For the longest time we’ve struggled with finding an effective method to discipline CJ. In the few months leading up to the discovery of his developmental delay and sensory issues, it became apparent that absolutely nothing was working.
Discipline seems to be hotly debated topic. In my opinion, the point of discipline is to train the child in the appropriate way to behave in any given situation. This, I’ve come to understand isn’t a simple one-size fits all task.
We’ve tried all sorts of things with CJ- time-outs, rewards, removing a toy, and in desperation even spanking. I was spanked as a child. I didn’t like it and it deterred me from doing the thing that resulted in being smacked on the butt. It did not faze CJ and did not serve as a deterrent against the behavior being repeated. Bottom line, it didn’t work- so what’s the point of doing it? It didn’t feel right to me and for a reason.
And CJ began to lash out at others- he hit, bit and kicked and screamed. At first we were befuddled at what the heck was going on with this kid. He’s been strong willed from birth and obviously bright, but a different creature had taken over. I’ve written prior about the horrible experience we had at the preschool he was attending at the time; I won’t go into it again.
Long story short, we discovered after an evaluation with an OT- setup through our Pediatrician- that he was delayed in grasp and visual motor. Also SPD- see my sidebar with links for more information. What he was doing was exhibiting frustrated behavior at his inability to hold crayons/pencils and draw/write. And he had a big traffic jam in his brain with sensory overload. He didn’t have the verbal ability or maturity to put into words what was happening to him. And he was labeled a behavioral problem by the former preschool.
You simply cannot spank a neurological disorder out. You can’t change the behavior exhibited by a neurology disorder by spanking. And since I wasn’t sure what behavior was resulting from the SPD and what was him being stubborn. I decided that it was simply not for us. The understanding of the developmental delays shed light on the frustrated behavior. And helping that simply involves therapy to increase the skills. As the skills have increased, the frustrated behaviors subside.
At our new care facility, his teacher has been wonderful. I was honest with her from the get-go at what we were dealing with. She didn’t bat an eyelash. He’s put her through her paces and she has never held any of his behavior against him. She doesn’t let him slide, by any means. But she was a huge blessing in our lives at the perfect time.
A couple months ago I was at the school, picking him up from the day. He looked at Ms. C and said, “Did I have a this day (holds his little thumb up) or a this day (little thumb down). She smiled and held her thumb up and he smiles and jumps up and down. I must have looked puzzled because she then explained that when he’s behaving well, she gives him a thumbs up and if he begins to slide into inappropriate behavior she gets his attention and holds her thumb out sideways and tells him he’s getting there and let’s bring it back up. We don’t want to get to here (holds her thumb out down) and CJ responds by shaking his head no.
Are you kidding me? That’s about as simple as it can get. And it works on him?
I decided then, that I would bring that tool back home with me. I’d see how it works for us at home or out in public. I’ve discovered it’s a nice thing to have in public. It can cut back on verbal scolding. As long as I can get his attention, it can be used from across a room. He doesn’t like getting a sideways thumb and will usually correct himself in order to get a thumbs up.
I don’t know why it works. Why does this speak to him when other things don’t?
I like that it’s immediate. I see him sliding and usually can catch him before it escalates.
Like everything it isn’t perfect and doesn’t always work. But we have had better results from a simple thumb than anything else.
*Please note that I am not making any commentary about the way anyone disciplines their child. I am simply writing about my personal experience with one of my children. I make no judgement of anyone. You discipline your child as you see fit and do what works for your family as long as it is legal. I am not debating disciplinary styles. If you would like to comment on what works for you or your experience without criticizing others then that is welcome. Openly critical, mean comments will not be posted.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
Prayer and the Eight Year Old
Late Saturday evening WC burst through the backdoor into the kitchen screaming, “The Bible’s real, the Bible’s real.”
