Wed 25 May 2005
As a monsoon sits over New England, whipping us with relentless 30 mph winds, Hurricane Aitch has moved into full tantrum mode. It’s the perfect storm: a lethal combination of nor’easter and Far Easter.
Now Aitch has decided that there aren’t enough hours in the day for all the fury he has to vent, so he’s been waking up at night to throw fits. It’s like a goddamn Brontë novel around here, with the wind wuthering through the house and a mad relative howling through the night. Like two goddamn Brontë novels, actually.
When Aitch started these midnight fits he was so miserable with a cold and teething that we thought it might be more than garden-variety orneriness, so we (in a moment of weakness) let him come downstairs and sit in front of the TV with us, since that seemed to be the only thing that calmed him down. But it soon became evident that he was waking at 2:00 a.m. with the express purpose of watching infomercials, and then melting down when we didn’t automatically hand him the remote. (Husband interjects, “There’s actually some quality programming on at 2:00 a.m,” but that is not the point.)
So last night, we agreed to re-Ferberize him. The Ferber method prescribes reassuring parental visits to screaming child at intervals of increasing length, but the child is not allowed out of his crib. You would think it would just enrage a captive toddler, but instead it breaks his spirit ever so gently, with less “cry it out” guilt, and usually by the third visit he’s ready to crash.
I was the designated re-Ferberizer. At 11:52, as we heard plaintive cries of “Daddy, daddy” over the monitor, I sprang into action. Visit one: I gave Aitch a little hug, rubbed his back, and talked to him as he yelled, mentally calculating the Fibonacci numbers that determine the length of the intervals between visits. I went back to bed; Aitch continued to scream. Visit two: I put an extra blanket over Aitch, who was still lying down and talked to him soothingly. He continued to moan, “Daddy, daddy.” Visit three: Aitch was sitting up, still crying, but when I repositioned him he quieted and was ready to go to sleep. By 12:30 it was all over.
All over for him, that is. I continued to lie awake, listening to the tree limbs scratching the windows, hearing Aitch’s pitiful, “Daddy, daddy” over and over in my head. Even as I sat there looking at the monitor with its steady baby-is-sleeping light, I could hear his voice, like the ghost of Cathy scaring the crap out of Lockwood as she roamed the moors pining for Heathcliff. Now, I have nothing against the Brontës–I even like poor, neglected Anne–but tonight I hope I wake up in the middle of something a little less Gothic—a nice Mrs. Gaskell or maybe a George Eliot, where neither the children nor the wind is heard.
May 26th, 2005 at 1:17 pm
As I read your entry, DS is standing at the sink playing with his soap fishy in the running water. Yes, this former conservation commissioner allows her child to play with running water, but my guilt is assuaged by the ankle-deep puddles in the backyard. He should be napping, but he fell asleep for 15 minutes in the car this morning on the way home from a playdate, always a precursor to a nap boycott. I let him sing about ducks, yogurt, and cookies for a half hour before reluctantly pulling him out of his crib for fear of his waking his sister. Ferber doesn’t account for siblings. I’m wondering when I’m going to nap or read my overdue library books.
This morning’s playdate was for DD, who enthusiastically broke out of her shell during a rare playdate with a FEMALE 2 1/2 year old. Within 15 minutes, the tender goddesses had shed their shirts and socks and were skipping around the coffee table, giggling like sorority girls. Which leads to my question – why are 90 percent of the kids in Early Intervention male? DD’s EI playgroup is so male that when she wore a skirt last week (complete with matching diaper cover), her main squeeze Ritchie screamed out, during an especially spirited game of Ring-around-the-rosy, “Hey Emma, where’s your pants!!?” Perhaps it’s because boys usually talk later, so are more likely to qualify for services. Or maybe it’s because boys are less eager to please so they don’t try as hard during the testing. Lord only knows. There’s something about DD’s independence, hyper focus, and engineer intensity that make me worry she won’t make girlfriends easily. So DD’s girly girl bonding over dolls, nakedness, and music were a delight to behold.
Both kids are up now. Maybe we’ll watch our recording of last night’s American Idol. Six weeks ago, DD picked Bo and DS picked Carrie as their favorites. DD whispers “Hi Bo” when Bo struts his long leather pants around the stage, and DS claps and gazes at Carrie like she’s the shiny Good Witch of the North. And, he stomps around like a black cloud and yells “Bye, Bo” when Bo sings. I think he’s jealous of the attention Bo receives from the females in our house. We’ll skip the ending because I haven’t the heart to show Emma that her rock star lost out to the blonde country girl.