Remember when I said the 2nd time around mother's always baby their youngest, hoping to prolong that easy stage prior to toddler-hood. Well I'm officially done babying Gregory. He's annoying the shit out of me this week as he enters into that clingy toddler phase, what the books call separation anxiety. What does an 11 1/2 month old have to be anxious about? He doesn't have to cook, clean, pay bills, or worry about his belly, muffin topping over his jeans. Whatever it is, it's serious enough that if I even glance at the door he immediately starts crying. It was endearing and cute and made me feel wanted for the first couple of days. But now simply leaving the room to pee, get my shoes, make him a bottle, or to cook dinner, he crawls after me, wailing. Then he sits at my feet, still crying, pulling at my pant leg like a sad, lost, hungry puppy. Is it wrong to want to kick a puppy?
Fortunately, my mother in law arrived last week to spend some time with the kids, help out with all of the pre-Thanksgiving madness, and of course to give me a break. For those of you who don't know, I love my mother in law. Most people have MIL issues or horror stories of some kind. Amazingly, my journal and blog are void of this topic.
When Charlie was born I was in seriously bad shape, both physically and mentally - mourning the loss of my former independent life where I could come and go as I pleased; mourning the death of my father who passed away 10 days prior to Charlie's birth; mourning the loss of my body and perky boobs. My mother in law arrived at our house and asked, "What can I do?" How about you take the baby for a month while I jet off to Mexico to sit on a beach and drink margaritas till I bleed tequila. She said she would do anything but. Well, if you're going to be that unreasonable, then clean my bathroom! She promptly went out, bought herself some rubber gloves and scrubbed the hell out of my toilet, floor and shower. From that point on, I've never held back on telling her what I need her to do to make my life easier.
Her task this visit was to wake up with the kids so I could get a little rest and restore some of my sanity. She said, "Okay." I mean, it takes a special kind of relationship where you can tell someone (who is not your own mother) who has taken time off of work to come to CA for vacation that she's going to be waking up at the crack of ass every morning to care for 2 energetic, willful boys.
My hopes and dreams of sleeping in past 5:30 or going to the gym were dashed day 1. Gregory refused to go to her, or to anyone else for that matter. My mother in law got out of bed yesterday morning to change and feed him, it was 5:30. This boy who loves his bottle more than his own mother, refused to take it from his grandmother. He cried and cried till I dragged my bitter butt out of bed at 5:50.
Selfish, selfish, selfish children. Don't they know this is my chance; my chance to revive, to put that spring back in my step? They clearly do not have my best interest at heart. My husband gave me some unsolicited (read; unwanted) advice. "Before you know it, your kids aren't even going to want to talk to you, let alone be in the same room with you. You should enjoy this time." Gee honey, that's just what I need, a fresh dose of perspective. While I get the point, 7 years is a long fucking time to wait, especially with a whiny dog pulling at your pant leg, monitoring your every move.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Just a Bad Dream?
12:30, 1:47, 3:22, 4:01, 5:35, those are the exact times that Charlie woke me up last night. That's right, A - fucking - M. I know this because I wrote them down so I would remember it wasn't all a bad dream, that it was in fact my bad reality.
The first wake up he just said my name oh so softly next to my ear, "Mommy? Mommy? Mama. Mama." What, honey? "I want to sleep in your bed." It was kind of sweet but we have a rule, everyone stays in their own bed till the sun rises. Back to bed he went, with minimal protest.
The second wake up was a little more disconcerting. I'm not sure how long he stood beside my bed, staring at me, willing me awake. But I sensed something and rolled over to see these 2 beady eyes in the dark. It scared the crap out of me. I thought I was having an encounter with a raccoon - if you've ever been camping, you know what I mean, their eyes glow in the dark, like 2 shiny floating marbles. "I want to sleep in your bed", said with the whiniest, saddest voice ever. "I don't like my bed." Sorry, chief, not good enough. Back to bed, this time there were tears and drama. He was full blown crying, "Noooo, I want your bed." I was quite firm, there is no choice here, you sleep in your bed and when it's light, you can come see me. More crying and ridiculousness, but this is how negotiations with a 3 year old at 2 am transpire, no surprises, just annoyance.