I turn from my dinner preparation and find him panting. When he catches his breath he continues. “I was outside with my car (holds up a green matchbook style automobile) and I dropped in the grass; couldn’t find it anywhere. So I prayed as hard as I could; asked God to let me find my car. And when I opened my eyes- there is was!” Then he begins another frantic run in a circle screaming. “God’s real.” Then heads back across the kitchen and out the backdoor screaming. “God’s real. Praying is fun.” The door slams behind him. From what I could gather from the sounds of the yelling, he and his little brother were running across the back yard screaming/chanting- “God’s real. Praying is fun.”
I find my husband on the couch, laughing hysterically. He finally says, “Do you think they know you blog about them?”
“They do appear to just hand me things me write about.”
At some point, probably soon, we will have to have the discussion with him that just because you pray, God doesn’t always just drop your request at your feet.
I turn from my dinner preparation and find him panting. When he catches his breath he continues. “I was outside with my car (holds up a green matchbook style automobile) and I dropped in the grass; couldn’t find it anywhere. So I prayed as hard as I could; asked God to let me find my car. And when I opened my eyes- there is was!” Then he begins another frantic run in a circle screaming. “God’s real.” Then heads back across the kitchen and out the backdoor screaming. “God’s real. Praying is fun.” The door slams behind him. From what I could gather from the sounds of the yelling, he and his little brother were running across the back yard screaming/chanting- “God’s real. Praying is fun.”
I find my husband on the couch, laughing hysterically. He finally says, “Do you think they know you blog about them?”
“They do appear to just hand me things me write about.”
At some point, probably soon, we will have to have the discussion with him that just because you pray, God doesn’t always just drop your request at your feet.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
It's 7:30 am; Do You Know Where Your Boobs Are?
Sometimes a young child’s take on the world and the things around them can be imaginative and inventive. Anything can happen. Elves can spend 364 days making toys for a fat guy to fly around the world and deliver in one night every child on the earth.
Reality is not concrete and the line with make believe can blur.
The confusion can sometimes be amusing for us adults.
One Saturday, I’d been doing laundry and wishing that a laundry fairy would appear and take care of this tedious, boring task. Later when I noticed that a bra had fallen into the kitchen floor, I quickly stuck it on a kitchen chair where it could hide under the table until I put it away later.
Having the memory of gnat, I forgot about the bra in the chair.
Sunday morning I was enjoying my cup of coffee curled up on the couch, while CJ ate his breakfast.
“Mommy?” CJ entered from the kitchen, his little forehead scrunched up in concern.
“Yes, baby.” I motioned him to come closer.
He hurried over and stood in front of me; leaned in close. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Your boobs are in the kitchen chair.”
Reality is not concrete and the line with make believe can blur.
The confusion can sometimes be amusing for us adults.
One Saturday, I’d been doing laundry and wishing that a laundry fairy would appear and take care of this tedious, boring task. Later when I noticed that a bra had fallen into the kitchen floor, I quickly stuck it on a kitchen chair where it could hide under the table until I put it away later.
Having the memory of gnat, I forgot about the bra in the chair.
Sunday morning I was enjoying my cup of coffee curled up on the couch, while CJ ate his breakfast.
“Mommy?” CJ entered from the kitchen, his little forehead scrunched up in concern.
“Yes, baby.” I motioned him to come closer.
He hurried over and stood in front of me; leaned in close. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Your boobs are in the kitchen chair.”
Monday, April 2, 2012
Grandchildren- A Parents Revenge
“These people are not the same people I grew up with.” –Bill Cosby.
The other night on the way home, my kids were in the backseat of the car. They’d spent that day with my mom and were happily raiding the plastic bag of goodies between them in the seat. They retrieved a plastic object in the shape of a duck bill- they each had one. And they proceeded to repeatedly blow into it and a noise that was supposed to resemble a duck’s quack filled the car.
CJ had blown his spit into the noise maker and it sounded like a duck that needed to hock a loogie back there.
Why does my mother hate me?
I thought we’d put to rest the issues between us when I was in my early twenties. Then I had a child. The gleam in her eye and the maniacal laugh when I announced my pregnancy should have been a clue. She’d figured out that sweet revenge would finally be hers.
