Hard Knock Life

I have just finished showing Sophie a few YouTube videos of the original cast of Annie, singing songs on Broadway, circa 1977.   (My first show, which for five dollars I stood for several hours to watch, and afterwards, endured months of my younger, curly-haired sister sing the words to Tomorrow as loud as her tiny lungs would allow.)

It’s our weekly ritual—my sensory-defensive daughter holds out her hands and compliantly allows me to snip her nails, while she’s mesmerized by YouTube clips of musical numbers.  Her favorite is Verruca Salt singing I Want It Now, from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. 

I clip the last nail and snap my laptop shut as Sophie pleads, “Just one more…please?”  I still have to brush her teeth and I am tempted by the ease at which this task could be accomplished if I allow “just one more.” 

So I do.  A chorus of orphans lament their fate in Hard Knock Life.  The toothbrushing is going well, but the song ends just before I finish. 

Sophie snaps her mouth shut, barring entrance.  “Just one more?” she asks again, through clenched teeth. 

“Sophie, just let me finish.”  This is how I am rewarded for my leniency—with blackmail.

“No.  I want one more song.” 

“Sophie, let me remind you that ‘letting Mommy wash me,” is one of your rules; and that includes toothbrushing.  You’ve had a great morning.  If you let me finish, you will earn a star.  I’m going to count to three, and I want you to open your mouth.  1...2…”  I pause.  She stares at me.  Smiling, dimples flashing.   “Three.”  I say, and try to force entry, but her lips are sealed.

“Sophie.  I’m warning you.  If you don’t let me finish brushing your teeth, I’m going to have to hold you down while I do it.” 

I realize that this may sound really extreme.  For a long time, Sophie would fight toothbrushing, clamping down and thrashing about.   Holding her down was absolutely the only way I was going to get a brush in her mouth.   Eventually we graduated to distraction—reading a book, while I brush.  Because it works, I continue to do it.  Every day, twice a day.  But when it fails, I don’t hesitate to revert back to my more persuasive methods.  Usually, just the possibility of being restrained is enough to turn the tide. 

Not this time.

She smirks, and so, I move swiftly to action, holding her down, squeezing her nose shut so that her mouth opens instinctively.  I quickly thrust the brush inside and she starts to laugh.

She thinks this is a game. 

I swallow back my anger, finish the job quickly, and let her up.

“Mommy?  Do I still earn my star?”

Do you still earn you star?  Do pigs fly?  Do cats swim?  Do I go back on my word?

“No.”  I say grimly.  “You do not earn your star.”  My voice is full of anger. 

Sophie’s hopeful face quickly transforms into a mask of rage and sadness. Tears fall in large drops.  She wails as if her heart has broken.

And I feel guilty.

She cries bitterly for a moment, and then takes a swing at me.  “Go STRAIGHT to your room,” I say in my most serious voice.  This time, she listens. 

I still feel guilty.  I wanted so badly for her to pull it out.  To simply open her mouth and let me give those remaining teeth a couple quick strokes.  I gave her every opportunity.  She brought this upon herself, and yet she is surprised. 

Kevin, who has been standing by the sink, washing up his lunch dishes and observing the whole incident reassures me, “You did the right thing.”

Then why do I feel so awful?

A few minutes pass, and Sophie comes down stairs, contrite, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”  It comes out as a sob.

“Do you want to talk about it?”  I ask?  She nods her head.

“Are you sure you’re ready?”  I am wary because she is still weepy and emotional.  I know how quickly this can turn back into rage. 

“Yes, I’m ready.  Can we go on the couch and snuggle?”  My heart twists.  She wants to repair, and so do I.  We make our way over to the couch and she curls her little body into mine. 

“Mommy.  If you yell at me, I am going to hit you,” she begins.  Not exactly the apology I had been anticipating.

“You don’t like it when I yell at you.” I say.

“No.” Her face screws up and she cries a bit more. 

“I’m sorry.”  I tell her, “I was angry and I lost control.  I shouldn’t yell at you. But when I ask you to do something, I expect you to follow my directions.  When you don’t listen to me, I get very angry.” 

“Well, I was angry at you, because you wouldn’t let me see another video.”

“I know, Sophie.  But I had let you see several videos already.  I just wanted to finish brushing your teeth.  All you had to do was open your mouth, and you would have earned your star.  I gave you multiple opportunities to do it, but each time you refused.” 

She sobbed with regret, and then begged, “Please read me a book.” 

“Do you understand what happened?”

“Yes.”

“What did you learn from this?”

“Not to hit you.”

“Well….that wasn’t quite what I had in mind.  Sophie, when I ask you to do something, I want you to do it.  I’m asking you for your own good.  To take care of your teeth.”

