FiveManns.net

We had a Big Meltdown this week. It was horrible. It was ugly. It was the Mann Family Chernobyl. And it wasn’t one of the boys that melted, it was Daddy.

All great disasters stem from a perfect storm of collaborating mess-ups. Last week Daddy crushed his finger with a 200 pound boulder. His finger popped like a balloon and Daddy howled in pain while dressing the wound enough to drive himself to the emergency room for his eight stitches. The nanny took sick. Strep throat. No nanny. Then Daddy’s back blew out, leaving Daddy writhing on the floor in pain trying to not tear open his new stitches.  Daddy moved to the couch, cane by his side.  Daddy was out of action. No nanny. No Daddy. That leaves Mommy against three.

Mommy gets disturbing news from a close friend. Mommy’s upset. An upset Mommy is a sensitive Mommy. A sensitive Mommy is a reactive Mommy. A reactive Mommy needs emotional support from Daddy. Meanwhile, mash-fingered, hunch-backed, cane-carrying Daddy finds out his project proposal was too late to be accepted and he was not going to get the work. Less work means less money.  Less money means fearful Daddy.  And a fearful Daddy is incapable of emotionally supporting reactive Mommy.

Meanwhile, with three months under their belts, Mommy & Daddy have come to the realization that the triplets are extremely sensitive to their environment. If either Mommy or Daddy are stressed out, the boys will go nuts. If Mommy & Daddy hire a babysitter who has a bad day, they will tear the house apart. If everyone around them is calm and in a good mood, they are a perfect joy. One day a week Mommy & Daddy are fortunate enough to be able to hire a Tibetan babysitter of unbelievable calm. She walks in the door and the boys just settle down and there is hardly a cry the entire time. This is generally true with all kids, but our three are not only very sensitive individuals, they also ramp themselves up as a trio, amplifying the effect.

So … the scene is set. Crushed finger. Blown back. Sick nanny. Upset Mommy. Worried Daddy. Three sensitive kids. Foul moods funneled through three-phase power amplifiers. What do you get? The Big Meltdown.

Even before the actions starts, the boys sense agitation in the air like wolves sense prey. They get excited.  Ears back.  Eyes alert.  The house is tense.  They push, and push hard. They climb stuff.  They break stuff. Mommy reacts! She yells. She yells way louder than normal. The kids respond. They disperse.  Before Mommy can finish yelling about what Nhan did, Tam and Tai have moved onto something else.  They’re jumping up and down on the turned-over lamp. The lamp is destroyed.  What the hell are you doing!?!?! Crack!  The wooden gate breaks. Security breach. Timeout! Timeout! Timeout! All of you are in a timeout! And stay there in a timeout!  Mommy herds wolves into the timeout zone, backed into a corner between the couch and the wall.  Up against a wall, the wolves fight and claw their way out.  Stay!  You stay there!

Daddy’s trying to get work done. Not possible. That screaming!!! Daddy’s head is exploding. He thinks Mommy is losing it. He thinks Mommy should get herself under control. More screaming. Daddy gets up. He’s going to go out and help. Daddy’s intention is to suffuse the insufferable chaos with a calming presence.  He opens the door.

Daddy opens the door just in time to see Tam take a hard swing at Nhan.  Whack! Tam slams Nhan in the head. Nhan screams.  What the hell!?!?! You brat! Daddy reacts! It’s timeout for Tam!!  Normally Daddy walks a boy to the timeout zone and quietly blocks the exit with a pillow and sets the timer, stay until the beep, please.  Today it’s a scene from the movie Alien, where the victim gets chomped and dragged screaming to his doom. This timeout is rough. Too rough to describe here. It’s ugly. Alien Daddy is humiliated at his own behavior. Nhan throws a toy. Crash goes the toy against the window. Damn! “Come here! Nhan! Timeout!” The Alien Daddy drags another screaming victim into the timeout cave. This timeout is also rough. Alien Daddy’s got his angry face two inches from the toddler’s face. Nhan smirks. Alien Daddy wants to take his cane and … well … no need to describe what Alien Daddy wanted to do (but didn’t!). Alien Daddy is again humiliated. Mommy is shocked.