What could I have possibly done as a child to this woman? None of the stories I’ve been told seem that I was that bad. I was far better than my sister (tooting my own horn here). I’m the good one. Just because she doesn’t have kids, why do I have to pay the price for both of us?
After each visit they arrive home with bags of stuff (i.e. crap I’d never buy them). Usually the stuff is of a noisy nature- duck bill whistles (hello, they are boys...they come with their own built in noise makers), or millions of Legos that are scattered to the ends of the house and hurt like hell on the bottom of a bare foot. Or messy- the color bubble incident is by far the worse. I could stock a daycare with the amount of modeling dough that’s been sent home.
I’ve been told that I colored on her walls as a small child. I don’t remember it but will be paying for it until my kids destroy my house.
Then there’s the food- she once sent home a box of chocolate covered honey buns. I read the nutritional information (more calories and sugar than an adult should consume in a day). She introduced them to children’s chocolate breakfast cereal, chocolate pop tarts and pre-packaged snack cakes.
She wonders why they don’t sleep well when they spend the night.
Usually she loads them up and sends them home to me. And they crash and sleep like they’ve been on a three day bender.
I’ve learned that it doesn’t do any good to talk to her. She will nod along and then go and do whatever she wants anyway. Probably similar to me as a teenager.
My motto for the kids is “Whatever happens at Nana’s, stays at Nana’s.”
The other night on the way home, my kids were in the backseat of the car. They’d spent that day with my mom and were happily raiding the plastic bag of goodies between them in the seat. They retrieved a plastic object in the shape of a duck bill- they each had one. And they proceeded to repeatedly blow into it and a noise that was supposed to resemble a duck’s quack filled the car.
CJ had blown his spit into the noise maker and it sounded like a duck that needed to hock a loogie back there.
Why does my mother hate me?
I thought we’d put to rest the issues between us when I was in my early twenties. Then I had a child. The gleam in her eye and the maniacal laugh when I announced my pregnancy should have been a clue. She’d figured out that sweet revenge would finally be hers.
What could I have possibly done as a child to this woman? None of the stories I’ve been told seem that I was that bad. I was far better than my sister (tooting my own horn here). I’m the good one. Just because she doesn’t have kids, why do I have to pay the price for both of us?
After each visit they arrive home with bags of stuff (i.e. crap I’d never buy them). Usually the stuff is of a noisy nature- duck bill whistles (hello, they are boys...they come with their own built in noise makers), or millions of Legos that are scattered to the ends of the house and hurt like hell on the bottom of a bare foot. Or messy- the color bubble incident is by far the worse. I could stock a daycare with the amount of modeling dough that’s been sent home.
I’ve been told that I colored on her walls as a small child. I don’t remember it but will be paying for it until my kids destroy my house.
Then there’s the food- she once sent home a box of chocolate covered honey buns. I read the nutritional information (more calories and sugar than an adult should consume in a day). She introduced them to children’s chocolate breakfast cereal, chocolate pop tarts and pre-packaged snack cakes.
She wonders why they don’t sleep well when they spend the night.
Usually she loads them up and sends them home to me. And they crash and sleep like they’ve been on a three day bender.
I’ve learned that it doesn’t do any good to talk to her. She will nod along and then go and do whatever she wants anyway. Probably similar to me as a teenager.
My motto for the kids is “Whatever happens at Nana’s, stays at Nana’s.”
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Grant Me the Serenity to Not Destroy These Children
My sister moved out the other day. She’s lived with us on and off for years. But she’d been living with us now for about two years- her longest stretch. It wasn’t a surprise when she announced that she was leaving. I was expecting it.
For the past couple of years the kids have been used to her room in our house being off limits. I admonished them numerous times to stay out of her belongings.
She has a collection of gothic dolls. One in particular I consider creepy- A small fabric doll wearing a little black dress and a face with one solid black eye and one solid white eye. I’d noticed it while on the treadmill that also occupied her room. I kept glancing at it just to make sure it wasn’t getting any closer to me.