The third wake up was down right creepy. I felt someone gently touching my hair; like that guy who sat behind me in 11th grade homeroom, who would instantly stare at the ceiling when I turned around, pretending he hadn't been groping my locks. And who I later agreed to go to the prom with because he asked (not a lot of dating for me in high school) and because he scared me too much to say no. He wound up spending the whole night off by himself, exploring the darkest corners of the Sheraton Bradley International Airport Hotel for hours on end, only to return to the table, the pockets of his rented tux overflowing with matchbooks. Sadly he doesn't even make it into my top 5 creepiest dates. But I digress.
This was my own kid, I'm not sure which is more creepy? He must have known the old adage, 3rd times a charm, and that he was about to really piss me off. Which he did. I carried him back to his room, dumped him in his bed and said, It's dark, I'm tired, stay in your bed, Charlie. "But I'm wet." Well why didn't you say so? "And I don't like my sheet. I want the comfy, cozy white sheet." (he's talking about those wonderfully plush, chenille sheets from PBK) Charlie, you have a sheet, we'll put the comfy, cozy one on in the morning. Crying, screaming, loudness. "I want the comfy, cozy sheet. I want it. I want it." Be quiet, you'll wake up your brother. "Waaaahhhhh, comfy, cozy sheet." Stop it, just stop it. Get into your bed and we will change your sheet in the morning. Good night, Charlie.
My adrenalin was pumping now and I tossed and turned until the 4 am wake up. Same grievances for both parties, but when I put him back to bed, I told him next time to go wake up his father. I vaguely heard him at 5:30. Props to my boy for being a good listener. He went to bug daddy, not sure what tactic he used to wake him up, but whatever it was, Brian wasn't playing. He promptly brought him into our bed. I guess it was light enough out, because when I awoke at 8 am, Charlie was asleep next to me, looking so serene and angelic.
Maybe it all had been a bad dream? But then I noticed the time markings on the post-it next to my nightstand. Why? Why couldn't I just let myself have this moment of delusion? I was so tired, those 5 wakings could have easily blended into 1 in my mind of mush. I can tell you why - I wanted to chastise my husband with my martyrdom and also I have this annoying habit of always wanting to be right, even with myself. Deservedly, it bites me in the ass more times than I care to count. The universe speaks to me often and I think next time I'm going to wear ear plugs.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
You Will Have Fun, DAMMIT!
We recently signed Charlie up for a mini soccer camp with a couple of his buddies from preschool. Yeah, I know, soccer for 3 year olds, the idea sounds about as plausible as starting a cat farm. But it was cool. The coaches sang silly songs while everyone sat on their soccer balls. The kids got to kick balls to knock down the orange cones in the 'carrot patch' and dribble around the flags in the 'rain forest'. They did a great job making it age appropriate and really fun for everyone; everyone that is except Charlie.
My kid wanted nothing to do with soccer or being part of a group. Literally, as soon as we would pull into the parking lot, his body would go limp. I would have to physically remove him from his car seat. He would listen to the warm up songs and that was the extent of his participation. Once the physical act of playing began, he would retreat to the top of the hill and watch all his friends below run around, scream, laugh, and have fun. Even the town's industrial lawn mower held more interest as he followed it around the park.
Brian took him to his first practice and vowed never to go back. He was so pissed that Charlie wouldn't participate.
The coaches kept telling us to run around and play, that Charlie would want to model our behavior. This went on for 3 weeks. 3 weeks of me running around with a bunch of 3 year olds, yelling, "Come on Charlie, it's fun!" 3 weeks of Charlie still choosing to sit on the hill in isolation. The coaches stopped asking me to model and began to placate me with, "Every child will find their own path" or "He's making his own way." I felt like saying, "Hey Coach Dave, fuck you!" (probably not the best modeling behavior).
I told Brian I was bailing on the last couple of practices because it was exhausting both mentally and physically - 'modeling' with a 25 lb baby on my back is a work out and then some. So my husband chose to lecture me about values and not wanting to encourage quitting. Umm, I'm sorry Mr. One Time Practice, what did you just say? I understood his point, but seriously, he's 3, he doesn't know if there are 2 more practices or 200.
I did go to the last few practices and Charlie actually participated. He laughed at Coach Dave's silly songs. He ran around in the rain forest and the carrot patch. Of course after 15 minutes he started whining for a snack, but I was happy he did what he did and that we finished out the season.
