Category Archives: siblings

The sporty one

Saturday night

Information overload

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There was a tour of the elementary school for parents of prospective new students. Even though I also have an current student at the school, I went on it. Partly because I could, partly because I thought I might learn something new (I did), and mostly, I think, because once I have a little knowledge of a subject, any extra information has somewhere to stick and I assimilate it better. I have somewhere to hang it. You need somewhere to hang your knowledge, which is why learning things when you’re a child and have no experience is in many ways such a terrible idea. I mean, once you’ve travelled a bit, it’s much more interesting to learn more about geography and history, for example.

But I digress.

I went on the tour so that, with my existing knowledge of how things were, I could glean a better understanding. But in so doing I did feel a little guilty about my son’s experience at the same juncture. If they’d been giving the tour three years ago I would have done it, of course, but they didn’t start to offer it till last year. But I went to very little effort to find out the things they were telling us through any other means either. I just accepted that he was going to the school and filled in the forms and dragged him along for the first two weeks until he finally conceded that it wasn’t so bad and very soon thereafter began to love it. But I didn’t really know anything about how long recess was and how often he’d have PE and whether the whole school had lunch at the same time or not, and it didn’t occur to me to find out. We found out as we went along.

I think part of it was the overwhelming nature of becoming part of the American public school system when we had never really planned to do that. It was such a new thing for us not just as parents but as participants, that we had to close our eyes and just jump, really. A trust exercise, if you will. We knew the school was fine (not great, but fine, with an involved PTA), we knew enough sensible, good, educated neighbourhood people who sent their kids there to believe this was not going to be a decision that Ruined His Life, and I spent a lot of time that year saying, “It’s just elementary school,” and nodding vigorously as my friends said the same thing back to me.

But I am concerned that it might look like I put more thought into decisions when I make them for my daughter than when I make them for my son. I think it’s a preservation instinct, actually, that makes me shut down in the face of information overload and purposely make a swift decision based on a few key factors. I don’t want to know everything because I can’t process everything. Later on, when we’ve been softened a bit by exposure and more knowledge of the situation, the environment, the way things work, I can take in more information and make the decision anew, or differently, for the second child.

Does that make any sense to anyone? Do you do this too?

2011: First day of K

And let the record show that I did not go back the next morning and buy the cheetah

Siblings Without Rivalry

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And here’s that post about the book.

I’m finally reading , after two people mentioned it to me in the space of a few days and I decided it was A Sign. I know I should have read it years ago, possibly as soon as we had Mabel, but there you go, I didn’t.

It was written by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish, who wrote the laboriously titled but very helpful How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk . You may remember me raving about one of its techniques last year when Dash was stuck in the terrible six-and-a-halfs. Siblings Without Rivalry takes much of the same material, but applies it specifically to situations that come up between siblings. It’s really quite eye-opening.

On Saturday morning I was reading it at the breakfast table as Dash and Mabel fought their way around the house, disagreeing over what or how to play, bugging each other, pinching and hitting and screaming and then laughing again. I called them over and asked Dash to read the title of my book. He spelled it out. They remembered what “siblings” meant, but I had to explain “rivalry.”

“I’m reading this so that I can figure out how to stop you two fighting,” I said. They were impressed that I had to read a book to discover such a thing. Dash grabbed the book and sat down at the other end of the table, opening it at the first page and starting to read.

“I’m going to find out what it tells you, so we can not do it,” he said, with an evil grin.

I was delighted to see him reading, so I did the washing up and left him to it.

****************

Anyway, I thought I’d share my notes, since I have to bring the book back to the library soon. I recommend reading the whole thing to understand where the authors are coming from and see lots of examples of these techniques in action. The book also shows them in cartoon form, which makes it quick to read and easy to remember.

Siblings are essentially always in competition for their parents’ love/time/attention. As soon as you take sides in a dispute or punish one for hurting the other, you are building resentment and rivalry, and therefore making things worse.
When they complain about their sibs, you should verbalize how they’re feeling for them: “You sound furious.” “It makes you mad when he does that.” Acknowledge how they feel about each other.
Encourage them to express their feelings with words: “Tell him how you feel.” “Let him know how mad you are with words.”
Tell the other one why you’re listening to the one right now: e.g.,
- Mabel, interrupting: I have to tell you this thing.
- Me: I know you do, but right now I’m listening to Dash tell me about school. I know it’s important to him so I want to hear it. Then I can listen to what you need to tell me.

Treat them uniquely, not equally. They get the things they need when they need them; they don’t both get things at the same time just because. (I’m not sure that “because Mom went to Target and I was with her and I whined” counts as needing something, exactly.)
Don’t cast them into roles, and don’t let them do it to each other. Tell them how you want them to be:
“I know that Dash is generous, so I’m sure he’ll give you a turn when he’s done with it.”
Or, better, “I know you’re both smart, so you can work out a solution to this.”
Then leave the room so that they don’t act up for your benefit.

