My two and a half year old twins and I have come to the end of our day. It has been pleasant, we’ve gotten along, there was no back talk, bickering or tantrums, they have eaten all their food, they have said please and thank you–in essence, they have behaved like normal, functioning human beings who are mindful of how their attitudes and interactions can and do affect those around them.
If this was a sitcom, happy music would play while the credits rolled, and we would flop down on the couch with contented smiles, smothering each other in camaraderie and joviality.
If you were to walk into the room at this moment, you would get the very real impression that I have taught my kids decorum.
“Hey guys,” I say enthusiastically, like a cheerleader at a high school pep rally, “Guess who’s coming home soon? Mommy!!!” I kick my legs in the air, and thrust my arms at 45 degree angles. “Mommy! Mommy! She’s our. . .”
“Mommy’s coming home! Mommy! Mommy!” Mommy is clearly their favorite –the title track on the album, the super burrito with extra guacamole and sour cream, the person they came out of–and I flout her like the next great ambassador of parenting that she has proven to be.
We wait for Mommy, and the excitement fills the air like pot smoke at a rock concert, engulfing us in good cheer and positive vibration. We stare out the window, eager to see Mommy pull into the driveway. My kids ask when “Mommy goan be home” every five seconds.
With this palpable anticipation, we continue our love fest. They are laughing, showing me things they have built with blocks, saying sorry to one another. The transition from a day alone with the kids to an evening together as a family is beautifully upon us. We schedule a photo shoot with Olan Mills. And just as I am reveling in a dreamy speculation that Communism could really work if my kids were to head the revolution, Mommy walks in the door.
Two parents + two kids = easier! Um, right? Not exactly.
Whining, impossible demands, obstinacy, crying over nothing, fighting over toys, flopping on the ground in ridiculous spasms take center stage. If this were a comedian’s stand up routine, now is where the laughter and applause is replaced with hurled tomatoes and pitchers of beer.
The evening is a debacle, with two adults trying to wrestle even an iota of good behavior out of two uncompromising little monkeys, complete with obnoxious screeching and flinging feces into proverbial fans.
All my dreams of including my wife in the pleasantries of my glorious day with my children have been turned into a nightmare. Why does that happen? And why does it happen every day?
About Jared Karol
Because they don’t want Mom to feel bad that they have been good for you all day while she was gone. They are simply sparing her feelings. I think they are on your side to be honest. Did you get any sympathy for it? :D
Twitter Name: angieuncovered
Hey, you know, I think you’re on to something. I never thought of it that way. Thanks for the perspective. No, no sympathy. . .
Twitter Name: lickthefridge
It happens at my home too when Papi comes home and I just blame it on his bad influence because the kids were angels with me all day long.
Twitter Name: Unknown Mami
Can I use that one too? Or does that just make an a-hole?
Twitter Name: lickthefridge
My husband was/is a SAHD of twins. (I use past/present tense because as of last year, all four of our kids are in school and he’s also a full-time college student now. He gets home in time to pick the kids up from school and do all the typical afternoon stuff while I’m closing out my workday – homework, snacks, dinner-making, swashbuckling and NOYOUCANNOTHAVEMORECOOKIES).
That’s more than you wanted to know.
But YES – when our twins (age 10, now) were your twins’ age it was pretty much the SAME THING. The twins are jockeying for your wife’s attention. They miss her, and feces-slinging behaviors are the way kids that young know will quickly get them the attention they desire.
What helped us is when Frank stopped making such an obvious big deal of me coming home. It takes a while and they’ll sense it anyway in the natural flow of their day, but the half hour before she gets home is a good time for distracting them with something and *not* building up to this big climax of Mommy coming. OF MOMMY COMING HOME! (Head out of the gutter, please.)
“Training” them to expect something relaxing that your wife can do with both of them as soon as she walks in the door helps, such as watching a TV show or reading a book. She can tuck a twin under each arm, and they both get the attention they need without having to act out or vie for it.
Like I said – it takes a while to get them to stop throwing poop, but it does work. At least it did for us, and the hubs and I both felt a lot saner.
Good luck, buddy!
Twitter Name: JWMoxie
Thanks, JW, for your advice (and for your humor). After reading your comment and thinking about it for two seconds, that totally makes sense. I’ve been doing it all wrong. I will try these new tactics, and see if I see any change. I only have them full day by myself on Sundays (the rest of the week, they’re with grandma or my wife during the day). I think this weekend we’re gonna see a change! No! More! Poop Slinging!
Twitter Name: lickthefridge
We get a little of that at our house too. But I realized that, as JW said above, it’s less likely to happen if I don’t make a big deal about Mommy coming home. Also, the hour before dinner tends to be the worst. They’re hungry, maybe a little tired, and then they get amped up when the dynamic changes. Also, we tend to split up–one of us cooks and the other takes care of the kids. That might help.
Thanks, BetaDad. With each comment, it’s becoming clearer – who knew I’d get such good advice here? That’s what it’s all about – dynamic! They’re not dynamic enough. . .damn little kids. . . Sometimes the splitting of duties works, unless they cling to mommy no matter what she’s doing. . .
Twitter Name: lickthefridge
Definitely don’t play up her coming home as a HUGE DEAL. I mean, it IS important. She’s their mom! It’s important! But she is NOT a rock star. Rock stars don’t ask you to brush your teeth or pick up your toys. I also try to not use the “just WAIT till your father hears about this!” line. He isn’t a rock star and he’s also not the PoPo. (I have never used that word before in my life. Did I spell “popo” correctly? Is there a better way to spell a slang word? I feel SO MIDDLE AGED RIGHT NOW!) Also, I try to remember that he isn’t my personal savior, either. His coming home doesn’t mean I get a break. It just means we are starting the second shift of our days. The part where we can sort of split responsibilities instead of him earning all the money and me attempting to mold these mounds of childish flesh into respectable human beings.
Twitter Name: justanothermom
Thanks, Tracey. You know, the other night, my wife went out with some friends and I had the kids solo from 6:30 on without a peep of a problem – dinner, baths, bedtime, couldn’t have been easier. I think you spelled PoPo right, and I am kind of the PoPo, which works well when I’m with them by myself, but maybe it works too well and they’re reacting to my wife who, while no pushover whatsoever, isn’t as PoPoish as me. Hmmmmmm?
Twitter Name: lickthefridge
This happens with us and neither parent is home. The kids are at school/daycare all day and by 5:00 they’ve had it with being good and everything goes down hill. It is just crazy town. I think that’s what it is, a release from the stress of the day.
You know, you’re probably right. I taught school for ten years and it always surprised me at parent conferences when I would have glowing behavioral reports about the kids, and the parents would look at me like, “are you kidding me?” I guess it’s just hard for kids (of any age) to make transitions. . .
Twitter Name: lickthefridge