As Husband says when he’s being especially infuriating: “It’s nice to want things, isn’t it?”
Z’s a very happy little kid, truly. She is also prone to fits and tantrums, and demonstrates an alarming capacity for drama (if one single person who knows me makes a “like-mother-like-daughter” comment they will never receive a Christmas, birthday, or Valentine’s Day card from me again. That means you, Mom). I don’t think Z is atypical of toddlers in these respects. It must be very difficult to be three feet tall and not able to run to the store for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s whenever life gives you a smackdown. Instead, your mean mom doesn’t even let you have ice cream (more for her, she reasons), and she’s even put restrictions on the goldfish crackers. Then your dad jumps in saying, “It’s nice to want things, isn’t it?”
Because life is rough for a two-year-old, I’m making an effort to be a better mom. That includes trying out some of the ideas in Karp’s book. What usually happens, though, is I try something which doesn’t work, and then I come up with something that works better for Z. Example: he recommends “hand checks” as rewards, which is just like it sounds–taking a pen and putting an ink check on your kid’s hand. Well, Z freaks out if you come at her with anything pointy, especially if it’s going to leave a mark. Hand checks? Not such a good idea for her. Before I figured that out, I started drawing on my own hand to show her it was okay. The middle-schooler in me (who is really just below my 29-year-old surface) jumped out, and next thing I knew I had this:
Okay, fine, maybe not cool to anyone old enough to read, but Z thought her new friend was awesome. She named her Sunny, and we had such a great time with Sunny that I considered getting a Sunny tattoo.
Sunny talked Z into trying broccoli again, she convinced Z that diaper changes are fun, and she generally gained Z’s cooperation in so many areas that I started to feel a little jealous of Sunny. I mean, who is this imposter, anyway? Z will run down our driveway towards the street while I shout fearfully for her to stop, but she’d probably be potty trained in a second of Sunny suggested it. (In fact, watch Sunny come back today so I can give that a shot.)
The thing is, little kids need heroes, and for the longest time, I was Z’s hero. Nobody else. After all, for Z’s first year I had the mama’s milk and nobody else did. Stupid Sunny never had mama’s milk. It’s all part of growing up, I suppose, my daughter adopting other people and characters as her heroes. If I’m already having trouble with her adopting a character invented from my own hand, I can tell this is going to be hard for me.
Maybe I have some growing up to do as well.