Questions, Questions, Questions—Curiosity Killed the Parents But Fed the Kid

09/10/2009

Remember the Volvo commercial from a couple of years back, where the little girl talks nonstop—from when dad straps her in to when he pulls onto the road? 

That’s my three-year-old T-Rex. Just yesterday, in the car, the conversation went like this: "Mommy, I like you because I'm bigger than you." To which I responded, "Actually, no you're not." And to which my husband added, "Yet."

There was the briefest of pauses, then, "Um. I'm a small boy. I can't play music like big people. I only play teeny-tiny musical instruments."

While I was puzzling over that one, he launched into a stream of logistical questions, delivered staccato. "Vere are we going mommy? Vy is it taking so long? Vy is the car moving?"

"Because…..because….because the wheels are going 'round and 'round."

To quote Bill the Cat, "Ack."

Another category of challenging is the abstract questions—the ones three-year-olds really aren't equipped to know the answers to because they don't have, well, life experience. A case in point. I was driving the kids back from daycare recently, relaxing to some Simon & Garfunkel after a punishing workday. "Kathy’s Song" was playing:

“And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you.

….And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.”

T-Rex piped up from the back seat, “Vy is this man singing like that about rain mommy?”

“Uh. Because he’s sad, hon.”

“But vy is he sad?”

“Um. Because his lady love went away.”

“But vy did that lady go away from that man?”

Ack.

I related this incident to my parents, and my father’s response was, “You should have told him it’s because she went off and got [censored] with some other guy.” Strangely, I was reminded of the grandfather in the movie "Little Miss Sunshine."

Anyway. You get the idea. T-Rex asks a lot of questions, many of which I can't answer adequately. So, now I'm the one asking the questions:  Is all his questioning normal? And when he asks the same question over and over, am I supposed to be OK with that?

Of course, I went surfing the Internet for answers, and the resounding answer to both questions is, "Yes!" When kids ask questions it's a good thing, the experts say, because:

● It helps them think critically. Parents, of course, want to answer correctly. But not all questions have a definite answer, and discussing children's questions can help teach them that. They can learn that different ways of asking questions prompt different answers. And when answers aren't clear, they can learn to dig deeper.

● It fosters persistence. Endless questions can get irritating, especially when the same ones are repeated. But shutting them down can send a message that it's not good to keep asking. And in the adult world, pushiness often pays.

● It stems from curiosity, which is linked to good mental health. In the field of positive psychology—what makes life satisfying and meaningful to people—researchers say curiosity is a key indicator of people's success and well-being.

One of the leading researchers in the area, psychologist Todd Kashdan of George Mason University, maintains that curiosity is key to growth. His studies find that the more curious people are, the higher their levels of confidence, autonomy, and spiritual satisfaction.

Curiosity also acts as an antidote to anxiety – opening minds to new people and experiences and superseding self-doubt and fear. It can also keep addiction at bay. And it even helps stave off dementia, not that that's something T-Rex needs to worry about yet.

This all makes sense, but I'm not convinced that curiosity is always good. And Kashdan does acknowledge that it has its dark side. For example, you can be too curious about other people, intruding in their lives and gossiping relentlessly. Keep pressing them on private matters, and they may start making things up.

I think that's what Eugene O'Neill was getting at in the play "Diff'rent" through his character Benny, who said, "Curiosity killed a cat! Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies."

But when it comes to questions about the world—how it works, why the sky is blue, what a vacuum cleaner does, why airplanes leave vapor trails, why mommy paints her toenails, why our dog Simba is so smelly, and why the car is moving—apparently a kid can't ask too many of them.

So I'm bracing myself for many more question-and-answer sessions with T-Rex. But I'm ready to turn more of the questions around on him and to suggest doing research if I don't know the answers.

I'm also seeking a bottomless well of patience—and the energy to explain that some things just don't have answers. Like why did the lady in Kathy's Song go away? Unless Paul Simon is willing to take a call from a three-year-old, I don't think we'll ever know.

Help! My Three-Year-Old is a Bigger Control Freak Than My Boss

07/01/2009

I realized I was in trouble when he was two. He and his twin brother had just changed classrooms at daycare, and the next day, on morning auto-parent, I sleep-walked toward the old classroom.

