Grandparents Day
My parents visited us this weekend. By “us,” I mean “myself, especially Abbie, and not so much Ellie.” Not that they were trying to avoid Ellie, but she was mired in the last horrible night of call of her pregnancy, and spent most of their visit in the hospital tending to patients in the ICU, ED, and QT. Not that they were weren’t excited to see me, but compared to seeing their only grandchild at 17-months-old, I can hardly compete, especially when I haven’t reached any new developmental milestones since our last visit.
My parents arrived in town during Abbie’s naptime, and thoughtfully stayed out of the house until she woke. Generally our dog goes nuts when unusual people such as my parents or Ellie enter our home, and all the barking is likely to wake Abbie early. She can be difficult when fully rested; add tired and cranky to the mix, and she becomes harder to manage than a Vikings pleasure cruise. They wouldn’t be able to do much with her while she napped anyway besides imagine what she looked like behind the bedroom door and listen to her sleeping grunts on the monitor.
When my parents did stop by our home, Abbie gave them her typical grandparent greeting: She screamed. She screamed her head off, and the crying didn’t stop until we left the house several hours later for frozen custard.* My mother’s presence upset her a little bit, but it was my dad who really set her off. After a few minutes, Abbie calmed to the point where she would tearlessly scream around my mother, but the tears returned as soon as she saw my father. Understandably, it hurt his feelings to see his only grandchild scream in terror when he enters the room. The fact that we used to tease him when she started crying around him, asking, “what did you do to her?” probably didn’t help.
After many unsuccessful bonding attempts, my mother and I fed Abbie supper with my father separated by a wall. It was a drastic measure, but Abbie had to eat if we had if we were to have any hope of bringing her back to Earth. Plus my dad had college football on TV to entertain him.
My mother loved watching Abbie eat, but was concerned about my nonchalance over her throwing food. Every day I give Abbie a big handful of Tasteeos and vegetables, and every day half of those Tasteeos wind up on the floor. I’ve come to accept this as a fact of life, and the dog has come to rely on stray Abbie food for sustenance. I’m usually too busy dancing around the kitchen preparing someone’s next course to concern myself about what ends up on the floor anyway. My mother feels that I assert myself now to end bad behaviors.
“How do I do that to a 17-month-old?”
“Tell her no when she throws her food.”
“What do I do when she keeps throwing her food?”
“Tell her no more forcefully.”
“What do I do when she keeps throwing her food?”
“Smack her hand when she throws her food.”
“What do I do when she keeps throwing her food?”
“Just keep doing it. She’ll learn.”
“Yeah…”
I deal with her screaming most of the rest of the day, if her throwing food is the price I pay for a peaceful meal, so be it. Until she’s old enough to threaten with punishment, I’ll just keep reminding her not to do it when I catch her. I need to pick my battles, and my mother, picking a battle, decided to drop the issue about my wacky permissive parenting.
After supper, we went out for a little shopping. Abbie calmed down almost immediately upon hearing her Sesame Street CD, proving that, while I may have succeeded in preventing a television addiction, the CTW still found a way to get their hooks in her. We picked up a desperately needed second Pack N Play for the twins (thanks, mom), and stopped for frozen custard. At least my mother and I ordered frozen custard; my father, who wasn’t hungry for supper, ordered a burger and fries. After ordering, I collected my cone, my mother collected her dish, and my father collected a number for them to bring him his food when it was ready. The inherent problem with this system is it takes less time to eat a cone than it does to cook a burger and fries, especially when a 17-month-old is pilfering off the cone. After disposing our wrappers and spoons, I started wondering how we were going to placate Abbie while my dad ate his meal right in front of her. The restaurant answered our dilemma by bringing with his food … a second cone and dish! We might as well take it, they told us, because otherwise they’d just have to throw it away. So my dad had dessert, my mom and Abbie split another cone, and I wondered how anybody could eat that much frozen custard in one sitting when the flavor wasn’t Peanut Butter Perfection.
