There’s a new trend in handling toddler temper tantrums. While the child is in melt-down mode, the adult calls out “Jessica? Where are you?”

In what seems like magic, the toddler stops crying and looks around, confused because there’s no Jessica in their house.

Child experts explain the science behind this trick. It’s called “pattern interrupt.” The child’s brain has to stop and figure out what’s happening. The shift in what they think is going to happen causes them to stop throwing the tantrum.

The interrupt is unexpected, and that’s why it works. The parent could call out any non-familiar name, and the child should stop throwing the tantrum.

There is disagreement as to whether this is a good option. Some child experts say the trick doesn’t teach the child how to redirect their feelings. We should be teaching them how to monitor their behavior, not finding a get-around.

Have these people ever been in the middle of a toddler meltdown? Have they ever stood over a screaming child on Aisle 3 in the grocery store? I think not.

I’ve been in the middle of toddler meltdowns. Redirecting gently isn’t what’s my mind went when they’re crying hysterically because you used the blue bowl instead of the red bowl.

One of my sons had a bad habit of biting when he was young. I read Dr. Spock’s book from cover to cover. I tried telling my son that biting was unacceptable. I tried putting him in time out.

At Mother’s Day Out, we moved him to the older class, hoping the bigger kids wouldn’t allow him to bite. He found out they had no problem shoving him if he got too close.

He found a way around that constraint — he continued to bite his brother at home and anyone younger than he was.

One day, my little carnivore came up behind me while I was washing dishes and bit me on the back of my thigh. I saw stars.

I turned around and did what my grandmother had been telling me to do for weeks – I bit him back. He didn’t expect that reaction, and it was the last time he bit anybody.

So much for expert advice.

Before I had children, I foolishly believed I didn’t really need child experts to tell me how to be a fabulous parent.

“My children will never do that” was a frequent phrase I’d use when judging other parents. My grandmother would simply chuckle while listening to me.

“Don’t spit up in the air,” she’d say with a smile.

I ate every single one of the judgmental words before experiencing life with three wild boys.

My children will always wear matching clothes and be clean from head to toe whenever we go out.

The two youngest wore a cape and cowboy boots everywhere we went for years. Sometimes they had a play sword tucked in their pants. I got used to the stares.

At the end of a long day with no idea what to cook for dinner, nutrition flew out the window.

You want pancakes? M&M’s on the top? No problem. We had pancakes for dinner despite experts telling me maple syrup is empty calories. This wasn’t a regular meal choice.

Okay. It was a regular meal choice. Parenting three boys is exhausting.

The next time I see a screaming toddler in the store, I’m going to try out this Jessica hack. The worst that can happen is someone named Jessica will say “I’m right here.”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.       

By the time this column is published, Game 4 of the NBA finals between the San Antonio Spurs and the New York Knicks will be over.

If the Knicks won that game, they took a huge lead over the Spurs. If the Spurs won, the series is tied 2-2 and the winner will be decided in a best-of-three.

It might seem strange that a woman my age, an uncoordinated failure at every sport, is interested in basketball. However, I’m a long-time fan of watching a game where players seem to fly with the hopes of sinking a basketball in a small hoop 10 feet from the floor.

My interest began with my dad. I remember him going to St. Bonaventure University games when we lived in Olean, N.Y. and bragging that he knew the players, some of which went on to play pro ball.

When we moved to Louisiana, my dad remained a fan, especially as NBA legend Pete Maravich was playing for LSU from 1967-70.

For years, I recall my dad talking about “Pistol Pete,” and the pride in his voice that this NBA star was a former LSU Tiger was quite evident.

It seems there was always a pick-up basketball in my parents’ driveway. Brothers against brothers-in-law, and, if nobody was around, brother against brother. They’d play for hours, and the game was usually friendly.

Until it wasn’t.

Our children watched their uncles playing, and they took up the sport after sore knees and arthritis sidelined the older generation. I think we loved watching them from the sidelines as much as they liked playing.

The sisters and sisters-in-law had a game once. We were more vicious than the boys, and the brothers took back the court.

One of the first dates my future husband and I had was watching the college basketball finals. He was a University of Kentucky graduate, and the Wildcats almost always made it to the finals.

