Why Is Three So Hard?

Why is three so hard?  My memory is not kind either, because unfortunately I’ve forgotten how tricky the other two boys were at this age.  In the moment, I feel like A is my nemesis, my nightmare.  He’s the one proving to the world that I am an unfit parent, mother.  Hans tells me B and C were both rough at this age.  I seem to have forgotten.  I’m sure A is the hardest.

My nightly reading is a book titled, Knowing Your Three-Year-Old.  I find comfort and encouragement from this read.  My favorite line goes something like this, “The three-year-old sees his mother as his enemy at age three-and-a-half.  This is a good age for the mother to enroll her child in preschool, to give her and her child a few hours off from each other.”  Unfortunately it is hard to take this book’s advice since I am my son’s preschool teacher.  Oh dear.  We are doomed.

I have put all my faith, hope, and love into the fact that his 4th birthday keeps getting closer and closer.  February, come quickly. 

I try and remind myself that he is cute, sweet, plays well by himself, is smart, creative, and ingenious…focus on these things.  But it is hard when he seems so volatile.  I pleaded with his oldest brother to play with him and build a furniture fort with our little demon on a day when A was especially difficult.  A was so excited, so giddy.  He adores B.  “Yeah, let’s build a fort B!”  But something wasn’t quite right with the fort.  A’s toes stuck out and were exposed to the harsh weather elements of our living room.  Rage ensued.  Couch cushions scattered.  B looked for an escape.   

“B, you don’t have to play with him.”  Relief.

A was devastated, “But I wanted to build a fort.”

“Yeah, but when you get angry like that it is scary to play with you.”  Tears.  Favorite blanket, chair snuggle…calm.

At preschool last week we were at a total impasse.  A refused to sit and eat his snack with the other children.  He crumpled his pathetic body into the corner of the classroom.  It had been a rough morning up to that point and it felt like my limit of tolerance.  I was ready to call Grandma and send him home.  I knelt down beside him, “Can you use your words and tell me what is wrong?”

“But I wanted to share my fruit snacks.”  I wanted to cry.  This stubborn tantrum came from a really good place.  Here I thought he was just being obstinate, but instead he was devastated.  I had no idea that the fruit snacks he asked me to buy him were supposed to be passed out and share with his friends.  Sweet boy.  “Let’s go get them.  I think they are in your cubby.”  Up he bounded, joy in his step…making sure each classmate got a handful of his special treats.

I have to remind myself to look at what is motivating the meltdown.  Usually it is sadness, frustration, or disappointment…not pure anger…just miscommunication.

And then the memories begin to come back.  B, at a young age had to sort out his feelings over his new baby brother, C.  Oh the meltdowns!  Whenever it was time to nurse this new intrusion, B, would wail and moan as he tossed and turned all over the living room carpet.  C had certain expectations and desires at age three too.  He threw a royal fit during his swim lessons when his instructor handed him the pink floating noodle.  Wow, what a scene.  I was at a total loss.

And guess what…C and B are very nice little boys.  I always get compliments after play dates and birthday parties.  No complaints from their teachers.  They are kind and thoughtful; they communicate their wants and desires, and can balance their emotions with the world around them.   

Still, I forget this, I forget how far they’ve come.  It is always good to take time to remember.  However, in this particular era, A is very frustrating, and I’m still looking forward to four…along with everyone else.

(I wrote this after a week of intense power struggles with A.  This last week has been blissful.  He's been sweet and good at communicating.  We've had special one-on-one times, like making his famous cookie pie and playing games together.  But when I wrote this I was in a very frustrated state.)

No More Hugs

The first blatant sign happened this fall when my oldest, B, walked off the bus and crossed the road to the safety my arms…except he didn’t walk into my arms.  That was the sign.   For the last two years I have always gotten an exuberant, best-mommy-ever-hug each and every afternoon as the big, yellow, bus delivered my oldest to me.  I still get a hug from the middle brother, C, who almost knocks me over like a lab puppy, but not from B.  He made it clear on that first day when he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I think I’m too old to hug you anymore.”

I smiled and touched his hair, probably totally embarrassing, “OK, maybe we can give each other a hug later when no one is watching.”

“Yeah” he liked this option.

This is what we want.  This is what his dad and I have been working towards:  independence.  I didn’t get upset, throw a fit, take it personally…it was what it was…a sign of the times.

B is still very much a little boy.  The other day he saw me in his school and raced over to grab my hand only to have his little eyes fill with tears when he learned I wasn’t there to work in his classroom.  I wanted to cry too.  At night he always wants a snuggle and could, “You please run your fingers through my hair.”  But there is a little “leave and cleave” going on within him.  Today when he got home from school I asked him for a hug, once we were in the house and no one from the bus would be able to see us, and he looked at me and said, “Maybe later, like tonight.”  That one did hurt a bit.