One evening WC had started up a video in their bedroom and when I reminded him that they didn’t have time to watch any before bed- he told me that they were trying to get their mind off of Aunt’s creepy little doll.
My sister stated that if they stayed out of her room then they wouldn’t have to worry about her creepy doll. I theorized that going into her room is the equivalent to a dare to stay in a haunted house. I bet you can’t stay in for three minutes. She wasn’t amused.
The boys were all a flutter while she boxed her things and packed her car. As her room emptied they continually checked the progress.
On Saturday morning I woke to discover the formerly emptied room had been filled with my things that were previously stored neatly in the closet- yoga mat, exercise ball, hand weights, the linoleum sample from our flooring, etc. They also had their small indoor play tent setup. They’d pulled the fan from their room. And to top it off, the little buggers had managed to unhook their tv and dvd player and move them into this room. Now this is a 12 inch tv but it’s an old school, foot and a half thick television, not a small flat screen.
Small bottles of paint that I’d kept on the bookshelf were scattered on end table left in the room. There was the cup CJ uses to rinse his mouth when he brushes his teeth, filled with paint infused water and soggy paint brush. Water puddles scattered the table top and seeped into the graph paper they’d found. Then top it off neither of them actually painted a picture.
I’m standing at the threshold to hell. The only room in the house that had not been cluttered is jammed full. Anything they could have pulled out is in the middle of room. In the middle of it all stand two slack jawed little boys who are wearing facial expressions similar to one I would have in a class on theoretical physics.
Meditation breathing comes in handy at moments like these. As well as a short prayer to ask that I have the restraint to not destroy these children.
For the past couple of years the kids have been used to her room in our house being off limits. I admonished them numerous times to stay out of her belongings.
She has a collection of gothic dolls. One in particular I consider creepy- A small fabric doll wearing a little black dress and a face with one solid black eye and one solid white eye. I’d noticed it while on the treadmill that also occupied her room. I kept glancing at it just to make sure it wasn’t getting any closer to me.
One evening WC had started up a video in their bedroom and when I reminded him that they didn’t have time to watch any before bed- he told me that they were trying to get their mind off of Aunt’s creepy little doll.
My sister stated that if they stayed out of her room then they wouldn’t have to worry about her creepy doll. I theorized that going into her room is the equivalent to a dare to stay in a haunted house. I bet you can’t stay in for three minutes. She wasn’t amused.
The boys were all a flutter while she boxed her things and packed her car. As her room emptied they continually checked the progress.
On Saturday morning I woke to discover the formerly emptied room had been filled with my things that were previously stored neatly in the closet- yoga mat, exercise ball, hand weights, the linoleum sample from our flooring, etc. They also had their small indoor play tent setup. They’d pulled the fan from their room. And to top it off, the little buggers had managed to unhook their tv and dvd player and move them into this room. Now this is a 12 inch tv but it’s an old school, foot and a half thick television, not a small flat screen.
Small bottles of paint that I’d kept on the bookshelf were scattered on end table left in the room. There was the cup CJ uses to rinse his mouth when he brushes his teeth, filled with paint infused water and soggy paint brush. Water puddles scattered the table top and seeped into the graph paper they’d found. Then top it off neither of them actually painted a picture.
I’m standing at the threshold to hell. The only room in the house that had not been cluttered is jammed full. Anything they could have pulled out is in the middle of room. In the middle of it all stand two slack jawed little boys who are wearing facial expressions similar to one I would have in a class on theoretical physics.
Meditation breathing comes in handy at moments like these. As well as a short prayer to ask that I have the restraint to not destroy these children.
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Trouble With Being the Younger One
He merrily stomped his way down the muddy path. The rest of us were in a group, taking a tour, but CJ was yards head of the group. Not a clue where he was or where he should go, still not content to follow.
My concern grew that he’d barrel off the path into the trees and he did. The brush, up to nearly his knees did not deter him. But the thought he’d disturb a snake or a spider or pick up a tick led me to leave the group to retrieve my concrete headed four year old who can’t see the possibility something might go wrong. No knowledge that the early warm temperatures might bring these woodland critters out. All he knew was it felt good- he loved the wind and freedom.
