The Sounds of Silence

Ah silence. Good old silence. It's not that often these days, with two noisy terrors around - little madam, who's three-and-almost-a-half, and little man, who's one-and-a-bit - that I get any; silence, that is. So I guess when it does happen, on those very rare occasions, I should be grateful. Well, that's what people keep telling me, anyway. But when it happens to occur, like in the following story, in the form of little madam dishing out a bit of the old silent treatment, I guess I can't help but feel...well...strangely uneasy. After all, am I raising a three-year-old here? Or is she, in fact, thirteen?

Believe it or not, the title of this story is the same title of the very song – the 1960’s classic by Simon and Garfunkel – that was playing on the car radio when the following incident occurred; the incident that resulted in me, the easily baffled mother, experiencing my first surprising taste of just that. The sounds of silence (aka. The silent treatment). The day had started ordinarily enough. We – little madam, little man and I – had gotten up, eaten breakfast, dressed and packed a simple picnic lunch so we could head out and enjoy a day at the park with some friends.

Now, as someone who’s been brought up with parents who devoted a fair bit of their time ensuring that we (my brother, sister and I) had plenty of musical opportunities - including a fair number of years worth of piano lessons, and the chance to pursue a great number of other musical endeavours should we have at any time desired - I’m a fan of many different types of music. More often than not, though, I find that I prefer rock music (the heavier stuff, mostly) over pop. Lately, though, I’ve even been enjoying some of the older stuff, too; music that’s commonly referred to as "classic rock". I guess this is why, when I switched the car on (and the radio, obviously, at the same time) and began to drive, I found the station on good old Gold 104.3 (known also as the golden oldies station - which is rather scary, considering most of the music played on this station is familiar to me, despite the fact that I don’t consider myself to be all that old at thirty-four years of age). I didn’t actually notice the radio station immediately, as I was busy concentrating on calculating the most efficient route to my meeting spot; as well as negotiating with little madam, to try and convince her to return a toy she’d stolen from little man ... the usual battles I have to enter into when I’m trying to concentrate on DRIVING A CAR. But, after diffusing the argument that was about to erupt in the back, I got back to the job at hand (driving the car) and it was then that I noticed the radio was tuned to the golden oldies station. It was also then, at that very moment, that I realised I wasn’t really in the mood for any golden oldies music. So, as I began to tamper with the radio channels, and changed from the old classic, “Sounds of Silence” - by the very talented and well-known S&G - to a more modern upbeat tune by Green Day (which was being played on Triple-M – a station renowned for playing some more modern rock music) the protest from little madam, of, “I WANTED TO LISTEN TO THAT!”, which erupted almost instantaneously, took me more than a little by surprise. So much so that, in hindsight (something I could use a little of sometimes) my response of, “Well I DON’T!” sounds almost too childish to believe.
But, like it or not, this was exactly how I’d responded and, therefore, I then had no choice but to deal with what happened next. Unfortunately for me - as I did happen to be in the mood for a little Green Day - the sounds of her protests elevated so much, that she drowned out the drums, guitars and vocals that form Green Day’s, “Maria.” And, as a result of my annoyance, I was forced into an even more defiant state, which then caused me to continue to deny her loud demands to change the station so she could, once again, listen to, "The Sounds of Silence."

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t always respond to little madam’s requests in such a childish and defiant manner, nor would I normally deny a request over something as petty and insignificant as the choice of music in the car. Especially because I do happen to like most music types. But for some reason - perhaps it was just my mood, or the fact that I'd just resumed concentrating on driving the car again after diffusing a potential ear-piercing argument that had been about to erupt only seconds earlier – I definitely didn’t feel like listening to the peaceful-sounding Simon & Garfunkel. I was in the mood for a little more punch.

