The Middle of the Road Can Hold

In those few moments, she made the world's wrath her own.

It started like it always starts -- something doesn't go Bryce's way and the rage spiral begins. This time there was too much honey on her peanut butter toast. The peanut butter jar was nearly empty, and I didn't want to take the time to mix the new jar because of how the oil separates in the organic peanut butter we buy (can't it just mix itself?), so I made due with the little that was left. I thought I had it nailed, adding extra honey to cover for the lack of peanut, but to no avail.

"There's too much honey, Daddy."

"Eat it."

"No! Too much honey!"

"Eat it!"

"No!"

Of course I knew I wasn't helping, but my own spiral had begun as well. I was having a crappy week at work combined with the fact that my wife (known as "The Mama" to my regular readers) had a series of Kidpower workshops and had to leave really early, leaving me to wrap the mornings up and get the girls to school. Plus the recent election, the Dakota Pipeline protest and the general craziness and instability of world unknown, where many of us are still holding our collective breath, hadn't helped either.

Usually I have no problem with managing the morning routine even when I'm working early, which is all the time, but when the Bryce factor escalates, it's a tough road. And the Bryce factor had felt the adult stress in the room of late. Both girls did.

"What do you want then?" I asked her.

"Sunflower butter bagel," she answered, one of her staples to date.

"Fine, I'll fix you the bagel, but please go upstairs and get dressed for school. You know how Beatrice doesn't like to be late."

"Okay."

"I don't want to be late, Daddy," added Beatrice.

Everything mellowed again -- until she wanted the blue jacket. Her warm new blue jacket that was nowhere to be found. I even texted the Mama to see if she knew, but she didn't. Maybe she left it at school, she texted back.

That didn't sit well with Bryce who wailed on and on about it. I made her put on another jacket and herded both girls out the door.

"I don't want to go to school!"

"Get in the car!"

"Daddy, we're going to be late, aren't we," Beatrice said.

Christ, not now, I thought.

"No, get in girls and let's go."

But it was too late. Bryce distilled into a Molotov cocktail that blew up in the back seat. Bryce screamed and thrashed more than usual and Beatrice plugged her sound-sensitive ears, looking helpless in the rearview mirror.

"I don't want to go to school! No!"

"Stop it now, Bryce! We have to go now. We do this every morning. Stop acting like this!"

"Daddy, I don't want to be late!"

I might as well have poured gasoline on this latest flash fire. Every positive parenting action and Kidpower recommendation became a distant fire line in my mind. Only two days before I had picked Bryce up from school and we had a similar stand off, but this time I kept my cool, and not just because some parents watched as Bryce writhed and thrashed on the ground in front of me. I used what's called my "walk away power" -- literally -- and told Bryce I had to get back for a call and she needed to come with me. So I walked away from her. Then she followed, reluctantly, but quietly. All the way back to the car and was quiet all the way home.

Bryce began kicking the back of my car seat near my head and that woke me up. I wanted to pull over and spank her little butt, which we've never done with either girl, but I didn't. I should have pulled over regardless, I know, but we had to get to school and goddammit my girls were not going to be late because of this outburst.

Instead, we sat in the car at a stop sign in the middle of the road, with no other cars around, and I voice texted my wife. Bea continue to plug her ears while Bryce cried and kicked.

Can you call me in the car, I texted. Bryce is really mad. (Which autocorrected to Price is really a sad.)

Upset and kicking me.

Sorry. Pretty bad this morning. Thought hearing your voice would help. Love you.

Nothing like ensuring correct punctuation in urgent voice texts while stopped at a stop sign. She didn't answer so I knew her workshop had already started. I proceeded to school yelling at Bryce to stop while Bryce yelled at me and poor Beatrice tried to help calm us both, index fingers in ears.

We arrived and parked down the street from school like we usually do.

"Daddy, Bryce took off her shoes and socks," Beatrice announced.

I was so done by then, but I sucked it up and firmly opened up Bryce's car door and put her socks and shoes back on.

"Bryce, let's go," I said.

"My-my glasses," she said. She had finally calmed down, but she held one of her lenses in one hands.

