When They've Got You, They've Got You

I sometimes enjoy echoes of my former career as a choir director and musician. I am a cantor/Psalmist at the Basilica in downtown Minneapolis, and also a pianist/organist at St. Hubert's in Chanhassen. Although I try to schedule myself to play or sing on Dave's weekends with the girls, sometimes they have to come with me while I do these things. This is not easy.

At the Basilica, the best-case scenario if it happens to be a girl weekend is for me to be the Psalmist, because the Psalmist sits in the congregation and only has to go up to the pulpit for one little part. Still, this translates to about seven minutes during which I am standing alone, perched so that the entire congregation is watching me, and NO ONE is watching my kids. Of course seven minutes isn't long enough to get into SERIOUS trouble. But it is long enough for my girls to rub in my face that for those few moments I am utterly helpless to modify any behavior that is even slightly inappropriate.

During a rehearsal at the Basilica - Winter 2014

This past weekend they had to come with me to the Basilica for the Saturday evening Mass. We brought some trail mix in a baggie to eat in the car beforehand, and when it was gone the baggie became a plaything - basically a very loud and crumply balloon of some kind. It provided gleeful entertainment all the way up to the first hymn of the Mass, at which point I realized that it was too noisy a thing to have around while other people are trying to listen to readings. I took it away and shoved it in my purse.

Finally my turn came to leave my girls in the pew so that I could profess the Psalm for the congregation. I flashed them a look of "BE GOOD," then stood, walked to the front of the church, took the requisite bow at the altar, gave the priest a little wink as I walked by...(nah, I'm kidding about the wink)...and ascended the stairs to the pulpit.

In the silence immediately before beginning, I scanned the congregation and then let my eyes rest on my girls. Ellen was sitting perfectly still but grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Cecilia's face was perfectly nonchalant...BUT. She was standing in the pew with the contraband baggie in hand, and she was brandishing it high over her head like a flag. The adults sitting directly behind her (who had also seen me confiscate the baggie) were stifling laughter. What could I do? I smiled beatifically and sang the Sunday's Scripture per my training, while my daughter's staccato crumply baggie punctuations echoed through the cavernous sanctuary. Beautiful and holy public mom fail.

Now, this same weekend was a double-header, since the next morning I was scheduled to play at St. Hubert's. The girls found their seats near the piano (which is in the front of the church next to the altar, in clear view), and I began with some soft, contemplative playing to evoke a sense of worship and calm. Things were going well. The opening hymn went by without incident. Then came the Gloria. A few bars in, over the sound of the congregation's singing came the unmistakable sound of a child's distress squawk. I turned my head from the piano bench to see Ellen holding Cecilia's stuffed animal just out of her reach, and Celie jumping and squirming to attempt a rescue. Sibling love at its very best. At least if I'm playing piano, my hands know enough what they're doing so that I can continue playing while briefly locking eyes with my daughters and mouthing something to the effect of "GOD IS WATCHING YOU AND SHE IS NOT HAPPY." This is the sort of discipline that does exactly nothing. When they've got you, they've got you. Surrender.

After the closing song at the end of the service, I informed the girls that we would not be going out to breakfast as originally promised, due to their Stuffed Animal Hooliganism. Just then, a woman interrupted us to say "Ma'am, I just wanted to tell you that you play very well and your kids were great."

"Really?" I said as I looked at her then back at Ellen and Cecilia incredulously.

"Definitely," she said. "It must be pretty hard to have them up there with you."

"Well, thanks," I said. "I appreciate that. Have a great day." As she walked away I slowly turned to look back at the girls, eyebrows raised. Ellen smiled and said "Mom, don't you think we can go to breakfast? We just got a COMPLIMENT."

I suppose. If we can find a place that serves bottomless mimosas.

The Unholy

She arrives

Small Cecilia Madeline is a sweetheart.  She makes friends easily, and she reports that she has two "Ooh Lah Lahs" at school - Tyler and Sam. When describing what an "Ooh Lah Lah" is, she says Tyler and Sam "have cwushes on me." She gives hugs when we sees someone sad, and she shares willingly and often. She plays in adorable and endearing ways, pretending that her tiny dolls and animals are alive and speaking to one another. Sometimes she wears Halloween costumes in public, not on Halloween. She matches pitch and she likes "Rainbow Connection" and The Who's "Eminence Front" ("M&M's Front"). She's a darling.

But, like every other child since the Age of Reason, she gets cranky. She's hungry, she's tired, something annoys her, stars align, and a tantrum ensues.

