A stitch in time (out).....

I am not so sure that this time-out thing works in the way in which it is intended.  I know that, if you apply it properly, it is supposed to cause a change in behaviour.  But for our family, just whose behaviour is open for question.  I have found that recently, it is more often my behaviour that has changed, immediately following a "time out" for one of our three.  Here is why:

The typical scenario opens when one or the other has done something to his/her siblings.  At present, it is usually as a result of the Zorro swords (I did know that would come to haunt me, but it was a difficult decision - skin cancer due to lack of sunhats, or rough behaviour due to emulation of violence-based superhero - I opted for behaviour I could hopefully change).  One committed an unintentional or slightly intentional application of a bit more force than is necessary for healthy play behaviour.  We tend to take a hard line with violence of any kind, and so the miscreant normally gets to take a breather in the bathroom for a few minutes to cool off and think about what he has done.  They usually accept this and go off quite easily to have a cool-down time. The wrongdoer then gets to come out, apologise to the ones he has wronged, and generally kiss and make up.

This on the whole is very effective.  However, one factor I did not bargain for is the emergence of baby-brain into an otherwise smoothly-functioning system.  I have been so tired or out of it that I have actually been forgetting about the one in time-out.  The other night, I had put Sam into the bathroom, and gave him the instruction to think about his behaviour.  He accepted it as usual, and sat down quietly on the floor of the bathroom on the towel we put out for them.  I got busy, and one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was relaxing in front of the TV with the Sweetpea and a glass of wine.  Halfway into the programme, a plaintive voice sounded from the bathroom.  "I have thought about my behaviour enough now," Sam wailed, "I am ready to say sorry."  He had been there for fifteen minutes already, and had had enough!

The Sweetpea and I were horrified!  "Do you realise this puts us firmly into the category of Bad Parents?" put in the Sweetpea.  "You'd better not write it into the blog," were his next words.  "They'll think we are terrible parents."

The logical conclusion is, of course, that we needed to make it up to him.  We smothered him with attention and love, and basically gave him the impression that perhaps being in a time-out is a desirable state given the over-reaction of his mortified parents afterwards.  

(Just by the way, the photos are not of the kids in a cage - although sometimes that does seem like a good idea. The Sweetpea and I would be able to sit in it and have some peace while the kids run riot on the outside.  But no, the pictures are of a recent "picnic" when the weather was bad and we built them a "tent" out of their old cots and a king-size fitted sheet!)

What are the odds of getting even?

We are definitely entering a new phase of parenting at present.  I like (or do not like, as the case may be) to call it Selective Hearing.  I am sure that many out there are familiar with the term.  Our two have a remarkable ability to appear as though whatever they are doing is of such great import that nothing on earth can be heard through the buzz that they are experiencing.  

People often ask me if my twins are very different in personality and nature, and my reply is that they are absolutely identical, but at different times.  And in no other case is it more apparent than in this one, where the one will employ the gift of Selective Hearing, thus allowing the other to shout out self-righteously "I was listening, Mama!" and give the other dirty looks for being such a bad child.  Within two minutes, they will have swapped roles, and it will be the other one's turn to be the good child glaring disapprovingly at his disobedient brother.

It is also probably in the nature of twins that when one tries something and is soundly reprimanded for it, the other will look on with great interest and agree with every word I say.  Then not even a minute later, he will go and try it out for himself, almost as if he wants to know what all the fuss was about in the first place.  I spent the whole morning tidying out the pantry, putting all of the irritating bits and pieces into their own labelled jars and feeling very self-satisfied and smug at my inordinately amazing house-wifely skills (the Sweetpea got home from work and checked out the result with a resoundingly dismal "Oh!" which I felt called upon to address in strong terms.  I do get his point though - he had been out saving lives for the morning - kind of puts a clean cupboard into perspective a bit).  Anyway, having resolved our differences, we both got stuck into the fish-tank, which was by now so green we could hardly see the fish, leaving the boys and Little Miss Snoopy to their own devices.  Their own devices consisted of getting totally naked, tying a piece of string around their waists ("It's a utility belt, Mama!"), and investigating places in which there might or might not be a dangerous monster hiding.  One such place was the newly tidied pantry. I could hear something was up, because there was a large silence hanging oppressively over the house.  

 

"What are you doing?" I shrieked, my arms full of water plants and with a fish net clenched between my teeth.  No reply was forthcoming.  I became alarmed.  I raced down, dripping wet and smelling very fishy, to discover Twin One in the pantry, standing on the up-turned recycling bin, with the other looking on in horror at his audacity.  All over the floor, shelves and any other available space, hundreds of discarded small silver balls (like the ones for cake decorating) rolled forlornly, dropping with small pings and rolling into cracks.  The twin in question was utilising his Selective Hearing to full effect as he grabbed for any available ball and shoved it into his mouth, ignoring my expressions of displeasure for all he was worth. When I finally got his attention, I gave him a stern talking to and a small time by himself to think about his actions.  

As I was giving a final lecture, behind me I heard the unmistakable sound of small silver balls yet again bouncing around, dropping with small pings, and rolling into cracks.  

With delight, Twin One exclaimed: "It wasn't me Mama!" 

Bring on the playpen - I want to get into it!

If you are of a sensitive or squeamish nature, it's probably best for you to avert your eyes for this one due to the graphic content!  It has been on my mind a lot lately, as I have been moving through the exciting territory of toilet training yet another littlie.  I started thinking about how much we change as we move into the exciting and challenging world of being parents.  And thanks for reminding me, Nigel - it's not only the mothers who have to change, it's the fathers too.  


As I was picking poo up off the carpet for the umpteenth time, I pondered this fact.  When I was a lot younger, even watching someone vomiting on television was enough to provoke several reflex heaves in me.  Mention of toileting, bowel movements or passing wind of any sort was not tolerated (I still can't think of the word fart without blushing - even writing it is too much for me).  So there must be something hard-wired into us when we become parents that changes all of that.  It is like a light switch goes on and something tells us "You're not as important as you thought you were - there is now someone else in your life that means more."  And that circle widens to include not only our children, but our spouse/partner too.


If someone had told the younger me that I would one day hold my bare hands out to accept all manner of "offerings" from my children (which have run the gamut from squashed slugs or beetles, to nose pickings, to dog or horse poo, to human poo and projectile vomiting), I would have laughed in their face (okay, I would have heaved first, then possibly laughed in their face).  Yet, clutching the hot, heaving little body of my eldest as he threw up again all over me, the couch and my beautiful Persian carpet, there was not one thing in the world that could prise me away from that moment in time.  It was priceless for the very fact that I could be there for him at that time, that when to the world he was at his most unlovable, I loved him fiercely and protectively and wanted to be there for him.  My own wishes and desires became nothing compared to his needs.


Being a parent changes you fundamentally.  Chances are it is only the parents or those of very strong constitutions that have made it this far into this blog without feeling a bit queasy.  But it is a good change.  Being a parent is not about being perfect, but it is something that perfects us.  It is more about us growing up to be good parents than it is about us rearing a good child.  When we can work that one out, we are starting on the right track.