All apologies

I stepped out of the shower this morning and both girls were up on Z's loft bed, chatting happily and looking at books. It was an idyllic scene.

I knew it couldn't last.

Sure enough, I'd no sooner put on my jeans when the shrieking began. It was laughing at first, as A was sitting on Z's back. "Don't worry, Mom. It doesn't hurt," Z reassured me.

But my shirt was scarcely over my head before the real screams started. A had clambered over her sister and was dangling one of Z's books over the side of the bed, threatening to drop it. I warned. I counted. A stared me down. And threw the book.

So I put her in her own room and shut the door. After letting her howl for a few minutes and then cuddling her as she continued to cry, I asked her to show me how she was feeling in her book "How are You Peeling: Foods With Moods." She pointed to the sad, guilty looking vegetables with the most plaintive expressions. "Would you like to write Z a note? Tell her you're sorry?"

A nodded. She dictated the following note, which I transcribed and she signed and hand-delivered:

I'm sorry that I accidentally dropped one book. I'm sorry I pulled your hair. I'm sorry that I almost sat on your head. Thank you for playing with me on your bed. I'm sorry that I did all those things."

And to her credit, this is how Z responded: "It's OK. Just don't do it again. P.S. I might by a donut for you."

Not sure what makes me prouder. My children's capacity for apology and forgiveness or Z's correct use of apostrophe on it's? (It is cut off on the photo, but so very there.)

Unspoiling my children

You know what? I'm learning that it's okay to say no. It's been a few weeks since I read Richard Bromfield, PhD's How to Unspoil Your Child Fast: A Speedy, Complete Guide to Contented Children and Happy Parents, but I'm starting to put his advice into action.

He recommends putting an end to indulging our children--not just because we'll be happier if we quit frittering away our time and money making them "happy," but because they'll grow into happier, more self-reliant individuals if we don't give into their demands.

Are my children spoiled? On the grand scale of American children, they're probably not. They are mostly polite, well-behaved kids, and their behavior never approached the horrifying examples in the book of children who demand a toy or candy reward for enduring a few boring errands.

But they want for nothing and probably are over-indulged. Worse yet, I've witnessed them acting entitled or attempt negotiation with us (e.g. "Please can we have dessert? I ate a good dinner. Please, please, please?") I've found it's easier to give the kids a small square of chocolate than it is to hold my ground and say "No means no."

But I'm embracing my ability to power to say no and defer gratification. Every time my 5 year old asks for something (usually something from that infernal American Girl catalog), I tell her "You can ask for that for your birthday or save up your allowance." She's learning about the relative cost of things and would rather consider purchases than actually make them.

I've also become better about enforcing consequences. Both girls behaved atrociously on our flight home from NYC. It was lunchtime when we landed and I knew they were hungry. I also knew it would be another half and a half before they got home, so I needed to feed them. I bought them a McDonald's Happy Meal to share, but I made a point of sending back the toy. The girls' eyes widened a little, but shockingly, they didn't utter a word of protest. It was as if they understood that their actions really did have consequences and they quietly ate their chicken nuggets.

I'm not sure my demonstration of unspoiling was as dramatic as the "shock and awe" tactics Dr. Bromfield recommends, but it did work. Well enough, in fact, that I'm almost looking forward to turning around the car the next time the kids are shouting in the back seat and silently driving them back home.

Disclosure: My copy of the book was a review copy provided to me free of charge. The link is an Amazon affiliate link, which means I'll get a small percentage of the purchase price if you click through to buy it.


A couple hours after posting this, I received the following email from the book's author:


Alma, I loved your story about unspoiling. Your buying your daughters a Happy Meal but asking McD's to keep the toy was brilliant.  And I could not help but smile at your anticipated pleasure at turning the car at the next infraction.  You so demonstrate what I truly believe, that parents know all this, and that once it clicks, it clicks.
Richard Bromfield

The case of the dry erase marker and the lie

There I was, reading Z a chapter of one of the Rebecca books on her bed, when I glanced up and saw an 8 inch green rectangle etched on her bedroom wall. Although Z initially professed innocence in what appeared to to be a combination marker drawing and pencil scribble, her lies were pretty unconvincing.