I’m also learning to give him space in other areas, trying to give him room for his personality.  C and I are verbal processors.  B is not.  I finally agreed to stop asking him about his day right when he gets home.  He promised to eventually tell me about it, especially if he thinks anything very interesting happened.  I’ve been trusting this process, and it appears to be working for me.  B’s actually telling me more stuff about school than he has ever before.  And it is way more interesting than the forced short-answers I was getting before about if he chose a chicken burger or hamburger for lunch and if he played kickball or soccer at recess.  (I’m learning things like, “Miguel is really fun.  He said…”

However, I’m glad we had a third boy, A.  I think I might be quite emotional with all this growing up if I didn’t have at least one more preschooler at home.  In no way do I want to go back to that era of blending baby food, toilet training, and sleepless nights, but the nostalgia visits are sweet.  I do hate that my memory does get hazy with time.  I was so certain I would always remember.

Still, I can take myself back to those first days when I brought home my first newborn to a quiet and peaceful house.  I can hear the way the wood floor creaked under my tip-toes.  I can smell the special bath lotion that I used religiously each night at the kitchen sink, and feel the cozy texture of those first sleepers.  Our world slowed a bit and became focused on one little person.  There is a simplicity in becoming a new mom that can only be discovered once, and so I take the time to remember and savor it because there is nothing quiet and calm and simple anymore about parenting.  My counters are full of backpacks and lunch boxes, soccer uniforms to be washed and folded, homework to be monitored, and little lives to be fostered towards more and more independence. 

These moments of no-more-hugs are really affirmations that all is going well.  And I like that.

 

Olympics: Schneiter Style

“Here, put these three hats on and try to walk across the laundry room.  You are the Japanese.  I’m the Russians,” C instructed his older brother B.  The Olympics have descended upon the Schneiter household.  New Olympic events are being created each hour.  After watching the men’s gymnastics, my boys were flipping and twirling down our stairway.  I’m sure they felt athletic and fluid as they went flopping and thudding down the steps.  At least the scores they were giving each other reflected champion status.

There is a new furor for the race: swimming, running, hopping…  Our youngest is struggling over this.  A’s the one begging for it, begging to line up beside his older brothers and race through the living room, to the kitchen, and back around to end up in the TV room for his triumphant finish.  Each time he doesn’t win, which is every time we don’t make B lose, is a major emotional upset.  A might be getting some of these pointers from the London athletes, but mostly it’s in his nature to find losing extremely frustrating.  His lips pout; he hits the sides of his body with fists clenched and cries, “B won!  I lost.  I not faster than B.”

The other day B named himself B Phelps and C morphed into C Lochte.  Cultural observations are being drawn also.  “The Japanese and Chinese are rivals, but the Chinese are better,” C surmised.  Then he added, “Russia and Germany are rivals too, but no one is rivals with the US.  People stop trying when they compete against the US.”  What?  Remember, he’s 5.

My sons are learning a lot this summer. I was feeling like a bad mom because I decided to not push any type of literacy this summer, but instead decided to focus on the art of play, but now that we’ve been engrossed in the Olympics, I’ve concluded  I’ve done my scholastic job by emphasizing geography.  My boys now recognize flags and country abbreviations.  They are learning which countries are in Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Caribbean.  They are learning about language…just listen as a Chinese gymnast is on an apparatus.  They are getting music appreciation each time an anthem is played.  Points for Mama!

Exposure to culture and diversity is also happening…it isn’t every day that we get to see synchronized swimming or diving, cycling, badminton, pommel horse, or even beach volleyball.  We are watching as a family and it is something we are all enjoying, no more Power Rangers!  At least we are getting a few weeks off from all things cartoon. 

B and C are learning a bit about England.  (I'm assuming A is a bit too young, but he might just be absorbing it all.)  They’ve finally got all the names sorted out, “Whose Great Britain?  Who’s the United Kingdom?”

I love that their world is getting a bit smaller, more attainable.  The other day we were driving back from Idaho and Bren decided to explore the GPS.  He started giggling, “There’s China!  Now I’m in Portugal.  Hey, there’s Russia!  Dad!  Dad!  I found Manchester United.”  Each boy took turns with the touch screen, whizzing over land and sea, zooming in and out.”

Thanks to the Olympics, I’m going to get a gold medal this summer for achieving a bit of educational learning.  It was touch and go for a bit, but now when the boys return to teachers and books this fall they will be able to read such words as Botswana, Dominican Republic, and Australia.   And if there’s a flag recognition game, they might just smoke their competition.  But mostly they’ve seen what years of dedication and hard work can give someone:  satisfaction and pride.  Not a bad lesson to learn.  I love the Olympics.

Perfect Jeans

I have never been that lucky girl; never had that perfect pair of jeans…until now.  I love this denim like no other.  My passion is unequaled.  And this chance encounter was all quite by accident.  It was a harried decision, a choice I almost didn’t make, a choice thrown on at the end of a time-sensitive –shopping-endeavor.  My childhood friend and I had indulged our stay-at-home-mom fantasies and hired a babysitter while we allowed ourselves to shop, in a mall!  Still our time was limited and was encroached upon by the knowledge that there was a 5 to 1 ratio at her house.  So even though we appeared to be free women, we still shopped like two rushed, frenzied mothers: there was a time constraint.  Luckily I did have my best friend with me who obviously knows a good pair of jeans and recognized they were a hit on my legs, thighs and buns.  “Well, should I get them?  What do you think?”

“Definitely.”  I was unsure because the hems dragged a bit.  She promised that she could alter them if I needed it.  This scene is almost three years old, but is clear in my mind…one of those fateful, frozen events.  By this one simple purchase I was changing the course of history, at least as far as my wardrobe goes.

