Monday, October 11, 2010

Preschool Colic

Seconda has colic. Preschool colic. Neither of my kids had colic as babies but they seem to be making up for lost time now, and preschool colic might just be worse because the sound that comes from their big-kid mouths is louder, and since they are older, they have more energy and stamina to continue the crying and whining for longer than humanly possible. Plus, your postpartum instinct to protect your child and love them at all costs is way gone. So its just freaking aggravating.

Last week, I picked Seconda up from school at noon and we enjoyed a lovely lunch together with my grandmother. By lovely lunch, I mean Sec ran around the apartment buck-naked, refusing to eat anything because even pasta with butter was “yucky.” Then, because she refused to go to the bathroom as I calmly suggested before we left school, she pissed all over the floor AND DIDN'T TELL ME so when I walked into the bedroom I SLIPPED IN HER PUDDLE OF PISS. Then she laughed evilly about that. While I was cleaning up the pee, she ran around the house literally overturning every box of toys she could, like she was trying to rank-sack the house. She stood on the dining room table in order to reach the bins which are stored above her reach. While I was having a heart-attack about THAT, she put her hands in the fishtank and gave the fish a “tickle.” She is, by the way, almost four years old.

Then it was time to pick up Primo. If we are not waiting by the school gates in our pre-determined pick-up-Primo place, Primo panics, and then (worse) tortures me about it. So we always have to be on time for pickup. Except Seconda, in typical form, refused to put on any clothes. I managed to slip a dress and undies on her while she was distracted but in the 30 seconds it took me to put on my shoes, she was buck naked again. That’s when the crying began. Hers, not mine. I am superhuman and do not break under Seconda torture.

She didn’t want to put ANY clothes on. She didn’t want to pick up her brother. She didn’t want to go in the stroller. She didn’t want to walk. Then the crying turned into the “don’t remember why I’m crying but all this crying is really upsetting me, causing me to cry more” cry-cycle.

She cried all the way to the school. She cried while we were waiting in our Pre-determined-Pick-Up-Primo Place. She cried while Primo was trying to tell me about his day. And she menaced other children with her fingernails.

Not. Good. Behavior.

But I still had not lost my mind, incredibly. This is because I am a saint.

Until, that is, my daughter stopped crying – finally! – to demand that I buy her an ice cream from the ice cream truck.

This, as they say, did it.

I could tell I was losing it when I started to laugh like the Crazy Person on a TV show.

“Ice -- crazy laughter – cream– crazy laughter – for you?”

“Can I?’ she asked, totally calm now. Not a tear in sight.

"Ummm,” I said, meanly, “NO.”

But that was not sufficient. The straw had broke the camel’s back, as it were.

“No, no, no, no, no.” I continued, “No way. No dice. Not a chance. No. pause. No. pause. No.”

That’s when I remembered how, when the kids were little, I’d read a parenting book which said you should try never to use the word “no” with your child, but to rephrase the sentiment in a positive way, such as “you can have raisins instead.” This made me laugh so freaking hard, I think passer-bys thought I was having a nervous breakdown. Seconda did not appreciate my mirth one bit. But I felt much better after that.

Man, it feels good to go a little loco sometimes.