The One About Siblings, Part I
Boys be crazy
I think my baby might be a bully. I know, I know, that’s a controversial word but, hear me out. Over the past few weeks, I’ve seen this 20-month-old, heavyweight slap, push, yell, stiff-arm, and try to force-feed Mr. Potato Head pieces. And that was just my experience with him! I’ve also seen him pull his three-year-old brother’s hair so hard that he brought him down to the ground. Fistful, boom, down. Come to think of it, Ethan has been the target of Theo’s aggression the majority of the time. Sure I’ve had my run-ins with him as I mentioned above. I probably had those coming, but Ethan? Poor Ethan. I’m not sure what it is about him that’s got Theo’s diaper in a wad. Ethan is the silliest, most gentle soul, incapable of harming a fly. So after the hair pull felt around the world, I had to ask myself if there was a bigger issue going on here. Naturally, I took my query to Google and my search results indicated that there was one likely cause: Me. According to Google, I’m the problem.
Evidently, one of the biggest reasons that siblings squabble is competition for parental attention. Since I’m a stay-at-home mom it’s mostly my attention that these looney toons fight over. Actually, it’s only my attention they seem to want. They never pull the type of shit they pull with me, with my husband, Mark. Anytime I enter the room, it’s like the reverse experience of a celebrity guest entering a talk show set. Instead of cheers erupting from the crowd, they burst into tears, and immediately start to whine or lunge at me like a pack of rabid zombies in The Walking Dead. I’m not exaggerating in the slightest. The difference between how my children act around me as compared to literally anyone else is night and day. Even the damn dog acts needier around me! What is it about me that gets everybody nuttier than a squirrel turd?!
Ethan reaching for me… or for the snacks I’m holding. Often my POV, FYI.
Once again I turned to the internet for answers. Turns out, a lot of mothers seem to be experiencing the same thing as me. According to various sources, kids feel like they can really let their freak flags fly around their moms more than anyone else. They feel safest expressing themselves, their needs and wants with their mothers because they believe that their moms will know how to make everything better. This explains the whining. It also explains the attention-seeking behavior. Knowing this both comforts and overwhelms me. It’s awesome to know that my kiddos trust me, and seek comfort from me. But it also means that I am basically responsible for their happiness. That’s a tall order for one person with three children. This leads me to a very serious question: with all of the technology out there, why has no one managed to develop some sort of cloning app yet? They’ve managed an app that lets you do your laundry remotely, and do your dishes on the go. Your vacuuming can now be delegated to a robot. But no means of cloning yet? Not even a beta version?! Let me tell you, I’d happily volunteer to be the guinea pig to test that technology out. A glitchy clone of me would be better than what we’re working with now.
With cloning not yet on the table, I do my best to share my time and attention between the three of them equally. But it’s not as simple as it sounds. With three kids ages 5, 3, and almost 2, their respective levels of independence and self-sufficiency vary considerably. As such, more of my time and attention is spent on the ones that can do the least for themselves. I can often be found saying things like “In a minute, I need to feed the baby.” Or “Hold on, I need to change his diaper.” Just ask Cole. My point is, the reality is such that I’m not able to give equal attention to each of my children. And they are pointing that out to me, in *not-so-subtle* ways.
The boys on Halloween. From left to right: Cole, Ethan and Theo
Lately, Cole’s been asking us to feed him, dress him, and (my favorite) wipe him. He’s almost five and is certainly capable of doing those things himself. He has been doing those things himself, and happily, until recently. I know why he’s doing it. But after feeding, clothing, and wiping the asses of two who are actually helpless, my patience has worn a little thin. They don’t exactly eat whatever they’re given or assist in having their diapers changed or getting dressed. Most of the time these tasks take physical exertion, negotiation, or some level of psychological warfare. Changing a diaper often requires a lasso, some sort of bait, and a hogtie. Meal time is more of a mental fitness challenge. I know, going into whatever meal it is, to have a thick skin, to take any sort of pride in the meal I’ve made off the table entirely. Because those babies do not give a shit if you spend hours preparing it. They don’t care if it's good for them. If they don’t feel like it, they wouldn’t touch it even if it’s what JJ eats on Coco-fucking-melon. They want to feel some sort of autonomy. This is why, at dinner time especially, you can hear me yelling, “Whatever you do, do not eat that!” It’s exhausting! So when my five-year-old approaches me butt naked, hands me a fist full of toilet paper, and bends over… it’s enough to make me want to light a match and set myself on fire.
