Wrapped Around Her Finger

When Pie has a temper tantrum, I've learned to just walk away. They come fast, they come furious, they come frequently. Every little thing turns into a temper tantrum. If I walk away, the tantrum will eventually end and things can proceed as they were. Except...

Except...

Except it's no longer just me that Pie has to break. It's not longer me who has to stick with the "When you have a temper tantrum, you get nothing" rule. Because now there is Doodles. And Doodles can't stand to see his sister in distress.

Pie was having a meltdown. I can't remember over what. It could have been a) because I forgot and smooched her b) because she wanted a yogurt and couldn't be bothered to ask me in a normal tone of voice c) because she wanted 2-3-4-5 pencils and I only gave her 1-2-3 and then I took them away when I realized she was using them to write in Doodles's books d) because she breathes or e) none of the above. The rule in our house is, you have the right to have a temper tantrum. But I also have the right to not listen to the temper tantrum so you must do it in the playroom. If you won't do it in the playroom, you will be put upstairs and the gate will be closed until you are done.

So Pie was tantruming. Rather than put her upstairs, I decided to retreat to upstairs, to sit in a chair and leaf through a magazine till she was done. I offered to have Doodles come with me, but he opted to stay downstairs with his sister. Sitting upstairs, I could hear the conversation:

"Look, Pie!" I can hear from top of the stairs. "It's a creepy crawler! You've got creepy crawlers!" (Creepy crawlers being one of Pie's favorite games.)

Pie: Waaaaaaa!

Doodles: Don't cry, Pie! It's okay! It's really okay! Look, Pie Pie! Creeeepy crawlers! There are creepy crawlers on your arm.

I come back downstairs and Doodles pulls me aside and loudly whispers in my ear, "Just give her what she wants!"

A couple of days later, she's having a tantrum because she wants a third yogurt of the day. Those yogurts are so sugary sweet that I of course said no. I retreated to my office while she screamed. Yet, suddenly, the cries suspiciously end. I mean immediately. I of course hurry back to the kitchen where I see the refrigerator open and hear Doodles asking, "Now, what would you like Pie Pie?"

Pie's favorite words are "I can't do it." Walk to the car? "I can't do it." Put on her jacket? "I can't do it." Feed herself lunch? "I can't do it." Yet, on the food issue, Pie's found herself a new sucker. Doodles, apparently, doesn't realize that the girl won't starve if she misses a meal. Hell, she eats about fifteen of them a day (nonstop, all day. "Snack, Mommy!" We set a new record last week. Hard-boiled egg at 7 a.m. Two bowls containing four kinds of cereal with milk at 7:30 a.m. Carnation Instant Breakfast milk at 8 a.m. Strawberries at 8:20 a.m. And then, in the car to preschool at 8:40 a.m., she starts whining as if she hasn't been fed in weeks, "Mommy! I need a snack! Mommy, I'm hungry!"). Last week was no exception. I gave Pie a bowl of mac and cheese. She demanded to be fed. I refuse, walking into the kitchen to get my own lunch. I expect to hear screams, but I don't. And walking back in, I discover why. It's because Doodles is standing precariously on the edge of his chair, leaning across the table to delicately shovel macaroni and cheese into his sister's mouth (quote of the day: "I don't think that one wanted to be eaten, Pie. That's why it fell onto the floor. Because it didn't want to be eaten."). And Pie is happily allowing her brother to feed her.

On one hand, I want to commend him for being such a great big brother. On the other, I want to make him deal with her every temper tantrum if he's going to encourage them. If you're looking for me, I'm hiding upstairs. No. Seriously.