"I don't know how that got there."

"I think it's always been there."

"It doesn't bother me."

Two seconds of sleuthing and I found a green Dry-Erase marker about a foot and a half from the crime scene. Its shade matched the evidence on the wall. 

"Z, come over here and use this pencil eraser to erase the marks on the wall." 

"But that's not pencil," she replied. "It's key. I was drawing a door to fairy land and the key is to get in."

And thus, with any remaining doubt as to her guilt removed, I gave Z the opportunity to choose a consequence. She offered me up a doll she never plays with and said I could have it for a week. No dice. She offered up her American Girl doll, but since she hasn't played with it this week, I turned her down and told her she wasn't going to get to play on the computer or Daddy's iPod Touch for a week. I was shocked when she accepted her fate without protest as we've been dealing with a lot of backtalk lately.

I didn't finish the book chapter, but went downstairs to Google remedies. Apparently Z isn't the first to take a Dry-Erase marker to a painted wall, and a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser removed the marker pretty well and softened the key scratches somewhat. A little rubbing alcohol took care of any remaining stain and I, feeling like the punishment now outsized the crime, lessened Z's punishment to 3 days.

Speaking of discipline and parenting challenges, I've been reading How to Unspoil Your Child Fast and will be reporting later this week on my take on the book that promises "A Speedy, Complete Guide to Contented Children and Happy Parents."

Unfit to parent after 11pm

Something horrible has happened to A, a champion sleeper for most of her short life. With little warning, she's started resisting bedtime, refusing lullabies and making sure she's not the only one awake and unhappy in the wee hours.

Let's take last night. She didn't nap at the babysitter's house, so Josh put her to bed around 7pm. She asked him to stay in her room (this is a new development), and he watched her fall asleep, exiting the room at 7:20. (I was at a preschool board meeting.)

Josh and I turned in around 10:15, and at 10:55pm, I heard A calling--nay, yelling--for me. I went into her room and sat quietly on her chair as she tossed and turned. Her eyes closed within 10 minutes, and after 25 minutes, I began my stealthy creep out of the room.

The floorboards creaked. I was busted. "I'll come back and check on you in 10 minutes," I assured her, hoping she was close enough to slumber that she'de fall back asleep before then.

Sing a song at bedtime

A and I have established a rock-solid bedtime routine, and she loves it so much she won't let me budge from it. We start by picking her clothes for the next day and laying them out on the floor. She then hands me each piece and I help her put them on. Yes, I am admitting here that my daughter wears her clothes to bed. She doesn't like jammies and I don't mind having her dressed when she wakes up. And heck, it's not like she's wearing tights or jeans--virtually all her clothes are soft jersey knits.

Once she's dressed, she crawls onto my lap and we read two library books. She likes to have her sister sitting on the table next to the chair, but sometimes Z heads elsewhere to hear Daddy read her a chapter from the Lemony Snicket A Series of Unfortunate Events book series.

After two books, A slides off my lap and uses the potty, "earning" herself a third book me a little piece of mind. A stopped wearing Pull-Ups to bed a couple of months ago. About two weeks after we purchased an 88 count box of them, conveniently enough. She doesn't have accidents, but most nights she wakes up somewhere between midnight and 3am to pee. Since she's still in a crib and can't climb onto the toilet alone, her potty trips require one of us to get out of bed and escort her.

Our third book must be either a collection of 4 Maisy stories or Dr. Seuss's Go Dog Go, both of which she can recite from memory. Then A grabs her paci from the crib and turns off her table lamp. "Sing songs," she says as she snuggles against my neck.

