I subbed for Pre K the other day, and I was surrounded by four-year-olds, so I drew this with crayons:
I love sitting down with the kids and drawing, it’s very relaxing.
This particular Pre K class gave me hope for next year. While I was making my masterpiece, I was talking to one of the parents, who happened to be volunteering in the class that day. I told her about Ari’s aggressive, defiant, and even combative behavior.
“How old is he now?” She asked
“Three.”
“Yeah, don’t worry,” She said “She was like that too,” she said gesturing to her daughter who was happily creating artwork with us.
“Really?” I said in disbelief looking at her child who appeared to be spirited but not aggressive by any means. “What did you do? How did deal with that behavior?”
“You know what, you basically just have to ride it out. Nothing much you do is going to change it. It’s a phase. One day, you’ll see, he’ll just stop. It’s an annoying period, but you get through it.”
I hope she’s onto something here. I’ve been trying to be more patient these days, but there’s only so much irrationality I can take. I can only watch my kid cry over a broken cookie so many times before I break myself.
But, then I thought, maybe she’s onto something. The 4-year-olds that I was teaching behaved markedly different from Ari. All of them did. I would say 95 % of the class actually listened and followed directions.
So maybe these defiant behaviors are part of a phase. Only time will tell, I suppose.
Can anyone attest to the difference between three and four?
Today, I got an email asking if I would check out Top Dentists, and also, if I’d be interested in writing a post about how dental care has impacted my life. I had to think about this for like three seconds and then I remembered, my night guard.
I’ve noticed lately, that I manifest my stress in my body. That’s why I love going to acupuncture, because it allows my body and my mind to relax. One of the things I do is grind my teeth. In the morning when I wake up, my jaw feels so tight, I sort of feel like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster.
My dentist said I needed to use a night guard, which is this bizarre plastic looking thing that is molded into the shape of my teeth. It looks like this:
I was skeptical about using a night guard, because I felt like a total dork, but my dentist was laying it on thick about how my teeth were crowding, and how eventually, if I didn’t use my night guard, it would result it tooth decay and other scary things, so I listened to Dr. M, and popped that suck in at night:
I still feel like a nerd, and I never had braces growing up, so it’s not like I’m used to wearing such dental accoutrements. But I have to say, in the morning my jaw didn’t click as much, and I felt more relaxed.
So, in the spirit of good dental care, if you don’t have a dentist, check out Top Dentists to find one.
In the mean time, I’ll be wearing my night guard so my teeth don’t fall out!
Today, the kids and I, along with my friends Donna, Rita and some of Rita’s friends, went on the 11th annual No Pants Subway Ride. Every year, since 2001, New Yorkers have been boarding the subway for one cold day in January and promptly removing their pants one person at a time, stop by stop.
It all started when Rita and I hung out in December. Rita and I see each other, on average, once every six months, and when we do hang out, it’s epic. There’s so much to catch up on. On our date, we ate some huevos rancheros at Perch, and Rita mentioned that she was planning on attending the No Pants Subway Ride in January.
“Wait, what?” I asked “I need to know about this immediately!”
Rita told me all about disrobing that occurred on the subway back in January 2011.
I told her to count me in, sans pants, for 2012.
Then I told my Donna about NPSR. She was psyched, and told me she was in too.
Today, January 8th 2012, we all met at the Stone House playground in Park Slope, and listened to this guy for instructions:
Then we were divided into small groups separated by the last number of our phone numbers. We all walked in a large group to the 9th Street train station. Once we boarded pants-less-ness ensued!
I was glad that right before the NPSR, I purchased a down coat from Brooklyn Industries for
50 % off. It kept me warm, when my legs were pants-less. Ari was so funny, he saw everyone removing his pants, and wanted to join in!
Pretty much right after he removed his pants, he demanded to put them back on, which was fine by me. A typical three-year old, he wanted to do the opposite of what everyone else was doing.
When we were on the R train, we ran into a nurse that treated Ari when he was in the hospital back in April.
She was also, as you see, pants-less.
Samara was the youngest attendee of the NPSR. Here she is pre-ride.
The NPSR ended at Union Square where Donna, Ari, and I took some glamorous pants-less shots. Here’s one of my favorites.