Until Mom grabbed him by the arm and issued a warning of having him go back and wait inside the building and brought his freedom to a halt.
Even then, he ended up playing with the tour guide and racing her. His constant need to be in the lead is still a mystery- is it rooted in his SPD or his stubborn nature? Maybe a bit of both.
We toured the prospective camp where WC will possibly spend the first week or two of summer vacation. But you’d think this was something for CJ. While CJ is at the first in line our more reserved WC is bringing up the rear.
The boys went to the car while I had a conversation with the camps director.
Back in the car I discovered a very unhappy CJ and inquired what was going on.
Seems he was unhappy because he discovered it was not him who would be attending camp.
I attempted to explain that he was still too young.
He folded his arms across his chest and huffed. “You’re fired.” He angrily exclaimed.
“Who is,” I asked in amusement.
“Both of you,” he shot back.
I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter who your parents are. You’re still going to be too young right now.”
He huffed and grumbled until the sights of a horse standing on the side of road urinating made him forget his troubles.
My concern grew that he’d barrel off the path into the trees and he did. The brush, up to nearly his knees did not deter him. But the thought he’d disturb a snake or a spider or pick up a tick led me to leave the group to retrieve my concrete headed four year old who can’t see the possibility something might go wrong. No knowledge that the early warm temperatures might bring these woodland critters out. All he knew was it felt good- he loved the wind and freedom.
Until Mom grabbed him by the arm and issued a warning of having him go back and wait inside the building and brought his freedom to a halt.
Even then, he ended up playing with the tour guide and racing her. His constant need to be in the lead is still a mystery- is it rooted in his SPD or his stubborn nature? Maybe a bit of both.
We toured the prospective camp where WC will possibly spend the first week or two of summer vacation. But you’d think this was something for CJ. While CJ is at the first in line our more reserved WC is bringing up the rear.
The boys went to the car while I had a conversation with the camps director.
Back in the car I discovered a very unhappy CJ and inquired what was going on.
Seems he was unhappy because he discovered it was not him who would be attending camp.
I attempted to explain that he was still too young.
He folded his arms across his chest and huffed. “You’re fired.” He angrily exclaimed.
“Who is,” I asked in amusement.
“Both of you,” he shot back.
I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter who your parents are. You’re still going to be too young right now.”
He huffed and grumbled until the sights of a horse standing on the side of road urinating made him forget his troubles.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Joy in Chaos
I sat slumped on the couch, the day mostly done. Up before the sun, a morning routine flown through- the rush to get everyone where they spend their day. Then the full day at my desk and the rush to retrieve everyone and get back home only to pack in the afternoon requirements- homework, dinner and bedtime routine. They need to get in bed, so they can get enough rest to start the whole thing all over again before the sun comes up.
On this particular afternoon, I had a sinus headache. Thank you Spring for arriving in February. The boys were covered in nectarine juice and running laps around the table. Their hysterical giggles let me know this was some sort of game that I wasn’t privy to the object of. CJ had asked me if he could try a nectarine, so I’d bought one per kid. They’d enjoyed them for their after dinner snack. He’d rubbed it in his hair, even though he hates having it washed.
While they wore an indention in my kitchen floor in the shape of their race track around the table, I wondered what people who didn’t have kids did after work. There are people who could lay down with their sinus headache and not have to worry about nectarine in a kid’s hair.
I began to wonder, if I would ever have a quiet house again.
Then I thought back to the weeks after we first brought WC home from the hospital. I didn’t have a clue. This child ate every two hours on the dot. It could take an hour just to feed him, change him and get him back to sleep. Then I’d have an hour before we had to do it again. 24 hours a day, seven days a week. And that meant I’d only get to sleep in 1 hour increments, even at night. And that included the time it took to fall asleep. Now both Jay and my mom would help, but the sleep deprivation hit.
At one point in time, I believed that I’d never sleep again. This would be my life and questioned why I signed up for such misery.