Watching your own child be excluded (whether voluntarily or otherwise) is really painful. And not being able to encourage him is frustrating. Though there is a part of me that is proud of him for not following the crowd, for doing his own thing. Maybe this will save me from uttering those words made infamous by every mother across the world, "If he was going to jump off a bridge, would you jump, too?"
My kid wanted nothing to do with soccer or being part of a group. Literally, as soon as we would pull into the parking lot, his body would go limp. I would have to physically remove him from his car seat. He would listen to the warm up songs and that was the extent of his participation. Once the physical act of playing began, he would retreat to the top of the hill and watch all his friends below run around, scream, laugh, and have fun. Even the town's industrial lawn mower held more interest as he followed it around the park.
Brian took him to his first practice and vowed never to go back. He was so pissed that Charlie wouldn't participate.
The coaches kept telling us to run around and play, that Charlie would want to model our behavior. This went on for 3 weeks. 3 weeks of me running around with a bunch of 3 year olds, yelling, "Come on Charlie, it's fun!" 3 weeks of Charlie still choosing to sit on the hill in isolation. The coaches stopped asking me to model and began to placate me with, "Every child will find their own path" or "He's making his own way." I felt like saying, "Hey Coach Dave, fuck you!" (probably not the best modeling behavior).
I told Brian I was bailing on the last couple of practices because it was exhausting both mentally and physically - 'modeling' with a 25 lb baby on my back is a work out and then some. So my husband chose to lecture me about values and not wanting to encourage quitting. Umm, I'm sorry Mr. One Time Practice, what did you just say? I understood his point, but seriously, he's 3, he doesn't know if there are 2 more practices or 200.
I did go to the last few practices and Charlie actually participated. He laughed at Coach Dave's silly songs. He ran around in the rain forest and the carrot patch. Of course after 15 minutes he started whining for a snack, but I was happy he did what he did and that we finished out the season.
Watching your own child be excluded (whether voluntarily or otherwise) is really painful. And not being able to encourage him is frustrating. Though there is a part of me that is proud of him for not following the crowd, for doing his own thing. Maybe this will save me from uttering those words made infamous by every mother across the world, "If he was going to jump off a bridge, would you jump, too?"
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Rage Within
No one can push my buttons like my eldest son. In the 3 plus years of being Charlie's Mom, I've learned to let a lot just roll off my back - emptying all of my expensive haircare products onto the bathroom floor; pulling my hair out in clumps in an attempt to give me a 'hair cut'; hiding my expensive watch in the toilet bowl. My reaction depends on how much sleep I've had, most of these infractions would result in some time alone in his room or perhaps loss of TV or whatever object he's deemed most valuable at that moment.
But there are 2 things I cannot ignore and are guaranteed to light my fuse; 1. Child on child violence (meaning my kids, other people's kids beating the crap out of one another actually makes me feel better). 2. Naps being boycotted.
Charlie officially proclaimed yesterday, "Let's Get Mommy to Lose Her Shit and Watch Her Head Spin Around on Her Shoulders Day" and he enlisted his brother's help. First, naps were boycotted by both children. And this was after a long morning spent at a local farm milking goats (no, I'm not kidding), chasing chickens, baking bread and decorating paper bag puppets with wool and chicken feathers. My shit was dragging and all I wanted was a few minutes with a bag of chocolate chips, a jar of peanut butter and my computer.
After 40 minutes of non stop negotiations/threats with Charlie from his bed, it was obvious my tiny window of sacred personal time was gone. I was left feeling robbed and bitter. This impeded my ability to deal with Charlie's all out assault on his brother for the remainder of the afternoon. Meaning things that usually rolled off my back were sticking, like dog shit on your shoe.
When I say shit, I mean smacking Gregory in the head with a wooden spoon, sitting on his head in the kitchen, mashing his poor face into the linoleum, grabbing Gregory by the throat and throwing him off of the couch, pushing Gregory into the toy box as he was reaching for a fire truck.
Oh yeah, this fuse was lit and heading for the powder keg. After each attack I yelled, put him in his room, yelled some more, took away his videos, but still his behavior got worse (shocking). Finally, he pulled his brother down to the ground by his hair then twisted his arm into a half nelson. After uncrossing my eyes and realizing that yelling isn't recommended in any of the parenting books I've read, I decided a change of scenery would do us all good, as well as save a certain 3 year olds' life. So off we went to the park.
