Intact but Exhausted: On Parenting the "Spirited" Child

Spirited. What a lovely euphemism for a tempestuous temperament. A while back, I posted, here on this blog, an essay called “Seatbelt, Please,” which chronicled, to some extent, the joys and frustrations of parenting a “spirited” toddler. In my post, I quoted Dr. Sears, whose “Fussy Baby Book” brought me much validation and comfort during some dark times with my volatile daughter, Alexa. Sears sings the praises of “fussy” children, arguing that they generally grow up to be more vivacious, more interesting, more spirited than the average child.

In our culture, 'good' children are ones who do what they're told, without discussion. They sit quietly in their high chairs and eat what they're fed. They obey the Sunday school teacher and take their seat when asked. They don't talk in class at school and they certainly don't argue with their parents.
"I've met very few children like that, yet we persist in the fiction. . . . (Sears, 160-61).

In response to this passage, I wrote, “I love a good fiction like anybody else, but I also love a roller coaster.”

And it’s true; I do seem to seek out chaos and drama, at least on occasion. But, man, I’m finding that this particular ride quite often turns my stomach upside down, and I’m finding it difficult to locate the good-natured, retrospective mood that seemed ever-present in that earlier essay. For the present, I’ve abandoned Dr. Sears, and have turned instead to one who provides a different kind of perspective: Dr. Merlot. He’s sweet and smooth and invariably brings a little tingle of warmth. He doesn’t question my parenting strategies. He lets me lie back in his warm, liquid arms.

Woops—pardon my reverie. For actual advice, I do turn, on occasion, to books. I found this statement in Mary Sheedy Kurcinka’s “Raising Your Spirited Child” (there’s that lovely term again):

“Spirited kids like to make very sure the limits stand firm. As a result, they test more than other kids. This is not a figment of our imagination”(Kurcinka, 169).

Let me raise my glass to Kurcinka for taking time to point out that I’m not crazy. Because last week, when I picked up Alexa, kicking and screaming, and marched across the playground in front of two of her friends’ moms, I definitely felt, for a moment, like Joan Crawford. I imagined my hair flying all around my face, a savage frizzy mane; pictured my face in white Kabuki makeup, my eyes wild, bursting from their sockets with rage, as in the “wire hanger” incident in “Mommie Dearest.”

But I’m sane, so that’s good.


Here’s what triggered it: my cute little three-year-old has started rolling her eyes—in appropriate moments, no less. And the eye-roll is a punctuation mark, an exclamation point at the end of a whole lot of attitude. It started last Tuesday, at the Hamden YMCA, where Dylan was a guest in his friend Matthew’s swim class. Lexi pouted for a good 45 minutes, saying, grumpily, “I wanna swim.”

And at first I was sympathetic. It was 4:00 in the afternoon, not a good time for three-year-olds under the best of circumstances. “Lexi,” I said patiently, “I know you’re upset, but do you know why Dylan gets to swim today? It’s because. . . .”

And I never got to finish that sentence, because she hit me with the first eye roll, a very dramatic, eyes-back-in-your-head maneuver, followed by an exaggerated sigh. I was dumbfounded.

“Whoa,” my friend said slowly, equally floored.

Then, the next day, at the playground, it happened again. She wanted to take off her shoes. I said I thought it was a bad idea. I said, “It’s not summer. It’s fall. It’s cold. Do you understand?”

“No,” she replied, her eyes innocent. “I don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Lexi,” I said, my voice clearly showing signs of anger, “If you want to stay at the playground, then you need to be a good. . . .”

There it was again: the eye roll. Not quite as dramatic, but enough to make an impact.

“Use a Firm Voice,” instructs Kurcinka’s book. “A firm voice,” she goes on to explain, “is not harsh or loud. It is simply a voice of conviction—a voice that states clearly, ‘The rule is . . . I will help you follow the rule.’ The tone communicates to your spirited child that you are committed and willing to get up and enforce this rule every time” (Kurcinka, 168).

If nothing else, I think I have been consistent in the area of rule enforcement, even if, in certain moments, it’s Joan Crawford-Kabuki-style enforcement.

In my previous post, I wrote:

Discipline. Sears says that attachment parenting is discipline in and of itself: when your infant cries and you hold her, you are teaching her that the world--or at least her world--is a place of comfort and love, and this, according to Sears, will give her the confidence she needs to go forward. I mean, really, can a 2-month old manipulate us, as many popular books suggest? When Alexa cried, I nursed her. I held her. I cursed her silently at times (sometimes not so silently), and Bryan and I bickered like brats in the middle of the night. (Me, March 2008)


And despite her ability to drive me to the edge of reason, I still find that she responds so well to love and nurturing, that even though she tests, and tests, and tests, there is a loving little creature inside that devilish costume. And I confess, too, that I find her adventurousness amusing, even thrilling. After her “time out” in the playground, she was back on the merry-go-round, hanging upside down, being thrown from the reckless ride two or three times, and jumping back on to exercise her athletic prowess. It was frightening and entertaining all at once. I was sure she was going to leave with a broken arm, but in the end, we all left intact, if a bit exhausted.

