Bless Your Heart

Vol. 4, Issue Seven

During the first year of my son's life–before his sister and brother arrived–I had dinner with a friend of mine who was the father of two toddlers at the time. He was out in LA on business, and he sat there happily, peacefully drinking wine as he asked me how I liked fatherhood so far. "Aw, man, I love it!" I said. I told him we were expecting another one very soon.

"Congrats." He nodded and raised his glass. “And good luck."

I asked him what it was like to have two toddlers at home. He said it's great but that he just yells all the time.

"At the kids???" I said. "What could you possibly yell at them about???"

It was like he told me he beat them with leather belts.

"Oh, just everything. You'll see."

I realized that my tiny son wouldn't always be so perfect. But in those early days, it was still surreal to imagine him talking at all, and I didn't care if he ever did. His smiles (invigorating!) and sobs (gut-wrenching!) provided me with enough information about how I, his awestruck father, could best tend to his needs. But when he eventually did learn words and complete sentences, on his way to becoming a little person and no longer this Meaty little thing, I swore that I'd never purposely raise my voice around him, let alone at him. That was impossible to comprehend, borderline evil–like throwing rocks at an angel for playing the harp too loud. 

We have three children now: Meaty's 4, his sister is three, and their younger brother will turn two in less than a month. Because there was a Covid outbreak at their pre-school last week, all the kids stayed home with me while my wife took the car and went off to her Real Job. The sitter, justifiably wary about being around three possible Omicron kids, stayed home but said she'd be happy to help out once they'd all tested negative two days in a row. For two days, it was just the four of us. Oh, and the dog. 

Just to be clear: I knew they would be wound up because they were always more wound up with me, but my goal was simple–stay calm and not let them destroy things or each other. But because kids that age are basically wild raccoons, and there were three of them, I didn't totally keep my cool. The two older ones tend to set each other off–they love to jump on tables and smack each other. I usually separate them and don't get too flustered, but I get hot once they start roughhousing with the youngest, littlest one.

STOP! DON'T PUT THE COMFORTER OVER HIM! DON'T JUMP ON HIS HEAD! HE IS A BABY. STOP!

They also started this weird game called "Nudie!" where they took off all their clothes and wrestled.

STOP-STOP! DON'T STICK YOUR FINGERS IN YOUR SISTER'S BUTT. STOP! JESUS CHRIST. 

At that moment, I just physically picked up my oldest one and put him in his room. He sobbed and begged me not to put him in time out.

I'm usually better about this. I hate time-outs. But the Nudie thing broke me. What do you do in a situation like that?

*****

I recently spoke to Spirit Rock meditation teacher James Baraz for an upcoming podcast episode. I asked him for advice about how to not get so agitated when my children act completely deranged. He told me to practice this heart-opening exercise with them whenever they throw a tantrum or become frustrated. He said to take a deep breath (surprise) and place my hand over my heart, and I should instruct whatever child is acting out to do the same. Then I need to look them in the eye and gently talk to them: "Do you know that Mama loves you. Do you know that I love you? Do you know that your sister loves you? Your little brother. Grandpa...Yia-Yia." 

During our stay-at-home adventure last week, I tried it with my oldest after he had a prolonged screaming fit that made my skull rattle. And…he got quieter. And then I got calmer. I was back in the moment face-to-face with my four-year-old boy–my beautiful, shining boy. "Papa loves you," I said. I kissed him. It didn't work perfectly like that all day, but it helped.

My daughter is more of a bruiser, strong-willed, and able to hop the baby gate like a cat burglar, so she's harder to manage. At one point just before lunchtime on Day Two, she had taken two paper towel rolls and tore them to shreds. She also opened two bags of Cheetos and one bag of cookies and had this bizarre system where she'd eat one, crush two in her hands and drop them on the floor. I didn't yell at her–I just gently called her over. "Come here, Sweetie." She marched over, annoyed. I held my hand over my heart and began to gently move her hand up to her own heart. "Now, mama lov…."

I didn't get to finish because she smacked me right in the nose and yelled at me: "NO! GO AWAY!"

I walked into the kitchen. I stood in there for a few minutes, my nose sore, my feelings a little sorer. I remembered what it was like to drink over something like this, thankful–so thankful– that I don't anymore. This would be so much worse. 

*****

That illustration at the top is a photo from my phone I sent to Edith live from last week's quarantine war zone. The two oldest ones are playing tug-of-war with the piss-soaked bedding. You can see the remnants of the torn-up paper towels and God knows what else all over the floor. There's my youngest, pantsless and watching dinosaurs murder each other on YouTube on the iPad. (I just gave up trying to monitor screen time. Even with the one-year-old.) The dog's eating all the smashed-up cookies off the floor. 

Anyway, it's one of my favorite things she's ever drawn for TSB. I will get it framed because I know these are the best days, as hard as this is sometimes. Having an illustrated record of them is a unique perk. – AJD