I felt beat up, punched in the gut. All I could do was pop the lens back in her glasses, put them on her, and pulled her gently out of the car seat.

Besides Beatrice informing one of her classmate's parents of what had transpired on the journey to school, the same mom I had told of my woes earlier in the week, Bryce and I walked in silence the rest of the way to school.

We've survived all this before and we'll survive it all again. Later that day after school the Mama and I sat down with Bryce and talked about it, or as much as you can talk about it with a firecracker of a six-year-old. We talked about how it's not okay to act that way and that we need to use our words when we're mad and that it's not being safe when she uses her body to put herself and others in jeopardy because she's mad. We talked about how we should use our own words with her when we're made instead of yelling (which ain't easy). We laid out the Kidpowerin' for her as we do for both girls and each other. Bryce listened, and whined, and listened, and tried to articulate how she felt and why she did what she did.

We've survived this all before and we'll survive it all again. We do our best to provide a stable environment for our girls and know that's all we have control over -- and we're not the only parents who deal with emotional swings and childhood angst. It's hard when you're in those fiery moments, but we'll survive and our center will hold.

A few days later we were all in our local Christmas Parade marching down the middle of Pacific Avenue with the Mama's Girl Scout trip that our girls are in, and I couldn't help but think about what we've felt and projected of late has impacted them. I couldn't help but think how much positive energy it takes to keep our centers intact, and like the Yeats poem, how much negative energy is released when we don't.

And there was Bryce at the end of the parade celebrating her center in the only way she knows -- her way. Maybe, just maybe, the middle of the road can hold for us all.

A Joyful Heck of Awesome

“Don't shoot me Santa Claus
I've been a clean living boy
I promise you
Did every little thing you asked me to
I can't believe the things I'm going through…”

The Killers, Don’t Shoot Me Santa

Somewhere between the cafeteria and the parking lot, we lost our Joy. She'd been with us the whole night and every time we saw her or felt her, we couldn't help but smile. I swore I had picked her up with everything else when we loaded up to go. Beatrice swore, too. She said she saw her in my arms as we headed for the car.

But when I dumped everything in the back of our car, she was no where to be seen.

"Beatrice, where's Joy?"

Immediately the angst of losing Joy simmered inside. Bryce and the Mama would know soon enough and not be happy about it; Joy was Bryce's favorite character.

"I don't know. I thought you had her Daddy?" Beatrice clicked her seatbelt.

Dammit, I thought. "Bea, I'm going to see if I dropped her."

"Okay."

I walked back through the parking to see if I could find Joy. Nothing. Joy was gone. I went back to our car and told Bea to get out and help me look. We walked all the way back to the cafeteria where her latest grade school's movie night had transpired early that evening, the Disney Pixar movie Inside Out. It's currently Bea's favorite movie, having seen it nearly 20 times, and of course Daddy cries every friggin' time he sees it. Hence why she wanted to bring the stuffed character of the same name, one of a set of characters we had given to Bea for her birthday. We had also brought Disgust with us, Bea's favorite character and a foreshadowing of sorts.

Only Beatrice and I were supposed to go to this movie night just as we'd done the previous two, but this time Bryce actually wanted to join us. So the Mama packed up more stuff for us all to bring. We still brought both cars anticipating that Bryce would want to go home early (which she did).

But happy we were with the fact that the entire family wanted to go this time. Joy filled in the space between us all sitting on a blanket spread out on the cafeteria floor. We ate pizza, chips and carrots and the day before felt like light years away...

...Unfortunately, Joy was safe and sound at home when I took the girls to get their flu shots and mine as well the day before movie night. The Mama had already gotten hers through work. Our family doctor had lost an entire batch of flu mist and shots due to a refrigeration problem, so that had killed the close-to-home pleasant option. Sure, we could've gone to the county clinic, but that was way across town and would've taken too much time for me that day. Instead we went to Safeway down the street where the plan was to get the shots and get them a treat next door at Yogurt-land. But the pharmacist had no help that day and couldn't administer shots until later in that afternoon, long after I had to get back to work.

