Zoë was one of those babies. The ones that flew by the seat of their pants, damning the man from the get-go.
You know all of that advice you hear about getting babies on a routine right away? She wasn’t having it. There wasn’t even a rhyme or reason relating to how often, or for how long, she would breastfeed: for the first few months, I knew only that hourly, my boob would be exposed – not whether it would be for five or forty minutes.
After struggling for some semblance of control for half of her first year, I threw in the towel and instead of being only frustrated, started taking notes.
See, she knew what she wanted and when she wanted it, and what she wanted seemed to change all the damn time… but it didn’t.
I literally kept a notepad around and wrote down whenever she ate, slept, needed a diaper change, was particularly cranky (read: screaming) or happy (read: crying, but not screaming). For a week.
And then I plotted lines between the common factors, saw patterns (this is why math was always my subject – I see patterns everywhere. I’m all Pi and shit.) in what happened when, and decided that her routine would be exactly what she was almost always doing.
It worked.
Soon, I had one of those babies – the kind that thrived on routine. Every moment that she was awake was a portion of what she wanted it to be, sliced down into intervals that her little mind had unconsciously decided. She was so rooted in this routine, in fact, that for a long time, we couldn’t deviate from the rules, lest hell come to Earth.
I was miserable, as every moment from when she got up in the morning, to when I could actually get her to sleep in her own bed at night time was entirely devoted to her. Once she slept in her crib, then I could clean and eat, and get a little sleep, but for the rest of each day, I was wound up tight, with hands always full and anxious about the mess that surrounded me.
I lost myself. And resented our life, even if she was thriving (for her).
I dropped the routine as soon as she showed signs of deviating from it, becoming one of those parents who doesn’t have a planned dinner, bedtime, bathtime or housework. I started using the television as a babysitter so that I could clean and cook and sit on the computer whenever I wanted – probably a lot more than I necessarily should have, since I was making up for lost time.
It’s only been recently that our semi-routine has been recaptured. We still don’t have planned blanktimes for the most part, but everything gets done when it’s needed and I use free time, during preschool and when she visits with her dad to play catch up. I’ve learned to prioritize her and her wants and needs with my own.
But, god, I was so resentful back in those iron-fist routine days.
So the experiment we started last week doesn’t make any sense, really.
I let Zoë start making more choices. Not just the usual shoes to wear, or applesauce versus carrot sticks, but the big stuff.
If she wanted cupcakes for dinner, we had them; when she wanted to cook with me, we made hummus and then had that for dinner with vegetables; if she wanted a bunch of juice in a day, fine; if she wanted to go to bed at 10, then she could do that, too.
Everything became a democracy. Everything gave each of us an equal vote, with me providing other suggestions sometimes and warning that if, say, 10 was too late a bedtime and negatively affected our next day, then it would be moved earlier.
I also started to slow down, allowing her more of me, my understanding, my help.
I also cut out my natural affinity for control, which used to make nearly everything a ‘no’. I started questioning why I might have said no in the first place. If it wasn’t something that was unsafe, disrespectful or really caused a scheduling issue, then it was allowed, without further questioning.
As a result, I accidentally started speaking softer and slower. I stopped yelling, overnight. I haven’t had a single one of those nights when you put your kid to bed and think, ‘tomorrow, I will be better.’ That, for me, is momentous, considering that I have more of those nights than not.
Even odder, I’ve picked up some form of positivity that seems never-ending.
How has this affected her?
She’s sleeping more soundly, without a single fight at bedtime. She’s stopped yelling at me, most of the time. She’s eating more and she’s more affectionate.
She’s calmer, even though she has more energy and is, in fact, more hyper – I don’t know if you can understand the distinction, but I think that parents of kids who are easily frustrated, with short attention spans will get what I mean to say.
Like now, I’m looking right now at her, it’s 8:35pm, and she’s relaxed, enthusiastically watching an episode of Kai-Lan. There’s always a body part moving, but she’s not creating havoc with her unending energy. She’s smiling, repeating Mandarin. She’s not simply shut down, like she has typically been in the past while the television’s on. She’s yawned twice and decided to put on her pajamas, even though pajamas usually mean bedtime. She’s happy.
In the past couple of weeks, Zoë’s also gone from barely knowing letters to sounding out sounds on street signs. She couldn’t tell the difference between numbers and letters before, and as of today, she knows how to spell a dozen 3- and 4-letter words. I’m betting that if she continues sponging up information like she’s been doing, she’ll be reading by her 4th birthday.
I don’t say any of this as bragging, or advice. This is just something that’s working for us, for our particular situation and minds. Moments and days haven’t been easy – I’ve had to really put thought into helping the democratic process exist – but already, it’s been rewarding for us.