Hail to the blithe little spirits of the world.

I’m off to my appointment with Dr. Merlot.

hush, little baby

Recently, my friend Stacey quit her job in order to stay home with her kids, who are 3 and 1. Almost every semester, I have considered following the same path, especially when my briefcase is full of unread essays and my children are visibly frustrated by my preoccupation with work. "If I stayed home," I often think, "I'd have more of myself to give to the kids, and more time to write." Sure, it would require some financial finagling, but it would be a worthy sacrifice.

Last week, I was putting books in the bookshelf, clearing away the pile of Little Critter and Dr. Seuss and Eric Carle books that Alexa had strewn about the floor. During the school year, when it's nap time, I'm running around like a crazy woman, trying to organize and read papers and write lesson plans, always looking anxiously at the clock and hoping this isn't the day Lexi decides to give up her naps. But last week as I cleaned up kids toys, I realized, quite suddenly, that I wasn't stressed out. Wow! I thought. I could really get used to this. I'm more patient. I'm writing. I'm sleeping better at night. Now why, I thought, did I decide to sign on for that Writing Fellowship?

I talked to Stacey. "You know," I said, "I'm really envious of your decision. I think I could find staying at home fulfilling."

Stacey looked at me sideways. "Is Dylan out of school yet?"

"No," I replied. "One more week."

"Talk to me in two weeks."

So Dylan has been out of school since last Friday. And I love that kid dearly, I really do, love his energy and his sweet temperament and his quirky humor.

But damn, that kid is garrulous. Extremely garrulous.

I can hear my mom laughing and saying, "It's payback time, baby!" From what I'm told, I started talking at 18 months and never stopped. And Bryan and Kaytie can testify to my late night bouts of chatter, episodes that required them to pull the plug or threaten me with duct tape. So I shouldn't be surprised. And I should be more patient. But it's the end of Week One, and I'm going batty. I don't think I can count the number of times in a day that I hear "Mom, guess what?" And often the response is something like, "I washed my hands," or "I put my cup in the sink." I've tried to express to Dylan that there is poetic value in silence, that it can be a beautiful thing, but I probably haven't been a very good role model. Tennessee Williams once wrote that "Silence about a thing magnifies it," but Dylan is a firm believer in the power of the Word, or words--lots and lots of words.

So I guess I'd better get zen, because if Dylan is anything like his mom, this isn't going to be a phase. But on the positive side, he has a lyrical soul, and often uses creative--and appropriate--adjectives to enrich his stories, and that, of course, warms my literary heart. And he's teaching me patience, I hope, because I know that it's my job not just to listen, but to hear, and to draw him out rather than shut him down.

And yeah, sometimes it's hard to say something other than, "Oh, really?" even though he knows when I'm appeasing him. Even his sister has been known to throw a superficial, "Wow--cool!" in his direction without looking up from her book or her Little People. But I know we need to nurture his little spirit, as noisy as it may be. And even if Dylan can barely spare me a moment to blow my nose without showing me something or asking me a question, I'll take the constant chatter over reticence any day.

He's quiet now. Whew.

peanuts and crackerjacks

Summer in our house means lots of baseball, and here's how our little enthusiasts are responding:

Dylan
Despite looking like a devoted citizen of Red Sox Nation in the above photo, Dylan's favorite activity is pretending to be Derek Jeter. He's wearing his glove right now as he watches TV, and he'd probably wear it in the bathtub if he could. So, given Jeter's sportsmanlike nature (yeah, I said it), and Dylan's mild demeanor, I was a little surprised at where his imagination took him the other day. He ran into the house with his glove and ball and said, "Mom! You know your favorite pitcher on the Cincinnati Reds?"

He meant Bronson Arroyo, who used to play for the Sox, and on whom I have a bit of a crush. I nodded.

"Well, he just got knocked down by a ball that Derek Jeter hit!"

"Dylan!" I said, surprised. "That's not very nice."

He looked confused. "But Derek Jeter didn't mean to. He didn't know where the ball would go!"

"But Dylan," I reminded him, "you made the story up." He had no response to that one. No word yet on Arroyo's condition.

Alexa
Today, when I went to pick Alexa up from daycare, Miss Ann told me that they had been talking about friends: friends' names, favorite friends, what it means to be a friend, etc. When asked who were her favorite friends, Alexa replied, "Morgan, and Josh Beckett." Who knew? Maybe she can get me Red Sox tickets.

seatbelt, please!

You fasten the strap across your lap, making sure it's tight enough, and your heart starts beating faster in anticipation. The operator walks by to check that the belt is secure and then returns to the control booth. Your heart beats even faster as he throws the switch, and your car lurches into a slow movement. Up, up a hill, slowly, slooooowly--suddenly you're at the top, and you go plunging down and around in a wild, spinning swoop that makes your stomach drop, and you're not sure the track will ever level out. But it does, and you no sooner catch your breath then you're off on another plunge. Maybe you scream, or shout, but you find it difficult as the wind rushing past blows your hair back and stifles the noise before it leaves your mouth.