For three years I would wake and gaze into my closet.  I had choices.  There were other jeans.  But whenever, out of obligation, I chose another pair I always regretted it.  My heart was another’s.  My true love lay in my drawers waiting for me to realize my mistake and return to him and his threads only.

Days with Mr. Perfect were just better.  My confidence oozed:  the right color, with the right fade; the right softness that didn’t sag by the end of the day; so dependable.  I could dress these jeans up or down.  They were good enough for casual grocery shopping, picking up the kids, or going on dates with my husband.  They were morphing into my body, becoming a second skin.  We had lit the wedding unity candle and had become one.

That is why my heart broke recently when I discovered a thin stream of light protruding through the back, left pocket.  Maybe it was my imagination.  Maybe if I stood straight, did not squat, no one else would notice.  I tested this out on my husband.  “Well, maybe if I wear blue underwear?”

“Maybe it is time to get a new pair of jeans.”

Sorrow.  I knew that fates would only give goodness to me once.  You only have one first love.  I tried to find the exact same brand, but it had been three years and the fashions had morphed slightly.  (I guess I’m like that woman who still insists on a beehive at the beauty salon.)  I compromised.  I found something I could live with, not necessarily live without.

I brought this new pair of jeans home and placed them in the drawer next to my worn-out-lover.  I was sad.  I knew that when I woke up and put them on, it would not be the same…and it was not.  I still have my perfect-pair-of-jeans.  I will not throw him out yet.  And I still wear Mr. Right on days when I know I am safe from public scrutiny.  I now understand the powerful connection between a woman and her jeans.  Some things in life you can only learn through experience.  Jeans are one of those things.

Poop Fudge

Through the fog of early morning, I spied two large, round eyes and a sweet voice said, “Mama, I’m poopy.” If you’ve been following my parenting escapades long, you know that I do not call myself an expert in potty training. Where’s the magic button that I can push that reboots my three-year-olds to automatically transition from diapers to underwear? I know these buttons exist because it appears that many other mothers have located these devise on their children. (Not all of us, mind you, I do know that I am not alone.) It seems like the world of mothering can be categorized into two groups: those that beam with potty training ease and those that do not.

Normally I enjoy a morning cuddle, but not when my youngest announces that he is poopy. I lifted my comatose body from its warm covers and was immediately filled with horror−and immediately wide awake. A’s pants were poopy, yes, but also his feet! His feet! The trek to my bedroom from his is a long one that includes steep terrain and white carpet. (White carpet, another worthy column.)

I quickly rushed this dangling mess to the bathtub while he cheerily chatted about his morning adventures in poop. The horror grew. What did the house look like? I decided to assess the damage: little brown footprints recounted his journey all the way up the stairs and into the boys’ bathroom. Nightmare. The entire floor of A’s bathroom was covered from toilet to doorway with a fudge-like substance that, unfortunately, did not smell or act like fudge. It was a mirage that I could not deny.

How would I get the older boys to school? This was not a quick clean up, but would require hazmat vigilance. I called my father and begged him to take the older boys for me. I didn’t have to ask twice once I explained the situation. We all went into emergency mode.

After an entire tub of Lysol wipes, several stop-and-gags, and 40 minutes of hand-and-knee-deep-cleaning the bathroom was disinfected. Time for an intervention. After a short, but firm discussion in regards to the nasty nature of poo and that mommy is A’s helper, I felt satisfied that this experience was one we could all learn from.

The next three days were a beautiful thing. A asked for help all day long when it came to the use of the potty. I felt we had turned a key potty-training-corner. He kept telling me, “Poop is messy.” Yes, yes it is. I was starting to think that life’s hard lessons could be learned from, and that if we captured this at a young age our teenage years would be smooth sailing. (Fantasy: perhaps when I become the mother of three teenage boys I can align myself with the mothers whose children do well in school and seem to cause no parenting woes. I’d rather have that than easy potty trainers, right?)

I only shared my success with a few mothers; I am actually getting a bit wiser in my parenting− just a bit. The positive effects of the Floor Fudge Extravaganza only took us from Wednesday to Saturday. Then it was back to business as usual, not floor art, but plenty of messy pants−plenty.

I try and talk myself out of my panic attacks. I know it’ll all come together. I know he won’t still be doing this in a year. I know it has to end. He is my last boy, my last baby, but don’t tell him that. The other night I put him in a pull-up and he looked at me with disgust, “I don’t like those. They make me feel little.” No joke, these were his words and feelings. “Well, maybe if you didn’t have accidents, then mommy would let you wear big-boy-pants all the time.” My passive-aggressive son seemed to comply and let mommy dress him in these safety precautions. But this morning when he came running down the stair, jumping into my happy arms, I could feel that he had put underwear on beneath his pajamas and no longer resided in a pull-up. “Did you put on underwear?” (Knowing my youngest, he did this last night after I was sure he was warm and cozy in his bed.)

“Yes, I am a big boy.” He beamed and was quite pleased. I think I might as well surrender now, the teenage years just might prove to be even trickier for this parent than the toddler years have been.

