'I Don’t WANNA Go to School. You Can’t MAKE Me!' Oh, But I Can Sweet-Talk You

11/12/2009

T-Rex is hunched on the couch, arms folded, glaring at me.

He’s staked his position, and he’s not budging: “I don’t like playschool. I’m staying here!”

I’m glaring back at him, BlackBerry in my backpack buzzing work requests it seems I will never get to.

We had an episode like this not so long ago, involving both T-Rex and his twin brother, Punk. They pretty much staged a mutiny against school, and I devised what I thought was a brilliant solution. I told them we were going on safari. Punk’s favorite stuffed animal, “Elephant,” had gone missing, so I suggested we go find him. The search would just happen, you know, during the walk to school.

I strapped on their safari hats, and boy did my ploy work. They were out the door in seconds, running down the street calling “Elephant! Elephant!”

We had a few hitches. Like Elephant had recently scratched his butt (which required a band-aid), and there was some concern that he was incapacitated. Also, Punk decided we couldn’t move forward without a map. Luckily, I produced an imaginary one that he then kept checking. We looked for Elephant behind bushes, under leaf piles, and up in the trees (I know I know, elephants don’t generally climb trees, but you do what you have to do).

The whole thing went gangbusters until I steered them into their school. They immediately lay down on the floor, screaming and wailing that they thought they were on safari, not going to school. And, well, I felt like a jerk for duping them.

So now I have the same school-resistance problem with T-Rex, but obviously I’m not going to do the safari bait-and-switch again. I’ve got to plot some other response. Trouble is, dealing with T-Rex takes some serious maneuvering. A mini version of his grandfather, he’s every bit as smart—and stubborn.

I need a political strategist on this one. Where is David Axelrod when you need him?

I’ve already tried the appeal to sympathy:  {sigh} “C’mon sweetie-pie, you’re going to make mommy late for work.”

T-Rex: Glare. Pout.

And the appeal to reason. “T-Rex, you don’t have a choice here. Sometimes mommy and daddy don’t feel like going to work, but we have to. And you have to go to school.”

Frown. "I’m staying HERE!”

Tick tock, tick tock. Now I really am late for work.

I resort to coercion, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him to the door. “Look bucko! I don’t have time for this. Come ON!”

This, of course, prompts him to park himself on the floor and draw the most effective weapon in his arsenal: tears.

“I don’t.” [sniffle] “Wanna go.” [choke] “I don’t” [snort] “Liiiiiiiiike it theeeeere.”

Now, as planned, he’s got me. I can’t have tears, so I’ll have to try an extreme tactical shift. Even though it’s against my cynical nature, I opt for the pep talk.

I roll up my sleeves, sit next to him on the sofa, and ask if there's a problem at school. He shakes his head, no. Time to turn on the sunshine:

"T-Rex, sure you like it at playschool! You get to eat syrupy pancakes for breakfast. And sing songs. And play with the computer. And [I'm reaching now] and Ms. Johnson is there. She reeaaally likes T-Rex. You're her favorite!"

T-Rex considers this for a moment. Then he jumps off the sofa and gets all puffed up. "Oh yeah. I'm the best boy. I'm the strongest, big boy too. I'm Ms. Johnson's biggest boy of all. And I have really strong muscles." He flexes a bit, then puts on his jacket, all ready for school.

Touchdown! I'm dumbfounded that this tack actually worked. And I'm curious whether any of the strategies I tried are actually what experts recommend for tackling (in expert-speak) school refusal, AKA school phobia or school avoidance.

The American Academy of Pediatrics Web site confirms that yes, I was right to insist that he go to school; let a child stay home for no good reason, and the school refusal will only increase.

And, my asking him if there was a problem and playing up the positives of school are also recommended strategies of the site Phobics Awareness. Both sites also recommend speaking with a child's teachers about the problem—that's on my to-do list.

OK, I gotta admit, I was feeling pretty smug after I packed T-Rex off to school and read that I'd, for once, done all the right things. Small victories, folks. Small victories.

And I was still feeling pretty pleased when I went to pick up him up from Ms. Johnson's room after work. Unfortunately, it was not a happy scene. T-Rex was sitting in the corner, sulking, and Ms. Johnson looked, well, tense.

 
"What happened here?" I asked.

"Well, T-Rex got hold of my ink stamp pad, and stamped ALL of my report cards. I mean all of them. Stamps all over them. I'll have to get a whole new set."

Understandably, she was more than a little ticked off. We quickly made our apologies, and I hustled T-Rex out of there.

Crud. T-Rex had just single-handedly obliterated my "You're Ms. Johnson's favorite" tactic. Why am I not surprised?