I was able to speak in non harsh tones, we played in the sandbox, went on the swings, I even laughed without my face cracking. It was almost a Zen like experience until we got back into the car to go home. Charlie started whining incessantly about wanting water. I could feel that horrible, dark anger slowly creeping it's way out. Despite my better judgment, I decided to be nice and gave him his water bottle. He proceeded to dump the whole thing out on his seat, then flung the empty bottle (which was aluminum) at his brother's head.
Fair to say I reached my tipping point. When Charlie sends me over the edge, yelling is my first reaction - thanks, Dad - then once I get a splitting headache from yelling, I turn passive aggressive - thanks, Mom. The problem is that the cycle of passive aggressiveness is so ingrained in my genes, it's really hard to break. All throughout dinner Charlie kept asking, 'Why aren't you talking?' 'Mommy, are you less angry now?' 'Mommy, are you still mad at me?'
As awful as I felt, I couldn't let it go. Why should he get off easy by me telling him it's okay and that I wasn't mad at him. Isn't there some rule that his suffering should be equivalent to mine? Last count, I had racked up 3 hours in the torture chamber, plus a few extra gray hairs on my head, and minus a few years off my life. But being the adult here, I went the mature route and gave him the silent treatment for a few minutes. Only then did I answer with things like, 'I don't know Charlie, I don't feel like being nice to you.' or 'Well, that depends Charlie, are you going to start being nicer to your brother? or 'Maybe if you act like a nice boy, I'll stop being mad.'
After dinner, I put Gregory to bed. Charlie asked if I would play with him. I told him first I needed a few minutes to clean up from dinner. If only I could have scrubbed every dish in the kitchen and then cleaned the floor with a toothbrush. Exactly 20 seconds passed and Charlie started whining from the other room, "Mommy, come play with me. Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY!!!" With my mood, I wanted to play with him like I wanted to have sex with Dick Cheney. But I finally succumbed and asked him what he wanted to play. He sighed and said, "Nothing. I wish Teri (our babysitter) was here." Well played grasshopper.
But there are 2 things I cannot ignore and are guaranteed to light my fuse; 1. Child on child violence (meaning my kids, other people's kids beating the crap out of one another actually makes me feel better). 2. Naps being boycotted.
Charlie officially proclaimed yesterday, "Let's Get Mommy to Lose Her Shit and Watch Her Head Spin Around on Her Shoulders Day" and he enlisted his brother's help. First, naps were boycotted by both children. And this was after a long morning spent at a local farm milking goats (no, I'm not kidding), chasing chickens, baking bread and decorating paper bag puppets with wool and chicken feathers. My shit was dragging and all I wanted was a few minutes with a bag of chocolate chips, a jar of peanut butter and my computer.
After 40 minutes of non stop negotiations/threats with Charlie from his bed, it was obvious my tiny window of sacred personal time was gone. I was left feeling robbed and bitter. This impeded my ability to deal with Charlie's all out assault on his brother for the remainder of the afternoon. Meaning things that usually rolled off my back were sticking, like dog shit on your shoe.
When I say shit, I mean smacking Gregory in the head with a wooden spoon, sitting on his head in the kitchen, mashing his poor face into the linoleum, grabbing Gregory by the throat and throwing him off of the couch, pushing Gregory into the toy box as he was reaching for a fire truck.
Oh yeah, this fuse was lit and heading for the powder keg. After each attack I yelled, put him in his room, yelled some more, took away his videos, but still his behavior got worse (shocking). Finally, he pulled his brother down to the ground by his hair then twisted his arm into a half nelson. After uncrossing my eyes and realizing that yelling isn't recommended in any of the parenting books I've read, I decided a change of scenery would do us all good, as well as save a certain 3 year olds' life. So off we went to the park.
I was able to speak in non harsh tones, we played in the sandbox, went on the swings, I even laughed without my face cracking. It was almost a Zen like experience until we got back into the car to go home. Charlie started whining incessantly about wanting water. I could feel that horrible, dark anger slowly creeping it's way out. Despite my better judgment, I decided to be nice and gave him his water bottle. He proceeded to dump the whole thing out on his seat, then flung the empty bottle (which was aluminum) at his brother's head.