Little Boy Pee

Little boy pee, anyone who is the mother of boys is familiar with this conundrum. It starts very young, from the very beginning of their existence. A mother must always be on guard during diaper changes, never leaving a naked son unattended. Little boy pee takes on new significance once the sons are potty trained. I don’t know how many times I have sat on a wet toilet seat; you’d think I’d learn.

I was complaining to a small group of friends and several confessed that that is why they require their sons to sit and never stand in the bathroom. This feels mean, like I’m stripping them of their masculinity. I keep thinking they’ll grow out of these splatter tendencies, but the frequency is increasing now that I have three boys using the potty.

Actually, I almost don’t mind anymore. I almost feel like it is my issue; I’m the one that needs to learn. I need to learn to look and wipe and then sit.
My friend Jen is the complete opposite of me in that she has three little blonde-haired girls, ages three, five, and seven. Her bathroom issues are quite different. She has the joy of drawers spilling over with hair ribbons. She has the joy of three little girls crowding around one bathroom mirror and three little girls frustrated that each other is taking their pretty little time in the facility. Her husband finds this quite annoying and confessed that he often uses the backyard…I bet he’s glad his mother never made him sit down to pee; standing can come in very handy.

Jen has also seemed to fair better in potty training endeavors, oh she equally hates it as much as me, but it just appears to come earlier and faster for her girls. Summertime does help and speeds along our boy potty training adventures. There is nothing like the great outdoors to encourage a little son that it is time for big boy underpants. My three are always excited when the weather warms and there are no limits to their bathroom choices: trees, bushes, gardens, rocks, forts, rivers, public parks…

The other day I was talking to a mother in the school parking lot and her boy pulled down his pants and squirted his mark on the school steps. She was horrified. I was not. I have been in that same predicament many times before. You scold. You shield. You chastise, but you always let the boy finish his business because you are secretly glad he didn’t have an accident and you didn’t have to stop your conversation to walk and find a proper bathroom. Boys can be very efficient.
In fact this skill set is something I am personally jealous of, at times. I don’t know how many times I’ve been hiking or camping and have wished I could stand and hide behind a Redwood tree or coastal rock wonder. We went camping with Jen’s family of three girls. I was not jealous of Jen, at all. She and her girls had to inspect and use each pit toilet and public rest stop. And yes, they sat in each one. Nasty! I was then very grateful that my sons could partake in that manly ritual of finding the perfect tree or precipice with Daddy while I went into the facility, solo. (I’m adding this one to my mental list of reasons I love being the mom of only boys. I love solo bathroom time.) I love not having to share my bathroom drawers with overflowing, pastel ribbons. I love that no one fights over the mirror space. I love that my boys can wear their hair so short that they don’t even need to own a comb. Sitting on the occasional little boy pee is a small price to pay for this ease that I get to experience and know. I think I’ll stop complaining now. I have it pretty good.

Anticipate: My 2012 Word

I’m being attacked by New Year’s pressure, pressure to make a resolution…at least one. Every day it seems like I come across an article on how to improve my life, my cleaning, my eating, and or my body sculpting. I try and resist these bombardments, but in all my post-holiday-hustle-and-bustle I did come across a list of house goals I had made for myself three years ago. I had misplaced this list and had only kept it around long enough to mark off ¼ of it. But, get this: with great joy I picked up a pen and crossed out every remaining item on that piece of scratch paper, 19 in total. I completed them all!

This moment felt providential, like I was being prodded and whispered to that yes indeed, I should make some plans, make some goals, some resolutions. Obviously my past “resolutions” had been successful. I had redecorated and painted the back bathroom, office, master bedroom, hallway, piano room, and boys’ bedrooms….outside stands our kids’ play structure and a very used and loved BBQ. I had written and published a book, taken several planned trips with my family, and become involved in my son’s school through various volunteer activities. Accomplishment feels good.
I have new ideas and goals for the next few years swirling around in my head. In fact, I chose a word to frame my year around: anticipate! I want to sign my oldest up for piano and art lessons. I want to take a family trip to Yellowstone and Disneyland. I want to continue to remove the wallpaper in my two-year-old’s bedroom. A started this, deviously, during naptime. Oh, and I definitely want to get my youngest potty trained. It is time for a new era in the Schneiter home, the No-More-Diapers-For Me-Era. I’d like to finish the rest of the siding on our house. But most of all, the thing I think I really want to focus on is releasing myself of some of my mommy commitments.

Nearly seven years ago I made a huge life shift from working woman to stay-at-home-mamma. It was hard. I have to admit: I didn’t really like it. I found myself getting through the day by focusing on 30 minute increments of time: fold laundry, plan dinner, walk to the park, story time, read books, give bath….the exciting, fast-pace, energizing, and exhausting day of being a teacher offered a bit more stimulation in contrast to a day with one newborn baby. So I filled my days with meaningful outlets that allowed me to integrate my life and the life of my children into one: mom group, indoor park, play dates, preschool volunteer, teach Sunday school, coordinate school newsletter, write, writing group, book group, direct church women’s retreat, lead a small group for our church…..the problem is that as I progress through life’s natural evolution I have continued to add great outlets to my docket and have not allowed any of my activities to go extinct, making my days busy, harried, and a bit too much. On top of that, I am feeling the transition out of the preschool years. (By Fall I will have two out of three boys in full-day school!) I think my role will be looking different and changing once again in the next few years, and I want to be ready for it. I eagerly anticipate this.