Fine. We'd go to CVS instead since I wanted the girls to pick out something cheap and fun for the Mama to round out her Christmas gifts. Yes, CVS. No judging, please. But the problem there was the fact that they couldn't administer the shots for any child under eight years old. Argh. (That would end up being the case the day after movie night at Safeway where they had originally told me six years or older could get the flu shot. Cold-hearted bastards.)

"Okay, girls. Let's pick something out for Mommy."

But immediately Bryce picked out a toy for herself. "Daddy, I want to get this."

"No, Bryce. We're only getting presents for Mommy."

"Yes! I want this!"

"Bryce, please. We're only shopping for Mommy and then we're going home. You already got a treat after Safeway."

"I want it!"

The Brychter scale flipped on in my head and the tremors around us started rocking and rolling. Please, no. Not until we get out of here.

I moved as quickly as I could with Bryce's earthquake escalating all the way to a 10.0. I negotiated with Bryce, gave her another couple of choices, and Beatrice tried to help too, but the earth was roiling out of control and Bryce was beyond the rational. Impulse control down. Sanity off the grid. The world imploding around us. Checking out and leaving in short order was the immediate plan.

Unlike the day the Bea stung, this time Bryce roared like a hungry lion in the middle of the now shaking store floor near the register where I paid for the gifts. She threw down the toy she wanted, picked it back up and threw it down again.

"Bryce, we're leaving now. Please come over here."

"I want the toy, Daddy! I want the toy now!"

"Bryce, I already gave you another choice. These gifts are for Mommy and you can pick a small toy like Bea has, but not the one you want."

Tears streamed down her bright red face and she fell to the ground as if participating in her own private Occupy CVS protest.

"Bryce, please come over here."

Everyone around us watched, but I blocked out all fields of vision except my lines of sight on Bryce and Beatrice. Less than a week earlier I lunged in to care for sick sweetie Bryce who had thrown up all over the place while I tried to work, but now she was wild animal I had to cage, get home and get the Mama to help soothe (in that order). My tranquilizer gun perpetually shot placebos.

"Please, Bryce."

"No! I want the toy!"

More up and down off the ground. More throwing of the toy. A crowd gathered.

The positive parenting and natural consequence negotiating just wasn't going to work at this point. Somewhere deep down I heard the Mama and other positive discipline pundits shouting Remove her from the environment -- Now! Lousy local conditions be damned.

That's when Bryce ran up and hit me on the hip. I'd just finished paying for the merchandise (I selfishly wasn't leaving without the Mama gifts) and as soon as she retracted her hand, I grabbed her arm firmly.

"Stop!" she yelled.

I pulled her firmly toward the door with my right hand while all the purchases hung from my left. I got her to the sliding doors, but then Bryce grabbed the security system alarm gate and held on tight with her free right hand. I pulled, she shifted diagonal, but didn't budge. I could've pulled her vertical like in a cartoon.

"We're going home now, Bryce! Stop it!"

As I screamed this I felt horrible. I never wanted it to escalate this far. Remove her from the environment -- Now!

I finally got her out the door and now she thrashed making it exponentially more difficult to manage the moment.

"Beatrice, please carry this stuff for me so I can pick up Bryce."

Bea complied and as I hauled Bryce up to cart her to the car, she thrashed and hit and scratched, and all I could think about was not hurting her. To get her home. Intact. Unscathed. To the Mama. And away from me.

I strapped her and we got home. Finally. Still with the Mama's gifts. As Bryce settled down I discussed what happened with the Mama, her consoling me and telling me I had no other choice but to remove her. Bryce later told me she loved me, and then all was well with our world again. We all survived no matter how guilty I felt about treating her a little roughly (just as the Mama has had to do herself). And although Joy was all but lost, we made it through movie night and then the reattempt at the flu inoculation the next day, which only I could get this time due to the age limit and that nearly made the Mama flip out. But we made it unscathed to our annual visit with Santa Claus where we had a Zen-like moment with him, discussing the mindful omnipresence of Santa (and, in a way, parenting). Amen.

And then later that night, we both lunged in as Bryce threw up again all over her bed, and then Bea's.