As for the other two, they take a more direct approach to getting my attention. They follow me around like little seagulls chasing crumbs at the beach. Mine, mine, mine, mine. Although, I will admit that Ethan is more content to get his fill of attention in doses. He’ll spot me heading toward the kitchen, take the dining room shortcut and corner me by the pantry. With a cup full of Pirate Booty he’s more or less satisfied to prance around the house, in his cowboy hat, singing Old Mac Donald Had A Farm until he needs a refresh. Theo, on the other hand, well, he’s been insatiable. Lately, he cannot seem to get enough of me! Every time I walk by he’s like the paparazzi only instead of a photograph, he wants to be picked up and held, or swayed, or bounced. I’m flattered but I’m also tired. At 34 inches and 34 lbs, Theo’s a pretty big boy and, while I love every pound of that monster, picking him up every two minutes has me pretty beat. Between the bouncing and the Booty requests, the clashing of the needs is inevitable.
Any time Ethan approaches me, it’s like a sensor goes off and Theo is waddling aggressively toward us, chubby arms swinging, chunky legs chaffing, fat fists balled up. He can’t say much yet but he doesn’t have to, there’s no mistaking his body language for anything but “back the f*ck up” Take, for example, an incident that happened about a week ago…
I had just finished the dinner rush, the energy from the food had kicked in and everyone had the six o’clock sillies, as my mother-in-law calls it. We were all in the living room playing. And by playing I mean watching my living room get destroyed as I was assaulted with Mr. Potato Head pieces. I was trying to teach Theo how to put the various limbs and accessories into the spud but he favored my face to the actual plastic potato body. So there I was, wedged into one of their Anywhere Chairs, as my face was being decorated when I saw Ethan approaching, snack cup in hand. What happened over the next 30 seconds can only be described as a hostile takedown.
Ethan crouched down to tell me that he would like some goldfish. His actual words were “I want goldfish.” This is huge because, up until recently, Ethan’s communication skills were pretty limited. When he turned two and a half, Ethan started receiving speech services and has been for about six months now. More on that in another blog but, in a nutshell, we’ve seen such a tremendous improvement. Lately, we’ve been working on using three or more words to form full sentences. So when he said “I want goldfish” I wanted to acknowledge the progress immediately. Big mistake. As I embraced him, Theo grabbed a fistful of his blond locks and pulled, hard, bringing him down to the ground.
Ethan in the tub, luscious blonde locks intact.
To say I was shocked is an understatement. I don’t remember what I said or did exactly, but I certainly did the opposite of whatever the latest parenting books suggest that you do in a situation like this. I definitely yelled. I might have shouted an expletive or two. And I put my not-yet-two-year-old in time-out in his playpen. I know, not my finest parenting moment. But so much went wrong so quickly! Everyone was crying and screaming and I just knew I had to separate the two of them before any further injury could take place. While Theo pouted in the playpen, I consoled Ethan all the way to the snack cabinet where he got his goldfish. Just as quickly as things had escalated, a blanket of quiet fell over the house. And it lasted about three whole minutes. Cole finally looked up from his toy snake and realized that Ethan had an after-dinner treat and wanted one too. I gave Cole a packet of fruit snacks. I took Theo out of the playpen. And I counted the minutes until I could start their bedtime routine.
After Theo, the third “Smash Brother” as Mark calls them, was born I knew I was done procreating. Three was enough for me. And three boys? I’m one of three girls so, while I’m familiar with sibling dynamics, the whole ‘boy’ aspect is a bit of a foreign concept to me. When I’ve asked other friends or family that are parents of boys about what to expect, I often receive this advice: “Buckle up.” That they are going to fight. As in physically. I figured as much but what I didn’t expect was how soon it would start. Or how feral it would be. Watching Theo attack Ethan was not unlike watching a little animal getting attacked by a heavier, more jealous animal on National Geographic. It was primal and, something tells me, this was just the beginning…