We came home, and Abbie stayed relatively calm for her bedtime routine. She even calmed down enough to interact with my dad a little bit. Want proof?
* Frozen custard makes everything better.
My parents arrived in town during Abbie’s naptime, and thoughtfully stayed out of the house until she woke. Generally our dog goes nuts when unusual people such as my parents or Ellie enter our home, and all the barking is likely to wake Abbie early. She can be difficult when fully rested; add tired and cranky to the mix, and she becomes harder to manage than a Vikings pleasure cruise. They wouldn’t be able to do much with her while she napped anyway besides imagine what she looked like behind the bedroom door and listen to her sleeping grunts on the monitor.
When my parents did stop by our home, Abbie gave them her typical grandparent greeting: She screamed. She screamed her head off, and the crying didn’t stop until we left the house several hours later for frozen custard.* My mother’s presence upset her a little bit, but it was my dad who really set her off. After a few minutes, Abbie calmed to the point where she would tearlessly scream around my mother, but the tears returned as soon as she saw my father. Understandably, it hurt his feelings to see his only grandchild scream in terror when he enters the room. The fact that we used to tease him when she started crying around him, asking, “what did you do to her?” probably didn’t help.
After many unsuccessful bonding attempts, my mother and I fed Abbie supper with my father separated by a wall. It was a drastic measure, but Abbie had to eat if we had if we were to have any hope of bringing her back to Earth. Plus my dad had college football on TV to entertain him.
My mother loved watching Abbie eat, but was concerned about my nonchalance over her throwing food. Every day I give Abbie a big handful of Tasteeos and vegetables, and every day half of those Tasteeos wind up on the floor. I’ve come to accept this as a fact of life, and the dog has come to rely on stray Abbie food for sustenance. I’m usually too busy dancing around the kitchen preparing someone’s next course to concern myself about what ends up on the floor anyway. My mother feels that I assert myself now to end bad behaviors.
“How do I do that to a 17-month-old?”
“Tell her no when she throws her food.”
“What do I do when she keeps throwing her food?”
“Tell her no more forcefully.”
“What do I do when she keeps throwing her food?”
“Smack her hand when she throws her food.”
“What do I do when she keeps throwing her food?”
“Just keep doing it. She’ll learn.”
“Yeah…”
I deal with her screaming most of the rest of the day, if her throwing food is the price I pay for a peaceful meal, so be it. Until she’s old enough to threaten with punishment, I’ll just keep reminding her not to do it when I catch her. I need to pick my battles, and my mother, picking a battle, decided to drop the issue about my wacky permissive parenting.
After supper, we went out for a little shopping. Abbie calmed down almost immediately upon hearing her Sesame Street CD, proving that, while I may have succeeded in preventing a television addiction, the CTW still found a way to get their hooks in her. We picked up a desperately needed second Pack N Play for the twins (thanks, mom), and stopped for frozen custard. At least my mother and I ordered frozen custard; my father, who wasn’t hungry for supper, ordered a burger and fries. After ordering, I collected my cone, my mother collected her dish, and my father collected a number for them to bring him his food when it was ready. The inherent problem with this system is it takes less time to eat a cone than it does to cook a burger and fries, especially when a 17-month-old is pilfering off the cone. After disposing our wrappers and spoons, I started wondering how we were going to placate Abbie while my dad ate his meal right in front of her. The restaurant answered our dilemma by bringing with his food … a second cone and dish! We might as well take it, they told us, because otherwise they’d just have to throw it away. So my dad had dessert, my mom and Abbie split another cone, and I wondered how anybody could eat that much frozen custard in one sitting when the flavor wasn’t Peanut Butter Perfection.
We came home, and Abbie stayed relatively calm for her bedtime routine. She even calmed down enough to interact with my dad a little bit. Want proof?
* Frozen custard makes everything better.
posted by Matt at
10:01 PM
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