She Gives Me Naches

Sophie could hardly wait for the day of her second visit to the dentist to arrive. Her first, six months ago, had gone splendidly. And she still remembered the appointment with great fondness. She repeatedly told me, “I’m going to tell the dentist that I eat jelly beans after dinner, but then I brush my teeth so I won’t get cavities.”

“That will make her very happy,” I assured her. At the library last Tuesday, Sophie asked, “Can we get the book, Charlie and Lola Go to the Dentist?”

“Soph, I don’t know if that book exists. We have to ask the librarian.”

So we did. It didn’t. But another character she is fond of, Vera, did have such a book. We ordered it through interlibrary loan.

The book came just in time, the day before Sophie’s six month check up. I was a little wary of reading this one to her. Vera Rosenberry writes autobiographical children’s books about her experiences with her sisters. They are very sweet and poignant tales of her youth, but the dentist one emphasized fear. When the dentist tries to polish Vera’s teeth, she bit him, hopped out of the chair and ran out of the office.

I didn’t want to give Sophie any ideas. I wouldn’t put it past her to imitate Vera’s behavior.

We had barely announced ourselves at the receptionist’s desk when the assistant popped her head out to call Sophie’s name. Sophie and I stood up to follow her to the examination room, when Sophie turned to me and put her hand up.

“No Mom. Just me.”

I was stunned. I had no idea how to respond. My face must have registered my shock and confusion, because the assistant looked at me with wide eyes and said, “It’s okay mom. You can wait here. She’ll be fine.”

REALLY?

Then Sophia marched through the door that was covered with brown paper and the words “We’re happy to see you here!” following the assistant without looking back even once.

I stood there for a moment, still recovering for the shock, before I began pacing. “It’s okay, Mom,” the receptionist told me, “this is a good thing.”

“But she’s three.” I had never even considered her going in for the appointment on her own. Then I remembered Vera. First each of her two sisters had been called back. Then Vera, who went in to see the dentist all by herself, while her family sat in the waiting room. It wasn’t the fear she had internalized, but the confidence. What she perceived as Vera’s independence.

I forced myself to sit and let myself feel awash in awe, shock and pride as I thought about who this person—my daughter—is.

Then I remembered the television hooked up to the dentist chair. No, I said to myself. You are not going to barge in there and insist on no television.

As if on cue, the dental assistant poked her head out, “I just wanted to let you know that she’s fine. And that when she saw the video screen she told us she’s not allowed to watch television.”

REALLY?

Okay, so what if it’s temporary. So what if she ignores every word I say ten, or even two, years from now. Right now, I’ve got naches. Full on Jewish parental pride. I’m bursting with it.

When she was finished, the dentist came out and gushed about the appointment. She jokingly asked if Sophie wanted a job putting other kids at ease.

“Actually,” I told her, “Sophie has aspirations of being a dentist when she grows up. She pretends to work on our teeth at home. I bet she’d love that.”

“I could really see her assisting here, as a teenager.” She sounded serious.

“Really?”

“Seriously. We’ll have to see if she’s still interested—but let’s keep it in mind.”

“Oh, I will” I assured her, my cheeks beginning to ache from my permagrin. “Sophie, you just got your first job offer!” I told her. Sophie poked her head out of the prize box for a second to consider this. “I don’t want to be a dentist. I want to be a mommy.”

“You can be both,” the dentist and I said in unison.

One Step Back, Two Steps Forward

Sophie’s regression started with a simple request: “Mama, carry me like a little baby.” I obliged because, quite frankly, this is a fantasy I like to indulge in myself. Further evidence of our folie a deux.

“My tired little baby,” I whispered into her sweaty mop of hair, “do you need a kiss?”

“Yes, ma-ma,” she answered. I took all 28 pounds of her into my arms, planted a kiss on the crown of her head, and carried her off to bed.

We both felt a deep sense of satisfaction. The perfect ending to a day of eternal struggle. A mother-toddler battle-of-the-wills smackdown, which goes a little like this.

