Parenthood’s small battles

The horrible and the positive aspects of the "terrible twos." From adorable baby to mischievous little goblin. Recipes, frustration, and strategies. A small victory on a chaotic morning.

For the past week, León seems to have landed in the "terrible twos” land (he did just turn two a month ago). The label isn't great, as Irene (my partner and journalist writing about early childhood) explained very well in her newsletter when our eldest son, Lorenzo, was two years old. And here we are, three winters later, going through a similar stage, now with León.

I’ll tell you a positive story: the victory of a small battle.

First, it’s worth explaining a couple of things. The idea is that adorable babies turn into loud, irrational, and defiant dictators. The change can feel abrupt, but it’s a good sign: it reflects León’s development (and it has been quite rich in stimuli — he has been attending nursery school for three months and is exposed to four languages daily).

There’s a clash of forces. As he grows, he gradually understands his desires and needs and the intention to satisfy them independently. When he can’t do it, he gets frustrated (and it can be explosive).

Irene wrote that she feels uncomfortable “associating ‘terrible’ with a child’s developmental stage.”

Managing these tantrums can be terrible and difficult, but does it help to label this stage as the "terrible twos"? Don’t different stages of development serve a purpose, and isn’t the goal of understanding them to find a reasonable way to react?

I dislike the idea of the terrible twos because if I expect my child to go through a terrible period, my expectations will influence my reactions, possibly in a useless way. Moreover, research has shown that these tantrums can be minimized or avoided if parents are flexible with their children, especially if they don’t have an easy temperament.

…

Last week, I was desperate. The mother of a six-year-old girl who had gone through a divorce told me she consulted various specialists, therapists, and books.

“Tell me which one helped you the most,” I pleaded, almost demanding something I know doesn’t exist but still wish for in moments of desperation: a recipe to navigate the sense of overwhelm I feel.

It’s not an exaggeration. I think about how badly León must be feeling to behave that way. I understand that his brain is developing and is dominated by impulses. Still, it’s unbearable to hear a child scream for an hour “banana bread no, banana bread no,” without anything that can calm or distract him.

On top of that, the ghosts of parenthood appear: is there something wrong with my child? Which specialist should I take him to?

When León’s outburst is over, I start to forget that horrible moment. Now that I’m writing this, it seems minor because my kids are at kindergarten and the silence is only interrupted by the sound of a keyboard (and Irene’s voice on a video call).

Following that mother’s recommendation, I began reading How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk, a bestseller by the late U.S. authors Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish. It’s the kind of book I usually avoid due to prejudice, but this time my desperation broke those barriers.

Last Thursday night, I read the first chapter in one go. There was no surprising discovery; it made sense because I follow many social media accounts that give parenting advice (which are really aimed at mothers, not fathers, by the way).

The underlying idea is that parents need to be less reactive and try to understand what their child is going through. I closed the book and fell asleep worried about the situation: Irene felt very sick and it was obvious she had caught the virus that had knocked León down a week before and from which I was recovering.

(Digression: The virus knocked me out for two days. It was a mix of gastroenteritis and Covid. I felt aches all over my body, chills, stomach pain, nausea. I ate nothing but three pieces of bread with olive oil for a week. I don’t know if viruses are stronger than before or if I'm older and my system is less resilient — I’ve never been one to get sick or need bed rest — or if I'm aging and making a drama out of something that doesn’t warrant it or simply failing to remember if I used to get just as sick before but was more focused on recovering quickly to play soccer on weekends. Or all of the above.)

…

At 6:30 a.m. on Friday, I heard: “Meat, meat.” I opened my eyes and saw León fully charged getting out of our bed to go to the kitchen. “Good morning, León,” I said in an absurd attempt to instill good habits in a sleepwalking child. What options did I have? Fighting has not been working. I jumped out of bed and silently followed his lead down the stairs.

León noticed he was still in pajamas and wanted to change. Lorenzo woke up. Irene was knocked out. Bingo! To my surprise, Lorenzo got dressed for kindergarten without saying a word. León did too with my help. In five minutes, we were all ready for breakfast.

Meanwhile, I had that damn book on my mind, paying attention to my reactions.

“I’m tired and my throat hurts,” said Lorenzo.

“Uff! What a drag! You just woke up and you’re already tired.”