Compared to the rest of the crazy shit happening in the world today, and to those less fortunate than us, our family growing pains are quite benign, but they're still our growing pains nonetheless.

We still haven't found Joy, but we're grateful it continues to find us, and that always makes for a Happy Christmastime.

Here's to a Joyful Heck of Awesome!

The Part When Daddy's In Charge

What a difference time in a child's world makes. 

One minute they're bubbly molten lava: "I don't want to go anywhere!"

And the next, they're outside happily staring down a moth resting on the house.

The Mama had gone to visit a friend and Daddy was in charge. The idea was for the girls and I to pull ourselves together after playing iPad games consisting of baking cupcakes, dressing princesses, and riding horses, all the while watching the Mother Goose Club recently discovered on Netflix.

This old man, he plays two

He plays knick knack on my shoe

With a knick knack paddy wack

Give a dog a bone

This old man comes rolling home

Ugh.

I, of course, wasn't baking cupcakes or singing nursery rhymes, but rather, doing a few house nips and tucks that had been on my honey-do list for weeks. Then came the time to wrangle the B's and buzz them out the door to the park for fresh air and outdoor playtime.

Unless you're a full-time daddy, mommies are the ones who usually wrangle the kids, wrap them in clothes and wrestle them out the door -- day after day after day. Yes, there are those of us in the daddy realm who help with the child rearing, but mommies know the subtleties and the score when it comes to inspiring the lovely spawn.

Beatrice isn't a problem anymore to get out the door. Socks and shoes loaded, she was ready to go. Unfortunately Bryce was not. She launched into a passive-aggressive tirade about what she wanted and didn't want to do. 

"I don't want to go anywhere! I want to go somewhere!"

Then flip to me with the gruff daddy to positive parenting to gruff to positive slingshot approach. Here we go again: a battle of pure impulse, temper tantrums and reactive wills. I tried to get Bryce's socks on while she kicked away at my chest. Bryce held me fast with her eyes, defiant fury unleashed over and over again like rapid-fire solar flares. Shards of melting self-control rained down upon us (again).

I gave up. "Bryce, Bea and I will be playing out front and you're welcome to join us when you're ready."

"I don't want to go anywhere! I want to go somewhere!"

We went outside and one of Bea's kindergarten classmates rode up on her bike with her parents in tow on their bikes.

I explained we were waiting for Bryce to simmer down so we could go to the park and play, and they of course commiserated with me. While we talked, their daughter, Bea's best friend and a sweet friend to Bryce too, snuck up on our front porch for some quick playtime with the girls. 

I went to investigate. The three girls stood together fixated on something on the side of our house. It was a big brown moth. Bryce's meltdown gone, she ran to retrieve her bug catcher from the backyard and then somehow got the moth into it without mutilating it. All was well again with the world of B-hive power. Hey, don't look at me -- I only work here. I had nothing to do with it.

After that, getting them to the park was a breeze, where it actually was way too breezy to play for very long, but Bryce did release the moth safely again into the wild while we were there. Afterwards I took the girls to get a rainbow sherbet cone, or "rainbow sugar" as Bryce likes to call it. Meltdown behind us (for now at least), we came back home to play, and play, and play some more.

And make a big friggin' mess. Yep, the part when the Daddy's in charge. Right on.

The Mama's Pragmagical Muddy Puddles

I imploded. The frustration of not knowing what to do sprayed my gut like poison shrapnel, my heart buried in the rubble. The years of adept coping lost in a moment of weakness.

The poison seeped and seethed in my bloodstream until it reached the damaged language centers of my Cro-Magnon daddy brain, doing nothing more than igniting another series of fresh implosions, the poison ultimately reaching a lethal level. My heart was nowhere to be seen.

Finally, the Mama asked, “Are you grumpy again?”

The poison poured from my mouth; the caveman pounded my front lobes with his gnarled club.

“Yes, I am! I’m tired and hungry and I had to deal with Bryce screaming and again pounding on my face and chest like a mad woman while we were in line in the store. And I don’t know what to do about it. How am I supposed to just smile and use the whole positive discipline parenting approach and ask ‘what’s your idea?’ when all I want to do is smack her across the face!”

