Our "holiday"

First, it could have been worse! But it was also not great. We took advantage of Q's need to work interstate for a few days and tagged along. The idea was that it would be a low-key, low-stress, low expense change of scene for a few days. We knew the hotel; it was very comfortable indeed, especially since the kids had their own room! It also had a kitchen which meant fewer stressful and expensive bouts of eating out, and was only minutes from all the indoor and outdoor attractions that we planned to go to.

The plane trips in both directions went unexpectedly well. The basic problem seemed to be that the boys woke up not much after 5 every day. By the time we left the hotel room around 9.30, they'd had it. Although there was fun, there was much more confusion than I had anticipated from them, and more much friction with S than I had bargained for. At the ends of the first 2 days he wailed to go home, and I know that that was due to me being so angry with him. I can't lie, I'd had it with him. But of course it's a horrendous feeling to know that you are making your child miserable, and I resolved on day 3 not to get drawn emotionally into his maelstroms. Here's how it went.

We talked before we went about how Mummy would try hard not to be grumpy today, & they could help by listening, asking nicely for things they wanted, etc., reinforced by the promise of an ice cream for good behaviour. Fifty idyllic minutes ensued. A calm walk to the museum, pleasant interactions, smiling faces for photos, curiosity about the exhibits. Then we went up the escalator to the next floor. Before I could stop him, P let go of my hand and took a few steps forward. S cried, "did he walk up the escalator?" and tried to push past and up as well. I stopped him calmly but firmly, and told P not to do it again. S immediately lost it. We found a quiet corner and sat entwined on the floor so that he couldn't hit or kick me while he calmed down, me releasing various limbs as he seemed quieter, and restricting them again if he lashed out, our version of "1-2-3 Magic". Eventually he got to the point where I could safely let go, but he was far from calm. At some point he managed to say that he wanted to go down the escalator and start again, a perseveration which he picked up from his brother some time ago but which he seems genuinely to have assimilated -- it's weird stuff. I wandered nonchalantly over to P, who had found an irresistible interactive plaything. S eventually joined us, and no more was said.

But the spell was broken and the outing henceforth became an exercise in frustration. Home we trudged, earlier than expected, for lunch and quiet time. We watched a movie together. S misheard some dialogue. I offered the correct version to him. He dug in, even elaborating on his mistake. He does this many times every day. How easy it would be for someone reading this to conclude that the poor child spends his time defending his view of the world from his pedantic, domineering mother who lets nothing slip by. There is only my word that both of his parents put a considerable amount of effort into trying to offer appropriate assistance and support to our children as they experience and learn about the world. My "correction" in this case seemed to me such a minor adjustment, it was demoralising to be contradicted yet again, even to the point where I believe he would prefer to construct a parallel reality rather than accept that things were not quite what he had thought they were. A different version of this behaviour followed. I got out a puzzle for them to do after the movie; he clearly found it too taxing. After expending a considerable amount of emotional energy figuring out when it would be appropriate to offer tips such as "yes, I think that's the right piece, try turning it around", and when to let him work on his own, he decided to express his frustration by hammering random pieces together and insisting that this is how they went. This had the added advantage, for him, of depriving P of pieces to finish the part he was working on. Predictably, after the failure of requests to give pieces back, we ended up in another room in our familiar tangle. I do not know how a child of 3 can function with so much upheaval.

I took them out for the promised ice cream; I was not going to quibble about whether they'd earnt it or not. They moved at a glacial pace, but finally, there was the kiosk, where we stood in line, chose flavours, and the choice was given them of cups or cones with relative benefits explained. Of course they chose what they knew; the cone. I sent them away from the counter while I ordered, and when I turned around, they had found a table, at some distance, and sat down, P's face just radiating pride at getting organised. It lifted my spirit no end. I made it to the table; I was leaning forward with the ice cream; his faced creased with pain and he started howling. He'd crunched his finger under the chair when pulling his seat in closer. I handed S his ice cream while squeezing P's finger, trying not to show my tension as I watched, out of the corner of my eye, his ice cream begin to glisten. At last the time was right, and I handed it over. Both boys were struggling to keep ahead of the drips. I was coaching one, then the other,; "turn it round", "no don't flick it everywhere with your tongue, just take a big lick, like this!", "try using both hands!" It was a full time job, no distractions permitted, or disaster might strike. To my dismay, a young Japanese woman appeared by the table with a camera. I knew what she was going to say before the words came out, and my heart sank. "Can I take a picture with you?" And she meant with me, and more particularly, my cute boys. (This happens to me a lot! Even before kids. Why, I am really not that photogenic!) At that instant, P's ice cream toppled off the top of the cone, over one shoulder, down the side of his thigh and onto the ground. At least that took care of the photo op.

I was up with my purse promising another before he'd drawn enough breath for the inevitable air-raid siren wail. Back in a flash with a new ice cream, this time in a cup. S naturally also demanded a cup. I sprint back to the counter with his soggy cone, return with second cup. Back, seated, big drips on different parts of both boys, so I reach into my bag for wipes, so pleased with myself for bringing some for once. Just as I look up, wipe in hand, P's cup slides over the side of the table and lands face-down. I couldn't help blurting out "how did you manage that?" or something to that effect, jumped up and stood about 10 metres away. I can't imagine what anyone watching thought, but I couldn't risk staying at that table. When he did jump up sobbing and ran towards me, it was for a cuddle, not another ice cream. Five minutes later, he was talking about something else. It was over.

S's ice-cream finished, we started to walk to the playground. P was holding my hand. S suddenly asked, "is P on the right?", knowing that his big brother had expressed a preference for walking on that side of me. And suddenly, I had 2 little boys grappling for possession of my right arm. Bad enough at any time, but given P's recent distress, I was all the more determined to reinforce a) manners and b) Turn-Taking. At least tantrums thrown in parks on breezy days result in a less concentrated assault on the eardrums, and are prone to fortuitous disruptions from oblivious teenagers wandering disconcertingly close to the tantrum-thrower.
Eventually, our adaption of 1-2-3 Magic again got us through without me contributing further emotional disregulation to the situation.

I thought that the "good" day couldn't get any worse, and then it unexpectedly got better. At the playground, both boys fired up and befriended some other boys. There were actually some less than desirable elements to this play, but hey, not wanting to dwell on the negatives (!), it was a happy end to a gruelling day. And it had a sequel. We ended up at this playground 3 days in a row; each time P was too scared to go through a small covered slide, which is normal for him. Still, I did of course encourage him. In fact, On the first day, he was too scared to go down the small, open, but curving slide. I convinced him to go down with me, and then he went down repeatedly on his own. Another one of those times when I feel I can judge well when to help, when to back off. On the 3rd, day, that slide was too crowded. I suggested he try the covered one, which was empty. To my surprise, he started to climb on top of it, then lost courage. But S then copied, made it nearly to the top and sought my assistance to finish, which I gave on the proviso that he actually climb off by himself with my hands on his waist rather than clamouring for me to pick him up. That strengthened P's resolve, and he did the same thing, receiving the same help. And I was delighted; as soon as he got to the top, he climbed into the slide, and went down, feet first, but he did it. And he repeated both climb and slide many times after that. That was a big, big advance for him, it must have felt so good to be that brave. And I managed to make the suggestion just enough times without beating him over the head with it, and managed to assist just enough to show him the steps to doing it himself. So, so satisfying. And, to my surprise, so it was with S, who does not share P's motor skill and sensory issues, as far as I can tell.

It's good to be home!