“Noooooo momeee!” he bellowed, stopping short. “You’re going the wrong way. It’s THAT way!” He jerked his thumb in the opposite direction.

“Oh, yes, you’re right,” I said, and entered a mild state of shock. The signs had been there, but now it was clinched: I had a two-year-old control freak on my hands.

As if to rub it in, he told me to put on my seatbelt on the way home. “Momeee, that’s dangerous! You have to wear your seatbelt!”

Fine. But why was I starting to feel like I was at work?

As a baby, T-Rex had always been more mild and settled than Punk, who tended to wail for what seemed like hours--producing the most alarmingly huge tears I’ve ever seen. But around age 2, perhaps just to throw off their parents, the twins traded roles. Punk slipped into surfer-dude mode, laid back and content to go along with everyone else.

Not so T-Rex. He morphed into a blend of “The Family Guy’s” precocious toddler, Stewie, and “Monk’s” fastidious detective, Adrian Monk.  To give you a sense of his Stewie/Monk-ness, here are the rules of T-Rex’s world, even more rigorous than those of my office:

• Everything should be red unless otherwise specified. Shirts should be red. Plates and sippy cups absolutely must be red. Medicines really ought to be red, but other colors will be tolerated if the medicine is sweet enough. Candy (gummy bears, M&Ms, etc.) is only acceptable if red. Only shorts, pants, shoes, dogs, parents, and certain otherwise interesting toys, are exempt from the red rule.

• Milk bottle must always be yellow and warmed with brother’s bottle for precisely one minute and 28 seconds. Green, blue or purple bottles will be sent back. One minute and 29 seconds or one minutes and 27 minutes of warming are not acceptable. Parents are expected to pay attention to detail.

• Milk may only be consumed with head resting on a particular slightly crusty brown pillow. What’s more, this pillow must be moved multiple times within a certain section of the rug to conform with a secret Stone Henge-ian alignment of heavenly bodies. There will be immediate and loud repercussions for any party who knocks the pillow out of alignment.

• Big-boy underwear must always be preselected, chosen with care from the big-boy-underwear drawer. Mothers are expressly prohibited from pulling out “any old” big-boy underwear. Exact criteria for T-Rex-appropriate underwear will not be shared at this time.  A task force will likely be convened to draft and officially sanction a set of criteria.

• Potty-training must be completed by age 3, and brother must be relentlessly outed for not making that deadline. It’s a matter of personal pride to always have dry pants at this stage. As for certain un-named brothers, tsk, tsk. They WILL be reported for possible suspension of privileges when they pee on the rug.

• Needs should not take too long to get met; immediately, if not sooner, should be the goal. Fathers take too long to set up the Wii for the “bang bang” game. Mothers take too long to deliver lunch and dinner. Evening bottles are never on time. What is it with these slackers? It would be much more acceptable if needs were anticipated and acted upon even before materializing. For example, it is not unreasonable to request something like the following of one’s mother on the way home from daycare, “Momeee, will you have dinner waiting for me when we get home?”

The list goes on. 

So, naturally, the next question for a cyberchondriac mom is, should I be worried about T-Rex’s fussy ways? Like could he be bordering on obsessive-compulsive disorder, or something serious like that

According to Discovery Health’s guide on OCD, it emerges when people get fixated on the possibility of something harmful or negative happening, so they develop certain rituals, or compulsions, in an attempt to keep the world in order—and the negative possibilities at bay.

Reading deeper, there are other common traits besides the need for order. These include repetitive behaviors like opening and closing a door, incessant hand-washing—often to the point of raw hands—and, believe it or not, compulsive house-cleaning. T-Rex shows none of these traits, least of all the last one. (I think he’d actually be offended if we washed his crusty milk pillow.)

So, no, I don’t believe he has obsessive-compulsive disorder, a huge relief because that would require cognitive-behavioral therapy, and, possibly, antidepressant medications to treat . What I think we’re dealing with here is a kid who likes to be boss—even more so than my work boss! And, really, this isn’t very unusual for a three-year-old, according to behavioral experts.
Toddlers are learning to assert their independence and also consider themselves the center of the universe.