On the way home, Ari was so tired. Donna and I found an elevator, and went down into the subway, she with her pants back on, me with mine still off. She, headed uptown toward port authority, me downtown toward Brooklyn.
When the kids and I got on the train, Ari exclaimed:
“I want to sit down!” A woman scooted over and attempted to give him a seat next to her.
“No! I want a big seat!” He carried on.
Another passenger offered him her seat. He was flailing his limbs, and was thus too distracted to notice the empty seat set aside for him. So I physically transported him to the seat awaiting his behind. But even that wasn’t enough for this double Taurus child.
“I want two seats! One for me and one for you, mommy!” At this point there was audible laughter from the train passengers. A man graciously gave me his seat so I could sit next to my demanding child.
After we were all seated, Samara started kvetching, and clearly wanted to nurse. So I navigated through several million layers of clothing and nursed her. While I was doing that, this happened:
We had a blast! Thank you, Rita, for introducing us to the NPSR! We’ll be back next year!
If you want to know more about this pants-less extravaganza click here.
I went to visit Ari’s doctor on Friday, because he had been complaining that his feet hurt for some time. While I was in the waiting room, I met a dad who was playing in the play kitchen with his daughter. The daughter was around Samara’s age, she had just turned one. The baby and Samara were fascinated by each other. They kept touching one and other’s faces, and trying to bite each other. It was very cute. While the babies were playing, Ari was occupying himself in the refrigerator playing with the pretend eggs.
The dad was young looking, if I’d have to guess, I would say around 25. He had square rimmed dark brown glasses, dark brown spiked hair, and was dressed in a black tee-shirt, jeans, and high top Adidas. He and I got to talking, and it turned out that he worked for Trader’s Joe’s. We talked about my intense obsession for the store.
A few minutes later, the baby’s mom came out. She was petite, and had short black curly hair, which was held back by a tan headband. She appeared to be biracial but I couldn’t tell what her heritage was. She was beautiful. He was holding her son, who was around two. I asked them how far apart their kids were, they were 15 months apart.
She and I got to talking about how crazy two and three-year olds are. Her situation is a little more intense than mine, having two kids just over a year apart. We were particularly dwelling how difficult parenting boys can be.
Before we left, we exchanged information.
The next day, I got a text from her asking if we’d like to join her and her family for a birthday celebration for her daughter. I text her back an enthusiastic response.
We came to her place in crown heights, which was huge, had beautiful wooden floors, two bathrooms, and I don’t how many bedrooms.
We got to talking about labor. And she opened up about her pregnancy story with her son.
“With my son, it’s a crazy story. I stopped getting my period. So I went to the doctor, and they said, I wasn’t pregnant. In fact, the doctor said that it was very unlikely that I could ever get pregnant, and that I had endometriosis. I continued to feel weird, and I knew something wasn’t right, so I eventually I went back to the doctor, and they were like…oh, yeah, that’s because there’s a giant baby in your belly! It turned out I was six months pregnant!”
“Whoa,” I said. I didn’t quite know what to say. “What did he say when you told him?” I said gesturing to her boyfriend.
“He basically threw up in his mouth.”
“What did you think?” I asked him.
“Um, I freaked out, went to sleep, woke up and gave her a key to my apartment.”
And the rest was history. I cannot even imagine being six months pregnant, and not knowing the whole time. She delivered her son with a midwife, and was able to have vaginal birth in a hospital.
Her son, by the way, is lovely. He is a charismatic rambunctious healthy two-year-old.
But this story got me thinking, what is going on with western medicine that these sorts of situations are able to happen? The women in question are made to think that they’re crazy and delusional. They believe they may be pregnant, but are shamed into thinking that there is some other bizarre heath concern going on.
It’s a shame that anyone would have to go through what this woman went through.
What are your thoughts? Have you ever been made to feel “crazy” by a western medical professional? I know I have.
A long, long time ago, when this blog was a tyrannosaurus rex, I wrote about hitting a frustration threshold. At that time, Ari was a baby. I was lamenting about how I’m impatient, I became utterly frustrated when I couldn’t figure out what he wanted or needed at 11 months old.
Nearly two years later, Ari can talk. I know what he wants most of the time, because he is hyper-verbal, which is a fancy phrase to mean that he doesn’t stop talking.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the fact that my son is loquacious and bright, but it makes for very challenging, and sometimes infuriating, days.