Our song singing ritual began shortly before her 2nd birthday, when she asked me to sing "Happy Birthday" to her and her sister every night before bed. We've since dropped "Happy Birthday" and bulldozed our way through every goddamn song I know. "Ba-ba Black Sheep," "London Bridge is Falling Down," and "The Itsy-Bitsy Spider" get old after, oh, about 60 sings, so I'm combing the dusty corners of my brain for the lyrics (or hell, at least the chorus) to "America the Beautiful," "Eleanor Rigby," "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain," "Oklahoma!" and "The Cat's in the Cradle." And while A always insists I end with a quick medley of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," "Bim-Bom" (in Hebrew) and "Rock-a-bye Baby," I need more songs. This bedtime ritual works and I'm pretty sure A's not going to let me get away with dropping the songs any time soon, so I need more material. At least until I get assigned my Torah portion. Then maybe I can subject her to that.

Photo by big sister Z

I'm bored. Let's sing.

Stuff to do with small children when the pool's closed and it's too cold and wet to hit the park, part 1: Record music videos.

Row, row, row your boat from almaklein on Vimeo.

I know I'm irresistable, but this has got to stop

You know what kind of sucks the relaxation right out of a nice hot morning shower?

Hearing your 21-month-old in hysterics, crying your name over and over and over. Hollering so so loudly that you can hear her, up the stairs, through the closed bathroom door and over the rush of water.

Can you say separation anxiety? Because Baby A has it, and she's got it bad. It's gotten so she waves Josh away from me as she nuzzles her head in my neck. She melts down when I leave her at daycare. And while Josh can push her all over town, she won't let me put her in the stroller for more than a second before the "Up, up, uppy!" demands begin.

Yes, I'm glad she loves me. But I can't wait for this phase to pass.

P.S. Would it be 1000% worse if I adhered to AP principles? Just wondering...

The magic of CIO

This morning A woke up again at 5am with the insistent call of "Mama, Mama," but as promised I popped a pair of earplugs in and did my best to ignore her wails.

She cried for 10-15 minutes and fell asleep. She cried for me again, briefly at 5:25 and 5:40, before sleeping soundly until 6:45, when she woke up babbling happily. I never, in my wildest pre-child dreams, would have considered 6:45am "sleeping in," but I'll take it, thank you.

She was a delight all day--didn't fall asleep in the car or have more than a couple of unreasonable tantrums. She also let me put her down once in a while instead of clinging to me like the overtired basket case she's been for the past week. And it was good that she was on her good behavior because my mom and stepdad arrived this morning for a visit--and unusual visit in that Josh and Z just took off for England for a 5 night trip to visit his sister. So for three days it will be a 3 to 1 adult to child ratio. Heaven!

They said it best: Kids will not save your marriage

Everyone knows nothing quite tests a marriage like a couple of kids, but comparing 1 and 1 makes 4 to Survivor and The Amazing Race? Kind of brilliant, really.

Go read Her Bad Mother: The Amazing Survivor Race Challenge: Parenting Edition

But before you do, can I add that this race lasts 18 consecutive seasons with no hiatus, costs an arm and a leg to enter and offers no million dollar prizes or free trips to exotic locations?

What? You've already signed the reality show release form and confidentiality policy? In that case, cheer up with My Funny, Funny Family: Babies Don't Necessarily Make You Miserable.

How I stopped the bedtime battles for just 3 cents a night

Once in a great while I have to stop and give myself a great big parental pat on the back. This is one of those times. For months I've been driven slowly crazy by 4-year-old Z's ability to streeetch out bedtime with requests for fresh water and fixed blankets and the complaints that she's too hungry/lonely/not tired to sleep.

Finally, I called bullshit on her bullshit and instituted a financial incentive program that not only quiets our evenings (and my nerves), it teaches her a bit about saving money and delayed gratification.

Here's how it goes. Every night I place three pennies on Z's bedside table. (It is very important that she is in possession of the pennies; promised pennies do not work nearly so effectively.) Z loses a penny every time a parent has to come upstairs. Once in a while Z decides that a bedside visit from Mom or Dad is worth a penny, but she rarely gives up more than one cent a night.