But after abruptly refusing to change the station, and continually refusing to give in to her demands after several repeated shouts, little madam decided that she was going to settle down and, instead, dish me out a rather large and unexpected serve of something I’d not experienced with her before this moment; a serve of the good-old silent treatment. Again, I didn’t notice immediately that her outburst had ceased. Although, perhaps I should have because after a good minute-or-so of persistent protesting, I was suddenly able to, once again, hear the music on the radio. And, I'm pleased to say, was able to listen to the last verse-or-so of Green Day's, "Maria".
It wasn't until after the music stopped, and the commentary on the radio began, a short while later, that I realised little madam's rather noisy demands had stopped. So, without turning to look at her (as I was trying to concentrate on the road at the time) I asked if she was okay. Now as I didn't receive a response immediately, I thought, perhaps, she hadn't heard me. So I asked again. More silence. There was so much silence, in fact, it was almost deafening.
Now as I'd never experience the silent treatment from little madam before (I guess you could say it was my first time...I'm talking about getting the silent treatment from little madam, by the way) I was a little confused; perhaps I was little concerned too. After all, her near-deafening bellowing had stopped rather suddenly. So I took my eyes off the road to look over my shoulder at her, and at the same time repeated my question: "Are you okay?" It was at this moment, when I saw her glaring out the window with red-faced defiance painted across her face, that I realised what was going on. She was so annoyed over the fact that I'd refused to change the radio station, that she was deliberately ignoring me. Or, in better terms, she was giving me the silent treatment.

The remainder of the journey in the car was far too quiet for my liking, and I couldn't help but wonder whether there was something wrong with little madam. After all, was it normal (although, what is normal, I ask?) for a three-year-old to dish out the silent treatment the way a thirteen-year-old, or even a thirty-year-old, can? Well. According to a number of my friends - friends with small children and otherwise - this behaviour is not all that uncommon. So, in a way, I’m slightly relieved. Unfortunately, the reassurance from others around me hasn't make me feel any better - or relish, and enjoy, the deafening silence of the silent treatment - on the odd couple of occasions it's happened since. And I guess all I can say, in response to my inability to not be concerned when it's quiet in little madam's corner, is, What a Crying Shame. Well, I'm pretty sure that's what The Maverick's would say, anyway.

Thanks, little madam, for the short bursts of silence, lately. Sorry I forced you to adopt that strategy in order to make me realise how keen you are on Simon & Garfunkel. Love you.

The Whinging Wobbly Wanderer

Hooray! My little man - my darling Mr Squeeze (this was the nickname given to little man, by the way, when he was only a few weeks old due to the fact I found him rather lovely and, well, just a little bit squeezable) – has finally taken his first steps. And, even though the few steps he took were a little bit wobbly (and more than a little bit heart-stopping, on my part, due to the fact that I felt almost certain they were going to end in a face-plant on the hardwood floor) they were steps he took all by himself. And, although I'm certain it's just the beginning of a very long road - the long road that will eventually see little man become an independently walking (or perhaps running in every direction BUT the right one) toddler - I'm feeling rather relieved. Why am I relieved, you ask? Well, it's not because I ever thought he wouldn't get there. But, one reason, perhaps, is due to the fact that I (his rather impatient mother) have had rather high (and probably, as usual, unreasonable) expectations in relation to this particular event. I guess this is because he has an older sibling (little madam) to be compared to. And, as she started walking smack-bang-on fourteen-months of age, and little man’s first movements (ie crawling) began quite a bit earlier than little madam’s, I was expecting that by fourteen-months-of-age (just over two weeks ago), he would have well and truly found his feet. Needless to say, I’ve once again been reminded that little man is NOT little madam, and he’s proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's going to do things his own way.

Another reason for my relief is that little man's current obsession with wanting to walk - despite the fact that he's not quite up to doing it on his own, yet - is becoming a rather tiresome, not-to-mention tedious, exercise. Not only for little man, mind you, but also for me, his doting daddy and probably (although I’m not always there to witness it) his Oma and Opa, too. Particularly at times like the other day, when we (little man, little madam, my husband and I) decided to go out shopping for a new outdoor setting. The idea behind this, of course, was so that we’d have somewhere to sit and enjoy our meals outdoors. And, at the same time, minimise some of my own mealtime despair, which revolves around having to clean-up (the floor, in particular) after little man, who can be rather messy while he’s eating (especially when rice or small bits of pasta are part of the main course). This was all thanks to a very clever suggestion that came from a good friend of mine (thanks, Hayley) after I'd ranted and raved and carried on about how much of a pita (that's pain in the a*** for those who don't know) it is to clean up after dinner.
Anyway, as we were hoping to bring home a large piece of furniture in the back of our car, we (my husband and I) decided to, foresee the potential shortage of boot space and, leave little man’s pusher at home. Therefore, when we arrived at a certain strip of outdoor furniture stores, we were forced to take turns carrying little man while we tried to browse the range of lovely - yet surprising exorbitantly priced...I mean it’s outdoor furniture for goodness sakes! Outdoor furniture that’s going to get rained, hailed, and god knows what on!!! – outdoor settings, and the like.
Unfortunately, as a result of little man’s current determination (the determination that involves him wanting nothing more than to wobble around on his own two feet holding your hand) this particular shopping expedition -where we, along with all the surrounding shoppers, were forced to endure a few rather loud tantrums from little man thanks to his desire to, not only be allowed to wobble around on his own two feet but, make his way towards every single staircase in sight; all without giving a single second of consideration to the point of our shopping expedition – was a completely fruitless exercise. And, in the end, after a flabbergasted and flustered - not to mention rather embarrassed by the attention being drawn our way thanks to little man's rather frequent and noisy shrieks of protest at having to be dragged away from all the staircases - daddy declared, “I’ve had enough!” we left the shops no closer to achieving the so-desired mess-free mealtime.

