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.

Little Miss Independence and her trusty Lil' Sidekick Shadow

I woke to crying. From a distance. Focus. In the other room. The girls' room. The clock next to my bed glowed 1:00 a.m. red.

More crying. I rose quickly and travelled the hallway in one bound. I entered the room and there she stood between two worlds -- her little bed and her big bed -- seemingly half asleep. As soon as she saw me she dove back into the big bed, curled up with her fuzzy and thumb in mouth ("fuzzy" is her small silky pink security blanket).

I sat with her for a while, rubbed her arm and told her I loved her. She sighed and then fell back asleep.

Such is a little life traversing the path from toddler-dom to little girl. As Beatrice nears her fourth birthday, a little less than three months away, the past six months have been quite transformative for her. She's catching up with her speech and processing delays; preschool, speech therapy and occupational therapy have really paid off. She's talking tons like sweet little girls do, talking quite loudly actually since she's been encouraged to express herself, going potty on the potty (big parental win), and starting to sleep more and more in her big girl bed.

Little Miss Independence, still thankfully light years from teenage-land and adulthood, but moving beyond toddler-dom for sure. As her synapses continue to shape and shift, her awareness expands magically to a level I can't even remember having, and wish I still had. From bugs to blue sky to Bryce, the world around her has come tangibly alive with sights, smells, sounds, tastes and touches.

Yes, from bugs to blue sky to Bryce -- her trusty Lil' Sidekick Shadow who's right behind her and is less than two months from two years. Bryce, the shorter supernova who's not afraid of much, unless Beatrice shrieks and scares her. Bryce, the baby-to-toddler-dom Braveheart charging ahead in everything she does, dragging her yellow blanket behind her like Linus from Peanuts. When she takes off in a playful run, she kind of pumps her arms and rotates her shoulders with a sly smile. No speech delays here; this kid's already stringing words together like hot popcorn on Christmas morning. Not quite sentences, but tasty strings of words nonetheless. And she's already modeling sitting on the potty. Mercy me.

Even more magically expanding awareness -- that now floods into the backyard, the one we didn't use much prior to kids that's now become one of many stomping and romping grounds keeping us all active year round. We just bought a new chair swing and the girls love it. Daddy can still put stuff together and that's a good thing, because these girls are gonna keep the Mama and me young and spry. 

Little Miss Independence and her trusty Lil' Sidekick Shadow, running rampant through our summertime hearts.

Who says dashing naked through sprinklers is old school? We sure didn't.

The physics of living a rainbow

"It's like learning physics."

That according to Beatrice's occupational therapist during her last appointment. I took her this time, wanting to witness the exercises she's put through -- learning to cross the midline better, improving fine motor schools and dexterity, and more.

Or having an apple and orange juice party with Daddy. She's more hip and fresh that way.

The Mama is witness to Bea's incremental progress every day, and while she's intellectually smart as a whip, she has struggled with some level of auditory processing disorder (APD). And that in turn has delayed various self-care activities and speech articulation, overall attention span and focus.

Not too long ago Bea struggled with potty training, dressing, stringing beads on a string, drawing a rainbow, speaking clearly, processing basic instructions -- while at the same time nailing her numbers and letters and other preschool academia as well as scoring quite high on the social butterfly scale. Kids with APD (or related diagnoses) have difficultly processing auditory signals and are visual learners.

Most children, even those with processing delays, fall into a broad spectrum of hitting developmental milestones. The big worry, one that we admit to having since Bea turned two years old, was that we were dealing with mild autism. But because of her progress and social prowess, both her speech and occupational therapists concur that's off the table, although it will take the next few years to see what other deficits might appear during grade school.

Activities like crossing the midline are critical, because when one crosses the midline, the brain begins to make new connections and the right and left hemispheres begin to work together. This communication process organizes the brain for better concentration and problem solving. 

We are going to have some more testing done this summer to rule out physical anomalies, but while I watched her during her OT appointment, I was so proud of her progress. The physics of drawing a rainbow have been mastered, and even though her speech still includes a sometimes brief frequency-tuning undecipherable phrase before nailing a sentence, she's really doing quite well.

I was especially proud of her after taking her to the Happy Hollow Park & Zoo yesterday for a sunrise animal feeding tour. She really enjoyed it, paid attention and romped just like one of the regular kids. Don't get me wrong -- it's not that she's irregular, but for any parent who has a child with any "disorder," however mild, it's thrilling when they make progress like those children without any issues.

