THERE ON TIME.

Me: We’re going to be sitting in this car for half an hour. We live 5 minutes away from the school.

John: I don’t even know WHO’S GOING TO BE THERE.

Me: Probably teachers and parents. Possibly the principal.

John: Yeah, look…

Me: What?

John: I’m… (sighs) just an introvert getting ready to go do this big, stupid extrovert thing and there’s going to be ALL THESE PARENTS and stuff.

Me (confused): Are you scared?

John: Not scared, I just don’t know what’s about to happen. I hope nothing bad is about to happen and there’s all these people

Me: What could possibly happen? Like, one of these people is gonna pull out a gun and start robbing us? A bomb could go off? Someone hauls off and punches you in the face?

John: NO. There could be… ICEBREAKERS. I really, really don’t want an ICEBREAKER to happen.

Me (incredulous): Is this the kind of thing where you’re nervous but secretly like it?

John: I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TO TELL A STRANGER ABOUT MY FIRST CONCERT OR SEE WHO CAN BUILD A TOWER OUT OF POPSICLE STICKS.

Me (in hysterics): I have to Facebook this. Do you mind?

John (assuming I simply can’t envision this catastrophe occurring): You just GO AHEAD because I’ve ACTUALLY HAD TO DO THOSE THINGS. At WORK. They grab a bunch of introverted tech geeks and make them…

Me: Build stuff?

John: TALK TO PEOPLE.

penguins.jpgSpoiler: There didn’t end up being any icebreaker activities because they were too busy trying to make people volunteer for stuff (another frightening scenario I hadn’t foreseen).

But I did end up Facebooking the conversation and was surprised by how much moral support my husband received. Many people talked about how they’d rather just keep working than attend meetings with forced interaction and some went as far as calling extroverts “complete social tyrants.”

Is this a thing? Do people really hate icebreakers this much?

(Psh, and they say dog people are extroverted compared to cat people. That clearly doesn’t apply to everyone.)

 

Leveling Up The Parenting Game

One of the most frustrating parts of parenting is when you’re struggling to cope with brand new life equations as more veteran parents chuckle about how you don’t even know.

Like, you’ll be dealing with morning sickness and ill-timed incontinence while constantly hearing: Just WAIT until the baby is born… 

Then you’re losing your mind from netting five unbroken hours of sleep last week be as people keep telling you: Psh… this is the EASY part. 

Because parenting, much like a video game (or life itself), involves always developing more skills and better strategies. Once you’re past infant stage, you tackle the Potty-Training Challenge, the Cleaning Up Your Toys Challenge, and try to swing the Not Throwing Tantrums in Restaurants & Grocery Stores Achievement for bonus points.

And recently, I leveled up. Yay! My daughter Brontë just started Kindergarten.

IMG_5383She was pretty excited about it. She kept yelling, “WHO HAS TWO THUMBS AND IS GOING TO KINDERGARTEN? THIS GIRL!” on the ride over,

She was thrilled to put her unicorn backpack on the little hook and line up with the other kids to file into class. When I came to pick her up, she walked out of class to find me standing where I’d left her and, looking perplexed, asked me, “Have you been waiting for me this whole time?

She was relieved to find out I hadn’t been stuck there all day, but her mood soured on the car ride home.

“I’m MAD at you,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because… Kindergarten wasn’t what I expected. I’m disappointed. And you just left me there. I think I want to stay home with you and Bridget instead.”

Hmm. Well, I suppose Kindergarten is a whole different animal than preschool, where the kids get to run around playing and doing whatever they want. Kindergarten involves RULES and sitting still and stuff like that.

“I’m sorry you were disappointed,” I told her. “But I’m sure you’ll get used to it and make lots of friends. You’ll learn about a lot of stuff. Like, how to read.”

“I already know everything.”

“No… you don’t.”

“I can pretend.”

This went on for a while until I finally reminded her that she wants to be an astronaut and that being an astronaut means having to go to school and she found herself without reasonable counterarguments.

Thankfully, after a week or so of this Kindergarten routine, Brontë actually started looking forward to it. She likes her teacher and gets to go to class with the neighbor’s kid, who is already her good friend.

But that’s not all. Brontë is also a Girl Scout now.

This all happened when my neighbor, a close friend, teamed up with some other neighborhood women to embark on their very own Girl Scout Troop and I was yanked into their orbit.

Being part of this pioneering group means I’m going to be one of the leaders, which is somewhat daunting because I don’t know anything about Girl Scouts since being kicked out of the Brownies, many years ago, for frustration-pinching the other kids after the indignities of being forced to pimp their cookies without getting to tie cool knots overwhelmed me.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Some boy in my class was showing off his merit badges for knowing how to tie seven different knots when it suddenly occurred to me: How come I don’t know how to tie any knots? How come I’ve never been camping? ALL WE DO IS SPRAY GOLD PAINT ON MACARONI BOXES AND SELL THEIR COOKIES AND I’M CLEARLY BEING USED…

Which all culminated in me running around pinching everyone at the Girl Scout meet-up, later that night, because kids don’t know how to properly express themselves.

I can still remember my mother driving me home, too confused to even be angry, repeatedly asking me why I wanted to run around pinching everyone as I sat there unable to explain. I think the fact that I was normally such a calm, obedient child made it all the more baffling.

And I have yet to share this information with the neighborhood moms.

(Not sure if I will.)

But that’s not all. Brontë is now also on a soccer team: The Dragonflies.

Which makes me now, officially, a Soccer Mom.

To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this because it’s such a cliche. I was really irritated that one time a taxation-is-theft guy on Facebook condescendingly called me a soccer mom as we were arguing about gun control because it seemed to imply I’d lived too sheltered and naive a plastic life to appreciate How The World Really Works. As though I’d spontaneously sprung into the role of mothering without any previous life experiences to inform my views…

But mostly, it means that the trendy midtown resident I used to be, who listened to all the weird bands and went dancing with her girlfriends at whatever new place may be gone forever. That the notion of parenthood never changing me was all a lie.

It echoed that fateful moment at the dinner table when my husband shouted, “I’ve got a POCKETFUL OF TIMEOUTS!” to our unruly kids and I realized we just weren’t cool anymore.

On the other hand, Brontë thinks soccer practice is super fantastic because she likes being part of a team, especially when it involves uniforms. She likes that “Everything is Awesome” song from the Lego movie, un-ironically.

Even though she doesn’t fully understand what soccer means. At the first meet up, after the coach gave the kids a long lecture about how to play, the meaning of sportsmanship, and asked if anyone had any questions, the girls sat silent for a few moments until Brontë slowly raised her hand.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I think that Sleeping Beauty is the very best princess,” she said, with extreme authority.

Another kid raised her hand.

“Ariel is my favorite princess.”

“That’s a good one too,” Brontë acknowledged.

And meanwhile, Bridget quietly grabbed a soccer ball and having never touched one before, started pulling these moves:

So… Bridget may end up appreciating soccer on an entirely different level than her sister, but she’s still too young to play. It’s been a rough month for Bridget, who has to watch her big sister go to Kindergarten, become a Girl Scout, and join a soccer team without being able to participate. Being a three-year-old with an older sibling is hard.

And as for me, well… my whole schedule has been having to adjust, which is why I haven’t been blogging as regularly. I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what I’ll be up against once Brontë and Bridget are both doing lots of stuff.

Just wait until they’re teenagers…