I sighed aloud. “Mercy, I actually do feel better now.”

The Mama gave me an uncomfortable smile, as if to say, Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place, butthead?

There we sat in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, us in the front seats, and the girls giggling in the back, oblivious to my angry outburst.

“Are we going to the harvest festival?” Bryce asked.

“Yeah, the harvest festival!” Beatrice echoed.

“To jump in muddy puddles!" they called out together.

“Yes, we are,” the Mama answered.

I remained quiet, still recovering from internal damage, but off we went. While I drove us onward, I reflected on my immature and impulsive delayed reaction, still struggling with the positive discipline parenting approach overall, especially when Bryce’s reactive tantrums explode in our faces.

I know the Mama struggles too, sometimes having a smack attack on Bryce when it’s just too much, which in turn only causes Bryce to strike back harder until she becomes a boiling sea of tears.

But that’s not why I was reflecting this time. Bryce is only four, and a much different animal that her older sister, and the fact is that we’re doing everything we can to instill positive and healthy “responsible” responses to anything that either girl will have to deal with short and long-term. Self-awareness, mindfulness and impulse control over destructive behavior takes time and a maturity that many adults can and do struggle with.

Like me. Although I’m light years from where I was before the Mama met me, the same pattern of internalizing angst until it implodes as referenced above still happens from time to time. It’s like having flashbacks from bad hallucinogenic drugs taken in an already fragile state of mind.

At least, I’ve heard from friends...

You get the point. I internalize. I implode. The poison seeps and seethes and hurts me and those around me. I expel it all as if exorcized. Then I’m better again.

The Mama’s always been better at being under control and direct in the moment, at quickly adapting while retaining a pragmatic and almost magical approach to every facet of life, but I’m getting there; I have my moments. A work in progress since the day we met over 17 years ago on the beach…

Sigh. Snap – wait, that’s it! For those of you keeping score at home, yes, I’ve seen the Mama meltdown (she is a lovely woman and human being), but it’s the “pragmagical” planning, execution and resolution that I now aspire to, before I implode!

And all it takes is a big, muddy puddle and harmonic convergence. Yes, that’s it. What a woman that Mama is. And for me, Bryce is the key as well, like malleable molten metal that can be easily turned into a precision tuning fork.

After Trader Joe’s, we did go to the Wilder Ranch State Park 40th Anniversary Heritage Harvest Festival and had an amazing time (which we usually do). It rained earlier in the day, which us West Coasters desperately need, but then the sun came out in the afternoon and it was gorgeous.

Thank goodness, 'cause Daddy Goat Gruff needed a little vitamin D and some family B love.

The Mama's the queen of the pragmagical -- planning ahead and bringing an extra change of clothes for the girls since we planned on letting them jump in the muddy puddles. We always do. It's incredibly fun and cathartic. I only wish me and the Mama would have joined them. (And if you and your kids watch Peppa Pig, you know what I'm talking about.)

Yes, B-come the tuning fork that needs to reverberate (and release) immediately in a big, sloppy, muddy puddle -- real or imagined -- before the implosion happens. That's the harmonic convergence I've been looking for.

So, if I just bend Bryce just the right way and hold her up to the glorious sunlight and jump...

Sigh. Splash!

The Trick Fuse of Firecracker Bryce

I watched as she scraped the fork back and forth along the side of the bookshelf. Then she poked it a couple of times.

"Amy, please don't let her do that," I pleaded with the Mama.

The Mama didn't respond.

"Bryce, stop it," I growled.

"Bryce, what's your idea?" the Mama asked.

There it was -- the positive discipline response. But Bryce kept on scraping.

"Amy, please don't ask how she's feeling right now. Stop her from gouging the shelf. Thank you."

"Sweetie, she's not gouging the shelf. C'mon."

Amy sighed. "Bryce, Daddy doesn't want you doing that. Please don't scratch the shelf."

As soon as the Mama took Bryce's fork away, Bryce cried out in protest and shook her head. That's when I saw the fuse: a small, white, frayed cord that protruded from the lower back of her sweet little toddler head. I imagined that it originated deep in her reptilian brain's core, completely detached from her developing frontal lobes.