Never compare, even favourably. It reinforces perceived roles and encourages resentment between sibs. When one comes tattling about the other, say “I don’t want to hear about him right now. Tell me about you.”

Encourage teamwork rather than pitting them against one another. So “Let’s see if you can work together to tidy up before the timer goes off” rather than “Who can pick up all the toys first?” I am so guilty of saying this. You know why? Because it works! (But it’s bad. Bad Mommy.)
When they’re fighting and it’s escalating, state the problem and tell them you expect them to work it out. No tolerance for hurting. If one is in danger, separate them.
If they can’t work it out, sit down and make a list with both of them, the way we did for one with How to Talk so Kids Will Listen .

I think I need to print this list out and tape it to my fridge.

Sibling revelry

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Mabel had a tantrum over the little teddy bear beside the checkout in the supermarket that I wouldn’t buy for her. I was being wonderfully patient and gentle with all my “No’s” until finally I just had to wrestle her to the floor and pry it out of her hands. Perfect.

I’m reading Siblings Without Rivalry just now. I was trying to write up my notes to make a useful post for you lovely people (and for me to come back to, seeing as how it belongs to the library) but the children are thwarting me at every turn.

I tried to keep the TV turned off today when Dash came home from school, because TV time has been expanding exponentially lately and we need a moratorium. Pretty soon, he was complaining of boredom. I decided to use some of the techniques from the book:

“I know that you are a resourceful and smart person, Dash. You can think of something new to do.”
“How do you know I’m resourceful? Give me an example of a time when I was resourceful,” he countered.
What is this, a job interview? I don’t know. Probably some time when you got up to mischief and didn’t want me to know about it. Sheesh. I didn’t say any of that, but it was admittedly tricky enough to think of something. Evidently all the TV has been quashing his opportunities for resourcefulness.

I ignored him and Mabel some more.

Then there was some interval when they were both standing on the kitchen table, which hardly seemed safe, and the next time I looked into the room Mabel was throwing off all her clothes while Dash held her upside down by the legs.

I turned the TV on. Some days it’s the only thing that stands between us all and bodily harm.

What you remember

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My memories of childhood don’t include my parents very much.

I think that’s just fine. I don’t think it’s indicative of anything other than that my parents gave me my space and didn’t helicopter over every little thing. (Additionally, I suppose, my memories of childhood are more of when I was eight or nine, say, than when I was four or five.) My mum was at home, my dad was at work. I played at friends’ houses and they played at mine; I played outside on my bike with the other kids on the road, and I read books by myself. Lots and lots of books.

Watching Dash and Mabel going crazy together the other day, a friend commented that they’re great friends. Well, yes, they’re great friends who beat each other up and push each other’s buttons and drive each other nuts on a regular basis. “They’re very close,” I said, because I think that describes it better. When someone habitually sits on your head or wakes you up by jumping on your belly or thumps you in passing because you told them what two plus two was and you wanted to work it out yourself, they’re not so much your best friend as an unavoidable part of your day, every day. And because that person would defend you against bad guys and robbers and bedtime, and holds your hand walking down the street, and is always there to scream beside you as you jump up and down on the sofa, you’re okay with that.

I love that. I never had it, and I love that they do. I love that when they think of their childhoods they’ll think of each other, not so much of us. The parents should be a constant, that’s all. A non-variable presence that provides security and stability and a sense of the where the edges lie – what can be done, what’s available, how grown-ups behave in grown-up land. Everything else about childhood, really, is about the children.

The Talk

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What is this “Talk” they speak of? There are so many talks you can (should? might? are forced to) have with your kids.

For instance

How babies are made

and don’t think you’ve got away without covering

How babies get out of there

and of course, the quite tricky

Why people would ever want to do that

and also

No they don’t do it at the wedding, they wait a few hours and do it in private; and they’ve usually done it already by then

Then then there’s the whole road down which you might not want to travel that begins with

What’s a bad word?

Why I won’t give you any examples of bad words

and

Why I think you’ll probably know what I mean when you hear one

And finally (for this non-exhaustive list) there’s the bathtime-inspired selection of Talks:

Girls don’t have penises

I promise, that’s not a penis

Why you shouldn’t let your sister touch your penis

Why you definitely shouldn’t encourage your sister to touch your penis

Why I don’t care that you don’t mean it and won’t actually let her grab it

Enough already this bath is over get out right now

Junior midwifery

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Dash is anti-marriage these days. He doesn’t mind it for other people, and agrees that men and women should be allowed marry whomever they love, but feels it’s not for him. So he won’t play marrying with Mabel any more, but she’s managed to get around that, thanks to the Mr Rogers episode on d-i-v-o-r-c-e that she saw last week. “Let’s play babies,” she tells her brother. “We don’t have to be married. We can be divorced, except you still live here and we have a baby.”