As well as the wasted shopping trips, there’s also the moments at home where little man’s desperation to walk (providing he’s got a good grip on my hand, of course) gets in the way of my near-constant battle to keep on top of the housework; including the ever-growing pile of washing that’s threatening to punch a rather large hole in the laundry ceiling if I don’t do something about it soon. And when my fear of the impending hole in the laundry ceiling eventually gets too much, and I’m forced to scurry past little man and try and ignore the outstretched hand and the adorable pleading look, I have to endure the dreaded, and exceptionally loud, whining shriek that he lets out once he’s realised his desire to hold my hand and walk has been overshadowed by some stupid housework.

I guess I can’t help but feel awful, and a little bit guilty, for complaining so bitterly about having to help little man along on his regular treks. And, for letting a pile of washing and some dirty dishes turn me into a grumbling, mumbling, eye-rolling mummy whenever little man decides to raise his hand in my direction. Because I know from experience, that I will eventually miss all those moments; all the times little man actually wants to hold my hand while he’s walking around. But in summary, all I can say at this point in time, in relation to little man and his walking ability - despite the guilt and regret I’ll inevitably feel when he’s an out-of-control toddler who’s fully capable and independent on his own two feet - is, “BRING IT ON!”

Thanks, little man, for taking me (and daddy, too, of course) on a lap of the house again, and again, and again, and again etc. Sorry, too, I often buzz past without bothering to stop and say “G’day”, but the washing is (honestly) threatening to seep under the laundry door. Love you!

Hindsight and Foresight – or lack of, perhaps....

It's amazing how often, as a mother, I think to myself, "If only I'd done that differently." I mean, despite that fact that I'm human and, therefore, capable of making the odd - or perhaps the-all-too-frequent, is a better term - mistake, I do find as a mother, moments where I feel I may have made the wrong decision, or said the wrong thing - perhaps acted a little too impulsively - and, as a result would do just about anything to turn back the clock a few minutes, are happening more and more.