Hey Yelling People—I’m Standing Right Next to You

10/30/2009

Some people just can't seem to talk without yelling. You know that moment when you switch off the DVD player, and the TV blares at top volume? They're stuck in it.

I had an office across the hall from one of these people once, and I swear I knew more about what was happening in her life than my own.

I'd get the blow-by-blow on troubles with her ex-boyfriend, for example.

"WHAT'S WITH THE NAKED PICTURES OF HIMSELF HE KEEPS E-MAILING ME??" she'd roar into the phone. "I MEAN REALLY, IT'D BE ONE THING IF HE WERE HOT….WAIT, HOLD ON, GOT A WORK CALL HERE."
[Click]

"YOU FINALLY GOT MY REPLACEMENT CHAIR? 'BOUT TIME. I'M ON THE SEVENTH FLOOR. ACROSS FROM THE QUIET GIRL."
[Click]

"BUT EWWW. I MEAN THERE'S ONE PHOTO WHERE HE'S POSING ON A TRACTOR, AND IT'S LIKE WHAT THE HELL?"

I really don't want to know this. But now I've got this picture stuck in my head. Eww is right.
She hangs up. Apparently, the next call is to her plumber.

"HEY!! WHAT'S GOING ON WITH THE TOILET SNAKING??"

Oh for crying out loud. Now I'm covering my ears—though, really, defense is useless. Even if both our doors are shut, it's still like she's barking in my ear. And if I put my earphones on, people sneak up behind me and scare the bejesus out of me.

Turns out there's a name for my former co-worker's malady: Voice Immodulation, as portrayed by comedian Will Ferrell in his role as State Department attaché, Jacob Silj, on Saturday Night Live's Weekend Update. Click here to watch a clip of his SNL Voice Immodulation segment. In it, Ferrell scolds interviewer Tina Fey for her insensitivity when she complains that he's shouting:

"I SUFFER FROM VOICE IMMODULATION TINA. I'M UNABLE TO CONTROL THE PITCH OR VOLUME OF MY VOICE…." he yells. "NUMEROUS PROMINENT AMERICANS SUFFER FROM THIS DEBILITATING DISEASE, TINA, INCLUDING THE GUY WHO PLAYED RAJ ON "WHAT'S HAPPENING" AND TENNIS GREAT PETE SAMPRAS."

I'm not sure about Sampras, but the late Billy Mays, giant of infomercial screaming (OxiClean! Orange Glo!), should definitely be on that list. In fact, all actors in advertisements should be, along with Chris Matthews, Nancy Grace, and kids' show stars Dora the Explorer and all five Backyardigans.

OK, yeah, so Will Ferrell punked us. There is no such thing as Voice Immodulation.

But in all seriousness, I think Ferrell is onto something: There's a whole lot of unnecessary shouting going on. In restaurants, in the workplace, on TV, into cellphones, on the sidewalks and subway trains—and not just by teenage girls.

And what's really triggered my shout-mograph is my four-year-old son T-Rex. I'm pretty sure I'm living with a miniature version of Billy Mays. I love him to bits, but his voice is deafening.

"MOMMY/DADDY I AM THROWING THESE PILLOWS BECAUSE I….BECAUSE THEY'RE IN SPACE AND THEY'RE GOING TO HIT THE EARTH AND BLOW UP. AND. AND I'M GOING TO MAKE A SPACESHIP OUT OF THEM. THEN I WILL CRAWL IN THIS HOLE 'CAUSE I'M A POSSUM. I'M RAJA THE POSSUM. AND I…..I WANT JUICE. MOMMEEE I WANT JUICE. MOMMEEE! MOMMEEE! I WANT JUICE!"

 You can read about what happens to me after several hours of this in my post from last week.

And here's the problem, people: I can't seem to get him to quiet down. No matter how many times I say inside voice, take it down a few notches, settle down, easy tiger, whoa there Tex, and plain old sssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhh, he keeps up this earsplitting delivery.

 I tried looking for advice on the Web, but there isn't much out there.

The closest thing I could find—and it isn’t close at all, really—is Pragmatic Language Disorder, in which people say the wrong thing at the wrong time with inappropriate voice modulation and body language. I’m not saying T-Rex isn’t capable of this—he’s a kid, after all, and kids do that sort of thing—but it’s not his issue.

(It’s more characteristic of the socially inept adult who says at an intimate Thanksgiving gathering, “You know there’s gelatin in that pecan pie you made, in the marshmallow. That’s animal hooves you know. I don’t EAT that!”)

No, T-Rex has a basic volume problem. And I’m wondering, was I like this as a kid? Surely I was a quiet, sweet angel. I vaguely remember my parents shushing my sister and me now and again, but it couldn’t have been often, right? I’m sure we listened and immediately dialed it down.

