Yesterday I drove my 6-year-old, Pablo, and my 19-month-old, Diego, to a very popular Sunday afternoon destination: the
Amador Causeway. We were to rent one of those three-passenger bikes and all sit side by side enjoying the view and doing our little "family" number (minus one -Gustavo was working).
After going around a couple of times, everyone having a turn at the wheel and me feeding us Oreo cookies as we went, Diego decided he wanted to explore the nearby parking lot instead, so I got Pablo a bike for him to ride around where we could still see each other and spent the next 45 minutes naming pretty much everything Diego pointed at.
As the sun started to set, I realized I was walking a very thin line, that between carefree, Sunday-afternoon fun and Hiroshima: Diego was about two minutes away from becoming visibly sleepy and I had barely enough time to return Pablo's bike, pack all of our butts into the car and get home. As the thought crossed my mind, I felt a tug at my pants telling me that my little boss wanted more of those things with the white, creamy stuff in the middle that had previously come out of the blue wrapper that was now coming out of my pocket. But we'd eaten them all.
I managed to get Pablo to return the bike and meet me at the car, all in under a minute. I opened all four doors because, naturally, I had a soccer ball, backpack, little toy cars, a baby sipping cup and a baby all hanging from me and all supposed to go in the car before all hell broke lose and Diego decided he wanted to be tucked in with a full tummy during the next five seconds.
All I can say, my friends, is that I did not get lucky that afternoon. During the next minutes I found myself wrestling an enraged version of my toddler, arms flailing, hitting my face and chest, sweat, blood and tears pouring down our struggling bodies as I tried to get him into the car. For a moment I felt like I was as tired, frusrated and confused as he was and my thoughts were condensed into one sole purpose: get the kid onto his carseat so we can scram. People in nearby cars were staring, giving me that look, I could feel it, and all I kept thinking was that I should take advantage of the first opportunity, when Diego paused to gather strengths in order to keep up the show, so I could literally strap him in place (tight enough so he couldn't propel himself out of the car, loose enough so he could keep on flailing freely -without knocking out Pablo, that is). I felt so helpless trying to talk him into calming down, offering boxes of Oreo cookies, Happy Meals, eternal ownership of the remote, I just didn't know what else to do. I let go of him, he walked away, I carried him back, and the show picked up right where it had left off.
The moment finally came and, at last, sweat drops running down my back, I had him! The subject was strapped onto his carseat. I thought I was going to get an overall feeling of happiness and accomplishment, but I must admit I only felt sad hearing Diego sobbing angrily as we headed home. I felt like I was a failure as a mom and that there had to have been a more gentle, civilized way of handling the whole thing. Pablo, proving once again to be my hero, tried the whole time to calm his brother down, talking to him, or rather begging him to go easy on me and to stop crying and screaming his lungs out like that in public -in his own words.
Ever since I've been catching up on my child-rearing literature, searching for answers or just looking for that one phrase that would reassure me by suggesting everything was still ok. I must say I learned many things from this little episode. For instance, I remembered how useful it is to listen, maybe not to words, but to signs. Like your 19-month-old showing signs that he's had enough fun for one day, or that he's afraid that if you'll strap him to that awful carseat you may leave and not be there with him when he falls asleep. The toddler years, like every other transition stage of human lives, is a very tough period. They're not babies who can get away with ANYTHING and are still very attached to momma, and they're not children who have reached a more advanced degree of independence. I also learned I must have unlimited amounts of patience, and now, more than ever, teach every lesson with love (now that's truly a golden rule!). So, in a nutshell, kids teach you. They push you towards being a better person. They make you reassess your reasoning and your reactions. So if you come accross one, by all means, embrace the challenge.
Ps: Sorry for writing so much, I just had to get this out of my chest. Pablo, Diego, I ADORE YOU!!!