And we rocked the toddler roller coaster! 

Beatrice's sunny disposition is the most amazing thing to be around, though. It's like she's mastered the physics of living a rainbow, something I wish I would've had more of growing up. We do hope she can carry that with her into grade school and beyond.

Bryce? Well, she's a different animal for sure -- bolder, more confident and developmentally in order than her elder sister was on the cusp of two. She's already mastered the physics of eating a rainbow. Seriously. More on that soon.

Look out world. My girls mean business.

Your favorite poop spot

Where's your favorite poop spot?

Yes, I just asked that question. So where is it?

For my youngest Bryce, it's sitting (and squatting) on her little bedroom chair in front of her little table with the farm house and animals. Or, it's on her little stool in front of her little kitchen set in the

What? She wears a diaper. C'mon.

Same with Beatrice, although we are in a fast-track transition with her finally going pee-pee on the potty! Next stop is poop train to the toilet! Until then the poop spot means quiet time in her bed.

What are you looking at? Get out!

Again I ask you -- where's your favorite poop spot?

Your main bathroom?

The guest bath?

The half bath?

The out house?

The guest house?

The back yard? (Keep that one to yourself.)

The hotel room bathroom when traveling for business alone?

The hotel lobby bathroom when traveling for business with colleagues?

The hotel room bathroom when traveling with family (and room spray)?

The corner stall of the bathroom at work?

The corner stall of the bathroom at work -- on another floor?

The corner stall of the bathroom at another office building down the street from where you work?

A quiet place to reflect, read, meditate and/or pray, to blot out an otherwise business-as-usual stress-filled day?

Mine is our master bedroom bathroom. Or, the male/female single shared bathrooms at work (one at a time, thank you). This may be too much info for the Mama, so I won't speak for her.

Hey, there's a Zen sense of animistic liberty when we poop -- having ownership over a specific bodily function in an otherwise cruel, chaotic world.

For at least as long as we can, baby. We can go out just as we came in, so let's pay homage to our favorite poop spot.

Ahhh. Nirvana…

Of giving and loss

It's enlightening when you're three-year-old is such a sweet giver. Sure, she melts downs when she can't watch Wonder Pets, The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore or the Yo Gabba Gabba Christmas special -- two weeks after Christmas (please, I can't watch it anymore, help me, it's already January 8).

But from Christmas Day with Nonna to the week after when my unwell folks (Nana and Papa) actually made it here for a few days, Bea reveled in us opening our gifts, some of which she picked out herself, like my Santa Raider ornament and Bryce's toy cars, and like the earrings I had specially made for Mama titled "working them angels" after Mama and the B-hive via the artisan Katy Bransfield at Between Sun & Moon.

And just this last week when Bryce was having a nuclear meltdown during dinner, with both me and the Mama throwing our arms up in surrender, Bea did her best to make her little sister smile and laugh. It didn't quite work, but she tried, the misdirection helped, and we thanked her for that.

Bea's still got some work to do in other areas, but mercy she's fast becoming a smart little girl (again, only three, right?). In fact, nothing tops defining the ultimate toddler giver as what happened one night during the holidays. We had put Beatrice to bed (Bryce was already asleep), and about 10 minutes after that Bea called for Daddy.

I went up and said, "What's the matter, sweetie?"

"Take this," she said, reaching out her hand.

"Take what?"

"Take this."

She pushed her hand into mine.

"Is that a booger, Bea?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She smiled then laughed.

"Thank you, sweetie." Thank you. Really.

From sweet giver to learner of loss -- that's been a fascinating window on what it means to have to say goodbye to those we love. For Beatrice, that means our nanny/babysitter Elyse after two and half years and Nana and Papa after a few days of visiting over the holidays.

Elyse leaving was the biggest blow, but the one-two punch of her moving away and then my parents being in and out really took it's toll on Bea. Watching raw grief spill from a toddler who doesn't fully understand what she's feeling, but understands she doesn't want to say goodbye, cry-howling and red-faced, it's bittersweet for adults who have been there more than once, who've experienced it on more levels than wished to remember. We told her she'll see them all again, but it's no consolation in the moment of grief.

After surviving not quite a Christmas miracle, the lessons of giving and loss have been invaluable, even for an old Daddy who's been there, done that (and will again and again and again).