Hey, whatever it takes. I’d just like to nip this in the bud while T-Rex is a kid, so that he doesn’t end up with full-blown Voice Immodulation, so that he doesn’t become an office yeller. Not only do I not want him driving everyone else around him to tears, I don’t want him broadcasting intimate details of his personal life to his office-mates. He’ll have the Internet for that.

Quick, When Did Your Kid Start Talking? Forgotten, Haven't You?

10/15/2009

It’s early morning. Zoned, I shuffle into our neighborhood coffee shop in search of caffeine. Next to me, twin toddlers scarf their parents’ pancakes, waggling small fat feet squeezed into Robeez moccasins.

 
“Mmm, mmmm, mmm,” they grunt for more, waving puffy hands at their parents' plates.

I watch the parents struggle to keep one toddler off the table and the other from upending the flower vase. And I immediately feel a sense of kinship. I tell them I also have twin boys, though mine aren’t identical.

“Oh my God!” says the dad, his hair syrupy and spiky. “When did they start talking? Ours are 20 months and nothing! Look at them. They just grunt. We have no idea what they’re asking for!"

He is wild-eyed, manic—with that just-a-few-shrinks-short-of-inpatient-admission look that's characteristic of parents with two toddlers under age two.

 
"Well." I say. Well what? I realize I have no memory of my twins' first words and what they said when.

Nothing whatsoever. Total blank.

But here I am, getting expectant, even pleading, looks from this mom and dad.

"Sooooooo, your twins are 20 months. Great age. They're really coming along." I stall. "Oh, I'm sure it was right around this age that mine started talking. Any day now your guys will be talking so much you won't be able to get them to shut up [snort after lame joke]."

Mom looks doubtful. Dad looks grumpy. "Well I sure hope it's soon. We aren’t mind-readers."

I head out with my coffee, and now this is bothering me. How could I have forgotten when my kids started talking? For crying out loud, I can't even remember their first words. This is pathetic. What kind of parent am I?

OK. Focus. Focus.  Somehow I'm pretty sure the twins were talking before 20 months. But I didn't want to say that to those poor, frazzled parents.

So, before 20 months. Focus, focus. Still getting nothing. Just a blur of respiratory ailments, profuse green snot, potty-training misfires, peed-on sheets, projectile vomit, heated phone calls with day-care providers, traumatic haircuts, and assorted food-throwing incidents.

OK, this is bad. It's like I have complete amnesia about perhaps the most hallowed aspect of kids' development. I thought memory was meant to be kind. Aren't you supposed to forget all the bad stuff and just remember the warm fuzzies, like baby's first words?

 
I've seen studies that show moms with small kids aren’t nearly as gung ho about child-raising as moms with older and grown kids. Maybe the positive-memory amnesia is just temporary and returns with gusto once the kids are older?

Time to get on Google. First I do a search on parents and memory because I need to find out if this amnesia is normal. Perhaps the raising of small children, much like giving birth, brings on a sort of amnesia to ensure propagation of the species. This theory would seem to be backed by certain grandparents who have completely forgotten how to change a diaper (for the record, my mother is a SIGNIFICANT exception to this).

But wait. That argument doesn’t work because it would mean parents only forget the negative stuff. My issue is I only forget the positive stuff.  Either way, my Web search reveals zero support for my parental-amnesia theory.

My next stop is an old blog I used to keep when the kids were six to 22 months olds. Why didn't I think of this earlier?

 
Here I have a record of their happy milestones!

The first thing I notice:  When the twins were 17 months, I was obsessing—and I mean FREAKING OUT—that they didn’t have 15 words yet.  For Pete’s sake, that totally wasn’t worth it.  Because by the time they were 18 months, I was all, “They say ‘bah bah’ for baby, bye-bye, and ball: so cute!” and “OMG, T-Rex said ‘sheeeoooo.’ His first word, shoe!” He has always been obsessed with feet; but that’s another topic entirely.

I mentioned that Punk’s first word also started with “sh” but isn’t FCC-approved, so we were furiously trying to rework it to “shirt.”

Two weeks later I was just tickled that T-Rex was calling his brother “Doo Doo.” (Glad that one didn’t stick.) And then, by the time they were 22 months, they pretty much had 50 words. I actually listed them all. (Did I happen to mention that I’m obsessive?)

Now this would have been good information to pass on to those stressed-out parents in the coffee shop: That I was also freaking out about the language thing when our twins were their twins’ age, and then “poof,” in a matter of weeks they had partial words. Then full words.

But after looking at my old blog, I think the timeline wouldn’t be my focus at all. What I’d want to say to those parents now is, write it down. Write down every articulation. Because if you don’t record when your kids utter those first syllables, those first words, you’re going to forget.