Spontaneous Regeneration: September 16, 2012

Page 54 of Mark Kurlansky's new book The Big Oyster: Heroes on the Half Shell details the misguided efforts of New York fishermen to protect the area's marvelous oyster beds from their worst natural enemy.  Whenever their harvests brought up starfish they'd remove them, cut them into pieces, and fling them back in the water.

Much later the oystermen learned they were unintentionally producing a population explosion.   Each part of a starfish cut in half regrows its missing parts.  They even split themselves up deliberately when threatened.  Today we learn about spontaneous regeneration in seventh grade science.  It's hard  to imagine the befuddlement of those well-meaning seamen whose efforts didn't seem to be working.

I can empathize.

Devon is closing in on 2 1/2. A few months ago I promised myself to never use a certain "t" word often associated with this age to describe my son or life with him on my blog.  That's okay. I've been getting a lot of practice "letting my 'yes' be yes and my 'no' no" so I'll keep that promise.

But here's the thing: I'm an English major. I have a thesaurus. Lots of words mean pretty much the same thing.  Challenging.  Frustrating.  Discouraging.  Sometimes I look up from a thirty minute power struggle over breakfast and wish my parenting didn't feel so adversarial. It probably doesn't have to be if I just stop creating more problems.

I'm ashamed to admit: I've been cutting up the starfish.  

It's difficult to realize that a master manipulator moved into my house about six weeks ago and I never even noticed.  I kept making breakfasts and filling sippy cups while my son was learning how to play me like a well-tuned violin.

Devon ignored Mommy's command to stop climbing over the side of The Pen and wait until she could open the door for him.  He executed a triple flip as he went over the side and fell on his Radio Flyer tyke bike.  Devon cried because his shoulder hurt and Mommy cried over the two pieces of the special tyke bike that all the kids had in their one-year-old pictures.

Last week at the library Devon decided to run away from Mommy to see what she would do.

Family walks haven't been too much fun because our one child who is old enough to walk for himself fights like a squirrel when we hold his hand.

When given a request and expected to comply Devon's face goes blank.  He stares back with cool, distracted interest.  What?

Poor kid, I thought.  He just doesn't understand me yet. 

I honestly believed a kid who can delight his entomologist father by pointing at a beetle and saying "Scarabidae!" on a walk could not understand what his mother means when she says "Devon, come here!" 

I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  Always an overachiever, I really outdid myself in this respect.  I moved into denial like it was a state in the union. My early tentative skirmishes with the strength of my son's will were weak and ineffective snips at his disobedience, behavior that deserved my quick and decisive intervention.

This week I finally started to contemplate his blank look and notice other things: the subtle set of the chin, the sly crook of his right eyebrow, and the firm resolution of his mouth.  One day I called his bluff.

"Devon, come here!" I said mildly.

Devon ran the other way.

 I explained what it means to come when called in terms a two-year-old can understand.  We practiced.  When he "didn't get it", I disciplined him.

The wave of opposition that totally knocked me head over heels was proof that he already understood me.  He just didn't want to obey.

I've been letting him get away with a lot.  More than I care to admit.  Just like Devon, I'm having to deal with the consequences of my own actions.  Like the New York fishermen I was cutting up the starfish and tossing them back in, hoping to see results.

I let him refuse a dinner he is capable of enjoying and then successfully beg crackers an hour later.

I let him stare at me uncomprehendingly and sing the "Clean Up Everybody" song while I alone picked up his toys.

Every time he said something to me that seemed a bit disrespectful but I was just too tired to call him on it. 

Snip.  Snip.  Plink.  Plink.

I taught for eight years.  I read Dare to Discipline to help me deal with my students.  When they acted up, I'd blame their parents and vow that my unborn children would act better. 

It used to really irritate me when parents would ask me if I was a parent and then come back with "Well, then you can't possibly understand!"  That was no excuse for how their children behaved in my class, but they were right.  I didn't understand.  For years I assumed that the real-life experience I was getting in the classroom would prepare me for parenting, making me into some kind of future superparent.  Then the clock would strike four and I'd go home, put on clean clothes, eat an uninterrupted meal with my husband, and plan an evening of discretionary time.  I was far removed from the fourteen-hours-a-day realities of conquering the will and shaping the character of someone who totally outmatches me in energy and completely lacks impulse control. 

Now is the time to get my act together.  Sometimes I see "times two" floating magically over Devon's head as he dangles his feet over the edge of the time out chair, camping out as close as possible to the line I have drawn for him without crossing it and bringing on more discipline.  I've got one two-year-old for six more months.  On the horizon I see a distant but approaching four month period I've already dubbed "THE EYE OF THE STORM," where I have two one-year-olds and one three-year-old.  (Children are no respecters of calendar and I have no guarantee that ANYBODY will be acting well, but I cling firmly to my delusions and refuse to dwell on the challenges of tomorrow.)  Then I've got another year of two-year-olds, and if I believe anything my friends tell me the girls will each test my authority in completely new ways, rendering all I've learned completely useless.

