MotherMorphosis

Watching Them Sleep

A Survival Skill for the Terrible Twos

Photo by Hardcore Brain on Unsplash

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My oldest and I were sitting in the rocking chair in his room, gearing up for “nunnight.” Bedtime couldn’t happen soon enough as far as I was concerned. I imagine my son felt the same way because he had actually asked me to put him to bed and didn’t even want a story.

Bath time had been a solemn affair, bereft of most of the usual rituals, including shampoo hairstyles and bubbles; the toothbrush remained teed up but left unused on the side of the sink. We were at the end of a really hard day of what seemed to be a never-ending tantrum.

The storm we just rode out was at least the sixth of the day, which was significant because he had been at daycare all morning and napped during part of the afternoon. The tantrums had lasted anywhere from 15 to 30 minutes: spells that were not merely annoying, but monumental tests of my sanity and well-being.

Saying “no” to Oldest would set him off. But what else could I say when he intentionally dropped things in the toilet, swept all my makeup and toiletries off the counter, and rummaged under Daddy’s sink (which had not been child-proofed)? I had to say it again later when he wanted to color on anything but the paper I kept trying to insert between his markers and the target surface. I said it again when he opened the dishwasher and tried to get in it. And by the time we got to grabbing the floor lamps and shaking them, opening my desk drawers and pulling files out, as well as the old favorite, let’s-make-paper-come-out-of-the-fax-machine game (which was sometimes funny but not that day), I’d about had it. No. No. No!

At one point that day, I collapsed on the kitchen floor in tears. I had asked, told, begged, cajoled, and finally bellowed at Oldest, “Put the raisins in the trash, please! Now!” He had thrown them on the floor during breakfast, and they were still there.

“No.” “No!” “No.” “No!” NOOOO! He replied every time, the last time rolling around on the floor dramatically, weeping, for emphasis.

I had been up countless times the previous night with the baby, and now he, too, was crying. I tried with all my might to regroup; someone had to be in control and in charge. All I wanted to do was instill the lesson about being responsible for the messes that you make. (He cleans up at daycare; I have seen him do it.) I was not proud that I yelled. In fact, I felt horribly inept.

Even when I was able to regain my composure, which used up what seemed like the rest of my reserves, I’m not sure that I was able to keep from rolling my eyes or sighing, which made me feel guilty on top of incapable.

Just when I had figured out the whole feeding, sleeping, bathing routine, I had to become a child psychologist. Nothing I had read prepared me for something like this. Never mind those What to Expect books. I needed to read something about discipline! Talking to my friends was invalidating. Either they were not experiencing the same thing and never have, or they were lying.

It didn’t help me feel any better about the situation when his teacher reported, “Oldest had a wonderful day today.” Why was it that he completely melted down when he got home?

I wondered if I was being too strict. Or maybe I was being too lax. Maybe he needed clearer guidelines. Did he not understand what I was asking of him? Was I asking too much? We were finally at the point where we were able to communicate about simple things. So, was he mad that I understood what he wanted and said no anyway? It sure would be a lot easier to continue to clean up his messes and let him remain the untamed bundle of exuberance that a baby is, but what kind of parent would I be if I didn’t socialize the boy? That’s part of a parent’s job, right?

I could pinpoint the timeframe in which the difficulties began in earnest. It was the day I had taken the baby to do our Mommy-Baby portrait (which, of course, I had also done with Oldest when he was a baby). When I picked him up from his babysitter’s house, she described behavior that I would call sulking: not eating, not smiling, refusing to make eye contact. I felt a pang of guilt, wondering if he had heard me telling Baby about our special plans that day and why he was wearing the outfit he was. (I talked to the boys about anything and everything in grown-up language, even if they had no idea what I meant, which of course, the baby didn’t. He was barely six months old.)

I rejected the idea just as quickly. No, impossible…he must have a little cold that is making him irritable.

Well, he did have a little cold, but he was so uncharacteristically irritable that by the time the end of the week rolled around, I took him to the doctor. Doc said he had a slight ear infection, not even worth treating. However, in the four days since we had our visit, we had some all-out tantrums. The one that included head banging (against the side of the crib) even freaked out Daddy, the veteran father, who, thinking Oldest was having a seizure, carried him downstairs and deposited him in my lap.

That made me worried because usually nothing fazed Daddy, not even the middle-of-the-night croup where I was ready to call the hospital. So, we ended up back at the doctor’s office. I figured, “Okay, his ear infection must have blossomed.” But nope, nothing was physically wrong.

Where did these tyrannical spells come from? How does an ordinarily sweet-tempered, good-humored little boy transform into an unrecognizable I-gave-birth-to-that? monster?

I tried to get inside the mind of my son as we sat there and rocked. I told myself, he feels secure with me, and that’s why he can flatter me with his worst behavior. He’s especially independent, which is why he gets especially frustrated when I rein him in. After all, he doesn’t understand why it is not appropriate to eat dessert for breakfast, throw his food on the floor, yank at his baby brother to get out of “his” bouncy seat, or step out into the street without holding my hand.

I thought back to one night, not long after the baby was born, when Oldest was playing with his Amy (doll), and I began asking him questions like, “Honey, where’s the baby’s nose, mouth, hair, foot, knee…?” and he kept pointing to himself. He clearly still considered himself “The Baby.”

Of course, no matter how big he gets, he will always be my baby. But next to his new brother, he had suddenly — and against his will — become a little boy. He must have felt displaced, and literally, he was. He was usually the one who got handed off. How much of his behavior was related to the fact that he was a toddler, and how much was simply this abrupt change?

As I held Oldest in my arms, he fell asleep. Even though I had wanted nothing more than to put him in his crib, shut the door, and have some peace, I was paralyzed. I just sat there rocking with him, listening to his little breaths, and admiring the way his lush eyelashes brushed his cheeks, where not long before angry tears had overflown.

I don’t know how long I sat in the quiet, dim room with my son. Eventually, my thoughts drifted to the bath aftermath, the mess in the kitchen, the baby, who would likely need to nurse in the next hour or so, and how I needed to get the dishwasher going so it would be ready to unload the next morning when everything started all over again.

I stood up and gently deposited my son in his crib. I still needed to get those raisins off the floor.

You’ll find a version of this story in my book, MotherMorphosis. I’m currently working on an anniversary edition.

**✍️ **I used to write B2B content for Corporate America. Here’s my portfolio. Six months ago, I made a career pivot to the financial services industry. 📈

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