Some of the misery, I brought on myself. We’d known people who had a child that wouldn’t sleep in their own bed. The child was at that time, 4 years old, and it was causing problems. The child had been allowed to sleep with the parents from birth. I naively believed we’d nip that in the bud by never allowing it to happen in the first place. I’ve since altered my view on it slightly- namely the birth of CJ while having a 3 yr old WC who still needed tending regardless of how much sleep I’d had.
Six weeks into the life of WC, I was severely sleep-deprived and miserable. My mom offered to watch him overnight. She told me to pack his stuff and let him sleep over there. She had a crib- because she would be watching him when I returned to work. She didn’t have to work too hard at convincing me.
I dropped him off and went straight back home, showered and went to bed. It was the best 12 twelve hours of solid sleep I’d ever had up to that point in life. When I woke up, I immediately wanted to go get him. I even refused to wait on Jay to get ready to go with me.
Over the next few weeks, WC slowly added length of time between feedings. And the sleep deprivation faded into a distant memory.
In hindsight, it was only a few weeks. At the time it was happening, I couldn’t imagine that it would ever get better. It wasn’t forever, just a small blip on the radar of my life.
I watched my kids running circles around the table and screaming with laughter. And this too is just a small blip on the radar. One that’s going to fade too quickly. I watch them for a while and treasure the moment. Soon it will be time to stop them and go run a tub of water.
This is my joy in the midst of the chaos.
On this particular afternoon, I had a sinus headache. Thank you Spring for arriving in February. The boys were covered in nectarine juice and running laps around the table. Their hysterical giggles let me know this was some sort of game that I wasn’t privy to the object of. CJ had asked me if he could try a nectarine, so I’d bought one per kid. They’d enjoyed them for their after dinner snack. He’d rubbed it in his hair, even though he hates having it washed.
While they wore an indention in my kitchen floor in the shape of their race track around the table, I wondered what people who didn’t have kids did after work. There are people who could lay down with their sinus headache and not have to worry about nectarine in a kid’s hair.
I began to wonder, if I would ever have a quiet house again.
Then I thought back to the weeks after we first brought WC home from the hospital. I didn’t have a clue. This child ate every two hours on the dot. It could take an hour just to feed him, change him and get him back to sleep. Then I’d have an hour before we had to do it again. 24 hours a day, seven days a week. And that meant I’d only get to sleep in 1 hour increments, even at night. And that included the time it took to fall asleep. Now both Jay and my mom would help, but the sleep deprivation hit.
At one point in time, I believed that I’d never sleep again. This would be my life and questioned why I signed up for such misery.
Some of the misery, I brought on myself. We’d known people who had a child that wouldn’t sleep in their own bed. The child was at that time, 4 years old, and it was causing problems. The child had been allowed to sleep with the parents from birth. I naively believed we’d nip that in the bud by never allowing it to happen in the first place. I’ve since altered my view on it slightly- namely the birth of CJ while having a 3 yr old WC who still needed tending regardless of how much sleep I’d had.
Six weeks into the life of WC, I was severely sleep-deprived and miserable. My mom offered to watch him overnight. She told me to pack his stuff and let him sleep over there. She had a crib- because she would be watching him when I returned to work. She didn’t have to work too hard at convincing me.
I dropped him off and went straight back home, showered and went to bed. It was the best 12 twelve hours of solid sleep I’d ever had up to that point in life. When I woke up, I immediately wanted to go get him. I even refused to wait on Jay to get ready to go with me.
Over the next few weeks, WC slowly added length of time between feedings. And the sleep deprivation faded into a distant memory.
In hindsight, it was only a few weeks. At the time it was happening, I couldn’t imagine that it would ever get better. It wasn’t forever, just a small blip on the radar of my life.
I watched my kids running circles around the table and screaming with laughter. And this too is just a small blip on the radar. One that’s going to fade too quickly. I watch them for a while and treasure the moment. Soon it will be time to stop them and go run a tub of water.
This is my joy in the midst of the chaos.
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