Fair to say I reached my tipping point. When Charlie sends me over the edge, yelling is my first reaction - thanks, Dad - then once I get a splitting headache from yelling, I turn passive aggressive - thanks, Mom. The problem is that the cycle of passive aggressiveness is so ingrained in my genes, it's really hard to break. All throughout dinner Charlie kept asking, 'Why aren't you talking?' 'Mommy, are you less angry now?' 'Mommy, are you still mad at me?'
As awful as I felt, I couldn't let it go. Why should he get off easy by me telling him it's okay and that I wasn't mad at him. Isn't there some rule that his suffering should be equivalent to mine? Last count, I had racked up 3 hours in the torture chamber, plus a few extra gray hairs on my head, and minus a few years off my life. But being the adult here, I went the mature route and gave him the silent treatment for a few minutes. Only then did I answer with things like, 'I don't know Charlie, I don't feel like being nice to you.' or 'Well, that depends Charlie, are you going to start being nicer to your brother? or 'Maybe if you act like a nice boy, I'll stop being mad.'
After dinner, I put Gregory to bed. Charlie asked if I would play with him. I told him first I needed a few minutes to clean up from dinner. If only I could have scrubbed every dish in the kitchen and then cleaned the floor with a toothbrush. Exactly 20 seconds passed and Charlie started whining from the other room, "Mommy, come play with me. Mommy? Mommy? Mommy? MOMMY!!!" With my mood, I wanted to play with him like I wanted to have sex with Dick Cheney. But I finally succumbed and asked him what he wanted to play. He sighed and said, "Nothing. I wish Teri (our babysitter) was here." Well played grasshopper.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Dingo Ate My Baby
Mom's of multiple children always baby their baby. With your first child, you hover, you cannot wait to check off that next developmental milestone, and note with pride how exceptional every drool, poop (really any kind of movement), or sound is. But with the second, you blink and they are washing their strained carrots down with a cold one while yelling, "Maaa, we're outta beer."
You want that baby stage to last as long as possible, partially because of nostalgia, but mainly because you now possess the golden key of knowledge. The baby stage is EASY compared to the whiny, demanding, mobile, tantrum prone toddler stage.
I'm having a tough time with the transition from baby to toddler with Gregory. He is the last kid I will ever pop out and he's also been the easiest baby on the planet - always happy, sleeps a decent amount, never cries unless he's hungry, not even when his brother uses him as target practice with his blocks. He's also a heck of an errand boy; stays strapped into a cart for hours while Mommy gets her Target fix on, gets us free produce at the farmers market by flashing his baby blues at all the ladies, flirts with the bank teller while I frantically fill the deposit slip out at the counter. And never once does he complain.
Well, yesterday my baby officially lost his baby status. It kind of snuck up on me all at once and took me by surprise. Maybe I've been too busy with my own agenda (aka errands) to notice. But those last few jars of baby food in the closet now have a coating of dust on them, and the cute nonsensical babbling, that sounds like Hindu chanting at times, has turned into words like 'Mama' and 'Baba' (that's bottle for you non-moms and it is a real word).
But the real kicker happened in the afternoon. I took both of the boys to our local farmers market to pick up some stuff for dinner (and some free produce). As I was popping the rear gate of the car to get the stroller out, I looked to Gregory for our usual game of 'Peekaboo, I see you', only mine wasn't the face he was staring at. He was looking at Charlie with an expression I've never seen before. He was almost rolling his eyes, like, "Jesus, more errands. Can you believe this selfish bitch?" Then, Charlie said right to him, "I know Gregory, I know."
Oh God, the jig is up. I am officially out numbered by kids with wills and opinions of their own. Maybe I should have another baby?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Why Must I Repeat Myself?
Today was one of those days where if someone offered to take my kids in exchange for a bag of Halloween candy, I would have said, 'You have yourself deal'. Don't get me wrong, it would have to be good candy; no Necco Wafers or Charlston Chews, I'm talking Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers. I have standards you know.
I spent my entire day yelling the same things over and over again. "Stop choking your brother. Leave your brother alone. We do not hurt our brother. That's it, no TV tonight. Do you want to go to bed right now?"