After a gentle request to climb into her carseat: “If you don’t climb into that carseat by the time I count to three, I’m putting you in. 1…2…. Good listening!”

After an invitation to sit down to breakfast: “If you don’t climb into that highchair by the count of three, I’m putting you in…1…2…3. That was pushing it, Missy.”

After notification that it is time to leave the park: “If you don’t climb back into your stroller by the count of three, I’ll put you in, myself…1…2…2 ½…3. (Sounds of a struggle…”NO! I’ll do it myself!” “I gave you the opportunity to do it yourself, now I have to do it for you.” “Daddy said I can do it myself!” “Daddy is at work and said no such thing.” “Waaaahhhhhhh!!!!”)

We are both wrung out.

The next day, I am fixing breakfast and Sophie is playing on the floor beside me. “Look, ma-ma. I’m a little baby crawling to you.” She crawls over to me and puts her arms up in the air, “uppy!” (NB: Even as a baby, Sophie never said “uppy.” This babytalk is based on her observation of other children, a modeling of iconic baby behavior, rather than a true reversion to her younger self.) I lift her up; she rests her head on my shoulder and places her thumb in her mouth.

She needs me less and less.

The awareness of her independence triggers an existential crisis that makes her want me more, “I want to be separate…oh no, I am alone in the world…I want to merge.” And then the cycle repeats. I do a careful dance of trying to foster her sense of self-efficacy and offering the reassurance that I am there to take care of her. It requires a great deal of attunement, empathy, and memory. At times, more than I can manage (e.g., I must retain the knowledge that she likes for me to begin to peel her banana, but not remove the peel entirely so that she can then peel the rest of it herself and hand it off to me for disposal. NOT following this sequence, i.e., peeling the banana entirely and then handing it to her runs the risk of triggering a tantrum.)

One could make the case that I should not give in to toddler whims. I am the parent. The control should rest with me. But I believe in giving her control within the limits of behavior that is acceptable to me. Letting her have a sense of autonomy, of agency, of importance. It is no skin off my nose to let her peel the rest of the banana. Saving a few seconds is not worth a battle. Safety issues, such as holding my hand when she crosses the street, are non-negotiables. I save my strength for these fights. I have no desire to lord over her, bend her will, break her spirit. Somehow, I believe, she understands the fairness of this, the inherent respect. She listens when it counts.
By the same token, I have to reel in the impulse to baby her, not just to do things for her, but to coddle her and hover over her like the helicopter parent I am. I try, really try, to make sure that babying takes place on her terms, when she is feeling frightened of the chasm forming between us her new, more competent self, when she wants assurance that she’ll always be my baby. (“Carry me like a little baby.” “Uppy.”) This is not to say that I don’t constantly reach for her, kiss her and tell her I love her. I do. But if rejected in the moment, “No Mommy! Don’t kiss me,” I back off, knowing the less I push, the less she’ll resist.

None of this is easy because it’s not about what I want or need. But I find that if I follow her rhythms…the ebb and flow of her desire to be connected and separate, the rise and fall of her longing for agency and care…I get exactly what I want and just what I need.

I Do It MYSELF!

Everything takes twice as long as it should. Should? Well, twice as long as when I do it for her. I suppose Sophia is not on a schedule.

I am.

I lift her up into her highchair. “No Mommy. No lifting Sophia! I want to do it. I want to do it!” Tantrum ensues.

I buckle her car seat. “No MOMMY LET ME LET ME LET ME! I do the TOP and you do the BOTTOM.” I have to unclick the seat belt and wait as she does it herself, before I am permitted to check if it is secure.

I wash her body. “NO SCRUBBING SOPHIA. Back Away, Mommy! BACK AWAY! THIS IS MY BODY! YOU HAVE YOUR OWN BODY!!!” Believe me: I would be perfectly happy to go back to washing one body each day. The only problem with this is that Sophia is not yet able to wash her own body. Left to her own devices, she would contentedly sit in the tub for hours, without ever lifting a wash cloth, singing and putting cups on her toes. The bath devolves into a wrestling match.