This isn’t helping. Alien Daddy slinks back to his nest. The door closes, but it’s a thin door.  Mommy is screaming again. The triplets are off the charts. Sounds come through the door.  Unusual sounds.  Crunching and rattling sounds.  This can’t be good.  This can’t be happening. This is a meltdown. You would think that angry Viet Cong soldiers were adopted by the Americans that brought you the Mei Lei massacre.

Just like the movie, Alien Daddy keeps appearing suddenly from his nest to claim a victim.  Alien Daddy manhandles.  Alien Daddy yanks wolves down from the tree branches of the DVD rack.  Thud.  Screaming.  Mommy keeps saying over and over, “It’s not their fault.  It’s not their fault.”  Alien Daddies don’t reason.  Alien Daddies don’t think.  Alien Daddies are pure predation in the name of the rule of law, and in that moment, only Alien Daddy’s instincts are the law.  “It’s not their fault”, says Mommy, even as she screams all the louder.  When does this end?  Where is the door?

It goes on all day.  Playtime is hell.  Dinner is short and sparse.  Bedtime stories occur double-speed.  “Night night”. The door closes.  The wolves lash out at their den, destroying the last vestiges of the window shades.  Exhaustion kicks in.  The triplets collapse into sleep.  Mommy and Daddy are left to ponder.

Mommy is right.  It really isn’t their fault.  If Mommy & Daddy are calm, they are calm … er.  If Mommy & Daddy are having troubles, then Mommy & Daddy and the triplets are all in trouble.  Mommy needs emotional support and a break.  Daddy needs some rest.  And a substitute nanny must be found.

Daddy gets on craigslist and then gets on the phone.  He doesn’t care that it’s nine at night.  Daddy limits his thoughts to simple, focused thoughts.  “Must find nanny for tomorrow.  Must find nanny for tomorrow.”  Mommy gives herself a good cry, but in private.  East Europeans are tough, but even they need an outlet.  The walls are thin.  Mommy and Daddy find some time to talk.  They talk of humiliation and frustration and anger and upset.  They talk of how they want their family to be, and how today wasn’t that.  They share.  They understand.  They are too spent to be anything but still.

Someone calls back.  Daddy has found a nanny for tomorrow.  She’s warm.  She’s sweet.  She’s happy to show up.  Help is on the way.  Mommy will get some support.  Daddy will get some rest.  Tomorrow will be better.

On September 26, many local friends joined us for an informal picnic in the Corte Madera Park to celebrate our boys’ adoption.  It was also an opportunity for us to thank so many of our friends for their help and support in the transition from a family of two to a family of five.

The weather could not have been more cooperative – it turned out to be a hot sunny day, perfect for hanging out in the cool shade of our picnic spot. And although we had made our plans pretty last minute,  close to 60 people stop by throughout the afternoon.  It was great to see everybody.

We selected to have the picnic in a park, thinking that nearby play structures might provide sufficient diversion if our or friends’ kids needed a change of scenery.That turned out to be a life saver, as our boys got very excited and, completely oblivious to potential hazards of touching a hot barbecue, wanted to help Daddy grill.  They were soon surrounded by friends’ kids. Under a watchful eye of our nanny, they were taken under the wing of several young girls who treated them like baby brothers, from bringing them snacks, water, and more snacks, to holding their hands, and lovingly bossing them around. The triplets seemed to have time of their life. And yes, by the end of the event their bellies looked like extra big balloons from all the snacking! But it was their party, and we were glad they had fun.

Everyone told me that toddler routine is the key to toddler happiness.  You break the routine at peril of toddler upset.  This, I have discovered, is not the whole story.

No doubt our boys love routine.  We get up.  We change diapers.  We drink milk.  We eat breakfast.  We play on the deck.  We go for an outing, we lunch, we nap, we play, and we go out again.  We shower, eat, drink milk, read, sing and go to sleep.  That’s the routine.  To deviate in the slightest, to skip a step, or to change the order is to invite a cascading series of vocalizations culminating in a meltdown.  Routine.  Every day.  Like clockwork.

Or is it?