I anticipate the New Year and the next few New Years to come. I want to be ready for them and what they will throw at me. I want to transition well and learn, once again, how to organize my day. I am eager to find another list and be able to cross everything off of it knowing I have done well. And so I will embrace the tradition of resolutions and make my goals. I can’t wait to find this new list and cross every item off of it!

Wishing you an excellent 2012!

I Am A Soccer Coach, Yep You Read that Right

I have a new passion. It isn’t Kit-Kat bars, chia tea, shopping at Costco, or even Zumba…like some of my past passions. It is quite ironic really. This soccer wife has turned soccer coach. Yep, you read that right. I am my son’s 1st and 2nd grade soccer coach.

When I first announced to B that I would be “wearing a whistle” he gave me a puzzled and skeptical look, “Don’t worry. I’ll get all my ideas from Daddy.” There was a marked, physical reaction of relief.

I was nervous, but after our first practice I actually felt a bit in my element: telling young children what to do and making sure they had smiles on their faces the entire time. I have six kids on my team and we play with a max of four players on the field, so it is right at my soccer level, but I am finding that after being the “coach’s wife” for over a decade, I have actually caught on to a few very basic rules, plays, and overall general coaching philosophy. I guess all my husband’s post-game talks late at night have paid off.

I find myself using phrases I have heard Hans say like, “Keep square to the ball. Play to feet. Don’t hold on to the ball, pass it. Keep shape. Remember, we play our style.”

In our second match the opposing team’s coach, another mom, looked very nervous, admitting that she’d never coached before.

“Oh, me too. Don’t worry.” But I think she probably hates me now and decided I was playing a sick, cruel joke because compared to her team my group played some beautiful soccer. (This is when I should probably mention that five of the six players have been to one of my husband’s soccer camps…several times.) We were passing. We were fluid. Kids were holding their positions. Our defenders were reading the game well and going out and winning balls only to set up the plays again in our favor. I mean, I was ecstatic. I’m sure in a few years B is going to find me totally embarrassing, but for now he’s so excited to be playing on a real team that he doesn’t seem to notice the loud, vocal coach, who happens to be his mom, shouting at everyone.

I find myself running up and down the sidelines, hollering at the kids to pass to open players, reminding them to “shake hands with the line”, and guiding them toward sweet victory. (This is also when I should probably tell you that a good coach never does this type of “coaching” during a game. My husband chastised me after our second match.) But we were all feeling quite good about ourselves. We aren’t supposed to keep score, but I secretly love that the kids do. I mean, what’s wrong with a little competition? Shouldn’t kids learn to win and to loose, not just get participation points leaving everyone feeling “good” about having fun with a ball? (I might not feel this way if we are ever the recipients of a blowout.)

By the end of each match, I’m exhausted. My adrenaline has pumped a bit too much, and I’m in need of a cool down. I’m so happy though, so proud of my team. At our second game, everyone got at least one shot on goal and most got it through the middle of the two, red flags! Nothing feels better than seeing a seven-year-old score! And nothing feels better to a coach than seeing these kids beam with soccer love.

And then it dawned on me, the true reason my husband loves coaching soccer. Yeah, we all know he loves the game, but I think what keeps him doing it season after season is that there is something rewarding about working with youth, seeing them succeed, and hearing them express how good they feel about all their hard work and end results. And I think this is the passion that I am currently, truly, addicted too. It’s not really about the game of soccer, it’s about the kids.

A Rage Like No Other

I guess I’m still in need of refinement. My youngest tested my ability to keep my cool this morning by throwing a ginormous fit that lasted a full 35 minutes. I felt a bit helpless because he threw this fit while I was driving away from the bank. It was obvious that something had not gone his way, but we were all amiss as to what.
I am continually impressed with this third child and find myself saying, “Well, you’d better go far in life mister,” due to his perseverance and determination, also known as being stubborn and strong-willed.

A's two older brothers were in the van with me watching the rage and trying their best to distract A, cajole A, and threaten A into obedience. I heard B speak calmly, “Use your words A. Tell us what you want.” I smiled at B’s attempt to parent. Wonder where he’s heard that line before? But instead of being rewarded by a calm explanation there was more screaming, more kicking.

C tried another approach, “Stop it A. You are being naughty. Mom, he’s trying to get out of his seat. He’s trying to get out of the van. A, stop, this is not safe!” The yell and scare tactic, another one I often pull out of my parenting tool belt.

I tried also, really, I did. I was becoming a very distracted driver and so my oldest suggested that I pull over immediately before we all ended up in a car accident.

By this point A had freed his upper body from the 5-point-harness and was screaming, “I want out! I want out!” I guess he was taking B’s advice and using his words.

A was trying to unlock the moving van’s door with his left foot, as he successfully lowered the window with his left pinky finger. I did win this small battle by pushing the child-lock-window-button and by keeping the van in motion which has a child-safety-feature: while the van is moving, no side doors can be opened. Go Honda Odyssey engineers.

I pulled over. I’ve been working with this very interesting final installment of Schneiter’s procreation now for exactly 2 and ½ years, and I’ve discovered that the soft approach works best. I got out of the van and opened his door. I stroked his sweet face, only a mother would find this angry face sweet. I said things like, “Honey, you need to stay in your car seat. You need to stay in the van. You need to stop. You need to be safe. What do you want? Use your words. Do you want mommy to buckle you back in or do you want to do it?”