He tries to negotiate everything. I tell him “put your shoes on.” He lies on the floor and begs me to help him with them. We get into a battle about the damn shoes. Finally, I say
“Okay, if you don’t put your shoes on, you’re not going to art class.”
“I want to go to art class!” He shoots back.
“Then put your shoes on!!” I shout.
Then a yelling match ensues, and I end up feeling like a terrible parent, because my kid doesn’t listen to me and his shoes aren’t on.
We have the same battle with pants. We have the same fight about steak. We argue the same way about washing his hands. You get the idea.
I’m exhausted. I feel like singing that Tina Turner song “I don’t really wanna fight no more. Too much talking baby!”
Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me. Am I the only one going through this? Am I doing something wrong? How can I stop the arguing? Is this a developmental phase?
I was in a coffee shop today, and Ari and I were fighting over splitting a bagel. I told him we were buying a plain bagel, and I was going to have half, and he would have the other half. He insisted that he wanted the whole bagel. I told him, I only had enough money for one bagel, and that was that. He kept whining about the damn bagel.
A beautiful blond woman in a striking green coat, with a striped shirt underneath smiled from behind her lap top.
“I’m smiling because I have an 11 year old.” She said. “That used to be me.”
“Oh really?” I asked. “So does it get easier?” I questioned, eyebrows furrowed with anticipation.
“It does.” She says. “Trust me on that. It seems horrible now, but I promise it gets easier. My son is my little buddy now.”
I sighed a huge sigh of relief.
One of Wil’s co-workers told him this:
“It’s not the terrible two’s you have to worry about, it’s the terrible 3′s and 4′s.”
Is it true? Is anyone else out there having these kinds of days?
Ari is a notoriously picky eater. I’ve been at my wits end trying to get him to eat anything other than peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Even though the peanut butter, honey are organic, and the bread is whole grain, it’s still not enough to survive on.
There was one day, in particular, that really freaked me out. We went to Blue Sky for a muffin and coffee for me, and a chocolate chip cookie for him. He refused the cookie, which was really bizarre because he ordinarily loves those cookies. He insisted that it was “gross” and wouldn’t eat it.
Desperate for a solution, I took him to my acupuncture clinic to see if they had any suggestions for holistic care to treat his eating issues. The clinic has a pediatric shift, and the practitioners were really patient and understanding. The supervisor, Melanie, recommended making a soup, and putting beef bones in it for extra nutritional value. Beef marrow bones, she said, all kinds of nutrients in them that Ari is currently not eating from his peanut butter diet. I wish I could be more scientific about this, but I’m too lazy to point you to a statistic or a source. I’m sure you can find one if you really want to.
I know Ari likes chicken soup. Well, he’ll eat the chicken and the broth, for sure. So I made chicken soup with Kosher chicken drumsticks, organic kale, organic carrots, organic short grain brown rice, organic garlic, sea salt, and lastly, I stuck Kosher beef bones in it. It came out delicious, and had a ton of vitamins and nutrients it it!
It was great for me, as well, because I’m still getting over a nasty stomach virus. Ari ate up the broth (even though it was neon green) voraciously! And I was glad for that, because I knew he was getting so many essential nutrients from it.
I’ve actually started feeding therapy with him. I’ll keep you posted on how that’s going as well.
Happy New Year everyone! Hope you’re having a great 2012 so far!
Tell me, is your child a picky eater? What steps have you taken to get him/her to eat? How about you? Were you a picky eater as a child? Are you still a picky eater as an adult?
**Update- Some of you have requested the recipe for the soup, here it is!
Sarah Fader is a parenting blogger. In addition to OS/NS Mom, she blogs for The Huffington Post. She was featured on HuffPost Live talking about her viral article 3-Year-Olds are Assholes. Look out for her upcoming book on the topic!
She's been blogging since 2009. She has two beautiful children, Ari, 5 and Samara, 3. She was born and raised in New York City is a graduate of F.H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts as well as New York University's Gallatin School of Individualized Study where she studied theater and philosophy.
She has a background in vocational rehabilitation counseling. Sarah was raised reformed Jewish and is still searching for her true Jewish identity. Currently, Sarah writes full time and is a professional transcriber for reality television. She resides in Brooklyn with her kids and two cats.