When we had sons, I thought they might be basketball fans, but baseball was their sport of choice. Still, Michael “Air” Jordan was king of the courts back then, so there was always excitement to be found in the NBA.

When the Houston Rockets caught fire in 1994, I found myself glued to the television, watching Hakeem “The Dream” Olajuwon, Clyde “The Glide” Drexler, Robert Horry, Vernon Maxwell and Kenny Smith rule the paint.

That team won back-to-back NBA championships and watching them play was like watching a symphony orchestra.

My whole family watched the 2023 NCAA women’s college basketball games with Caitlin Clark and Angel Reese, and we all marveled at the athleticism women show in a game that requires perseverance and talent.

Now, my grandsons are NBA fans, and we’ve enjoyed watching the NBA finals this year together. We text each other after the game, and we’ve had long conversations about the games so far.

Basketball is not only a fast-moving sport but also a fun way to bridge generations. It doesn’t matter if we’re spectators or the ones on the court, the game gives us an opportunity to connect.

I still don’t know a lot about the intricacies and details of the game. I do understand the terms “in the paint,” “fast break” and the difference between a “man-to-man” defense and a zone defense.

What I do know is it’s mesmerizing to watch these players as they sink a basketball with six arms trying to stop them. Some of them seem to fly as they jump up to make a shot, and how anybody can sink a three-pointer is beyond believable.

Cheers to the two top teams in the NBA this year and their path to the championship title. May the fouls be few and the sportsmanship be genuine.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The rolling thunder rattled the windows in our house.

A torrential rainstorm was pounding on the roof, and the lightning lit up our yard like there were spotlights in the trees. For a few minutes, the power went out, and the storm provided a powerful soundtrack.

When the electricity returned, the household noise seemed louder. The dishes were clanking together in the dishwasher, and the air conditioning was rushing to catch up. The washing machine was filling with water, and the dryer was bumping and thumping.

Loud surrounds me.

Whenever I’m driving, the radio’s tuned to either a podcast or music. On the days when I need a break from the same-old tunes or doomsday threats, I turn the radio off.

Sometimes on hot days, I’ll roll the windows down, hoping I’ll experience a bit of nature’s silence. Instead, music from other vehicles invades the calm as does the rumblings of concrete and dump trucks.

Occasionally, a souped-up car comes zooming around me, the muffler and exhaust obliterating everything else. Tires pump out their own soundtrack as do jack hammers and construction equipment at the never-ending road work.

My heart beating is something I only notice when it’s quiet in the house. Breathing is a little harder to ignore, thanks to seasonal allergies.

Until there’s quiet, I don’t realize how loud life has become.

Noises are louder at night when the house has settled down. Because it’s so quiet, I have a hard time falling asleep. Senseless videos on my computer cause my eyes to feel heavy. I’ll often nod off when watching the computer screen as if I need the noise to quiet my mind.

That’s a strange concept.

But I’ve come to accept that I need noise.

I grew up in a three-bedroom, bath-and-a-half house with seven children. We were loud kids, too. The television was usually on as was an argument.

If we weren’t yelling, we were playing, and our games were always loud. We even managed to make the board game Scrabble a shouting match. But instead of the noise being distracting, for me, it was familiar.

My sons provided a whole new level of noise. There was the thumping of basketballs in the driveway on pretty days. Since two played the guitar, there were usually the sounds of somebody practicing James Taylor songs upstairs, the music loud even from behind closed doors.

My eldest son was a DJ, so having loud music was second nature to him. He was considerate and blasted the music when the house was empty. Sometimes I could swear the windows were still rattling when I came home.

There were a few years of quiet before the grandchildren came along. I remember appreciating the foreign silence in the house. But once the grands started walking, the noise returned.

Eight under the age of 18 fills a house with life, from the little ones dumping out baskets of Hot Wheels cars to the teenagers chasing each other around with Nerf guns. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Whenever I visit someone’s house with small children running around, I can practically feel my blood pressure lowering and a nostalgic smile warms my heart. The parents apologize, but there’s no need.

Noise was the soundtrack to my childhood, and now it’s the comforting soundtrack to my adult life as well.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.