“A do it!” This was followed by even more intense and loud raging, the kind I’ve never seen or heard before. I was afraid the other people in the parking lot were going to report me because surely a child screaming that loudly was being mistreated by their mother, no one would stop to think that it was I that was being mistreated by my son. At this point I wanted to wither up and cry. But then there was a slight pause.

“OK, now, we are leaving and going home, thank you.”

It was merely the eye of the storm. The brief break was just a reprieve before the hurricane’s onslaught. I found myself trying to tune it out, focus on the road. My oldest offered to help me drive by pointing out all the stop signs and merging traffic. We promised and reassured each other that A would give up, eventually. Surely he wouldn’t last the entire trip home. The town we were in was a good 35 minute drive from our house.

C and B plugged their ears with their fingers and took their little minds to another, peaceful place. I was jealous of their Zen skills as little feet and legs wildly kicked the back of my seat. I kept waiting for a police officer to pull me over and ask me if I was a fit parent and a fit driver…if I needed to sign up for some parenting classes, maybe I did. Maybe I should. I have been parenting now for almost seven years, and I was at a loss. None of my usual tactics were working.

A did not stop screaming until we pulled into our driveway and he knew the ride was over. I let him out of his car seat. He crawled onto my lap, a puddle of tears and exhaustion, “Sorry mommy, sorry.” It was nice for him to say sorry, but by this point in time I was the one who wanted to create a scene. My scene would be a pity party. I wanted to melt into the driver’s seat and cry, “Oh A, why? Why were you so angry? Why were you so unreasonable?”

And then I turned a bad mommy moment into a constructive one because two out of the three children had been brilliant, “Boys,” I turned to my older sons, “I am really proud of you for putting up with all that craziness. You were very patient.”

B smiled, “I just tried to relax my body.”

I’ve decided to give myself a golden star in the good mommy column. Wouldn’t you?

The Coach's Wife

The coach’s wife, you’ve met her before. She’s the one in those feel-good-sports movies that appears exactly three times. Once in the opening scene, she’s up in the bleachers rooting the team on, and you realize she’s the wife after her husband’s team has lost, disappointingly, and the camera goes from her look of sadness to her husband’s slumped shoulders. The second scene she gets to star in is short, and the only time the writers give her any lines. The coach needs a little pick-me-up, and so the coach’s wife is there to let him know how much she believes in him and his team. The last scene she’s in is at the very end of the movie. Once again she is up in the stands, but this time she is jumping up and down and smiling because her husband has brought the under-dog-team to victory, and of course, they’ve won a championship. If she’s lucky the coach, her husband, looks up into the bleachers and smiles.

I’m the coach’s wife. I’ve been a coach’s wife for eleven of the twelve years of our marriage. And I keep wondering why there aren’t any blockbuster films where the wife is the star and the husband is in the sidelines.

I mean, I am a fairly intriguing and occasionally exciting personality. I’m the constant. I’m always there. I’m there in the preseason, the regular season, and the off-season. I hear all the team drama. I know all the squad secrets. I know what the coach really thinks of all his players: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I know what the coach is like after a win, a victory, a defeat, and an utter failure.
I’m that lady with the three little boys who is often not watching any of the games, but is instead trying to entertain the children: snacks, toys, bathroom runs, concession stand visits, and games of tag and wrestling in the grass. I often wonder if any of his players think, “Wow, what an amazing mom. Look at her wrestling with her three boys. I wish my mom was that developmentally appropriate.”

And I have my dramatic moments too. I have those scenes where the coach talks me out of quitting, convinces me that this is all worth it. That these late nights and no-weekends-with-daddy will all pay off. It’ll all be worth it for that one season when they win the championship. I too dream of glory. I hear the soundtrack running through my mind as I live the sport’s dream.

Fall is but weeks away, and so my friends have started to ask, “So, is Hans busy? Has soccer started?”

I want to yell, “When did it ever end! Do you realize there is no off-season anymore? It is a year-round obsession and commitment.”

But I don’t, “Yeah, daily-doubles start next week. Soccer widowhood here I come.”
They smile and nod and that is the end of it.

And then it hits me, the reason that there is no movie titled The Coach’s Wife is because then the wife would appear to be the true hero, and that would ruin all the other great sports films of history past. And we certainly wouldn’t want to have the mirage come crashing down, now would we.

(I read this out loud to my husband, laughing the whole time. His response, “Wow, a little bitter?” I told him it was necessary therapy, and not to worry. I’d be on the sidelines cheering them on, even during the wet games of November.)

The Missing Link

I’m trying to convince myself that it will be all right: we are still having fun, still having a good time, still creating memories. But, in the pit of my stomach is the knowledge that something dreadful has happened on our vacation: we have lost our camera. This grand disappointment occurred the second day of our family getaway. I can still visualize the few shots I got on that first day, which only makes me feel worse since I will never see them again.

There was one picture taken on a hike with Daddy leading the way followed by three perfect stair-step boys. Then there is another picture I took on day one where two of the boys are wearing their 4 wheeler helmets, the youngest has the cutest gleam in his left eye as he looks up at his older brother in complete adoration and excitement.

