Several decades ago,
two psychiatrists Thomas Holmes
and Richard Rahe came up with a Stress Scale,
that measured stress in "life change units."
So, for example, the top 5 "stressors" would include:
1. Death of a Spouse (100 units)
2. Divorce (73 units)
3. Marital separation (65 units)
4. Imprisonment (63 units)
5. Death of a close family member (63 units)
Apparently family member deaths and imprisonment are equal (ha).
Also, Pregnancy was #12 at 40 units,
followed shortly by #14 "Gaining a new family member" (39 units).
I'm not sure if pregnancy is supposed to include gaining a new family member, but if it isn't, then being pregnant and having a baby is more stressful than divorce!
Anyway, the point of this is to point out that these are Adult Stressor Units.
If I were to make a list of Aaron's stressor units,
the list would include the following:
1. Leaving the bath and not being allowed to run naked around the house
(all I ask is that he has a DIAPER on, since we've had a fair share of pee-behind-the-bed-incidents, but that that diaper is basically a medieval torture device) - 100 units
2. Getting in his car seat - 95 units.
3. Having food taken away from him - 70 units.
"No, you cannot eat that wedge of brie"
:: cue hysteria ::
:: cue hysteria ::
4. Sharing toys - 65 units
5. Going to bed/nap - 50 units
Needless to say, Aaron has VERY stressful days.
The car seat is a relatively new stressor.
I've mastered the end-of-bath hysteria,
but I can't seem to pull through the carseat hysteria.
Back when Aaron was little,
Adam and I had a strict "carrying" policy through parking lots.
Since Aaron is now a solid 30 lbs+
(and I'm a weakling),
I've started to let him walk.
He does SO WELL at hand-holding.
He grips my finger and I death-grip his wrist in the fear that he'll sprint away and be run over by a car, which he has never even attempted to do. Whew.
However, when we reach the car, the hysteria begins.
He does NOT want to sit in the car seat.
We can talk about it for forever:
"Ok, Aaron, we're going to walk to the car and then get in the car seat.
Can you say car seat?"
But when we get there,
its just LIFE AND DEATH.
He'll squirm, wretch, scream, fuss, whatever.
Anything in his power to get away.
Sometimes its so bad that I just have to sit in the backseat with him,
and let the temper tantrums carry on.
Part of me wonders if turning his car seat around would fix this,
but I'd rather deal with temper tantrums than a snapped neck.
So instead, here we sit.
Or don't sit.
Screaming and yelling away.
If screams could talk,
this would be the "WORST MOMMY EVER" scream.
And as always,
since discovering that I can modify pics without instagram,
my poorly-lit grainy iPhone photos are slowly transforming into even more stellar masterpieces of photography failure.