I’m a pretty capable person, typically aware of my strengths and liabilities. One of the things that I thought was a strength was my parenting skill, but today I’m not so sure.
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| Not looking ready to leave in 6 minutes. |
Lying in her bed until she returned to
sleep at 3:30am, I expected that the morning would be challenging. When she crept into my bed at 5, the exhaustion scale shifted to a
whole new level. We snuggled, me half asleep, she wide awake, full of chatter. As she asked me to fix breakfast at 5:30, I made the choice
to shape her sleep patterns (and mine) by telling her it was still sleep time. I suggested she go downstairs to get a yogurt if she couldn’t wait, but, of course, she’d rather snuggle. Given her history
with blood sugar, I should've known it would behoove me to walk down the stairs
and get the yogurt myself, but then I’d be "giving in," limiting her
competence, and further reinforcing her dependence on me, right? More importantly, I was still
clinging to my last few moments of interrupted sleep.
At 6:45, her brother snuck into bed, and, shortly
after, the phone rang; it was a call from daddy, who was out of town for work.
Given the kiddos don't like to talk on the phone, I indulged their rambling
conversation, giggles and teasing for about 10 minutes, even though we were now
within 45 minutes of scheduled departure. You
may think 45 minutes is plenty of time to eat and dress, and for my
seven-year-old, that’s true. For this particular four-and-a-half-er, 60 minutes
seems to be the sweet spot. Again, I made a choice, overlooking my history with
her and prioritizing the benefit of connecting with daddy. Maybe at that point
I should've accepted that we would go late to school (as I’ve done a time or
two). On the other hand, that would reinforce the idea that she doesn’t have to
do what she doesn’t want, and it would punish my rule-following first grader
who dressed and readied himself on time. With that reasoning, I continued on my
path to the deadline.
Not new to the dressing struggle with this kiddo, I
patiently helped her select her clothes to put on at her leisure as I cooked
breakfast. I made breakfast and lunches
while she wriggled around the floor, putting on her tights and promptly removing them
because they were "not right" (code for "I don't want anything touching me before I've eaten"). Normally I
wouldn’t even attempt the tights, but given that her patient pre-K teacher just
talked with us last week about getting leggings or tights on her for warmth and
appropriateness (did I mention she’s also a bit of an exhibitionist?), I’ve
been trying to add leg coverings to our routine (with limited success). Aware
that power struggles never end well, I ate and perused Pinterest, while acting completely detached from any
outcome related to her eating or dressing (reverse psychology 101). I watched
the clock tick and waited for her to decide she was ready to eat and dress, as
I reminded her every couple minutes of our remaining time until “mommy helps
you.” On most days, this works.
A little backstory for those of you who don't know
us personally: I am a rule follower, my first born is a rule follower, my
husband and daughter, not so much. He told me when she was six weeks old -
"I hope you're prepared - she's me in a dress." I thought, "What
do you know? She's six weeks old!" Turns out he was more right than he's
ever been. I console myself with anecdotes from moms of “independent” little
girls who say it gets easier and that the teen years are a breeze compared with
friends whose daughters have been great until 12 and then get defiant. I'm not
sure if I believe them, but I'm holding onto the possibility. I feel my real
age outpace my biological age with each time sensitive departure. Hearing myself warn that we'll have to stay home from gymnastics or whatever "if you can't get yourself ready and use nice words," I wonder if it’s helping or hurting to keep her from pursuits that may channel her energy and build discipline. On the flip side, how much stress is gymnastics (or anything) really worth? I remind
myself of the outcome studies of willful children - that they typically fare
well as adults. I console myself with the belief that my daughter won't be a follower;
she’ll stand up for herself (even if she ends up the ring leader of future
rebellion). I know my neuropsychology and the biological limits of her impulse
control at age four, something my husband laughs about saying, “You’ll be
saying that when she’s 25.” Maybe he’s right again, but when "I hate
you" rolls off her tongue, it enables me to let it roll off my back with a
calm retort like, "you sound pretty mad."
So why does the morning rush always suck me in?! On
a morning like this, sleep deprived myself, I lost my sh#@! By the end, she'd
hit me, for what I don’t know; I was threatening to hire the nanny daily and
tossing around “GD”s like a trucker (let’s hope they don’t repeat that at
school). Fuming, I forcibly pulled on her shirt and uniform, feeling like I was
breaking a horse, but a horse with one last kick, wrestling on her tights, only
to have her pull them back off, again. Amidst the “help” with her clothes, coffee
went flying. I grabbed a sponge and took my rage out on the au lait coated
floors, giving me just enough time to regain my composure before walking outside
in earshot of neighbors. “Deep breaths, deep breaths” I told myself as I walked
to the car, put down her backpack and plate of eggs, and turned back to the
house to collect her.
There she was, sobbing and yelling, barefoot on
the front steps. It was a sad sight, even for an enraged mom. Silently, I took
the hand of my defeated four-and-a-half year old. We walked down the steps to
the car, she struggling to speak through her tears, "you're so mean." My rage shifted to remorse, and I thought the worst was over. But we had one last stand: the seatbelt, which she unbuckled twice, again forcing my hand. In
retrospect, I could've waited then for the full crest and fall of her meltdown,
but I was still thinking of my poor seven-year-old, covering his ears and
rolling down his window to escape from his little sister's tantrum. I felt bad
for him until he threw in “this is why I wish I didn’t have a sister” to which I
snapped back, “this is partially your fault for yelling and waking her up!” Low
blow, I know. Not proud.
Still refusing food, but at least tolerating the
belt momentarily, I stepped on the gas (thankfully avoiding fatalities on our
biker heavy street). Two minutes later, as I parked at school, she was hyperventilating.
Starting to feel the dopamine chase away my adrenaline rush, and heartbroken that
our interaction had deteriorated so quickly, I invited her to my lap, still
without tights or shoes. I held her close, stroking her tangled mess of hair
to ease her breathing (brushing was way more than I was going to take on today).
After a minute or two, she quietly started sucking up her applesauce pouch, followed
by inhaling her scrambled eggs and half a granola bar.
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| Her typical animated self. |
Within moments, she was different. Animated, chatty
and smiling, she willingly put on her tights, shoes and sweater, as I wondered
why this was so hard just 10 minutes earlier. She was over it, and I, a 38-year-old
woman (and therapist who should know better) felt shell-shocked. Realizing I’d
once again taken the bait of a frontal-lobe challenged four-year-old, I felt like
a giant heel.
As usual, she chatted with classmates on the
playground, took me on our daily tour around her classroom, and hugged and
kissed me as if nothing had happened. I left hoping there might be a chance she’d forget this and avoid years of therapy at my hand.
Returning home, still troubled by the encounter, my tired mind raced… How
did I let this happen? I know the pattern, why can’t I interrupt it? I consider the
conflicting parenting approaches in my head - an occupational hazard for sure. I
need to be predictable, consistent, not find myself in a battle of wills. I
have a star chart, but even keeping up with that feels exhausting. Maybe I just
don’t have the energy for motherhood. Was it just the sleep deprivation last
night or am I becoming generally impatient? Do I need to be less
disciplined about getting to school on time to acknowledge her rhythms, or more
rigid about getting up earlier to allow room for her pace? Yesterday was so
perfect! She dressed herself, ate, sang and walked calmly to school, arriving
early. How did things go so wrong today? Will she ever outgrow this, and will I ever be good at it? And what the hell are we going to do when she's in puberty and I'm in menopause?
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I hope that’s enough.
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