Happy New Year!

 

The fear of what we do wrong

Many of us think our own babies are the smartest babies in the world. But when anything developmentally falls behind with them, we worry that something's gone wrong.

What exactly "wrong" is we can speculate until we overcompensate and convince ourselves nothing's wrong at all, or until we're tossing and turning at night wondering what we did wrong to skew their growth progress.

Beatrice started walking at around 11 months, but she didn't crawl until 17 months. Bryce crawled between 7-8 months and walked at around 11 months. When my mother reminded me that my sister and I walked before we crawled, I didn't feel so out of sorts about Bea not crawling sooner.

Now that Bea has started preschool, which she loves, there's a real deficit that's been called to our attention, one that we already knew was there but now it stands out more amongst her toddler peers and her teachers have pointed it out as well.

She has a speech delay. What specifically that means, a maturation delay or expressive language disorder or whatever, we just don't know yet. Six months ago our pediatrician told us she was fine and already had the right pronunciation skills for her age, but she hasn't progressed much since.

Now, she has normal intelligence and comprehension (if not above normal -- she is the smartest toddler in the world you know), normal hearing, good emotional relationships and normal articulation skills. In fact, even the speech therapist she saw this week concurred on all those points. And when we talk about Bea in front of her about not talking enough, her level of communication kicks up a notch.

However, Bea just doesn't string as many words together into three-word+ sentences as other children do at three years old. Bea still has to have a comprehensive evaluation with the speech therapist next month and will more than likely be going to her for the next few months.

What throws people who meet her for the first time is that she's tall for her age; she's mistaken for upwards of four years old. But when she talks, it's more baby-like than clear and simple phrases others her age speak. We've been told more than once that she most likely regressed when Bryce was born and this speech delay has slowed potty training too. Ack.

When Bea was only a few months old our pediatrician requested we get an ultrasound of her head because it was in the very high percentile of size for her young age. The results showed that her brain ventricles were enlarged but there was no other action taken by the doctors. The traumatic birth her and Mama went through included the vacuum on Bea's head that popped off two times before we got her out the third time (a Caesarean was next), so who knows if that had something to do with it early on, but at this point we may never know if any permanent damage was done.

We've always talked with Beatrice and read her stories and told her stories. She even learned sign language early on and still signs please when we ask her to say please. Yes, she watches TV and plays games, watches videos and reads stories on our, I mean her iPod and iPad, but we're also very active and engaging outside as well, always verbal, always loving.

For me and a past that occasionally haunts, there's always the fear of what we do wrong with our children, when all we ever want is for them is to be all right.

Oh, how the cartoon Bea swells

"You know, you guys are doing a great job," the grocery store checker said to me.

"Thanks," I said. "This is all new to us and we're figuring out as we go along."

He nodded, helping me bag the last of the produce. "I see a lot of parents with their kids in here, and trust me, you're doing a great job at setting limitations."

I thanked him again and we left. I don't know how right he is, because sometimes it feels so wrong.

Only 25 minutes earlier, as soon as we walked in the store, Beatrice took off giggling. We told her to stop, to come back, but she giggled some more and ran outside through the store doors.

I had just locked Bryce into the cart when Bea headed out the door. Mama came to the cart and I sprinted after Bea.

Livid. We've been dealing with this a lot lately.

She of course was laughing hysterically as she ran into the parking lot thinking it was a game. I grabbed her -- stopped myself from smacking her on the butt (which we've done) -- picked her up, carried her back in and dumped her into the shopping cart, which she didn't like one bit since she wants to walk on her own more and more. We then told her, as we've done a hundred times already in the past few weeks, that it's not okay to run away like that and not stop when we ask her to.

Yes, we know she's not even three years old yet. It makes sense that she doesn't understand the repercussions of her actions and why it's dangerous to run away. But the problem is that for the past few weeks she's been getting more and more bold in taking off away from us like it's a cartoon game of chase.


That's the catch -- the fact that Bea wants more independence and walk around without a tether but she doesn't get boundaries yet. We're working on getting her to understand that running down the sidewalk toward a busy street is not acceptable while running around the grassy field in front of the Santa Cruz lighthouse is.

Except when cartoon Bea runs into the real brick facade of the Santa Cruz lighthouse, she doesn't bounce away cleanly like a cartoon would. She goes "smack" and oh how the cartoon Bea swells.

