if we could talk to the animals...

We were reading The Water Hole one night. The premise of the story is that the water is drying up and all of the animals are concerned. I explained that all animals needed water to live. "Like us, see? We need to drink water. We're animals, too." Eliot looked at me as if I had suddenly grown three heads. "We're not animals!"
"Sure we are. See? That lion has a nose and so do you. Do rocks have noses?"
"No... But we're not animals!"
"Ya, we are. That bird has eyes.. that bear has hair... that moose has legs... Do trees have any of those things?"
Still skeptical he said, "But we don't LOOK like animals."
"Well we just look different than other animals. Dogs don't look like birds, gorillas don't look like snakes, and we don't look like giraffes, but we're all animals."
At this point Eliot gave me the old sigh-and-look-away. I suppose if he had been old enough he would have rolled his eyes as well. The whole, "my parents are idiots" thing was not supposed to happen until the teenage years. "Well I'm not an animal." Loosely translated I believe that meant, "fine. If you want to be an animal go ahead. Let's just drop it."

let them sleep in

Eliot spent the night with Gigi last night. When they woke up this morning she asked if he wanted to call home to say hello. "No.." he said, "I don't want to bother them." He doesn't know it now, but when he's a teenager I'll return the favor one day.

Yesterday was a great day for an impromptu Popsicle picnic

a bad night...

UPDATE: I was wandering around on Parent Hacks and I ran into this post. It really explains exactly what I was thinking when this incident occurred.

We had a bad night this week. Eliot wanted everything he couldn’t have (candy for dinner, skip a bath, go outside in the freezing rain). After several “normal” altercations, the requests deteriorated into things that just were not possible. He wanted to read a book that was already returned to the library. He wanted me to sing a song that was entirely made up in his head, comprised of nonsensical words. Finally, the demands became downright annoying. I accidentally stepped on the top stair first, but he wanted to “win”. I arranged the stuffed animals in his bed the “wrong” way. At this point Eliot had worked himself into such a state that there was just no way to reason with him. I was worked into a state, myself. I said, “you need to go to your room until you can quit crying.” He yelled, I yelled… the whole nine yards. Finally, through the tears and hiccups he said, “but… I… *hic* CAN’T stop the… *hic* crying.”

When he said that something in me clicked. Maybe it was the way he said it. His eyes were not angry or frustrated. They were sad and confused. First of all, I know that feeling – when you want to stop crying but you just can’t. Second, the kid’s only three. He’s never been taught how to “calm down”. Third, I know that two wrongs don’t make a right. I was worked up as well and he was feeding off of my emotions. Just like that, I wasn’t angry any more. I sat down on the floor next to him and said, “okay. Why don’t we try to calm down a little and then we can talk about this.” “But… I… don’t know how to calm down. *hic*” “I know,” I said. “I’ll help.”

I got a cool washcloth and wiped his tears and runny nose. Then we sat in the rocking chair like we used to when he was a baby. He put his head on my chest and I rubbed his back. I took deep, deliberate breaths and soon his breathing was synchronized. We were silent except for the occasional *hic* as he slowly calmed. We rocked for about fifteen minutes, cuddling and relaxing. When the hiccups subsided I said, “do you feel better?” He signed the word “yes.”

After that he was a different kid. The rest of the evening was completely uneventful. I’m glad the technique worked, because it was a lot more enjoyable than the alternative.