The experts advise us parents to help kids feel independent by guiding them to make their own decisions, within parameters--offering them a choice between several types of fruit for dessert, for example. But at the same time, they warn, we need to set limits on kids’ demands before they really do consider themselves boss.

Toward that end, we are pushing back on T-Rex’s red thing. He now has to wear whatever color shirt he gets. There have been, as he would put it, repercussions. But we continue to push back. Plates and sippy cups are next on our list. Of course, all this raises yet another question for me: Would these tactics also help to deprogram my work boss? Better not say. He’s probably reading this.

What the Heck is a Helicopter Parent Anyway?

06/17/2009

First there were stage moms, then deadbeat dads, then soccer moms. And now we have "helicopter parents," who I at first thought were lazy parents. I figured this was yet another parental-guilt movement, suggesting that helicopter parents are those who ignore their kids unless forced to swoop in and zap a problem, Rescue 911 style.

I had to find out, so I looked it up. Turns out it’s the exact opposite of what I thought: A helicopter parent is someone who can’t let kids figure things out for themselves.

These are parents who literally hover over kids, blades whirring, directing their every move via megaphone. And, according to umpteen news reports, they are perpetuating codependency, enabled by cell-phone calls,  instant messaging, e-mail, and other 24/7 technologies.

It starts with obsessing about getting your kids into the right preschool programs and grade schools, and, the theory goes, becomes a slippery slope to constant calling and texting to check that they’ve shown up for the right class at the right time, turned in their homework, and  landed the top score on their math test.

These parents circle over teachers and school administrators as well. They relentlessly e-mail and call the authorities when their children get sub-par grades or don’t make advanced-placement classes. Some schools are caving: St. Olaf College, for example, introduced a “Hi Mom” webcam. But other schools are pushing back, with teachers setting boundaries regarding when and about what they can be reached.

The question I have is this: Who is setting boundaries on children’s behalf?

I fully agree that children need their parents to care for them, teach them, support them, and encourage them. But, especially as kids get older, they need to start testing things out for themselves. Or, to put it another way that most parents don’t want to hear (myself included), children need to start making mistakes.

I know that for me, it’s taken total mess-ups to get me motivated. I’m thinking specifically of 10th and 11th grade algebra and chemistry. I’d done well academically to that point, but absolutely bombed those courses because I just didn’t see the point (how would I ever use k3 + 4k2 + 4k = -1k3 + 10k or moles CO2 = 454 g x 1 mol/44.01 g = 10.3 moles in my daily life?). As a result, I was close to blowing my college chances, which my parents pointed out. It was then that I decided to change my ways and study -- because I understood that it was up to me to determine my future.

But what if a helicopter parent does all that work for you? If they’re finishing your homework for you, calling the teacher to hike your grade, perhaps even texting answers on the test, how are you going to learn what you need to do to make the grade?

There's got to be a better parenting mode: Jeep parenting maybe? Sounds more adventurous, but no. Too many carbon emissions. And it could promote even closer kid tracking. I think a better model is “pedestrian” parenting. By this I mean that, instead of hovering, you’re always walking a few steps behind your children,  ready to help pick them up if they fall, being available if they call for you, and—if you see them faltering—suggesting (but not dictating) which routes to take.

And this brings me to the crux, well several cruxes, of my anti-helicopter-parent rant:

 

• We learn from our children, sometimes much as they do from us. Boys, in particular, are apt to teach their parents about enjoying life and working smart, rather than hard, according to a recent psychological study by Dutch researcher Annette Roest. And, more generally, because our children’s personalities are so different—my three-year-old boys’ Oscar-and-Felix dynamic  is proof—they teach us that different people need different things from life.

• Controlling others is never a good thing. As a former editor of a psychology magazine, I can attest that a  recurrent research theme is the need for people to take control of their own lives; letting others take control is a recipe for depression, substance abuse, and (ugh) possibly 30-year-olds moving back in with their parents.

• It’s not, and shouldn’t be, all on parents to raise our children. I don’t mean to dredge up Hillary Clinton’s “It Takes a Village” here, but I do believe that raising children is more successful when a community gets involved. There are times, here in the city, when passers-by cast disapproving looks as one of my three-year-old twins darts off street-ward. Boy could we use their help, instead of their raised eyebrow.

