We’re going through some phases. Biting phases. HItting phases. Hair pulling phases.
I read once in a parenting book that if you blame things on “phases,” then you’re ignoring the real problem, which is that it’s not just a phase, and if you don’t do something about it (you good for nothing lazy mother), then your kids will be biting/hitting/kicking when they are in college and will turn out to be serial killers or something. It could be true.
But since we don’t want toe stigma that comes with having a serial killer child, we do constant discipline (which I also read about — that discipline is 24/7, including the positive, not just the negative…and can you tell I read a lot? The mom-stincts are not strong with this one), praising good behavior, sharing, and loving, and time outs and short, toddler friendly discussions about bad behavior. Basically, we do what works for us.
So back to the throwing.
Walk across my living room at certain witching times of day, and you are likely to be walloped by a random puzzle piece, a tiny plastic dinosaur, a red Mega Blok, a stuffed kangaroo, a book, or in the worst case scenario, a very large, very hard, and very plastic ladybug. Call it someone’s payback for a few too many hair pulling incidents.
No, we don’t just allow these things to happen, and yes, there are consequences. But that’s not what this post is about.
This post is about how in awe of my daughter I am during these throwing episodes. Girl’s got an arm. Girl’s got aim. Sure, she can barely walk and drink from a sippy cup at the same time. Let’s be honest, she really can’t even do that. Hmmmm….she can barely walk and….let’s just say she’s lucky if she can walk across the room without tripping over something, usually her own feet. Or the air.
(Side note: she totally gets this from me. I am absurdly clumsy. Christian loves to go on and on about how loud I am when I do any household chore, when in fact, I’m not loud. I’m clumsy. Dishes slip from my hands, I knock things into walls, and send the damn dog dish clattering across the kitchen floor. During nap time.)
Inability to stand on her own two feet aside, Rachel can sling a toy across the room and knock her sister square in the head. Effortlessly, it seems. She can’t even stand up straight, but she can chuck a Leapfrog phone blindfolded and it will find its way to someone’s head like a heat seeking missile. And every time it happens, I find myself having to quickly wipe the look of shock off my face (and yes, I’ll admit it, sometimes having to desperately hide the laughter as well, especially when it’s myself or Christian that gets beamed), then trying to decide whether I should put her in time out or start signing her up for pitching camps so she can be the next female Nolan Ryan.
Next playdate, I promise to provide the hard hats.