Huggies

     Clara had a meltdown yesterday because she didn't want to sit in her carseat.

      I had bundled her up, but the seat was cold from being in the garage. In general, Clara hates to be tied down.  She also lately likes to be very close to me.  As in, in my arms.  She would very much like to sit on my lap and steer the car.
     "I know you're upset," I said softly while she thrashed and kicked the back of the passenger seat in front of her.

     "NO! NO KNOW MINE UPSET!!" Clara screamed.  It was the baby equivalent of, "Don't you dare condescend to me!" Then she dove like a small seal out the side of the carseat and into the depths of the back seat, where I had to fish her out by her legs, thus enraging her even more.

     Clara has one or two tantrums on a daily basis now.  Usually because she wants me to hold her while I do all my housework. Much like an Orangutan holds its baby as it swings through the rainforest.  Sometimes she also tantrums because she wants another serving of ice cream, or because she isn't ready to get out of the swimming pool down at the Y, or because one of the cavalry of stuffed toys, plastic animals and blankets are missing from her crib.

    Simon and I recently read a book on parenting toddlers that posits that toddlers are at the emotional maturity level of a Neanderthal.  Therefore, the author said, you must speak to them as you would a Neanderthal. When a child tantrums, validate their feelings by repeating back to them what they are feeling and then reflect their emotions. I tried this once while Clara was throwing a fit: "Oh!  Clara mad!  Clara real, real mad!!" I grunted.

     "The books says to use simple language like a Neanderthal.  You don't have to grunt, omit verbs and make your voice husky," Simon patiently coached. "Also you can use the proper adverb."

     A friend of ours uses the technique described in the book to great success, but I am so far unable to master it.

     I tend to have the best success with selective ignoring.  Today Clara woke from her nap like a bear from a five-month hibernation.  She was terribly grumpy and also very hungry.
     "Huggie!  Huggie peese, Mommy!" she said as I put her down to make dinner.  Throughout the day, I'd given her lots of huggies, and even carried her around on my hip for awhile. Since her nap, I had already given her five or six servings of huggies, to say nothing of a protracted snuggle while she regained her waking senses.
     "Honey, Mommy's cooking.  No more huggies right now.  It's not safe with all this boiling water."
     She shrieked.  As I stood at the counter trying to whack a spaghetti squash in half, she stood on my feet and tried to climb up my legs.  Screaming, she hung off my pants 'til they nearly came off.
     "HUGGIE! HUGGIE! HUGGIE!"
     Then she threw her tupperware tub full of crayons across the kitchen.  The crayons scattered across the floor. Midnight Blue and Burnt Sienna rolled under the stove, forever gone to a purgatory of dust and stale Cheerios.    
     "HUGGIE! HUGGIE! HUGGIE!"
      She pushed her play table across the floor and banged it into the kitchen table.  She slapped the top of her play table repeatedly with her palm and then bellowed in pain and buried her head in my legs.
     I alternately stroked her hair or shoulder with one hand, offered to hold her hand, and told her I loved her.
     The tantrum lasted thirty-five minutes.  There were moments when her face held the vulnerability and quiet suffering of Sally Fields when she pricks her finger on a cotton boll in Places in the Heart.  At other points her eyes were filled with frantic neediness, like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.  At one point she let her saliva run out of her mouth while she sobbed.  I'm pretty sure I've seen Laura do that while Pa is comforting her on Little House on the Prairie.
     I hurriedly fixed her dinner.  Then I picked her up, gave her a quick hug and a kiss, and put her in her booster seat.  The sobbing and screaming of baby obscenities subsided into hiccoughs as she tucked into a plate of ham and cheese rotini.
     I sighed with relief.  It had been very, very hard not to pick her up and hug her while she was having her fit.
     Then Simon walked in the door from work.
     "Daddy!" Clara said.  Her eyes were glassy and her nose was rosy and running from crying.
     "Hi, Baby!" said Simon. "Can I give you a huggie?"
     "Yes.  Yes, Daddy.  Huggies, Daddy."
     "Okay, just let me get a plateful of dinner and then you can sit on my lap while I eat."
     "Oh, yes, Daddy."
     She situated herself on his lap with a sumptuous sigh and together they watched the election returns while he ate.  Having just gotten home, he was blissfully unaware of Clara's tantrum.  Therefore he was rescuer Daddy and generous Daddy, willing to give unlimited huggies.  And I was miserly Mommy, stingy with her affection.
     As Simon likes to point out, there are probably lots of reasons Clara wants huggies all the time.  Sometimes she's bored, or cold, or hungry, or in pain for some reason.  From a baby's perspective, a huggie is one of the most delicious things around.  I am warm, I usually smell pretty good (like Secret deodorant or Dove soap), and I have these soft pillowy things on my chest that make it comfortable to lean into me.
     But I think mostly Clara wants huggies because she is like me.  She is sensitive and tactile.  She holds her baby dolls or bears all day, is concerned that they eat dinner and have blankets when she thinks they might be cold.  She is empathic to other kids, and most of the time, to Wilbur the dog.
     For some reason, it bothers me that Clara is like me.  I think it's because, having spent my lifetime trying to unspool the tangles the world tied in sensitive, empathic me, I dread having to see the same happen to her.  I fear I won't be able to teach her to protect herself.  I worry she is too vulnerable.
     Of course, Clara is not yet two.  And though she seems to resemble me, she is not me. Thank heaven.  Her journey won't be mine.  I'm encouraged that I'm aware of this, at least.
     I'm also encouraged when I see her punching other kids on the playground.
     Just kidding.