That was our routine.  Then one day after dinner Nhan pointed and grunted.  Point!  Grunt!  What?  What do you want?  Point!Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! Music?  Do you want music? Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! OK, not music.  What then?  The candle?  Point!Point!Grunt!Grunt! The picture?  Do you want to see the picture?  Smile!Laugh!Point!Grunt!Yyyaaaaayyyy!!!  Oh, you want to see the picture!

Our friends gave us a multi-image frame with pictures of Mommy & Daddy, and each of the boys.  Nhan holds it.  He looks at it.  Points to it.  “daaaddeee”, says Nhan as he points to Daddy.  Our hearts melt.  “daaaddeee.”  He points at each member of the family in turn, mumbles toddlereeze, and points at the cute little animals on the frame.  That was soooo cute!

The pictures, especially pictures which arouse congratulatory ooohs and aaaahs from Mommy and Daddy, must now be seen by the brothers.  Tai looks at the pictures.  He points.  Mommy and Daddy oooh and aaah.  That’s soooo cute.  Tam looks at the pictures.  Ooooh.  Aaaah.  Tam starts to disassemble the frame.  No, no, stop that!  Picture time is over.  Clap.  Clap.  Everyone loved picture time.

Picture time had not been part of our routine.  That was new.  That was unexpected.  Most importantly of all, that was fun.  The toddlers enjoyed picture time.  But unbeknownst to Mommy & Daddy, picture time just became assimilated into the routine.

The following night dinner ended.  As always we clapped.  “Good job!”.  Clap, clap, clap.  We start to put the boys down.  GRUNT!  GRUNT!  “Hey, you!  Adults!  This is wrong!”  UPSET!  Crying and screeching ensue.  What the hell?  What’s got into you?  Daddy’s looking around frantically … did the house catch on fire?  Is there a kernel of rice out of place?  He runs through the checklist of upsetting things … dirt, dogs,  doorbells.  Nothing.  What gives?  Point!  Point!  Daddy looks around … the picture!  Oh … you want to see the picture?

But this isn’t a request any more.  This is no longer curiosity at work.  After a single act of spontaneity, this has become routine.  This is expected.  We now expect to look at the picture.  We have achieved entitlement.  Good job.  We can now modify our routine schedule.  Immediately following dinner but preceding milk, there will be picture time.  That is now our routine, newly evolved.

Daddy ponders.  Daddy thought toddlers did not like change in their routine.  Daddy was wrong.  Toddlers love change as long as they love the change, then they don’t want it to change back.

Being a scientist, Daddy built a model for the way that toddlers think.  It looks like this:

Daddy’s office is off limits to the triplets.  It’s filled with computers and phones and papers and everything from everywhere else in the house that we didn’t want destroyed.  One day in an act of spontaneous Daddy-ness, Daddy brought Tai into the office to sit in Daddy’s lap.  Daddy typed on the keyboard.  Tai dialed Botswana on the phone.  Tai loved it!  Tam and Nhan loved Daddy office visits, too.  Yeah!  Tam carved up Daddy’s desk.  Nhan shredded paper.  That was fun.  The boys were happy.  It brought some peace to the house.  Daddy office visits seemed worth it.

Until they became routine … which happened pretty much overnight.  Whereas office visits used to bring joy, now they could only satiate an irritating entitlement.  Whereas office visits used to be special, now they needed to occur with the regularity of Old Faithful.  Office visits were expected.  And what happens when a toddler does not get what he expects?  He throws a fit.  This would not work at all, because Daddy could not work at all.

So office visits were banned.

Office visits were banned cold turkey. Office visits were banned weeks ago.  Although not entirely throwing fits any more, Daddy’s knuckles still feel the strain of the occasional toddler tug in the direction of the office.  They remember.  It’s long gone as part of our routine, but it’s lodged in their hearts as a welcome change.  This is a place where the triplets dream of a day when the routine will break, when we will spontaneously visit the office, and once again assimilate visits into the routine.