That's all folks! [queue the music]

Breaking the Neigh-Neigh and Back Again

I tipped it over the edge of the kitchen table early one morning, the hand-blown blue glass bowl made for me by one of my employees over a decade earlier.

I tipped it over the edge, and I knew in that sickening second that there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I had moved it from the coffee table so my nephew, who was staying with us and sleeping on the coach, wouldn't have to worry about knocking it over.

I tipped it over the edge, and it crashed -- a billion blue glass splinters eclipsing the kitchen floor.

My heart imploded and became a dying white dwarf in the cold, vacuous night. It wasn't just the sentimental value of the gift itself: the gift itself represented an emotionally volatile period of time for me. The breaking was a mixed metaphor of closure and emotional oblivion.

But I moved on, because that's what we do (or try to do). No way to fix it otherwise.

That was years ago, a long time before Beatrice and Bryce.

Last week, as Bea played with one of her (latest) favorite things, a ceramic little boy on a rocking horse, she dropped it and the boy's head broke off.

At first, her reaction was limited but normal. "Uh, oh. Broke!"

But then, after a little time went by, the consequence of what had happened really began to work her over emotionally, no matter how many times we told her it was an accident.

Tears streamed down her red face as she cried and howled, "Broke horse! Fix it! Broke! Fix it!"

It's as if, as much as she could understand in her less than three-year-old mind, the breaking caused irreparable damage to the very DNA of her soul.

A little over-dramatic? Maybe, but you wouldn't think that watching her (or your own children).

"Broke! Fix it! Broke! Fix it!"

We told her daddy would fix it, that it wasn't her fault, and then --

In that moment I tried to reconstruct the billions of little blue glass bits with the foreknowledge of the many broken moments to come for both Bryce and Bea, and the many that had come before for Mama and me.

Which was almost a bit too much for me.

We'll fix it, it was an accident...

However, for most of us, resiliency is baked into the soul's DNA, and we go from surprising the neigh-neigh to breaking the neigh-neigh and back again.

At least we hope we do.

Happy Easter and all the hope that comes with it.

The Mama's a baby/toddler repair kit. The Daddy? Well...

She's like a baby/toddler repair kit. Well, not just like -- she is.

Nails too long? The Mama trims them up.

Hair too frizzy? The Mama trims it off.

Teeth dirty? The Mama brushes them clean.

Rashes break out? The Mama comes with lotions and potions.

Teething? The Mama brings on the soothing.

Snotty nose? The Mama wipes it off.

Feverish? The Mama has a cool washcloth.

Diaper rash? The Mama has the bottom cream.

Can't sleep? The Mama tickles the arms and makes it better.

Bonked head and skinned knees? The Mama has the kisses and hugs.

The Daddy has a cold? The Mama makes it all better.

The baby keeps the Mama up at night? The Mama keeps it all together.

Yeah, so what about the Daddy? Well, he's like a baby/toddler cuddly bear play thing.

Oh, and cuddly vulture as well. You know, when the toddler won't eat all the "adult" food on her plate, the Daddy swoops in and polishes it off.

*sigh*

Hey, I like to eat. Waste not, want not.

Melmo's Wuhld is everything and everything is Melmo's Wuhld

"Good morning, Beatrice. It's a bright sun-shiny day! What shall we do?"

"Melmo's Wuhld!"

Wow. And so the TV show addiction begins.

But hey, Mama and I grew up watching Sesame Street -- glued to it actually -- and we grew up okay. We didn't have Elmo, because Elmo the character we know and "wuv" didn't come on the scene until 1985.

But boy do we wuv Melmo's Wuhld today -- we being the B² formula of the family, because now Bryce is getting a hit of the Elmo smack.

Good times.

Hey, Elmo's World talks about shoes and dancing and weather and food and telephones and music and exercise and family and sleeping and --

Everything. Melmo's Wuhld is everything and everything is Melmo's Wuhld.

Mercy, both Beatrice and Bryce and growing up faster than I can download Elmo on iTunes (if we lived in South Korea, however, it would be the other way around).

Growing up. *sigh*

Let's see how a daddy does it...

[wink]

Thank you, Daddy!

[Elmo laughter]

Hey, Dorothy wants us to sing the Daddy song (sung to the tune of "Jingle Bells"):

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!