I felt like President Bush with his constant threats to Kim Jong Il of North Korea. "Stop testing those nuclear weapons. Don't you dare produce anymore plutonium. We do not share nuclear secrets with other communist countries. Do you want your luxury goods sanctioned again?" Gosh that man must be tired, because I sure am.
I'm not proud of my behavior, I officially lost control. By 3:30 pm, Charlie put his brother in his 25th choke hold of the day and I didn't know what else to do. So I kept with the theme of the day and yelled. "WHY CAN YOU NOT LISTEN TO ME? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME CRAZY?" He just stared at me, with his arm still around his brother's neck. I grabbed his arm and dragged him into his room, "STAY IN THERE AND DO NOT COME OUT UNTIL I TELL YOU TO."
Less than 30 seconds later I see this little smiling boy come flying by me, giggling, prancing, defiant. I'm so angry that I am blinded. I want to hurt him, I want to make him cry. While I would never do the former, I did the latter. "That's it, Gregory and I are going for a walk. You have made me so angry that I need a time out from you. You are going to stay here by yourself." Tears and screaming, 'NOOOOOOO, Mommy. Don't leave. DON'T GO!' Obviously I wouldn't leave him alone, but I knew the reaction I would get.
I wish I could say I felt bad, but I didn't. I was happy. Happy he was crying. Happy I was making him suffer like he had his brother. I'm sure I just gave Charlie another chapter in his future memoirs (think 21st century version of Mommy Dearest), but I don't care. Judge me as you like, but you have never felt such rage as when you watch one of your kids inflict harm upon the other.
Tonight as I sit here and type, as pissed as I am, I know I have to do better. I cannot subject my child to this level of anger. My blood pressure, sanity and conscience cannot handle it either. Ironically, today in a local mom's newsletter that I get, a marriage and family therapist gives advice to parents with a child with behavioral issues. She references a book, "How to Behave So Your Preschooler Will, Too" by Sal Severe. I laughed, loudly and heartily. I'm not sure where I stand on the coincidence versus fate argument, but I bought that damn book. But in this case, at this moment, the universe has spoken, maybe even yelled.
I spent my entire day yelling the same things over and over again. "Stop choking your brother. Leave your brother alone. We do not hurt our brother. That's it, no TV tonight. Do you want to go to bed right now?"
I felt like President Bush with his constant threats to Kim Jong Il of North Korea. "Stop testing those nuclear weapons. Don't you dare produce anymore plutonium. We do not share nuclear secrets with other communist countries. Do you want your luxury goods sanctioned again?" Gosh that man must be tired, because I sure am.
I'm not proud of my behavior, I officially lost control. By 3:30 pm, Charlie put his brother in his 25th choke hold of the day and I didn't know what else to do. So I kept with the theme of the day and yelled. "WHY CAN YOU NOT LISTEN TO ME? WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME CRAZY?" He just stared at me, with his arm still around his brother's neck. I grabbed his arm and dragged him into his room, "STAY IN THERE AND DO NOT COME OUT UNTIL I TELL YOU TO."
Less than 30 seconds later I see this little smiling boy come flying by me, giggling, prancing, defiant. I'm so angry that I am blinded. I want to hurt him, I want to make him cry. While I would never do the former, I did the latter. "That's it, Gregory and I are going for a walk. You have made me so angry that I need a time out from you. You are going to stay here by yourself." Tears and screaming, 'NOOOOOOO, Mommy. Don't leave. DON'T GO!' Obviously I wouldn't leave him alone, but I knew the reaction I would get.
I wish I could say I felt bad, but I didn't. I was happy. Happy he was crying. Happy I was making him suffer like he had his brother. I'm sure I just gave Charlie another chapter in his future memoirs (think 21st century version of Mommy Dearest), but I don't care. Judge me as you like, but you have never felt such rage as when you watch one of your kids inflict harm upon the other.
Tonight as I sit here and type, as pissed as I am, I know I have to do better. I cannot subject my child to this level of anger. My blood pressure, sanity and conscience cannot handle it either. Ironically, today in a local mom's newsletter that I get, a marriage and family therapist gives advice to parents with a child with behavioral issues. She references a book, "How to Behave So Your Preschooler Will, Too" by Sal Severe. I laughed, loudly and heartily. I'm not sure where I stand on the coincidence versus fate argument, but I bought that damn book. But in this case, at this moment, the universe has spoken, maybe even yelled.
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