Then there was that day that finally I admitted I was wrong...

I am rarely wrong. In fact, I'm the picture of damn near perfection. My husband shouts this at me every time we fight, so I know it's true. There are moments, however, when even those of us mostly infallible folks must cop to the odious crime of culpability.  Blame is thorny and accepting it just plain stings. So when I had to go to my four year old this morning with my tail between my legs and admit the drawn out fight we'd endured was my f...my fau...my fault, it was like being forced to army crawl through a tunnel of rose bushes.

She wanted to wear her pajamas to the grocery store. They didn't match. The material was thin and it was chilly out...and quite frankly, I just wanted her to get dressed. I was patient and reasonable. She defied. I deflected with humor. She defied. I insisted and issued ultimatums. She stripped her clothes off, crawled onto her bed, curled into the fetal position and defied. She's a fierce opponent. The Rocky Balboa of defiance. It became clear to me at that point, that she really wanted to wear her pajamas to the grocery store. Sooo...why couldn't I just let her wear her pajama's to the grocery store? What was the big deal? My ego. That was the big deal. Even as I heard myself swearing that she was coming with me whether or not she had clothes on her body, even as I felt myself picking up her tiny, naked body and pretending to walk to the car, the exhausted voice of reason which sits lodged somewhere behind an almost entirely dormant section of my brain screamed, "What are you doing? Let her put on her damn pajamas! It's okay to lose this battle!" The voice was right. It's usually right, yet for some reason I always choose to ignore instead of heed. It had to be my way, which in this instance was becoming "no way". I was turning the battle into a war and the combat had gone on for so long I almost couldn't bear to admit defeat. So much carnage over something so inconsequential and one half hour later, we were still at an impasse.

It hit me as I laid her back down on her bed, howling so loud I was sure she'd be heard through the double-pane windows, blocks away. I was also having a temper tantrum. I was angry because I wanted her to do what I wanted her to do and she wasn't complying. This little "control contest" was nothing more than me answering a tantrum with a tantrum. As I left her bedroom to collect myself; maybe remove the impediments of irrational thought clogging my synaptic flow, I asked myself some very important questions. Would wearing her pajamas to the store cause her physical or psychological harm? Would it cause anyone around her physical or psychological harm? Did I want to invest any more time in a fight I'd already lost or did I want to get my grocery shopping done and get on with my day? Answering the questions was easy. Facing accountability was not so easy. I've been told that as a parent I need to follow through with my decisions good, bad or indifferent. I'm not supposed to admit I'm wrong to my children, because it will show weakness. No matter how stupid the argument, once I deal the cards, I have to play the hand. No folding. As I sat staring at her bedroom door, listening to her sob, I looked back on all the struggles I'd had with my kids. I started to realize, for me anyway,that the fights were less about control and more about being afraid to admit I might have made a mistake. That would give my children the upper hand; a license to question my authority. And my children should never question my authority. Right? It's a dual-edged sword, isn't it? We want our kids to exercise common sense, to learn independence, to do what feels natural for them even when it means going against the grain (without putting themselves in danger, of course), but not if it means going against the rules. Even if the rules are the dumbest rules ever. And honestly, some of mine serve no purpose but to make my thank-less job a little easier. Or harder, depending on the time and day. If only I could have remembered to ask myself those questions before I engaged in our little, mental tug-of-war. Will it cause her harm? Will it cause anyone else harm? The course of action would have been clear and that would have made my morning so much easier. Unfortunately, some times we're too blinded by the fog to find the shore.

In the end it was me who waved the white flag, as it should have  been. She put her pajamas back on, found her sneakers and sniffled up the stairs behind me. It felt hollow; the victory and the defeat. I was forgetting something. The most important part of the truce. I picked her up and held her. "I was wrong, Quinny. I was wrong and I'm sorry. I should have just let you wear your pajamas." "Okay." "I made...a mistake. Sometimes mommy's make mistakes." "Okay." And that was that, because my daughter fights hard, but she forgives harder. It's one of her best qualities. It wasn't nearly as scary as I thought; letting go of being right and admitting fault. There is nothing wrong or weak in admitting your child may actually be right or at the very least, not entirely wrong. They need to hear those words some times. They need to know that making a mistake or a bad judgement call, even as an adult isn't bad and that it does happen. A lot. That a mistake is a learning tool and a way to grow, and that it goes both ways.

Ten reasons why your mother may be crying. Plus one more reason.