“I don’t want yogurt.”

“Okay.” León wanted yogurt and ate it. Then Lorenzo wanted some too.

I won’t detail all the infinite micro-battles of our larger morning battle: if grapes or almonds; wearing or not a coat; shoes on or off; not wanting to go to kindergarten; not having to poop... You get it.

“León, shall we change your diaper?”

“No, caca no!” (No, no poop!) he protested while a cloud threatened to smell up the entire neighborhood.

“León, will you help me change your diaper?”

“Sí!” he said as he lay down with his head on a cushion.

The verb (help) was key: it took him out of his role as a secondary actor. He wants to be the protagonist of his life; he wants independence. That’s also why he then proceeded to smear yogurt all over his face.

An hour and ten minutes after waking up with screams of “meat,” we were ready for kindergarten almost without all those infinite frictions that usually end in an explosion (from any side). It was miraculous compared to what had been happening all week.

But we still had to get into the car. León asked for tsoureki (Greek Easter bread) and didn’t want to walk to the car. In my effort to be a good student from the book I had started reading the night before, I told him it would be nice to eat tsoureki. I tried several other things but failed again; so I picked him up while he screamed his wish louder and louder.

Suddenly, I ripped some leaves off a plant and dramatically said: “Tsoureki for cats!” tossing them into the air. Lorenzo and León were taken aback. I ripped more leaves from the hedge and even more theatrically said: “Tsoureki for dogs!” tossing them again.

As we continued towards the car, Lorenzo laughed and copied me. León started laughing too. Once in the car — with half an hour ahead of us — our morning battle entered its final stretch.

“Tsoureki! Tsoureki! Tsoureki!” León kept repeating.

“What song do you want us to listen to? Daddy Cool?”

“Nooo! Not Daddy Cool!” León shouted.

“Pokémon! Pokémon! And very loud!” Lorenzo requested.

I played this absurd song at high volume.

The hermanitos began dancing with their index fingers, moving around happily. They were having fun — what about me? I felt like a pressure cooker at its boiling point from all that accumulated effort (to contain annoyance while seeking gentle alternatives).

I sensed someone was provoking me further but made an enormous effort not to lose my cool... I kept responding like a receptionist at a seven-star hotel — with cordial smiles and good manners — even though everything felt unfair and inappropriate.

Cheap psychological interpretation: it felt like my kids had been making my morning impossible since they had gotten up while I was trying hard to manage variables to avoid chaos at my own expense.

What was I going to do with everything boiling inside? How many more times would I take deep breaths? I screamed like an angry fan when their team isn’t trying hard enough: “Daaaleeeeee! Come oooooon!!!”

The release was effective; it relieved me — and strangely enough — I didn’t feel bad like when I yell at my kids, who in the meantime were cracking up, laughing at me instead.

I felt like the silliest dad in the world — not sure in front of which jury (hello gender police), but my kids enjoyed it — I suppose one day they’ll feel embarrassed — and I felt better.

Thus a morning that threatened to be a nightmare ended with me coming home relaxed — almost euphoric — having finished off a chaotic week by winning one morning battle (out of five).

…

I have theories for almost everything regarding my kids — many fall apart within a week. But while they last, they help me keep going.

So, yes: I know that last week’s strategy will fail next time around. Parenting books create high expectations and are fertile ground for guilt trips; they generate pressure because unforeseen problems will arise complicating things further — and I'll get frustrated for failing with my kids while not being able to apply the theory that experts put forward.

Moreover, not everything is linear. For example, I'm not sure if that morning worked because my attitude changed — I was hyper-focused. Also, I may not have the same energy or attitude every day either; maybe they’ll have tougher days ahead too.

The variables are huge. There are no foolproof recipes here either. Perhaps the lesson is that reading such books should come without high expectations but rather with hope that something useful might come out of it.

Regardless, I'm enjoying this little morning victory and cherishing it as a reminder that sometimes things turn out well.

…

This is us for now. If you know strategies that work well for you or have ideas triggered by this text — tricks? resources? — please hit reply and share!

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I love it when you send me suggestions or complete, criticize or correct some idea. I also love it when you share your own experiences. From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much.

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With love,

Nacho

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🙏 Many thanks to Worldcrunch for translating and editing this newsletter.

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