Mabel loves to hear the story of when she was born. Or the story of when Dash was born. She particularly relishes the part about my waters breaking (first sign of labor, both times) and also how everyone I called in the early moments of my first labor had their phones turned off. ( True story. )

We have a book called the , but neither of the children are remotely interested in learning about birds, or vehicles, or any of the sections other than the one on the human body. Mabel likes the page about how our bodies fight germs, and how bones fit together, but mostly she likes the two that detail how a baby is made and how a baby grows and is born. Lately she’s been drawing babies in circles and telling me, “That’s the bag of waters.”

Then we have the first-aid book, which is a proper grown-up book that has somehow made its way onto the kids’ bookshelf. Mabel likes to leaf through that and ask me what’s wrong with all the people, or what might have happened to them if I don’t know. There’s a picture in there of a birth, just in case as a first-aider you come across some poor woman in the last stages of labor and need to do more than just boil water and find towels. It exhorts you not to pull on the head of the baby as it emerges. Good advice.

Yesterday I was complicit in a game of babies that was going on around me. Every few minutes a baby would be placed up my sweater, and then pulled out with a flourish.

“Oh, I can feel it starting to come down,” I’d say.
“Push, push,” they’d tell me, delighted.
“I can see the head,” crowed Mabel.
“Twist it so it comes out,” advised Dr. Dash.
“No, don’t twist it,” I said, concerned for my child’s welfare.
“It’s a girl! Congratulations!”
“Yayy! I always wanted a baby sister!”

Five minutes later I was safely delivered of two more babies in quick succession. Easiest pregnancies ever, I have to say.

Perfect two

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Years ago, years and years ago, we took a few days in the Wesht of Ireland, and we drove there in my tiny wafer-thin car, and at some point along the road to Clifden, or Roundstone, or somewhere like that, I conjured up our imaginary future children in the back seat and made some brave, foolhardy even, remark about how young Ermingarde and Lavinia would react to whatever nonsense had just been said. Not to mention the little fella. We had to think for the little fella’s name, but settled on Murgatroyd, which is the name of a duck, for reasons that are not actually clear to me.

To be honest, I don’t even know if Lavinia was Lavinia, though I know Ermingarde was definitely Ermingarde, unless she was Ermintrude.

That was probably the first time we discussed our imaginary offspring. No, that’s not true. We first discussed names when we’d been going out only a few months, less than a year, certainly; and at the tender age of not yet 21, that’s a long time to be dating and still early on for such weighty discussions. We were in Lisbon, on a bench in the gardens of the Monastery of Jeronimos, I believe, though that’s not important; I’m just giving you a sense of place. B had mentioned that he was partial to a particular girl’s name, and I commented that, since putting it together with his last name would make the name of a famous film star, that would not be practical. Our friend appeared around the corner just as I was saying, “Well, if we have a girl, I’m not naming her that,” and was justifiably a little concerned, no matter how much I reassured her that the whole conversation was extremely hypothetical.

But by the time we were driving to Roundstone it was eight years later and it was all just that little bit less hypothetical, even though at that point our permanent residences were an ocean apart and we hadn’t quite figured out how to get around that fact. This was the trip where we both agreed that we wanted to get around it, although it took another 18 months for events to conspire to let that happen.

And I think it was then, after conjuring Ermingarde and Murgatroyd and their sister, whoever she was, that we agreed that 2.5 was a good number of children. Two and a half. Very sensible, though maybe not entirely practical. Two, with an option on a third, was how we left it.

And thus it stayed, for a long time. But the option has never been taken up, and it’s due to expire very soon, if it hasn’t already done so. Maybe it’s because I can’t remember what the other girl was called. Maybe it’s because I can’t even imagine having another girl or another boy; or not having one or the other. By which I mean, that if a hypothetical third child was a girl, I’d still be sorry about the boy she wasn’t. And if it was a boy, likewise.

So I think two is it. And two is perfect, because we have two perfect children, no matter how much and how often they drive us both demented, individually and one at a time, and we want to run away and drink a lot of wine and sleep forever. We’ll still keep ‘em.

This post is part of a virtual baby shower in honour of two of the Irish bloggers who have welcomed and are about to welcome their own perfect second children. Many congratulations to Aine of (the currently on hiatus) AndMyBaby and Lisa of Mama.ie .

Yesterday’s post in the bloghop was by Laura at My Internal World , and tomorrow’s will be from Kieran at Go Dad Go .

And today’s mystery letter is S.

Awfully Chipper

Optimists think they have more fun