Perhaps, if I'd been better prepared for this age - the age where my quite well-behaved, and rather quiet and subdued three-year-old, became a rather vocal and decisive (not-to-mention argumentative) individual - I wouldn't have been taken by surprise quite as much as I was during my shopping outing the other day. Now, for those who've read, "The Great Shopping Stand-off" - a previous post, which describes an incident where I felt almost certain I was about to be embarrassed in the middle of a shop by a public display of frustration (aka tantrum) courtesy of little madam - you'll be pleased to hear that this particular story has a far more turbulent and eventful ending.
On this particular day, which happened to be a week-or-so prior to Christmas (the busiest shopping time of the year), I had promised little madam - and little man, too, of course - a quick go on the Thomas the Tank Engine ride at my local shopping centre; providing, of course, they were well-behaved while they endured a few important shopping tasks first. Although we were meant to be shopping for a birthday present for one of little madam's friends, I found myself sidetracked (as I often do) in the Target children’s clothing department.
After selecting a couple of rather nice size-three summer dresses off the rack, and even accepting little madam's input with regards to one of the choices, my eyes suddenly set upon the most adorable playsuit I've ever seen; it was covered in a lovely floral print, and was a mix between a dress and a pair of pantaloons (that's old fashioned frilly pants, for those who aren't familiar with the term). It was at this point, in my moment of excitement over such a find, that I made the mistake of asking little madam (who'd been cooperative with the choices so far) what she thought of it. Well. I guess in typical three-year-old fashion, her cooperation had been exhausted, and her response to my brief, and quite insincere query (as my intention was to buy the playsuit, regardless of how she felt about it), was, "I don't like it." Although her response surprised me, I didn't really think anything of it, and simply brushed off her statement with a, "Oh, that's a shame. I think it’s lovely", before hanging the coat hanger, with the lovely playsuit attached, on the handle of the pusher.
Hindsight: Foresight: It's amazing what a little bit of these could do. I guess, in hindsight - or if I’d had the foresight to realise what was about to happen - I would have given in to little madam's rather abrupt demand – the demand that consisted of a rather loud, "Put that back!" - immediately. After all, what's the big deal? It's just a silly playsuit. Besides, the shopping centre's not that far away. I could arrange to sneak back at any time. But instead, I ignored her. To be perfectly honest, I really thought that she'd forget about it and, well, just get over it. Unfortunately, on this particular day, at this particular time, my thinking was way off. And, as I made my way towards the toy department in search of the birthday gift, with little man in the pusher, and little madam trailing close behind, I heard it again. "Put that back!" This, I again, ignored. It was only when she shouted the demand a fourth or fifth time, did I agree (or at least pretend to agree) with a rather disappointed-sounding, "Alright. I will."
Amazingly, though, she saw right through my...well...I guess I should call it a "lie", because I actually, at that point in time, still had no intention of putting the lovely playsuit back. Of course, I was still under the delusion that she would (eventually, anyway) just forget about it and get over it. But, like an elephant, little madam was not about to forget anything. Nor was she about to get over my blatant attempt to try and distract her with the task of trying to choose a gift for her friend. And, to try and make me understand the fact that she definitely DID NOT want me to buy the playsuit – the playsuit that I was planning to buy regardless of little madam's repeated demands - she shouted again, "Put that back, NOW!"
I guess it should have been apparent at that point in time, due to her rather obvious and growing frustration at my failure to give in to her demand, that she was not going to do as I originally thought/felt she would, and just forget about it and get over it. But I guess I was in some sort of denial. Not to mention, I lacked the foresight I needed to dig me out of this quickly- escalating situation. So I tried telling her, with a bit more sincerity this time (as I was beginning to realise that the playsuit was potentially going to be more trouble than it was worth), that I had every intention of returning the playsuit, on our way back through the store, as soon as we’d chosen her friend a present.
I guess at this point, though, she was beyond capable of believing anything I said. Fair enough. I'd lied to her only minutes earlier. So instead of simply continuing to verbalise her demand, she decided to take a more physical approach, and snatched (with quite a bit of ferocity, I might add) the coat hanger, with lovely floral playsuit attached, off the handle of the pusher. So sudden and violent were her actions, that I was certain I’d heard the hanger snap in the process. Thankfully it hadn’t but I was, at this point, forced to act and I glared at her and, in a firmer-than-usual voice, said “Right!”
I guess this might have been the moment little madam actually wished she’d had some foresight. Foresight to realise that any nonsense behaviour – behaviour that I will NOT tolerate – would result in her missing out on a go on the Thomas the Tank Engine ride. After realising how annoyed I was, she pleaded with me (as the tears rolled freely down her beautiful soft cheeks) desperately. “But I want to go on Thomas.” Well, obviously I wasn’t prepared to let her get away with expressing her frustration in the way she had, so I simply shook my head and clicked my tongue (you know? "Tutt, tutt"). Perhaps if I’d had the chance to rewind time and do things again, I might not have had to face the crowds of pre-Christmas shoppers – not-to-mention endure the sympathetic look, and comment of, “I remember that age all too well”, an older lady gave me as she was (no doubt) taken on a trip down memory lane, thanks to little madam’s foot-stamping carry-on – as little madam continued to verbalise her disgust over the fact that she was now likely to miss out on the ride I had promised her. And the more I tried ignoring her, the louder she screamed. Eventually, after realising that calming her down was going to prove impossible (unless, of course, I was willing to give in to her demands; something that I most certainly WAS NOT about to do) so I was forced to make my way towards the store exit – and return the lovely dresses and that gorgeous (yet certainly not worth all the fuss) playsuit – and walk with my head down past the disapproving glares of shoppers who had, no doubt, come for a peaceful afternoon of shopping, with a screaming, foot-stamping, and very red-faced little madam trailing behind.

Why didn’t I just put the silly playsuit back in the first place? All I can do now is try and learn from my mistake. Perhaps next time she asks me to put something back on the rack (something as insignificant as a playsuit) I might actually pay attention. Then again, if this situation is like so many others I’ve experienced – situations where, as a human and a mother, I seem to forget the consequences of my actions – perhaps not.

Thanks, little madam, for the foot-stamping demonstration. I think, with a little practice, you’d be terrific at line dancing. Love you!