It happens

Cecilia's tantrums are legendary. They are UNHOLY. If you could hear above the screams, you'd probably notice the approaching hoof beats of the Four Horses of the Apocalypse. I think she levitates, barely perceptively. I've never seen her head spin entirely around, but I'm sure it rotates at least 220 degrees.

There are many methods I've used for Tantrum Survival. One way was ignoring it. I wasn't wild about that way; Celie's tantrums are very hard to ignore (what with the head rotations and all), and without some intervention she tends to rev up rather than wind down. We experienced some early spring and late fall tantrums; in a few of those instances I said "Celie, it looks like you need to do some cooling off," and then I sat her on the steps in the garage, where it actually was cooler. This proved ineffective, mostly because I started to feel guilty that my daughter was in a garage, so I brought her back inside. Sometimes I just went to a basement room with no windows, sat facing the wall, and covered my head. I found this to be a useful coping mechanism for me, but it didn't do much for Celie.

Lately, for whatever reason, Cecilia has been extra tantrum-y. It could be a normal stage, it could be possession by a demon, or it could be Kindergarten nerves. In all likelihood it is a combination of at least two of those things. The good news is that these extra meltdowns have given me a chance to hone my survival skills. I think she and I are growing and learning together these days. I've determined what she needs during these tempests (other than a helmet).

She's 1

Last week we experienced a cabin tantrum; in a small space with lots of family around, removal from the location was of paramount importance. "Okay Celie," I said. "You are too loud to stay at the cabin. We will have to leave until you can calm down." While she yelled, "NO MOM, NO NO NO, I DON'T WANNA LEAVE," I placed her in the car. She buckled herself while still screaming (a delightful scene to witness), and off we went. "We can head back to the cabin after you've been calm for five minutes," I told her.

I drove. She screamed. I can report that the first circle of hell looks very much like rural Wisconsin. The tantrum snowballed until she finally yelled at the top of her lungs "I NEED A HUG!!!!"

I pulled over onto one of the dirt roads so I could get my girl out of the backseat. She clung to me fiercely and rested her blonde head on my shoulder. She hiccuped her way to calm and then we were still, with the corn and the sky and the dirt. I said, "listen to how quiet it is out here in the country. We can hear the bugs buzzing."

She's 2.5

"Yeah," she said. "It's WEALLY quiet."

She's 3

Then I recognized how precious that entire experience was. I was presented an opportunity to show my daughter that she is loved beyond measure, even when she is at her worst. The tougher the tantrum, the easier to understand what "unconditional" means. We've had a few more of these experiences lately, with the same scene playing out. I drive, she screams, we hug when the demon has been purged. And I try to remember, every time, to whisper in her ear, "I love you and nothing you ever do will make me stop."   

She's 5

Mom, Score One.

Sometimes I experience Mom Fails. Like the time I attacked a Nickelodeon character's likeness. And the time I drowned out the sounds of a giant tantrum with the sounds of Ted Nugent. Sometimes the Fails just...flow. So when I experience a Mom Win, recording it for posterity is an absolute must. I have to be able to prove that it happened.

Always a silly one

So last week, I decided to take us to Taylor's Falls to visit Interstate State Park, see the Glacier potholes, and walk along the St. Croix river. Pushback to this idea at its first mention was surprisingly minimal; usually when I announce an excursion to the park or a playground or a walk for Addie, Cecilia goes willingly but I have to drag Ellen almost forcibly from whatever book she's reading. Well, giant holes in cliffs formed by 10,000-year-old ice melt have more of a draw than swings and slides.

There are so many wonderful things about the experience of bringing my girls to impressive nature sites. I get to capture them in great pictures (*pats self on back for remembering fancy camera*).

This was the time Celie was scared

I get to watch them actively overcome a fear. at the beginning of the trek, Celie needed me to hold her through our descent into the Bake Oven (named for the shape of the entrance to the pothole). On the way back she led the pack with a "remembuh it's a little syippery down there." (I'm quoting her phonetically of course].

I get to see my 36-year-old increasingly creaky self next to their light, effortless selves. Time slows down for a bit and their grown-up years feel very far away.

I get to hear things like "I punched my fear of heights in the face" (Ellen), and "this is my favorite spot in the world next to Mall of the 'Merica [Celie, phonetically]/the library [Ellen]," and I get to say things like "don't run too far
ahead - your sister is still enjoying the Bottomless Pit."

The top of the cliff

I get to kiss my Ellen at the top of the tallest cliff she could climb, because she asked me. That's like a Win WITHIN a Win.

She's climbin'

Fantastic morning. Completely worth the tiny "I don't wanna GO" meltdown we suffered through when the time came to hit the road.

They're mine - can you believe it?