No more coloring inside the lines, kids.

Watch me burn a path, baby

She just ran in circles. It was unabashed joy, twirling the ribbon, wings and tutu a-flutter.

There wasn't any real dancing per se; she is only 2.

At first, she was hesitant and shrieked with unabashed fear, tears streamed down her face. Mama persevered and Beatrice survived the first dance class.

After that, she didn't want to leave.

She lit herself on fire with her own joyful path, bounding through an imaginary sunlight meadow, a moonlit forest.


God bless you, Beatrice. You inspire me to keep bounding.

Watch me burn a path, baby. Daddy loves you.

The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels. How worn and dusty, then, must be the highways of the world, how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity! I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. (Henry David Thoreau)

The T2's and geothermal HazMat control. Mercy.

Pulling the cat's tail wasn't what I had in mind.

But Bea had other ideas.

The usual scenario at bedtime, until last night that is, included me or Mama taking Beatrice up to her room to read a few more books and then hit the crib hay. The other one of us would handle the lil' Bryce.

My first indication that things were going to go very wrong was when she shrieked and slapped at me unhappily in her room and then ran to ours, wanting to jump on our bed, which usually happens in the mid-mornings in her princess dress and/or a cowboy hat.

Our 300-year-old cat Chelsea curled up peacefully on the bed, her old bones --

~BOUNCE~
~BOUNCE~
~BOUNCE~

-- jarred suddenly by the bouncing Bea.

Then ~PLOP~ Bea lands right next to Chelsea's tail and starts pulling on it.

Yanking actually. Yanking and giggling.

Chelsea hissed. Bea giggled.

"Stop it, Beatrice. You're hurting the kitty."

That means nothing to a 2-year-old child. Nada. She just giggled longer and louder.

More yanking and hissing and yanking and hissing.

The thing is, I didn't want to daddy-handle her and hurt her feelings and/or unintentionally hurt her period.

But she was out of friggin' control.

"Stop it, Beatrice!"

Finally I removed the old cat from the bed and that just made Bea all the more determined to follow kitty and yank-giggle-yank.

Before Bea tried to tromp downstairs after the cat, I grabbed her arms and gently (but firmly) guided her into her room where she proceeded to dissolve into a howling and thrashing melt down.

Straight through the center of the earth, out the other side, and back again.

I had to call Mama upstairs for backup geothermal HazMat control. Mercy.

Would this be a glimpse of the T2's? The terrible unbearable tantrum 2's that can liquefy anything in its wake?

Yes, but at least I've found another calorie burner for slowing metabolisms.

Always a silver lining, you know?

Laptop Modeling

In the mornings the laptops are stuck to me and Mama. Can you tell?

Anno Beatrice Unum. Cogito sumere potum alterum.

So, a week ago Thursday Mama came home at the end of the day and said:

"Don't freak out, Daddy."

She had just walked in the door holding Bea, back to me, and words woke me up from working on my laptop; they stung like a snapping towel.

I pulled the right rusty levers in my head to stop time.

Don't - the opposite of do, which wasn't a good way to start.

freak - definitely not the second word I wanted to hear; visions of nightmare carnies and sideshows.

out - the opposite of in, and when connected with freak, the nightmare carnies and sideshows are on the loose on our street.

Daddy - not sweetie, honey, sugar-pie, sugar-plum, hot stuff or Kevin.

"Don't freak out, Daddy. Beatrice split her head open."

I didn't want to look up. "What?"

Mama turned around and there was Bea with a big swollen knot on her forehead covered with a bandaid.

With a big splotch of blood in the middle of bandaid. (It was big to me.)

She told me the story of their play date with another mom and baby - one minute Bea's walking and the next she's falling and hitting her head on a bookcase.

I pulled other levers in my head to start time and said, "We have to go to the doctor."

Mama said, "No, we don't. Let me call Elyse and my sister."

Elyse, our baby-care person, was wonderful with our child, as was Amy's sister, neither of whom were doctors.

However, our neighbor was and so we got him to come over but he assured us that even though he was an internist, not a pediatrician, Beatrice should be fine if she wasn't blacking out, or feverish, or howling intensely non-stop.

The swelling was already going down, the cut was that bad, and Bea was walking around the house giggling.

And falling over and over and over again.

Anno Beatrice Unum. Cogito sumere potum alterum.