So it's not exactly sending him to bed without any supper, but it still weighs heavy on my heart—sending Sam to bed without any stories. I knew he wouldn't be happy to hear the tub running tonight: it's four long school days into a busy week, and Thursdays seem especially draining with 9 hours clocked at Carleton Heights and then off to karate class before heading home for a 6:30 dinner. His one evening hour rushes cruelly past, and then the bedtime rituals start. Sam generally loves his tub, his cartoons, his stories and songs and chats and cuddles. But tonight he staunchly refused to take the first step towards bed.
It's hard to get angry at his petulant displays of frustration and resentment. The flipping of a stuffed toy onto the floor. The deliberate stamping of feet, eyes dramatically ablaze and cheeks puffed out in rebellious pout. It's all still too cute. And we try to cut him a little slack when we know how tired he is and we agree that the nights are too short, that we "just got here." But enough is enough. Tonight, when he was presented with his "choices"—the options he has control over once he has relented to our will—Sam rejected all offers. "I'm NOT going to listen to a Harry Potter chapter, and I'm NOT going to watch a "Go, Diego" and I'm NOT HAVING A BATH! No, no, no, no No NO!"
When a few minutes of gentle chiding on my part failed (often the whole "why are you being mean to Mommy, when Mommy is so nice to you?" ploy works), I wordlessly stepped out of the arena and let Jeremy do his thing. He's the more patient of the two of us—and he has a deeper voice—so he's the man to handle the escalation. He outlined Sam's two choices again and added a third: "Or, I can carry you upstairs, give you your bath, and we'll put you straight to bed without any stories." The punishment of punishments! Unbelievably, Sam didn't budge. Dug his heels in on the stairs and said it again... "No." And then burst into wild tears when Daddy followed through with Plan C. Was in near fits by the end of the tub.
When he was all ready for bed, I gathered the exhausted and sobbing child up in my arms and sat with him in what used to be the "talking chair," back in the brief period towards the end of the 2's when he suffered through the occasional Time Out and then had to allocute to his crimes and apologize and end it all in hugs. I think he realized the significance, because he snuggled in for hugs immediately and listened to us explain why he was heading straight to bed. He calmed down as we spoke, the anger draining from his body. But it was obvious he was really only waiting to talk when he offered, in that hitching voice that comes after a crying jag, "Now .. I choose .. Diego.." Oh, the heartbreak when I stood firm and replied that he'd missed his chance!
I carried the inconsolable child up to bed for the first time in as long as I can remember and tucked him in without even turning on the bedside lamp. Still, he looked longingly at the stack of books on the table, crying now with a sense of his own loss rather than his parents' duplicity. I explained that it's part of our job to make sure that he grows up understanding that he can't behave the way he did and because of that he will always lose out on something good when he defies us. This time, he nodded with the saddest of "ooookkkaayyyss" and asked for a sip of water, saying "I think I can stop my cries now." Then he burrowed under his covers, sighed deeply, and asked if he still got the four kisses. I hope he knows in his heart of hearts that we'd never withhold affection to teach him a lesson. I take it as a good sign that no matter how hurt, how seemingly wronged, he still bid us both a "good night, I love you" with strong hugs.
And then he fell asleep in 90 seconds.
It's hard to get angry at his petulant displays of frustration and resentment. The flipping of a stuffed toy onto the floor. The deliberate stamping of feet, eyes dramatically ablaze and cheeks puffed out in rebellious pout. It's all still too cute. And we try to cut him a little slack when we know how tired he is and we agree that the nights are too short, that we "just got here." But enough is enough. Tonight, when he was presented with his "choices"—the options he has control over once he has relented to our will—Sam rejected all offers. "I'm NOT going to listen to a Harry Potter chapter, and I'm NOT going to watch a "Go, Diego" and I'm NOT HAVING A BATH! No, no, no, no No NO!"
When a few minutes of gentle chiding on my part failed (often the whole "why are you being mean to Mommy, when Mommy is so nice to you?" ploy works), I wordlessly stepped out of the arena and let Jeremy do his thing. He's the more patient of the two of us—and he has a deeper voice—so he's the man to handle the escalation. He outlined Sam's two choices again and added a third: "Or, I can carry you upstairs, give you your bath, and we'll put you straight to bed without any stories." The punishment of punishments! Unbelievably, Sam didn't budge. Dug his heels in on the stairs and said it again... "No." And then burst into wild tears when Daddy followed through with Plan C. Was in near fits by the end of the tub.
When he was all ready for bed, I gathered the exhausted and sobbing child up in my arms and sat with him in what used to be the "talking chair," back in the brief period towards the end of the 2's when he suffered through the occasional Time Out and then had to allocute to his crimes and apologize and end it all in hugs. I think he realized the significance, because he snuggled in for hugs immediately and listened to us explain why he was heading straight to bed. He calmed down as we spoke, the anger draining from his body. But it was obvious he was really only waiting to talk when he offered, in that hitching voice that comes after a crying jag, "Now .. I choose .. Diego.." Oh, the heartbreak when I stood firm and replied that he'd missed his chance!
I carried the inconsolable child up to bed for the first time in as long as I can remember and tucked him in without even turning on the bedside lamp. Still, he looked longingly at the stack of books on the table, crying now with a sense of his own loss rather than his parents' duplicity. I explained that it's part of our job to make sure that he grows up understanding that he can't behave the way he did and because of that he will always lose out on something good when he defies us. This time, he nodded with the saddest of "ooookkkaayyyss" and asked for a sip of water, saying "I think I can stop my cries now." Then he burrowed under his covers, sighed deeply, and asked if he still got the four kisses. I hope he knows in his heart of hearts that we'd never withhold affection to teach him a lesson. I take it as a good sign that no matter how hurt, how seemingly wronged, he still bid us both a "good night, I love you" with strong hugs.
And then he fell asleep in 90 seconds.
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