The Son Who Screams At Strangers

Over the past couple of weeks, during the Christmas-slash-New Year break, I’ve been busy. Busy consuming alcohol (probably more alcohol, in fact, than I'd normally consume in an entire year); busy over-indulging on festive food. And, last but not least, I’ve also been busy watching my little man morph from his normally outgoing and cheerful self, into a rather clingy and tearful lad. Now, although my experience with little madam tells me that this stage – the stage that’s known as (according to my faithful advice-giver, Google, anyway) the, ‘stranger anxiety’, phase - will pass eventually, it’s a rather difficult stage to manage, and pretty-well impossible to ignore.

But I guess, given the fact that little man’s now fourteen months of age, I was kind of hoping this particular stage might pass by unnoticed. After all, I remember little madam going through the same stage at a slightly younger age. Unfortunately, though, my hopes were dashed rather recently when my brother – good old Uncle Simon – showed up at our place one evening for dinner. Now I’m sad to say that, due to geographical constraints, work commitments and, particularly, my ability to get caught up in my own hectic life, we don’t see all that much of Uncle Simon; not as much as we’d like to, anyway. Okay, I admit it. I’m a terrible big sister. So terrible, in fact, that in the four-or-so years my one and only brother has lived in his house in the northern suburbs of Melbourne, I’ve only visited him once. Anyway. Back the point of my story. Uncle Simon - who’s about as scary as a butterfly with no wings...well, perhaps that could be quite a scary sight to some, but you get the picture, right? – showed up one evening and was greeted by a very excited little madam (she loves her uncle Simon). But, in addition to being drowned in affection by little madam, he was also given a very up close and personal demonstration of what, specifically, this dreadful and difficult so-called ‘stranger anxiety’ phase entails. I’d actually never seen little man quite as distressed, and he honestly behaved (for a good five minutes at least) as though he’d just come into contact with an unsightly and terrifying monster. I’m afraid poor Uncle Simon may have left, later that evening, with quite a complex following the behaviour he was subjected to. Despite the fact that I tried to explain that little man’s hysterical carry-on shouldn’t be taken personally.

And, like most experiences in life, things often have to get worse before they get better. Well, that’s what I’m hoping anyway, as little man’s most certainly not on the downward slope (with regards to this phase, anyway) quite yet. This was proven a couple of days ago, when a good friend and neighbour decided to pop in for a late afternoon visit. Now, despite the fact that our good friend and neighbour is no stranger to little man, he isn’t a daily visitor either and, therefore, is (through little man’s eyes, at least) a little unfamiliar. And, although little madam was excited, once again, over the prospect of another visitor showing up – particularly our good friend and neighbour who she’s rather fond of - little man didn’t share her enthusiasm, AT ALL. Unfortunately, for our good friend and neighbour, it would also seem that little man’s current ‘stranger anxiety’ phase has worsened and, therefore, he spent a good half-an-hour-or-so (no, this isn’t an exaggeration) carrying on as though he was being attacked by a swarm of stinging bees. And, despite my attempts to appease him – that’s little man, by the way, and not our good friend and neighbour - with cuddles and numerous distractions (I even tried feeding him in the hope that hunger might have been a contributing factor to the overreaction), he didn’t really calm down until our good friend and neighbour eventually excused himself and left – with a complex, too, no doubt. And, perhaps, an ego not dissimilar to Uncle Simon’s wounded one. Again, I would like to say (for the benefit of our good friend and neighbour, Justin) the fact that little man behaved as though you were subjecting him to some awful means of torture, by simply just being present, shouldn’t be taken personally.

So, in summary, all I can do is shrug, and hope that little man’s current ‘stranger anxiety’ stage comes to an end soon. Although, I don’t mean to sound unsympathetic by any means. After all, it must be horrible for little man to find himself reduced to tears at the mere sight of a stranger. And I’m fairly certain it’s equally as unpleasant for those unfortunate few who’ve been subjected to one of little man’s recent hysterical outbursts; from family and friends, to strangers. Like that poor guy in the post office the other day; the one who dared to smile and say, “Hello”, to little man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was found, after leaving the post office that day, in front of a mirror looking hard for his second head, thanks to the terrified wailing little man subjected him to, while he was stuck behind us in the queue.

Thanks, little man, for scaring away all our visitors lately. I’m actually planning on utilising your present skill next time we receive a knock on the door from an unwanted salesman. Love you!