We took the camera with us on a 4 wheeler ride, my regrettable idea. My husband dropped it once, but came back and retrieved it. From that point on neither of us can remember anything else about our camera. We don’t remember having it when we got off the ATV’s, we don’t remember putting it on any of the cabin’s counters, and we don’t remember thinking we didn’t have it either. A mystery. It wasn’t until later that evening when the boys were sitting on the dock down at the lake with their bare toes skimming the top of the water that I thought, “Oh the perfect shot. I must get my camera.” At that moment I realized I had no idea where the camera was located.

With Biblical zeal I looked for my lost coin, I scoured every corner, swept every cupboard, looked in every logical and illogical location at least five times, but unlike the spiritual parable, there has been no rejoicing over the once lost camera now found, instead utter befuddlement.

That first night after I realized my camera was gone all I dreamed about were possible locations my beloved Kodak might be resting, waiting for me to find him. I could hear my beloved memory maker calling for me to rescue him. I was sure he had flown off the back of my husband’s 4 wheeler as we raced over mountain trails. So, I made my husband retrace our adventure, nothing. I kept hoping a lone hiker would knock on our door and hand us our lost friend. Sadly, my fantasy was not becoming a reality.

I try consoling myself that when we pack up the cabin at the end of our retreat, I’ll find that black case and red camera just sitting down in our luggage waiting to be found.

We’ve moved on. I have tried to release my loss. I want to enjoy my vacation, but this disappearance has made me realize something about how I live and vacation: a big part of creating memories for me is capturing them on film. I am the documenter of small and large events in my children’s lives, and it makes me sick to think that this family vacation will have no digital memories, just the ones we c an hope to remember in our minds.

I remind myself that many of my best childhood memories do not involve photos in an album. They are mine and mine alone. I am the sole keeper of these treasures. Surely my sons will capture these family adventures we make this week…forever. I’m taking special attention of photo-worthy-moments and trying to etch them into my mind. I value memory; I’ve always had an exceptionally good one.

However, I’m noticing something: the longer I live, the more memories I have, the more I am forgetting the most recent ones. Those old ones, those early ones, I never seem to forget. And that is why I’m still sad about not getting to preserve this family vacation with my trusty ally, my camera.

Instead of being in charge of my memory and what gets filed away forever, I am leaving it up to chance and my mind to sort out the important memories versus the forgettable.
I truly hope my mind sifts these picture perfect moments to the top of my brain, and that these short years when my boys all love and adore me are never forgotten in this cabin by the lake.

Poop: Not Again

I stomped into the TV room and glared at my husband, "There's poop all over A's bedroom." He grumbled, got out of his chair, and came to help me. We've been through this before, with our first son. We were lucky enough to skip it with number two. At roughly the same age, 2 1/2, our oldest and youngest decided that they no longer liked the feel of poop or pee in their diapers, but instead of seeking us for help, they tried to solve the problem themselves.

This means that last night when A pooped in his diaper, he attempted to changed and clean himself with wipes that were in his bedroom. He also attempted to get himself in a set of new pajamas. (The top ended up twisted around his chest, the arm holes not utilized.) I'm sure you can picture how this went. I'm very irritated because the house we were in with B had hardwood and our current house has carpet.....white carpet that my mom picked out when she no longer had children. I hate this carpet so much and poop stains don't help my loathing. I have big plans to rip the carpet out and put in something one can actually keep clean. Although carpet keeps your feet warm, it is a dirt trap! I'd rather just invest in some nice slippers.

So, in salute of my latest parenting adventure, I decided to post an old column I wrote about Potty Training. Enjoy.

To potty train or not to potty train, not only the ultimate dilemma, but the ultimate parenting adventure. An adventure to me includes new horizons and exploration, forging the unknown with great expectation, and all of these certainly reflect my mental state during the era of potty preparedness/awareness, as we have not dubbed it.

I remember feeling panic rise up in me as my son became acutely aware of his inner workings. Should I gently guide his developmental milestones, vigorously demand skills, or act like nothing is really happening and proceed with the status quo, diapers.

This was like nothing I had encountered in the first two years of my oldest son’s life. Rolling over, jabbering, sitting up, crawling, walking, and scoring soccer goals in our backyard had just happened! It was beautiful. His little self just figured it out, but somehow I knew this would not be the case with potty awareness. Sure, he was letting me know he got the concept of wet and poopy, he’s remove his diapers himself the second either one of these occurred and stash them random corners of his bedroom.

He’s ready. This was the mantra other, experienced mother’s explained. But, isn’t 2 and then a few a bit young for a boy? Right? I was explaining this baffling juxtaposition to a fellow mommy in the local library. Her eyes got big as she noticed the title to a DVD on the shelf, “Here, have him watch this!” She triumphantly handed me a DVD titled Potty Power.

Awesome, a video! I just plop him down in front of the television, place him on the potty, and in no time he’ll be a big boy with his big boy potty. We raced home; I was getting the adrenaline rush, a true symptom of an exciting adventure. We got ourselves comfortable in front of the T.V. and I pushed play. Surely this informative movie would help my son get to the porcelain throne, mesmerizing him into big boy pants. The results: a toddler running naked through the house shouting, “Potty Power” as he sings the lines, “no more diapers for me, no more diapers for me.” The propensity for diaper freedom was only exasperated by his newest DVD loyalty. Major mommy mistake.