“Okay.  Now can you read me a book?”  She needs this book to know we are okay, and so I read to her.  But as I do, my mind wanders elsewhere:

Why isn’t this sinking in?  How many times must we dance this dance?  Cause each other pain?  Why does she seem to delight in provoking me, only to despair when I snap?  And why do I snap?  Why can’t I unhook, emotionally, from these battles? 

Why must the smallest, simplest things be so hard?

Worth the Fight

Kevin has Sophie in what might look to the rest of the world like a chest lock, as I try to wrestle her pants onto her body.

“I DON’T WANT TO GO TO THE ZOO.”

She is writhing and kicking, fighting us with everything she has. She bends over and bites the pants.

“No, Sophie. Biting is bad,” says Kevin.

Sophie’s eyes gleam and she cranes her neck to bite me. I whip my forearm away, just in the nick of time.

“YOU DON’T BITE,” I say in my loud, firm, angry teacher voice.

“I want to bite you!” I’ve got one leg in, but she’s trying to work it off with her other leg. Kevin has both her arms pinned to prevent her from slapping, biting or scratching me.

“We are going to the zoo and that’s THAT!” I say.

How did it come to this? We need to rewind this moment to about five minutes ago.

Sophie is curled up on the couch with her father, who is now reading the 17th Dick and Jane story in the Complete Dick and Jane Reader.

“Sally goes down. Down. Down. Down. Funny Sally. Sally is down.” Or something like that, utterly devoid of content, written for the sole purpose of drilling sight words, ignorant of the importance of phonics as a critical component of early literacy programs. Though, the pictures are charming. I particularly like the ones of Father, who resembles Don Draper.

“Are we going to the holiday light display at the zoo or not?” My mother asks.

“How cold is it?” I ask back. Anything below freezing and the answer is no. Mom pops outside in her blue velour track suit and a few seconds later announces, “It’s 40 degrees and no wind. If we don’t go tonight, we’re not going to get an opportunity like this again. I’m going.” She’s lying through her teeth. I eye Sophie’s tights.

“Okay. But I don’t want Sophie walking around in just a pair of tights. She’s going to have to wear a pair of pants over them.”

“NO! I WILL NOT!” Sophie protests. “No pants over my tights. It will be very comfortable.” I know that she means uncomfortable, as she makes this mistake virtually every time I dress her.

“No pants, no zoo.” I tell her.

“Then no zoo,” Sophie shoots back, challenging me.

The gloves are off.

“Well, Grandpa and I are going, whether you’re going or not.” My mother adds to the pot.

“I want to go too,” it comes out a little like a whine.

Kevin points out, his lids at half mast, “You three should go. When you come back and tell her all about it, she’ll learn from the consequences of her actions. The toddler should not make decisions for the family.”

My mother makes a crack about Sophie being raised by two psychologists.

I offer my evaluation: “She’s just being stubborn. If we get her there, she’ll have a great time. I vote we break her will.”

I go to the bedroom and re-appear with Sophie’s hot pink leggings.

“I SAID NO PANTS!”


And now we’re back where we started. We wrestle the pants on. Next the shoes, which are slightly too large, and she easily kicks across the room as soon as we jam her feet into them.

“Forget the shoes,” I say. “We’ll put them on in the car.” We force her into a pint-size cherry red down jacket. Sophie is crying real tears and snot is running into her mouth. Her hair is matting with sweat from her effort.

“Get me a tissue,” Kevin instructs, as he lifts Sophie up, who is all limbs and teeth and nails. I am back in a flash with the tissues, opening the front door, then the car door, clearing a path for Kevin and the whirling dervish in his arms.

Grandma and grandpa follow in disbelief.

Kevin straps her to her chair. “I NEED SNAKEY-PIE!” Sophia moans…she is showing signs of weakening. Grandma returns to the house for Snakey-pie. Kevin dabs her cheeks and Sophie fights him anew.

“I don’t want to go to the zoo! I don’t want to see the holiday lights!”

With snakey-pie in her arms and her thumb in her mouth, she relaxes. It’s quiet in the car for a few beats.

“I am going to knock down ALL the holiday lights!” Sophie says with conviction. Her last stand. We smirk in the darkness.

By the time we reach the zoo, Sophie is pointing out the decorations she sees on the way. Once we park, she compliantly dons her hat, scarf and mittens. As we push her through the entrance, she gasps with joy. Before long she is exclaiming over luminous images of zoo animals, begging to ride the carousel, staring in wonder at the wolf who glows strangely white in the light of a waxing moon. We run into her friends Reid and Mitchell. Sophie grasps Reid’s hand and the two of them walk through animal exhibits, transformed by this electrified night. Many of the few animals that are visible are asleep. An exception is the great python in the reptile house, his head lifted from the thick ropes of his body. Sophie puts her face to the glass and he touches her lips with the tines of his forked tongue.

“He gave you a kiss,” I tell Sophie. “I got a snake kiss!” Sophie exclaims. And she puts her face down for another.