Practicing the art of discipline

I just took Spaghetti out of a time out. Nothing new. Our 2 and a half year old gets a timeout at least twice a week. We plop her down while she screams and wails in the same timeout spot as I glance over at the clock, counting down five minutes. I'm sure those 5 minutes feel like hours in 2 and a half year old time. At this point, I'm not sure if timeouts are effective. I haven't read any books on discipline in a while, just recalling trial and error from disciplining her older sister, the Meatball (who, by the way, was and still is a saint growing up).

With Spaghetti it's a little different, she has a stubborn streak. My parents (and husband) say she's a lot like me. Go figure. So when it comes down to discipline, I try to be as firm and patient as possible, but like any one there is always the last straw pulled, the pushed button, the last nerve struck that gets my blood boiling where I cannot control it anymore and I become, my mother.

Well almost my mother. My mother was a hands off disciplinarian and a big fan of crying it out. She was the kind of parent that could take one look at you with a face full of disdain and in the next minute glance away and ignore you as if she could care less. From a child's perspective (aka what I remember from when I was little),  a child wants and needs acceptance especially from their parents, this move worked on me every time. She had this tactic down so well that my challenging, stubborn attitude diminished in seconds as her glare drowned me in guilt for even reacting. She had one of those glares that made you think twice about what you were doing and had you figure out fast that you were and always will be wrong. And boy did that wrong feel bad! I can remember wailing about one thing or another one second then begging and pleading for her forgiveness forgetting whatever the reason was I was wailing about. Throwing tantrums at my mother were battles I never won and I hated it, especially the feeling of not knowing if my mother actually cared if I was wailing on the floor for her for what seemed like days.


I remember feeling so alone during those times. I promised myself that I would never do that to my children and even if they would be a pain, I wouldn't leave them to 'cry it out' extensively. After the Meatball was born, I finally asked my mother why she handled my tantrums that way. "My goodness, anak(child in Tagalog), you still remember those!?!" in her Filipino accent. "Uh yah, you made me feel really bad." "I did not hurt you. You are too sensitive. Emotional." "Gee thanks, Mom." "You know what, anak? I was just tired. I worked so long hours for you and then you were so active, I cannot entertain you so much." "Maybe I was just happy to see you, Mom." "I know, I think you were so hyperactive too." "Why didn't you just tell me you were tired back then, Mom?" "I am not so good in communication like you. We do not do that in the Philippines so much." "Oh." "You are better with Spaghetti and Meatball than me. You are able to talk to them and have patience. You are good in the parenting." 


After this conversation, I understood my mother and her ways. A tired, working mother doesn't have that much energy at the end of the day to pay their children the attention they need. I guess that's the trade off. Our main difference is that I may communicate it better before I impose firmer discipline. I can tell you that half of the reason why I communicate it, is probably because of my own experience. The other half lies in our cultural difference. Growing up, my mother never exercised many emotions. If you were quiet and followed orders, that meant you were well behaved and that's all parents expected. Everything else wasn't really defined. Here it seems like everyone expresses themselves in one way shape or form. I wonder if the combination of the two is effective? I guess, only time will tell.