In the morning Z places her pennies in her penny jar. She likes to take them out and count them up, knowing that when she gets around 70¢ she can buy a candy bar or some gummy bars and pay the cashier with her very own money.

We've been using the pennies for over two months now, and I'm honestly a little surprised it's still working so well. Hopefully I won't jinx myself by blogging about it!

Apparently pennies are a popular incentive. Check out Make and Take's Going Potty for Pennies.

From jealousy to fantasy in 8 seconds

Once in a while I stumble upon a parenting trick that actually works.

Like tonight. I'm putting Z to bed and she's all "How come Sophie has a bigger bed than me? How come Sophie has two drawers of fancy things and a mirror in her room and I don't?"

Ah, childhood envy, I remember it well. When I was in first grade, my next-door neighbor had a Strawberry Shortcake bedroom complete with wallpaper, shag rug, bedspread and a canopy bed. Kim's Barbie Dream House and hot tub were just gravy.

So I improvised a little. "Well, honey, all families are different and their family has a different house with different stuff in it than ours. But wouldn't it be cool if you had a bedroom with 100 different drawers full of fancy stuff and mirrors on every wall and a big bed and a princess rug and a real live princess who lived in your room with you every single day?!"

Z's eyes widened and she took over the fantasy. "Yeah, when I grow up I'm going to have a giant bed and glittery walls and sparkling lights and I'm going to go to the toy store and bring home every single toy and the floor is going to be made out of candy!"

"That's right dear, good night," I said, leaving the room.

Ten minutes later, Z comes out of her room. "Mommy, I just need to tell you one more thing about my house."

"What?"

"Every single clothing is going to be a dress. A fancy princess dress."

Yes, my 1 year old eats peanut butter sandwiches

About once a month I shock a friend or acquaintance by admitting to her I started giving both my kids peanut butter (aka my favorite food) at 12 months. Now it seems my lazy parenting may turn out to be smart mothering. According to this NY Times article, emerging evidence seems to show that delayed exposure increases the risk of allergies.

What I don't get is why this is surprising. Doctors have known for some time that farm kids and children who are born into a household with 2+ cats have lower rates of allergies because their immune systems were challenged from a young age. Are food allergies so different that the same theory wouldn't apply?

Daddy does bedtime

Josh is infinitely "better" at putting Z to bed. When I do the nighttime ritual, Z stalls, calls and generally fights sleep for an hour. So tonight I left the house to check out the new Marion Street Cheese Market and Josh put our daughter to bed. After a few stories, he told her he was going to head downstairs and empty the dishwasher. She wasn't to call down to him; he would come upstairs and check on her in 10 minutes.

When he came back up he said, "You didn't call me. But you're awake."
"I was busy thinking."
"What were you thinking about?"
"Mommy."
"What about Mommy?"
"I was thinking about calling for Mommy."

Is it really so hard to say "I'm sorry?"

Why can't my daughter just say "I'm sorry?" I don't demand apologies from her when she's spilled milk or accidentally jostled her baby sister, but if she says something hurtful or uses what we call "rude language" (shockingly blue words like "stupid" and "stinky"), I'll tell Z that those those words hurt people's feelings and she needs to say "I'm sorry."

"I can't say it," she pouts.

"Yes you can."

"You do it, Mommy."

"I'm not the one who used rude language!"

Tears ensue. She's obviously remorseful, but she's can't get her mouth around those two magic words, words so critical for survival in polite society. I'm glad she's not a pathological kid who for whom "I'm sorry" is an empty statement, but I sure wish she could express her apologies.

Book review: ScreamFree Parenting

I just road-tested a parenting book I haven't even finished. I'm 126 pages into ScreamFree Parenting: The Revolutionary Approach to Raising Your Kids by Keeping Your Cool, so I'd absorbed enough of Hal Edward Runkel's theory to give it a whirl as I tried to put an overtired-to-the-point-of-hysterics Z to bed tonight.

