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.