Before Triplets, or BT, I believed the obvious solution to bedtime was to let children go to bed when they were sleepy.  Period.  Let them follow their natural rhythm.  Parental efforts to impose anything else were misguided and selfish attempts to rid themselves of responsibility to do the right thing.  Some people are night people.  Some people are morning people.  Thus, it stood to reason, so are children, and any parent whose primary concern is the development of a whole and wholesome human being must, obviously it seemed to me, accommodate the true and natural rhythms of their child.  While visiting Friends-With-Kids, I’d watch as, at the anointed hour, the bedtime battle began with one parent or another begging, cajoling and prodding the young one up the stairs, subsequently disappearing for the dreaded Bedtime Ritual, only to reappear into the adult world an hour or so later.  Not me, thought I, never!

What a load of uninformed, backseat-driving BS that was.

It’s After Triplets, or AT, now baby.  We’re talking about real children living right now in our house.  My all-natural bedtime plan didn’t take into account the necessity for Daddy to survive having Triplets.  If survival is selfish, so be it.  My all-natural bedtime plan failed to recognize the horrific toddler consequence of deviating even slightly from the now sacred Routine.  Routine is King.  Long live the King!  Now the relevant question is … do I want to eat my dinner before midnight?  Do I want to hear something in my ear during the day besides the harmonic chorus of high-pitched toddler-rukus?  Whose house is this anyway?  This is my house and in my house we have bedtimes.  Period.

This first order of busines is, of course, what time is bedtime?  At the orphanage bedtime was 9pm.  “That seems reasonable”, says Daddy.  “What!?!”, replies Mommy, “Children in the Czech Republic go to bed at 7:30.”  “Seven-thirty!?!  It’s not even close to dark.  We might as well put them to bed after lunch.”, replied Daddy sarcastically.  Sarcasm rarely works as well as you think it’s going to.   Mommy scowls.  Remember the Daddy Report about eating?  You can guess who won this discussion.  It’s a good thing, too, because this early in the process Daddy had yet to realize that he was arguing against his own best interest.  Forget what time the snooty Europeans put their kids to bed.  This is an issue of parental survival, and Daddy eventually figures out that 9pm would have been suicide.

So … bedtime is 7:30pm.

Now with bedtime chosen, how do we accomplish it?  At 9pm the Triplets fell asleep without too much fuss, as long as you don’t count Daddy having to lay on the floor playing “dead bug” and repeatedly putting them back in their beds for 30 minutes as “much fuss”.  At 7:30pm their routine was to run around and squeal and ramp up as much intensity as possible while begging Daddy for spinnies and jumpies.  At 7:30pm it would have been easier to put a race car driver asleep on the 499th lap of the Indy 500 than to get our boys to sleep.  Although only 90 minutes lay between 7:30 and 9:00, that’s like 90 feet across a very deep chasm.  So close, yet so far.

Like all good parents, we start with the direct approach:  brute force.

We take them down, put them in bed, and kiss them goodnight.  Since obviously this is too early for bedtime, this must be a game.  Great!  The boys love games.  They get up.  We put them in bed.  They get up.  We put them in bed.  This is fun.  Let’s make it more fun by jumping on the beds.  No, stop that.  The window shades are are the most fun.  First, they have light peeking around the edges of the blackout fabric.  How interesting is that!  Most fun of all is the fwap-fwap-fwap-fwap sound they make when you get them to go back up.  No, don’t touch the shades.  They run around the room.  We catch them.  We put them back in bed.  They get up.  We hold them down.  Two parents.  Three beds.  One gets up.  Grunt!  Grunt!  Pointing at Tai with the obvious question, why does Tai get to get up?  Tai, get back in bed.