 And boy would there be less likelihood of helicopter parenting if other adults pitched in. Because when it comes down to raising the future generation, aren’t we all in this together?

The Mystery of the Dragon Snake—Conquering Childhood Fear

06/11/2009

 It's the dead of night, and the rain is pounding against the windows (which I like because it drowns out things like car alarms and snores), when all of a sudden there comes a howling from down the hall.

I jerk awake and twist an ankle leaping out of bed. Cursing and vaguely wishing I have a baseball bat, I tear down the hall and burst into the kids’ room. The source of the howling is Punk, who is sobbing and hyperventilating so much that I can barely make out, “He bite me.”

I repeatedly ask who bit him, but….nothing. I finally calm him down, but he goes into hysterics again an hour later.

The next day I'm on the case, starting with some crib forensics.  Fierce-looking toys? No sign. Menacing bugs? Absent. Hostile paintings? Only a teddy mobile.

It's time to interview the experts.  His grandmother suggests that I quiz him more, and his main caregiver at daycare (since he was four months old) suggests the same. She also asks if he’s been stressed lately, which I find to be an odd question. I mean at age three, you don't even know what the word "mortgage" means.

Nevertheless, I visit the American Academy of Family Physicans website, which verifies that children are more likely to have nightmares after stressful physical or emotional experiences. But Punk's life has been pretty even keel so far. No insight there. I also find out that there's a difference between nightmares and night terrors, with terrors causing more panic and physical reaction, like Punk's (see http://health.discovery.com/centers/sleepdreams/expedition/dispatch13_02.html).

Bottom line:  I need to find out what exactly scared him. So, driving home from daycare, I launch into an interrogation—all good cop.

“Punk,” I start, “Do you remember when you got scared last night? Can you remember what scared you?

Silence.

I try a few more times and get several misfires (where are the coffee and smokes when you need them?).

And then….in a tiny voice.

“It was the Dragon Snake.”

T-Rex chimes in immediately, and loudly. “Yeah! The Dragon Snake!!”

“T-Rex, you know what the Dragon Snake is?"

“Oh yeah!" says T-Rex, who has been compared with Stewie, the shifty, scheming toddler on the show, "The Family Guy." "Dragon Snake is really BIG! He bites your toe. And then he bites your leg. And then he bites your stomach, and then he eats you ALL UP!”

T-Rex sounds quite thrilled at this gory scenario, but Punk looks decidedly panicked. The plot is thickening.

“Where did you hear about this Dragon Snake, T-Rex?” I ask. “Who told you about him?”

“Daddy,” T-Rex chirps.

Aha! An important clue! I am itching to ask Daddy about this when we get home. But Daddy denies any knowledge of the Dragon Snake, and instead launches into his own interrogation:

"T-Rex. Who told you about the Dragon Snake?"

"Ummmmmmmm. Mommy!"

OK, so our source is changing his story on us. This mystery will likely never get solved, though we have our suspicions that the Dragon Snake originated in T-Rex's twisted imagination. Meanwhile we're faced with Punk's ongoing fear of this imaginary beast. Whenever bedtime rolls around, he starts freaking out, saying, "He coming! He coming!" (I swear there's a smug look on T-Rex's face as he lolls calmly in his crib—like it’s a hammock or something.)

What to do? Here's what we're trying:

·        Assuring Punk that the Dragon Snake is 100 percent not real—and likely made up by his brother.

·        Checking under beds, cribs and in closets to assure Punk that nothing is there.

·        Leaving the bedroom door open with the hall-light on, so he can verify the absence of the Dragon Snake (a nightlight would also work for this).

·        As a last resort, sleeping in the kids' room to provide a sense of protection.

But what may ultimately vanquish the Dragon Snake is to make him into a sissy—a strategy suggested by my husband. We're thinking to get Punk a cute stuffed-animal snake and call it something completely woosifying like "doo-doo shnakey."

Of course, if we do that, we'll need to watch for T-Rex's next plot to torture his poor twin brother. He is, after all, always one step ahead of us.

How to Talk ‘Boy’: Lessons from Calvin and Hobbes

06/03/2009

Why won’t my three-year old listen? I realize this is not an unusual question for parents, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it comes up more with boys.

Because I have two of them (age 3), the question pops up all day long. Take this past Sunday: We step out the door for a walk to the park, and Punk takes off running down the block.