"The only way to retain a position of influence with our children is to regain a position of control over ourselves."

Translation? Even though my three-year-old threw the fit to end all fits over Sleeping Beauty underpants, I was not to yell, threaten or force her to put on another pair, any pair, and get in the damn bed.

Instead, I explained the situation (both of her Sleeping Beauty undies were dirty and in the hamper) and asked that she pick another pair. When she refused, wailing "Sleeping Beauty...Sleeping Beauty" over and over, I gave myself a time out. I closed her door, walked downstairs and took a few deep breaths. I checked in on her every 10 minutes or so, asking if she was ready to get dressed for bed and and if needed any help. She was a sight to behold: sanding butt naked in the middle of her carpet, her face blotchy and streaked with snot and tears. Inconsolably crying out for her favorite licensed character underwear.

Finally, after a very long 30 minutes, the cries died down to hiccups, and I returned.

"Sleeping Beauty..." the howling began again. Runkel calls this "throwing down the gauntlet."

"A ScreamFree Parent never picks up a gauntlet."

I decided to try empathy (page 101). I told Z how sad I was that there weren't any more Sleeping Beauty underpants in the drawer. I told her I felt a little bit like crying too, and I asked her what she thought we should do since all of the undies were in the wash. She pointed to the hamper and I asked her if she'd like to wear a stinky pair. She nodded and I handed them to her. Heck, what's an extra 12 hours in a pair of panties when you're three years old?

I brushed her teeth and asked her to please use the potty. She refused.

Another gauntlet. This time I employed Runkel's choices and consequences speech (page 106). I told her she could use the toilet and I'd read her books or she could not use the potty and go to bed without stories. It was up to her. She crossed her legs, pulled up her pajamas and I put her to bed, whimpering. She cried "stories, stories..." for about 5-10 minutes before she finally fell asleep.

It was an exhausting and frustrating hour, but I'm glad I didn't lose control. I didn't really get exactly the compliance I was hoping for, but ScreamFree Parenting stresses that obedience is for dogs, growing responsible, loving adults is the purpose of parenting.

"Your number-one leadership role in the family is that of a calming authority."

By staying consistent, even-tempered and cool, I modeled good behavior. By leaving Z's room, I gave her space, and by empowering her to make her own choices, I showed her respect without giving up discipline.

Sweet dreams are made of these

"Mommy, I can't sleep."

With tonight's premiere of The Office starting (yeah, we don't have Tivo), I wasn't in the mood to make a lot of repeat trips up the stairs to help Z fall asleep. So, in a moment of sheer inspiration, I told her I'd find some special magic to help her sleep. Without a plan, I opened the hall closet. I figured I'd find some baby powder I could call sleep sprinkles, but it wasn't there. I grabbed a never-used bath pouf and carried it into her room.

"This is a very special, very magical sleeping cloud. I'll touch your back with it and you'll fall right asleep."

"A sleeping cloud? Can I hold it? I want to keep it."

She cuddled the bath pouf to her cheek and shut her eyes. I ran out of her room, barely able to keep my giggles quiet. It took me a couple of minutes to explain to Josh what I'd done, I was laughing so hard.

We haven't heard a peep since.

That's why they call it a pacifier

I didn't use a pacifier with my first child. I'd read too many breastfeeding advocacy articles that claimed pacis could cause nipple confusion and make nursing more difficult. At one point I bought a pacifier and offered it to my fussy baby. She spit it out and we figured she didn't care for the thing.

So I became the human pacifier, having to lift my shirt or offer a freshly Purelled pinky finger whenever Z became inconsolable. Which was at least an hour a day. Not having the binky available to me, I fell into the bad habit of nursing her to sleep. Which meant that every night I'd have to oh-so-carefully pry my infant off of my breast and sneak her into her crib. Then I'd creep out of her room while carefully avoiding all the creaky floorboards for fear of waking up the baby and having to start over again. We'd even find ourselves standing over her crib as she sucked our pinky fingers numb.