They're getting an education watching big brother.  Devon even uses affection as a power play.  I try to cuddle with him in the chair each morning. He jumps down and grabs my hand.  We run excitedly through the house for an hour and a half.  Then the girls wake up and take my undivided attention.  Suddenly he dissolves into tears and climbs into my lap.  "Need hugs!  Need hugs!"

"Devon, I love you, I'm here for you, and it is my job to inform you that you are NOT THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE!" I say in exasperation.  I move him to the booster so I can finish feeding the girls their oaties.  He whines back his disagreement.

As my back is turned, Carrie and Melina confer.

"Silly Devon," says Melina, grabbing the forgotten bowl of oaties and sticking her hand in it.

"Yes," counters Carrie as she grabs Melina's sippy so she can have TWO sippies, "Everyone knows that WE are the center of the universe!"

Several of my friends comment how nice it must be for me to raise kids used to being one of three.  They get used to not being catered to every minute of every day and learn to ask politely for things or entertain themselves until I'm free, right?

Nope.

Children come into the world recognizing self as the center of everything.  For about the first year, everything in their experience confirms this.  They are hungry, and food magically appears.  They make a huge brown stain on a frilly pink dress and someone jumps up to clean them, powder them, and dress them in another equally adorable outfit.  They cry for four hours and someone takes a picture of them crying to post on facebook where they get thirty-seven likes and twelve LOL's.

Around two years of age kids learn the world can be a very conditional place.  If you hit other children, they will not play with you.  If you make a mess, you have to clean it up.  If you  misbehave, your parents love you unconditionally but change their treatment of you to teach you the correct way to behave.

It's a tough life.

I remember having lunch with a friend and her unmanageable toddler before I had kids.  Her daughter screamed and kicked and made things miserable for everyone in the restaurant.  My friend smiled sheepishly and quipped "That's Sally for you.  If you want a fight, she'll give you one!"

I understand her frustration over her daughter's behavior that day.  I've been embarrassed by Devon's behavior and my need to discipline him in public several times this week.  However, I don't agree with the attitude behind her statement.  It should be the other way around.

If Devon wants a fight, I'll give him one.

He needs to recognize the leadership of parents and teachers in his life.  When given an age appropriate command, he needs to obey.  If he refuses, I need to be up for the challenge to my authority and unwilling to back down.  I need to pick my battles and win decisively.

I have the important task of shaping our kids' character through loving discipline without unnecessary harshness.  The sooner he learns to respect authority and follow directions, the happier his life will be.It's not cruel to expect obedience, or even to spank him if he defies me.  It would be cruel to set him up for failure in his career, relationships, and health by letting him form unhealthy habits of behavior.

Sometimes I stop in the middle of a frustrating morning when we're on the fifteenth minor skirmish over the silliest thing. I say "Devon, I love you!" and he'll cheerily reply "Mommy, I love you, too!" before resuming his former stinky attitude.  There's no real malice behind this onslaught.  We're playing out the roles that have been given us.  He is the child and it is his job to test me to see if I mean business.  I am the parent and it is my job to convince him that indeed I do.

At night when he's finally asleep I stroke his head and whisper more words of love over him.  I beg God for wisdom to parent wisely, grace to be gentle under enormous pressure, and forgiveness for my many mistakes.  I thank Him for the opportunity to love Devon, demonstrating to my children how God loves us even when we act our ugliest.

I pray for the strength to expect obedience and never back down, and that the firmness of my expectations would be surpassed by the strength of my great love.

As I sit by his bed in the darkness I try to forget the day's failures and focus on the success:

1. We ate lunch in the mall food court and Devon without prompting ate his whole kids meal and drank his milk without throwing anything on the floor.  He did not throw a fit and demand an ice cream cone.  Therefore, he received one and ate it neatly with a spoon even though I would've been fine with a drippy free-for-all.

2. The month-long struggle to get him to say "please" appears to be over.  I no longer have to pause before the cookie lady at Sam's Club and then drive away in the cart because my son won't ask politely.  He intuitively figured out that "thank you" would be next and started saying it without a single prompt.

3.  Devon delightedly fed the girls Cheerios from his own snack cup when he didn't think I was watching, saying "Here you go, babies!"

Things are improving.

New York oystermen finally stopped cutting up starfish and throwing them back.  They started drying them out in the sun, grinding up their hard little bodies, and using them to fertilize the fields.

With time, persistence, and diligence, I can do the same.

Here's an important distinction: in my extended metaphor, children are not the starfish.  They're the ocean.  Children are wonderful just like the ocean: pure and refreshing, calming and peaceful, powerful and exciting, mysterious and deep.  We enjoy them and let them grow unhindered, spontaneously developing the nature God placed in them.

However, sometimes as parents we see things growing in the ocean that we do not like: infestations of disobedience, pollutions of disrespect, epidemics of rebellion. We can snip a bit here and cut a bit there, and the problem just seems to get worse.  That's not a sign of failure, and giving up isn't an option.  We seek advice from the right places and try different things until we find what works.  Pretty soon we find ourselves rooting out pesky intruders, grinding them up, and using them to fertilize the seeds of a healthy personality and good character.

If we keep at it, good things will grow in time.