“Stooooooooooooooooooooooop!” I screech at him, but he just keeps running. And running, and running. And I keep yelling, louder and louder, all the while attempting to grab T-Rex, who is swinging from a neighbor’s bush in an effort to snag a rose. It’s only when my screeches approach Banshee-crazy that Punk halts at the curb, inches away from speeding cars  – then flashes me a Brad Pitt  smile.

After the park, we head to the local coffeehouse for some cake and chocolate milk. I seat them at a table and am buying the goods, when I see Punk lunging for the flower vase (roses again), and tipping it upside down.

“PUNK, NO!,” I holler. He keeps turning it over, watching me with a mischievous half smile. “No no no no NO!” Too late. There’s water all over the floor.

When I ask my husband about stuff like this, he just says, “Rea d Calvin and Hobbes. I mean, Calvin is five or six…but that’s about the only difference.”

I do as I’m told, and am duly enlightened about what it takes to get through to a small boy. Example:  In one strip, Calvin is scowling at a plate of food, refusing to eat “this green stuff. Yecchh!“

“Good idea Calvin,” says his dad. “It’s a plate of toxic waste that will turn you into a mutant if you eat it.” On hearing this, Calvin scarfs the green stuff in seconds, prompting his mom to say, “There has GOT to be a better way to make him eat!”

Calvin’s dad just gives her a blank stare.

Ha! So that’s it. You have to actually think like a small boy. Who knew? Now that I finally do, I figure this is how my husband probably would have handled the Punk runaway situation: “Hey Punk, you better STOP if you wanna see the SEWER MONSTER!”

Punk would no doubt have stopped instantly. He is crazy about sewer grates. One of his favorite activities is pressing his face to the grate, butt in the air, gazing rapt into the murky brown waters below. (It’s always interesting to see the looks on pedestrians’ faces as they pass him doing this.)

Problem is, well, I’m an adult woman. Thinking and talking like a small boy doesn’t exactly come naturally to me. I strongly suspect the same is true for other moms.

Still, I decided to give it a shot this morning, when Punk got resistant during the daycare drop-off. Parents are required to take their kids to the bathroom before class, but right now, Punk straight-up refuses to go. I try everything—pleading, running after him, getting tough, sitting at his level and asking. Nothing works.

I rack my brain for possible boy motivators. As I chase him past the infant room, I try, “Hey Punk. Don’t you want to make a pee-pee WATERFALL?” He slows, then stops, considering. “Waterfall?” he says thoughtfully. “Yes, yes, waterfall!” I hold my breath. “Oh yes,” says Punk. “I make pee-pee waterfall.” And he does.

Of course, then he refuses to put on his underwear. So I chase my bottomless son around the classroom with a stack of underwear options, reading them off: “Buzz Lightyear!  Elmo! Roary the Racing Car!”  No luck. That’s when I switch to boy mode. I hold up the Thomas the Train pair, dancing and singing the Thomas the Train theme song. (There are giggles from the day-care staff.) Who cares—it works! “Oh yeah,” says Punk. “I like those underwear.”

But moms and dads don’t always have time to be creative. We need reliable tools for those moments when we’re hurtling through a busy day, and just need our kids to cooperate. I’m thinking of when we’re running five minutes late, and the kid refuses to put on his shoes.

What to do? Here’s what the experts recommend (for a comprehensive guide, see http://health.discovery.com/centers/kids/childrearingtips/discipline_06.html):

• Turn off the television.
• Have a one-to-one talk, explaining why you need him to listen.
• Provide choices—three different pairs of shoes to choose from, for instance. Or you might explain that he needs to put his shoes on before going outside and can do it now or five minutes from now.
• Offer a reward (like he can take his favorite toy in the car with him).
• If nothing else works, try a time out after counting to three.

Perhaps most important, say the experts, is thanking your child when he listens—it’s positive reinforcement.  But if you have the time and capacity for warped thinking, I recommend talking “boy,” like Calvin’s mom learned to do in Calvin and Hobbes. Case in point: In one strip Calvin complains that his mother’s cooking smells like someone got sick in the furnace duct. She tells him she’s made stewed monkey brains. Bingo! He gobbles it down with gusto.