The only thing more infuriating than their not going to bed is the fact that they are enjoying not going to bed so much.  That smile … they love the struggle … in my mind I imagine they love that I hate the struggle … in my mind I start to imagine this is all a carefully orchestrated maneuver by genius toddlers to take control of the house by breaking us down.  Clearly I’m going crazy.  I’m starting to lose it.  They get up.  I put them down.  We don’t put them down any more … Mommy’s deep love of her children compelled her to leave the room before she lost it.  It’s now three on one with squealing children and a crazed, desperate Daddy.  I no longer put them down.  Rather than gentle, manly hands sweetly settling the little one into his fluffy toddler bed, it starts to more closely resemble an NBA slam dunk of a ball into a basket.  Plunk!  Now stay there!  Firm, loving hands no longer create a sense of cozy safety by holding them down; imagine something closer to dragon claws pinning  prey to the ground.  A toddler starts to whimper.  Triplets start to cry.  And here’s the really freaky part …

Toddlers fall alseep.  In the great bedtime irony of the comos, the one thing that worked flawlessly well at ending the game was to make them cry.  That wasn’t fun.  Game over.  Energy drained.  Toddlers fall asleep.

This became our new routine.  Bedtime 7:30.  Mommy hugs and kisses them goodnight and says bye-bye.  Daddy sticks around and plays the game until he cracks.  Somebody cries.  Triplets fall asleep.  It took about an hour.

The problem with this routine is that Mommy has been doing a great job teaching our triplets.  They are getting stronger.  They are getting more confident.  They are learning how to play.  They are getting better at the bedtime game.  They are pushing Daddy harder and further.  They play more intensely.  They don’t cry as soon.  Borrowing aptly from the language of the Vietnam war, the battle is escalating.  And you remember what happened with that war, right?  These are Vietnamese kids.  Escalation leads noplace good.  The bedtime ritual is leading noplace good.

What really tips me off, because it usually takes something to bonk Daddy over the head, is that they start crying on their way to bedtime.  They start to hate bedtime.  This is not good.  Now it’s no fun for anybody.

If you want to know how to raise kids, mostly you should ask Mommy.  Mommy thinks things through, like maybe outlet plugs are a good idea.  Daddy’s instincts aren’t always so helpful, taking the form of, “I survived sticking that knife in the power socket.  They will, too.  Hurt like hell, though.”  Every now and then, however, Daddy has a good idea.  You can tell it’s a good idea because Mommy agrees with it.  Also because it works.

Daddy’s idea was this.  We take them to the bedroom.  We read them a story.  We sing a song, “… if you’re happy and you know it clap your hands, clap clap …” about 10,000 times.  We end up reading random parts of the story again.  We make the sleepy sign.  We tuck them in bed.  We kiss them goodnight.  We leave.  We close the door.  They cry.

Then they scream.  They slam the drawers.  Bam!  Bam!  Bam!  They throw themselves against the door.  Kaboom!  Kaboom!  Kaboom!  They yell, tear down the shades, rip up the shades, throw pillows and kick the walls.  Every 15 minutes or so Daddy comes down, turns on the light, points sternly, and watches three toddlers scurry like cockroaches back to bed.  Silence.  Daddy leaves.  And party time starts again.

But this time Daddy doesn’t really care.  Daddy’s out grilling chicken and sipping wine.  It almost feels like a normal life, for an hour or two.

The heater was a problem.  We had a little electric heater on top of a dresser.  The dressers are tall, but with base camp on the bed, high camp on the window sill and the advanced team standing on the shoulders of high camp, they managed to reach it, push it, press it and generally create a fire hazard.  Daddy removes the heater.

Daddy checks in a few more times.  Each time the party is a little quieter. Eventually they fall asleep.  It still takes about an hour, but it’s their hour.  There’s no more battle.  They love bedtime.  They love the story.  Sometimes they curl up in bed together.  The window shades might even survive because each day party time is more mellow than the day before.  Each day they scream less and giggle more.  The Triplets are happy.  Mommy & Daddy are happy.  All is well.

Just before Daddy’s bedtime he sneaks back in the boys’ room and replaces the heater.   Very quietly.  Shhhhh.

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P.S.  A heater?  Yes, I know, it’s California in the summer.  But tropical Saigon makes foggy Mill Valley look like the arctic to our lean little boys.  And Nhan still refuses to use a blanket.  One night after they messed with the heater for the 10th night in a row I decided to demonstrate consequence.  “I told you … mess with the heater and I’ll take it away.  You better learn how to use blankets!”.  Then I took the heater away.  They woke up ice-cube cold and miserable, and they woke up earlier than the sun, which made me miserable.  Whoops.  Thus the heater.