The above excerpt is Dr. Sears' description of parenting a high-needs child. Many, many times at the end of a particularly harrowing ride on the Mighty Alexa have I gone back to my old friend Sears for support, for affirmation, for gentle admonition, for kind reminders. How can so much energy--positive, negative, creative, intense--be bundled up in one small, chipmunk-cheeked, cherub-faced little two-year old? When she was an infant, Alexa changed our parenting strategies and philosophies. With Dylan, compliant, good-natured Dylan, we were schedule-oriented, and we patted ourselves on the back when he listened to us, when he slept through the night, when he greeted all who approached with a smile. What great parents!

But Alexa? From the moment she emerged from my womb and I saw her beautiful, precocious eyes in the mirror the midwife held, I could see that this was going to be a different trip altogether. Her cry held a greeting that said, "Hello, Mom, thanks for pushing me out of there, now strap yourself in!" And she proceeded to cry almost nonstop for seven months.

And I turned to Dr. Sears, The Fussy Baby Book, and to The Happiest Baby on the Block, and in spite of my frustration, I learned. One of the things Sears says in Fussy Baby is that "you will mature along with your high needs child." Alexa's "colic" allowed me to discover the joys of attachment parenting. I nursed her nonstop, and even though she shunned the rest of the world for a half year, even though she woke us every hour of every night, when I took her out of the bath in the evening and held her naked body to my skin in front of the fire, "Blackbird" or Bic Runga playing softly in the background, I realized she was teaching me something about parenting, and about my approach to life itself. Not everything is in my control, and that's okay. I had to let go, to give in to my intuition and ditch the books that say things like, "At two months, your baby should be sleeping six hours at a stretch"--books that fool the parenting public into thinking babies are programmable clones that can submit to your will as long as you are persistent in your "discipline." Books that perpetuate the belief that everything has a quick solution, a pill, a two-day strategy. Bah.

Discipline. Sears says that attachment parenting is discipline in and of itself: when your infant cries and you hold her, you are teaching her that the world--or at least her world--is a place of comfort and love, and this, according to Sears, will give her the confidence she needs to go forward. I mean, really, can a 2-month old manipulate us, as many popular books suggest? When Alexa cried, I nursed her. I held her. I cursed her silently at times (sometimes not so silently), and Bryan and I bickered like brats in the middle of the night.

But look at her now--all confidence and opinions and amazing energy. And no, it's not all positive. And last night, after another crazy double-loop ride, I pulled out Sears again and asked for help. And he reminded me to think of the future. Do I want a dull, compliant child who never questions authority? Sure, that would make my life easier, but I'm not doing the world any good! One of the more frightening passages in the book states that how we handle our children's "high needs"--their tantrums, their defiance, their clinginess--determines how they will handle themselves with others. And their ability to feel empathy: this is something they have to learn, and learn through our example. That caught my attention, because just the other day in the English 150 class I'm teaching we discussed the lack of empathy in our culture and the possible causes of this.

And I know I'm impulsive and quick-tempered (though, thankfully, quick to cool down). So Alexa is helping me to "mature," because if I respond to her defiance with counter-defiance, I'm teaching her very little about positive human interactions. So I've got to remain calm during her screams, during her relentless bullying of her sweet older brother. And I'm not always successful, but at least I'm aware, and I confess that at times I even enjoy the challenge.

In our culture, 'good' children are ones who do what they're told, without discussion. They sit quietly in their high chairs and eat what they're fed. They obey the Sunday school teacher and take their seat when asked. They don't talk in class at school and they certainly don't argue with their parents.
"I've met very few children like that, yet we persist in the fiction. . . . (Sears, 160-61).

I love a good fiction like anybody else, but I also love a roller coaster. And thanks to my parents, who are willing to jump on the ride whenever we ask, Bryan and I are able to get off once in a while and gain some perspective over a few glasses of wine in some not-so-far off bed and breakfast or on a trail somewhere, away from the madness.

And when a child approaches Alexa and says, "Hi!" and she gives them that puffy-cheeked pouty face that smacks of defiance, I know it's temporary; on another day, she might just as well give the kid a hug. When she resists authority and is reprimanded, she cries out, "But I love you!" reminding us that she is, indeed, a sensitive child. She nurtures her baby dolls. She animates her Little People with lively narration and imagination. She is athletic and daring, but always steps back for a hug. And she's learning, too. Yesterday, she said, "Mommy, are you happy?" When I said yes, she said, "I like to make you happy. I like when you smile." Which opened up a conversation about just what makes mommy happy and how Alexa might help me get there.

And she did make me smile a couple of hours later, when we were walking on the Derby-Naugatuck bike path and she spotted an African American man, pointed to him, and said, "It's Rocco Bama!" (translation: Barack Obama).

(Dylan took one look and said, "That's not him, Lexi.")

"So don't resign. Instead. . .enjoy the ride!" (Sears, 167).