So when my next-door neighbor Sharon (my primary source of parenting advice and a champion breast-feeder to boot) started singing the praises of the pacifier, I paid attention. She encouraged me to give my second child a paci right at the very beginning--in the hospital, preferably. She also stressed to me that you can't just offer the plug once and give up. Instead, she demonstrated her patented hold-in-the-paci and pat-the-bum trick for encouraging paci love in a newborn.

It took experimenting with a few brands, but now we've got a pacified baby on our hands. And let me tell you, it is so worth it. I can offer a paci when I'm done nursing and Baby A needs a little non-nutritive sucking. When we're in the car and she starts to fuss, even our 2-year-old can pop a paci in her baby sister's mouth. When she's hungry and I need to buy myself a couple of minutes before I can feed her, the pacifier keeps her happy. She doesn't usually need it to fall asleep, but she does like to suck on it as she is winding down toward a nap.

I know I'll have to take away the pacifier eventually (I hate seeing 3 year olds with a paci!), but I don't care. If baby's pacified, I'm happy.

I love electricity

There's nothing quite like a 25 hour blackout to drive home how much I depend on modern conveniences. The kind that plug into the wall. Sure, there's the obvious electric stuff like the lights, microwave, TV and air conditioning. But there are also so many little things that make my life easier: the garage door opener, the cell phone charger, the cordless telephone, the Internet.

There are devices unique to parenting like the baby monitor, the breast pump and the white noise machine. And since I'm a the mother of a toddler who likes everything just so, I had to deal with a bedtime freak out when my 2 1/2 year old found out we couldn't play her bedtime music and her night light wasn't working. "But I can't seeeee," she cried until we gave in and joined the worst parents ever club, placing a votive candle on a high shelf in her room. The headlines flashed before my eyes as I fell asleep, "Unprepared for disaster, parents leave a candle lit, burn down house."

Other highlights of our night without power included changing diapers by flashlight and cleaning up not one but two massive spit-ups by blindly patting the floor, feeling around for warm, sour-smelling puddles. When we woke up, we couldn't call on Curious George or Clifford, our a.m. babysitters. But I was able to call up a friend who didn't lose power and beg her to find room in her freezer for cuts of meat and bags of breastmilk.

We spent the morning at the Original Pancake House and the library, where we ran into crowds of neighbors in the same situation. Apparently everyone was looking for a place to take the kids and score some free wifi.

By afternoon nap time I'd gotten accustomed to our new, camp-like existence. The cooler in the kitchen was packed with ice. We'd stocked up on batteries, candles and a battery-powered night light, and the block was hopping with neighbors exchanging stories and guessing when the power might be restored.

Then, at 5:15 p.m., I heard the most wonderful noise: the sound of dozens of window units kicking into gear at once. And from the street, cheers of glee.

Cross-posted to Chicago Moms Blog

What a mom wants

Nearly all of my mom friends had their second baby before A arrived, so they really know how to treat a new mom the second time around. Last weekend Gloria let Z spend the afternoon at her house so I could attend BlogHer and last night Julie saved my sanity by taking her to a concert in the park for an hour and a half with her daughter. During which I made dinner and jiggled a fairly fussy baby without whiny interruptions. And then, when the hot, sweaty, overstimulated girls returned, Julie held baby A while I bathed Z.

Lollapalooza is over, so the next few days should be a piece of cake.

Welcome to the witching hour

With Josh pressing the flesh at Lollapalooza all day Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I'm learning what it's like to take care of two kids at once--all by myself. During the day it isn't so bad, but last night's bedtime routine was a disaster. Baby A fussed continuously from 7:15 until 9:45, and I had to squeeze Z's bath, tooth-brushing, pajamas, stories and cuddles in between the screams. By the end of the evening my breasts and all stores of patience were sucked completely dry.