Baby showers are terribly short-sighted. Instead of gifts that will be useful for years (like gift certificates for private school tuition payments, or a year’s supply of Popsicles you get things like 40 onesies in size 0-3 months that your baby will wear once and then promptly outgrow. From now on, I will bring more practical gifts to baby showers that will help mothers with their future tyrant children. Because the truth is that a sweet little baby whose worst offense is a stinky little poop, quickly turns into a screaming, red-faced child who can talk back and commit countless punishable crimes.

In our house, the general unit of discipline is the time-out: one minute for each year of life. The intention of the time-out, I have read, is to take the child out of the emotional whirlwind he is in, to reset his little mood and start over. I don’t see it that way. My time-outs are meant to remove the child from my earshot or personal space while he thinks about what he has done wrong. If it resets his mood and makes him happier, bonus. I just want him to learn a lesson.

Kyle is now three, so he gets three-minute time-outs, and since his birthday was just last month I often have to remind him of that fact. Even one-year-old Brady sometimes gets little time-outs in his crib, especially now that he clearly understands my directives to not stick his fingers in the electrical sockets. Yes, I have most of the sockets in our house covered, but there was one in his room that had a night-light in it, and that’s the one he went after. That kid is really good at finding the one loophole in every airtight situation and pursuing it like a hound dog. We have one step in our one-story house — he was able to fall down it and hurt himself. There was one normal crayon in a batch of washable crayons — guess which one he used to draw on his high chair? (Thank goodness for the magic eraser.

So now we are attempting to establish and defend boundaries for two small children. Patience is the most important ammunition in a parent’s arsenal, and I don’t have that in great supply. I have my good days and bad days, and that usually depends on how disobedient or whiny my children are on those days.

There are several manifestations of punishable misbehavior:

1. Blatant insubordination: Last weekend I asked Kyle to pick up the toy cars that littered the living room. All he had to do was put them in the basket. At first he simply refused, but after repeated requests he began answering with a snotty “No!” Then he cried, saying it was “too hard.” Attempts to counter the defiance escalated from taking the cars away, to taking away his favorite toy (“Little Einsteins” Rocket and putting him in a time-out. He still didn’t pick up the cars.
2. The 0-60 Whine: Kyle asks for a Popsicle for breakfast. I say no. He instantly dissolves into a puddle of tears and wailing, no longer using English to communicate but resorting to moans, grunts, and pointing. Usually, I ignore this. Today I have a headache and cannot stand the whining. He is banished to a time-out and served Cheerios for breakfast.
3. Rambo: We have a No-Tolerance Policy for hitting. If Kyle hits Mommy or Daddy, it’s an automatic time-out, no warnings. Hitting adults is one thing: Stewart and I each outweigh him greatly, so it doesn’t hurt. Much. But when Kyle hits his little brother, that’s a more serious offense. Depending on the severity of the attack, sometimes we have to spank him. That has been known to backfire on us, however, when Kyle actually turns to us after hitting Brady, and asks “Do I get a spanking now?” with an expectant look on his face. As if he likes it. I don’t even want to think about where that path will take us, so spankings are very rarely used.
4. Nap refusal: I don’t care what anybody says — I’m not ready to give up the afternoon nap. Many of Kyle’s peers have done so, and their mothers are very jealous that I still get that 2-hour break, so I’m hanging on for dear life. Of course, sometimes getting Kyle to take a nap involves bringing him back into his room every 5 minutes for an hour. After the tenth time of him smugly coming out into the living room and announcing “I’m awake!” I’ve taken away almost every cherished toy in his collection. You’d think he would learn, but it seems he is just as stubborn as his mother. Go figure.

I say that I counter all of these misbehaviors with time-outs, but I have to confess that often the time-outs are prefaced by lots of yelling. The noise level in our home is set at just under a deafening roar. It’s a combination of that maddening “Elmo’s World” song, two kids yelling or whining, and the near-constant blabber of the yelling mommy. Every once in a while this background hum is punctured by a deep voice yelling “Knock it off!” after which all other noise ceases and everyone does what he or she is supposed to do, because the usually unflappable Daddy has lost his cool. This is an extreme situation of course, and very rare.

No, it’s Mommy who says “No, you can’t HAVE A POPSICLE FOR BREAKFAST!” or “Please stop pulling MY HAIR!” or “It’s time for you to TAKE A NAP!” The children never hear me the first, second, or fortieth time, so I resort to yelling. It’s a natural instinct, bred into me by my own mother, whose house must be silent in comparison to the years in which three young children lived in it.

Of course, because the yelling is a fact of life, nobody listens to that anymore, either. A few weeks ago, after a bout of bronchitis, I lost my voice. At first I was powerless against the rascals. How could I direct them through the day without instruction, praise, or bellowing commands? I eventually had to adapt or I would be overrun: I resorted to manhandling. Children were physically removed from dangerous situations like teetering on the edges of steps or Daddy’s pile of books on the table. Contraband snacks purloined from the refrigerator without permission were snatched out of meaty, little hands. Tiny butts were ushered to the potty by force. Without my voice echoing through it all, the day was much more relaxing and I did NOT have a headache at the end of it, as per usual. Also, the children obeyed me.

One would hope that we all learned a lesson from that day, but that would be wishful thinking. Weeks later, I find myself on the verge of losing my voice again, but that is only because I must have uttered the phrase “Do NOT pour water on your brother’s head!” at a good decibel level about a hundred times yesterday. At the end of the day I had just enough strength to scoop myself a bowl of ice cream to soothe my tired vocal cords and my sagging morale.

I’m throwing a “second baby” shower for a friend in three weeks. Since she only has the one child now, she may not understand when she opens the tastefully decorated megaphone I will buy for her (alphabet stickers will spell out THE BOSS on one side. But around this time next year, I’ll expect a grateful phone call. I’m saving women’s voices, one mommy at a time.

– Kim Tracy Prince

Liked this? Read More: Check out the outtakes from Kim’s latest column on her blog houseofprince.blogspot.com

Kim is the loving mother of a very energetic toddler and baby boy. She has worked on the hit show, “Bringing Home Baby.” Have a comment for our very blunt Mama? kim@themommytimes.com