11. She slept through the alarm clock because she didn't sleep last night, you're the reason why and you're not listening.
10. She's trying to have her morning "Me Time", the only thing she gets to do by herself all day. The roll of toilet paper is devoid of toilet paper, she didn't sleep last night, you're the reason why and you're not listening.
9. It's five minutes of eight. She's trying to force a toothbrush across your teeth when you have clearly stated that you will NOT be brushing your teeth. Your brother's not getting dressed. She's not been able to get dressed. She's just asked your brother for the twelfth time to stop playing with LEGOs and get dressed. Did she mention it's five minutes of eight, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you're not listening?
8. The car window is stuck an eighth of the way down...AGAIN. Rain is the predicted forecast. You're fighting with your brother about who gets in the car first. He's officially late for school which means she needs to get out of the car to sign him in. Plus, she has to remove you from the car and getting you into the car was hard enough to begin with. She's still in her pajamas because she never had a chance to do more than put on her bra and gargle some mouthwash...thank God for small miracles. Also, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you're still not listening.
7. You want to get in the carriage. You want to get out of the carriage. You want a piece of cheese. You need to use the bathroom even though you were told to use it at home before you left because the bathroom here is a bacteria farm, and you're next in line at the deli. You want the cupcake flavored Gold Fish. You REALLY WANT the cupcake flavored Gold Fish. WHY CAN'T YOU HAVE THE CUPCAKE FLAVORED GOLD FISH? She hasn't slept, you are the reason why and WHY THE FUCK AREN'T YOU LISTENING TO HER?
6. She hasn't had her first coffee yet and it's almost lunchtime. The groceries still need to be put away. You want lunch. Grilled cheese. No. Mac and Cheese. No fruit snacks. You'll just get the fruit snacks out of the snack drawer even though she's told you "No" all eight thousand times you've asked. You don't want to bother her again because she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and you are listening, because she said you could have a piece of fruit and technically there is real fruit flavoring in said snacks.
5. You ate the fruit snacks. You ate the goddamn fruit snacks! And now you won't touch the grilled cheese because you said you wanted mac and cheese, and anyway your lunch shelf is full. And she hasn't slept. And you said MAC AND CHEESE so, she is the one who's not listening.
4. She didn't get to do yoga today because she was busy with a tantrum you had regarding the snack refusal caused by your failure to eat lunch, and now it's time to pick up your brother, but you don't want to go because you're  hungry and you want to watch Doc McStuffins and your shoes are too uncomfortable and you don't want to wear that sweatshirt. Your mom still has to tape a plastic bag over the stuck window, she can hear the thunder rumbling, she hasn't slept, you're the reason why and if you don't start fucking listening she's going to take that pillow you're clutching against your chest and clutch it against your face!
3. It's not fair that your brother has to go to karate. Why can't he just skip it this once, for the twentieth time? He wants to play with his friends, even though it's down pouring and you are firmly attached to your mother's torso, because you're cold, because you refused to put on your sweatshirt because you were hot and it was ugly. Well that's it. She always works, dad always works, your brother never gets to see his friends, even though they are together ALL day! He's out. And...you're out because suddenly, annoying your brother and his friends seems like fun. You're both hitting the playground if you can just wriggle out of your mom's grip. Nuts to her. She's mean when she hasn't slept and you're the reason why. And if you don't start listening and get in the fucking car you can both spend the night in the typhoon on the playground, because nuts to you, she's out!
2. You don't want tacos for dinner. They are gross and you hate them. Your brother wants grilled cheese for dinner. So do you. Just like the one you shunned at lunch. No wait. You want mac and cheese. But he wants grilled cheese. Tacos are gross. You'll throw up if she makes you eat one. Can you pillow joust down the hallway? Can you have a juice box? No, chocolate milk. Can she make you chocolate milk? Can you have a snack? Where did your brother get the chips from? What do you mean papa gave him chips? You want chips! It's not fair if he gets chips but you don't get chips. Is dinner almost ready? Is it mac and cheese? What are you having again? Tacos? You hate tacos. They are gross and they'll make you throw up! You asked for chocolate milk. Can you have chocolate milk? Please? It's getting late and dinner's not made yet and you and your brother still need showers and she hasn't slept and you're the reason why and WHAT THE FUCK DOES SHE HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU STOP TALKING FOR FIVE MINUTES AND START LISTENING?
1. It's five minutes of eight. You're not tired. You. Are. Not. Tired. The room is too dark. The nightlight is too bright. You need another bottle of water, it will help you calm down. The pajamas are too hot. The mattress isn't comfortable. Will she lie down with you for a few minutes? Now she needs to lie down with your brother who needs another book because he only has one. And if he gets another one you get another one. You suddenly have to pee, even though you didn't have to pee 5 minutes ago when she told you to try and pee before bed. It's 8:45 p.m. You're tired and crying. Your brother's tired and crying. She is tired, crying and repeating the phrase, "Please just GO! TO! SLEEP!" over and over and over.... Everyone is tired and crying, and no one's sleeping. She certainly hasn't slept, you were definitely the reason why and who gives a fuck if you listen anymore tonight? She's done talking. Don't come out of your room. Just don't. The consequences are dire because she's officially broken and she knows she's got to wake up too soon and do it all over again tomorrow morning. 

