Do Not Eat.

Yesterday, I had settled into my seat on the train with my book prepared for a good 40 minute ride. At the next stop a pleasant yet dishelved looking woman got on and sat down beside me. Once the train started moving again, she squirted various fruity smelling santizers and lotions into her hand which she slathered on herself. I was slightly annoyed by the overpowering smell, but I got over it.

But then…

She pulled out a crinkly Starbucks bag, plunged her hand into its depths and pulled out a large bulbous muffin of some variety.  She then proceeded to consume said muffin, chomping noisly as crumbs tumbled down the front of her dress into her voluminous bag.  This was repeated over and over and over until finally the muffin had disappeared and she noisly crumpled the bag  and stuffed it into her bag.  Then she decided that she needed something from the bottomless pit of a bag. Objects and papers were pulled out and put back in only for a different set of objects and papers to be removed and then placed back in the bag. Finally she pulled out her iPhone and a water bottle. This whole rigmarole took a good 30 minutes. Basically the majority of my ride.

We have all done annoying things on the train at one point or another. If you travel on the train frequently enough, it is bound to happen. However, there are just certain rules of train etiquette that should not be broken. Eating on the train is one of them. I believe that this rule should be enforced not because people inevitably spill things or fail to pick up after themselves. It should be enforced simply because it is an affront to the senses. Either the person is incredibly noisy (whether it be the paper bag, wrapper or just noisy chewing), or the smell of the food fills the entire car (even if the food smells good, there is a reason that no one has successfully marketed the fragrance of burger) or the person is a disgusting eater (food should be chewed in closed mouths, people, and don’t bite off more than you can chew). 

I mean, I get it. You’re a busy person and your hungry. You’re a multitasker. Why not travel and eat at the same time. I understand. However, understanding this practice does not mean that I have to like it or accept it.  But, alas there is nothing that I can do about it. Am I about to give up my seat because my seatmate is chowing down? Um, no. But I will give the occassional dirty look. Who knows, perhaps this stealth mission of shaming each offender  that crosses my path one dirty look at a time will bring down the Train Eaters.

Good Cop + Bad Cop = Me.

The kid sure knows how to pull at the heart strings.

“I love you! I want you! I want yooooou!”

Granted these nuggets of undying devotion only come out with such passion when she is on a time out. When she sees that I am unswayed and not returning to her room, she turns on me.

There is a period of time where all I hear from her room are sorrow-filled ululations which quickly turn into cries for family members who cannot hear her. I am sure that if she had a clear concept of God and the heavens she would be appealing to them as well.

“I don’t like you! I want Grandma! Grandmaaaaaaa! Grandpaaaaa! I want Uncle Briiiiiii! Aunt TTTTTTTTTT!”

But alas no one come to her rescue. Her cries simmer down to whimpers and sniffles which then settle into silence. A few moments later she will either emerge with tear-streaked cheeks, shuffle over to me and fling herself headfirst into my lap whispering a muffled “Sorry…” or I will peek my head into her room and find her asleep in bed surrounded by her stuffed animals with her blanket pulled up to her chin.

Whatever the outcome, I always feel a sense of triumph. “Haha, I win! You cannot beat me, little one. I am the adult here. Ha and ha!”

But here is the problem. I feel this every single time my discipline works. I can talk a mean game and I can carry it out too, but I am always surprised when it works. Perhaps it is because there is always the moment when in the midst of it, I want to give up. Thrown in the towel. Say, “Fine, have the daggone piece of candy!” or “Fine, wear your swimsuit and rainboots and nothing else to school. Who cares that it’s snowing outside!” But I don’t and that is usually when she turns the corner.

Multiple times a week I feel like we are acting out this scene from Kramer v. Kramer.

Ted Kramer: [while Billy brings ice cream to the table] You go right back and put that right back until you finish your dinner… I’m warning you, you take one bite out of that and you are in big trouble. Don’t… Hey! Don’t you dare… Don’t you DARE do that. You hear me? Hold it right there! You put that ice cream in your mouth and you are in very, very, VERY big trouble. Don’t you dare go anywhere beyond that… Put it down right now. I am not going to say it again. I am NOT going to say it AGAIN.
[Billy eats ice cream]
Billy Kramer: [Ted picks him up] Ow! You’re hurting me!
Ted Kramer: OW! Don’t you kick me!
Billy Kramer: I hate you!
Ted Kramer: You’re no bargain either, pal! You are a spoiled, rotten little brat and I’ll tell you right now…
Billy Kramer: I hate you!
Ted Kramer: And I hate you back, you little shit!
Billy Kramer: I want my mommy!
Ted Kramer: I’m all you got.

