Saturday, June 19, 2010

Time. Out.

We have a time out chair in the playroom next to the desk which suffers from lack of use.  Most often if a time out is necessary Conor has to go to his bedroom and sit on his bed and I shut the door.  Its the door shutting that really gets him and usually sends him into fits of sad, sad tears.  Honestly, I don't really care what he does in his bedroom as long as he stays there.  He hasn't realized this yet and will sit forlornly on the bed until I come to get him.

The thing about the bedroom time out, as opposed to the chair in the corner time out, is just how much better we both feel once he comes out.  Those two minutes (ok, sometimes significantly more than two minutes) alone give him a chance to calm down (bedroom time outs are almost always the result of eons on whining and way too many warnings) and give me a chance to collect my thoughts and remind myself that he's two.  He's two and there's not much I can do about it except let him live until he is no longer two.

So, bedroom time outs continue and we both live another day.

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