The Mother's Curse

I don’t like my daughter. Until recently, I have only admitted this in the company of people that know me well enough to know that they don’t have to seek help from the Department of Child Welfare.  My secret warrants only a silent nod from these chosen few, because they are soldiers in the same battle, who have been witnesses to the same atrocities. They offer me smiles of camaraderie, share stories of the torture they’re enduring at the hands of a demon that they chose to painfully bring into the world, as we drink our way through our PTSD: Parenting Traumatic children Stress Disorder.

I love my children, but I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that my son is probably my favorite at the moment because his behavior is much more palatable. He’s at the top of the food chain right now, he knows it and he’s acting accordingly in order to remain in our good graces and continue reaping the benefits.  Quinn, on the other hand has become far too punk rock for my liking. She’s the embodiment of anarchy and someday, a long time from now when she’s out of the house and fighting somebody else’s system I’m sure I will fully appreciate her spunk. In this stage of her development, however, I feel like a hostage negotiator and the life I’m trying to save is Quinn’s. I don’t think she understands just how close to the edge she’s come. I don’t think she cares. If she’s going over the cliff, she’s plummeting in full fight mode and though she is currently my nemesis, I respect that. The kid’s got balls. And they are HUGE!

The past few weeks have been the worst I’ve had as a parent and that includes Quinn’s infant years which were filled with both colic and MONTHS of sleepless nights. When she was a baby, she couldn’t articulate the way she can now. I didn’t know what she wanted and though the trial and error seemed frustrating at the time, I find myself fantasizing about having that little, wailing mound of flesh back in the baby Bjorn, completely, unquestioningly…under my control. Control is the prize, you see. She wants it, I have it…barely. I’m clinging on by the tips of my fingernails. She’s older. She’s smarter. She can communicate…if you can call it that. Our fights are arduous and they are over the most minuscule shit. I have invested more time and energy into getting my daughter to wear, eat and do things that she has clearly indicated she doesn’t want to do, than I ever did in anything of real importance, like, say my education or career.  In fact, if trying to reason with a toddler was my career…and it kind of is…I’d be at the top of my field. To be honest, the amount of rage I feel regarding these trivialities is more residual than anything. I wake up hopeful every morning; whispering a mantra of serenity so I can get through the day without having to be the banshee I hate so much. And I fail every morning, which is something I irrationally blame my daughter for most days. It’s not her fault. I can tell myself that a million times, but the part of me that doesn’t want to accept responsibility for my low success rate is totally deaf to reason…much like my daughter. The constant failure at the one thing I’ve dedicated my life to, my kids; the constant hiccups we’ve experienced; it all builds up throughout the week and suddenly it’s Friday, and the banana that she's peeled for breakfast but suddenly doesn’t want any more becomes a grenade launched at what little remains of my endurance. My patience, thin as a spider’s web snaps and World War Why goes into full launch sequence. I’m screaming like a lunatic about the cost of food. I’m pushing the banana at her, making decrees that she will starve before she wastes any more while she angrily slaps at my hand, jettisoning the remaining banana at the floor, simultaneously wailing and flailing. And just like that, the tone is set for the day. Failure before we’ve even stepped out of the gate, all because of a need to maintain this delusion that I have the control. 

My Quinn is a beautiful, unique, infuriatingly independent little monster. I think the thing that sucks the most about her age is that I can’t allow myself to enjoy her, because I’m so busy trying to modify the thing I love most about her; her passion. She is not afraid to question why I want her to do things, the way I want her to do them. She’s three and a half and she’s already advocating for herself in a way that I still can’t as an adult, which makes me so proud of her that I could burst. By the same token, it’s that same quality about her that can send me into spells of a rage I never thought possible as a parent. Do you know there are some nights, when she’s finally sleeping, that I climb into her bed next to her, hold her and fight the urge to sob.  I love her so much and I feel like I’m incapable of showing her just how wonderful she is when I spend so much of our time together lately, not liking her at all. 

Sometimes when I’m in full-on Hulk Mama Mode, I can’t help but notice my parents smirking. I was an awful child. I kicked walls, rejected rules, lied, took things that didn’t belong to me, said hurtful, nasty things…I was, undeniably, a bottomless pit of defiance. Their curse worked and their smirks represent the unspoken joy at surviving the years of torment only to be able to spectate as a smaller, more potent version of myself puts me through the same kind of hell. My only salvation is knowing that my mom came out unscathed only to find she had a friend as well as a daughter. I can only hope the same reward awaits me and Quinn.