And I feel horribly. How can you feel that way about your own child? But I do. Well, I don’t hate her. But I very strongly disliker her during those moments. Those are the moments when I wish I could just drop her on her father’s doorstep and say, “Here you deal with her because I can’t.” And I imagine that you can probably do that in a marriage. Leave that kid with the other parent and drive off into the sunset for a little while and return when a cooler head has prevailed. But I can’t do that.

So sometimes, I give myself a time out. I lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the shower as hot as it will go and give myself a stern talking to or say all the things that I wish I could say, but cannot because she’s only three and a half for gosh sakes. Once the mirror has steamed up, I have usually deflated all my own hot air and am okay enought to open the door.

Where is AB during my time out, you ask? On the other side of the door vacillating between crying for me to come out and asking if I’m okay and if I accidently locked myself in the bathroom. When I emerge she is always quite happy to see me and willing to talk about what went wrong. She will give me a run through of the prior ten minutes, “Annabelle threw the books and Froggie and Mommy said to pick them up and Annabelle said NO! and was put on time out and then Mommy locked herself in the bathroom by axident.”

Suffice it to say, while I have gotten much better at discipline over the past year, I am by no means a master. While it is clear that AB does not hold a grudge (with me anyway), I know that she is in no way being scarred by me being a consistent disciplinarian or, dare I say, a mean mom at times. I just wish that I didn’t feel like such a baby about it myself. Hurt feelings have no place in motherhood, right? Kids are always going to say things that they don’t mean. Heck, I constantly say things that I don’t mean in my bathroom time-out rants. I feel like I am on an emotional roller coaster though. I go from sadness that she is so upset, then frustration that she thought she could get away with it, then anger that she thinks that I am so horrible that she requires some sort of stealth rescue mission, then relief when it is over which is quickly followed by the dread that it is inevitably going to happen again.

I need to grow a thicker skin. Pronto.

The Name Game.

I took AB to the Taste of Chicago this past Sunday. We ate overpriced cheesecake and “Chicago-style” hot dogs, but had a good time nonetheless. I realized as we were walking were about to walk into the mass of Taste of Chicagoers that this excursion could be disasterous. A friend had told me of her son getting lost in Target and then I thought of when I got lost in a Home Depot and wound up holding the hand of a stranger who I thought was my father. (My dad has conveniently forgotten this event, suggesting that I dreamed it. Incredible jedi mind tricks is what I call that. I am not ashamed to say that I use it on AB as well. I learned from the best.)

 What if AB got lost?! So, we stepped to the side and I did a quick Safety101, which I realize in hindsight would not have worked at all, but I needed the assurance.

“You need to hold hands with Mommy at all times, okay? But just in case, what’s your name?”

“Annabelle R____!”

“Awesome. And what is my name?”

“Mommy.”

“Riiiight. But Mommy also has another name. Mommy’s name is Tiffany Hayes.”

“You’re not Stephanie Hanes. You’re Mommy, silly.”

After about 5 minutes she got it and we went on our way. I pointed out what the policemen looked like and that she should find one of them if she got lost. She nodded like she got it, but I know she didn’t. Thankfully, she held my hand the entire time. I think that the crowd scared her into behaving.

Last night we were having our quiet reading time on the couch, (me- Lincoln by Gore Vidal, her- a stack of Arthur books from the series by Marc Brown). Apropos of nothing, she looked over at me and said, “What’s your name again?”

Ruh-roh.

“Mommy.”

“No, your other name.”

“Um, Tiffany Hayes.”

“Tiffany Hayes, can I please have some milk?”

Egad. After an incredibly inept explanation that she only needs to use my other name if she cannot find me when we are out, she seemed satisfied and reverted back to her various forms of “Mom” depending on her wants, needs and moods.

But my name resurfaced right before she fell asleep. We were into our third bedtime book when she closed it and said, “I’m going to take a nap.”

Alrighty, then. Rarely, does “night-night” happen so smoothly. I was about to celebrate with some ice cream and more SVU, when she stopped me.

“Hey! Lay down.” Damn. It turns out that this “I’m going to take a nap” was code for, “I’m going to turn my back on you and close my eyes but you still have to lay next to me because it is your motherly duty.” So, I laid down.

She turned to face me and pressed her nose against mine. “We are best friends. Tiffany Hayes and Annabelle are best friends.”

Tiffany Hayes’ heart in that moment = completely melted.