And sometimes the fuse smelled of gasoline.

All it took then was a single spark to ignite it. 

Sizzle. Hiss. Boom.

More like -- Ka-Boom.

Such is the life with firecracker Bryce, and the closer she gets to turning four years old, the shorter the fuse seems to get. She's been exploding, hitting, yelling and crying at a exponential rate -- the classic temper tantrum. Sometimes the tantrums take what feels like an inordinate amount of time to extinguish, the fuse lighting over and over again like a trick candle.

It's especially difficult when we're in public, like just yesterday at the old fashioned 4th of July at Wilder Ranch State Park when Bryce fights, screams and thrashes while the rest of the world watches her cruel parents drag her away after calming her fails.

According to the Positive Discipline folks, it's not easy for most of us (children and adults included) to verbalize our feelings when they are upset, and there are those of us who can't verbalize their feelings at all at any time. Children (and unfortunately still too many adults) haven't learned how to articulate what they need and want. Scheduling time to have family meetings, talking through the problems, teaching the child to brainstorm for solutions -- all these things are supposed to help snuff out the fuse and calm the child. Temper tantrums often occur when children feel controlled.

I know that positive discipline doesn't mean being so completely permissive that there is no discipline at all, but it does mean we need to "both kind and firm in our actions. Kindness shows respect for the child. Firmness shows respect for the needs of the situation and for parents. Spanking and punitive time out are not kind."

Except when the child is gouging my bookshelf or smacking me across the face.

Sigh. Okay, even then, and even if it takes forever for the fuse to go out.

When experiencing hot things, my grandfather used to say, "Hot as a firecracker on the fourth of July!"

With Bryce, it's more like, "Hot as a Molotov cocktail on the eve of end times!"

She's our fearless little headstrong force to be reckoned with. Look out world. This kid means business.

Happy Independence Day indeed.

The primordial wild-eyed gyrations of nonsensical screech and howl.

They've started. The primordial wild-eyed gyrations of nonsensical screech and howl.

Temper tantrums.

Amy tried to tell me they started this week when I was at a conference, but I kinda half-listened like the good husband I am.

We have a shelf of small pictures that Beatrice loves to look at and point, saying "dat" like "what's that". She really wanted one in particular earlier this week and so gave it to her and then Bea proceeded to whack Mama right on the upper lip.

Mama took picture frame away. Baby melted down. For a long time.

So Saturday morning Amy's cleaning the kitchen and I've got Bea trapped in book world and toy land (what used to be our living room). We use her bouncy to block the small passage from living room to dining room, in between the couch and the cuddle chair.

A couple of weeks ago Bea figured out how to break out, but we wedged it in even further to prevent passage.

Bea wanted to get to Mama in the kitchen and she'll wanted it now. She wriggled as far as she could between bouncy and couch, but I thwarted her efforts by dragging her back into the thunderdome.

Melt. Down. Shriek.

Her face beamed bright red and her Harry Potter scar glowed so intensely I frantically looked around to ensure there were no wands within reach.

I tried to console, I tried to misdirect, I tried to tie her to railroad tracks (no, I didn't do that) - but she was one unhappy lady bug. With fangs and bloodlust and the ability to levitate.

We survived (and so did Bea!). According to Anita Sethi, Ph.D. from Parenting.com:

Your child screams when he/she doesn't get things right away because he/she has no understanding of time and little reason to believe that another way might work.

Anita shared four great tips, some of which we've tried and will continue to try:

• Show some empathy. Try something like "I know, you don't want your diaper changed." He won't understand the words, but he'll understand the tone of your voice and actions.
• Try a new kind of distraction. If jingling keys and making funny faces aren't cutting it, a song can soothe, as can a little back rub or a change of scenery.
• Keep calm. Sometimes babies throw tantrums because they're overstimulated, so taking a break from all your make-the-baby-smile tricks might actually help.
• Stay a step ahead. If you know your baby is fascinated with the TV remote, make sure it's out of sight. If he screams in the high chair, let him eat with a lovey on the tray (more laundry for you, but less screaming!).

Otherwise, me need more wise magic! Year 2 is upon us.