I guess new adventures in life lead to making a few mistakes; they are par for the course. However, I think I like the mistakes I make on fun, exotic vacations. You know the kind, where you sign up for a snorkeling tour that should only take the morning, but the tour you’re on takes the whole day, which turns out to be amazing as you end up swimming with dolphins. Yeah, that is the kind of adventure I find myself yearning for during these days of the toddler doldrums.

But instead I had ventured out in uncharted waters with my oldest being the guinea pig. I now know to skip the Potty Power video with any subsequent children.

This was actually just the first of three attempts to toilet train my son. I really shouldn’t have given into the peer pressure to potty train. The diaper flinging was just a phase and was not a true indicator of potty preparedness. It was more of a two-year-old reaction to new-baby-brother.

During the craziness of the power struggle that soon ensued between mother and son, I kept having to remind myself that this all-encompassing activity, potty training, would soon pass, and my child wouldn’t be a young man (someday) and still in diapers. I had to calm myself down, quit comparing my child to other boys who seemed to respond well to parental potty instruction, and just wait.

That is why I did. I waited. I told myself, Christmas. I would wait until he was a few months shy of his 3rd birthday and try again. So I did. And it worked! It didn’t seem nearly as complicated by round three. I sort of knew what to expect and how to react. What rewards would work and which ones wouldn’t. I wasn’t a novice anymore. After all I had attempted this before. By Christmas it was slightly familiar, like a family cabin one returns to for comfort and retreat.

Before the New Year he was wearing big boy underwear and telling us when he had to go, no longer us telling him. It was a beautiful thing. I was relieved. My son would not go to kindergarten in pull ups. Most of all, I was OK. I survived.

Now I’m not quite as scared about training the next one, however as any mother knows, not one child is like other, so I know all my tricks, bells, and whistled won’t necessarily work with number two, and that is why I still claim that potty training is my least favorite developmental marker. Even when I try and remind myself that being a mom is one huge adventure, and potty training just a bigger bump in the road, I guess I’d really just rather swim with the dolphins to get my thrills.

Camping: Do You Love It?

Camping. An exhausting, American tradition. We are about to embark on our first camping trip of the 2011 summer season, and I’m dreading all the lists, packing, organizing, setting up of camp, taking down of camp, loading back up again, unloading it all back onto the floor of our washroom, and then starting to wash and clean it all to put it away for next year’s big trip.

Perhaps most of the burden falls upon the wives, the women of the campouts? I noticed tonight, reading Facebook, that post after post by the “mamas” of the houses read something like this, “Back from camping, exhausted.” Or, “Now the unpacking begins, just got back from camping.”

I find myself tensing in anticipation of my own weekend of exhaustion. I’ve already started making the lists. I have a camping supply list, food list, snack list, clothing list, beach toy list, and list of things I still need to buy for the trip. I should probably make a list of all the lists I need to write.

I already feel dirty and grimy. And am I the only one who gets a little constipated on these types of mini-vacations? It must be a mental block I have with pit toilets.
Then there is the sleep factor: I don’t get a lot. When I was younger, and much more limber, sleeping on the ground was almost comfortable, but not anymore. Also, our two-year-old is a wildman when he realizes we are all in the tent together. He gets so excited by all this family time that he bounds from sleeping bag to sleeping bag.

Last year, on our big group camping weekend, we were woken at midnight to the sounds and smells of vomit coming from our oldest. All night long I tried to vainly catch vomit in my pillow case as my son threw up over and over again. Several times I would hear the retching and dive across the tent only to realize it wasn’t him. Where was that sound coming from? The next tent over? Half of our camp group was violently ill. Is it bad that I was always relieved when the vomiting was happening in another tent?

I don’t think my husband realized all that was involved in a camping expedition. I usually get everything packed and loaded, leaving him with just a few things that require major, muscular lifting. He did get a glimpse last summer when I went away for the weekend and he decided to take the boys on a boys-only-campout. Of course, he started this endeavor at about four in the afternoon and was flabbergasted when he didn’t pull out of our driveway until 6 o’clock at night (finally packed and ready), and then even more flabbergasted when he drove in and out of campgrounds for the next two hours not finding a single site vacant. The tired, cranky boys roasted hot dogs in a day use area and then headed home to the backyard to pitch their tent. I unloaded everything once I returned the next day from my relaxing girl’s beach weekend.

Even though I’m expressing quite a lot of negative energy around this idea of camping, I still like it. I still like the family time. I still like the smell of the tent and the feel of the sleeping bags on my dirty toes. And there is nothing quite like swatting mosquitos around a campfire. Really. I keep telling myself that this is what we do as a family. This is how we make memories. And I am a fan of making memories. I think it is the campfire that keeps me coming back. I love sitting in our chairs next to friends and snuggling with my tired, dirty and stinky boys. I love the conversations, the stories. I love hot drinks in tin mugs. I love the memories we make as a family, the memories that we make between the loading and unloading, packing and unpacking. All that comes between the beginning and the end makes me feel like all my efforts are worth it. At least this is what I tell myself.