This scrubbing protest, in particular, really captures the sense of invasion she feels as I perform these daily activities of living for her. I try to imagine what its like to not only have no control over these things that happen to you, but to know that even if given the opportunity you can’t do them as well. The body simply has not caught up with the brain. If it had, Sophie would be in the driver’s seat.

Literally. For it was just the other day she said, “Mommy, you sit in my chair [car seat] and I’LL drive.”

Most of the time, I can approach sit back and admire Sophia’s independence. Her take-charge attitude. Her aspirations of competence. I can approach the situation with humor. I can be five minutes late to where-ever we are going. I know that this is a phase. It will be short-lived. As a friend pointed out: The more they do for themselves, the easier it gets. A little frustration now is worth less work in the long run.

But there are times when I get impatient. When I can’t wait those extra three minutes. Maybe I’m short on sleep. Maybe there have been too many incidents of its kind that day. Maybe I feel some inexplicable need to exert my parental authority. Regardless of the reason, these are the moments I regret—either because of the Wrath of Sophia or because I am engaged in battle with a two-year-old. A battle hard fought and rarely won.

We’re on the same team. I was never going to take her for granted. I love her, damn it!

But I’m human. If there is a secret to not getting triggered, I haven’t found it. But if this is any indication of what thirteen is like, I better start looking for the answers now.

Pick Your Battles

I believe in picking your battles. As a teacher, and later, when I was in private practice as a psychologist, I used to dispense this advice regularly. You have to decide what is most important to you, and then stick to your guns when it comes to those things. The other stuff you can let slide.

But as with most parenting issues, it is one thing to be childless and degreed. It’s another thing to be the parent whose child is screeching in a restaurant because she wants out of the high chair, or throwing her food on the floor because she doesn’t want to eat it, or is trying to walk out of the library with a monkey she lifted from the lost and found and who clings to said monkey and screams “Share! SHARE!” when you gently encourage her to put it back.

The public battles are, perhaps, the most difficult to deal with because you have the humiliation factor. And they know it.

So how does one pick one’s battles? How does one decide what’s most important? What gets “ignored” and what gets a “no” and what gets a “time out?” As a behaviorist, it used to be my job to analyze what was motivating the behavior, identify the antecedent and the consequence, and think about how to manipulate either of these to change the behavior. In other words, I had the luxury of time and brain space to think through these issues. But, today, when groggy from lack of sleep and before caffination has taken place I am wrestling my child down to the ground to remove her 20-lb soggy diaper, and she’s screaming “Babies, BABIES!” (translation, “Mother, I won’t let you change my diaper unless I can watch video clips of myself on your Treo.”) do I show her the videos so she’ll lie still for the 2 minutes it will take to change her or do I decide that diaper changes are a fact of life and she shouldn’t get a reinforcer for something she should just naturally do.

Yes, pity me. I really do think about these things.

I choose not to have the dirty diaper battle, so I hand over my defunct Treo and Sophie compliantly lies down on the mat. Babies it is. Sophie: 1 Mommy: 0.

The day continues in this way, with me wearily deciding at ever turn whether to take away an object I told her she couldn’t have, make her pick up something I just told her to pick, make her come to me the first time I call not the thirtieth. I fear the long term—what happens if I don’t follow through—a spoiled, defiant child who doesn’t clean up after herself—and it is my motivation to bite the bullet and have the battle.

But will she really? I mean, is it sooooo terrible if I give in and let her eat a raisin bread and cream cheese sandwich on the floor instead of her highchair (that I just spent five minutes trying to strap her into as she arched her back and screamed). Cause we’re already late and I want her to eat and the floor isn’t THAT dirty.

Okay, maybe it is. (But, remember, the NYTimes says its okay.)

I let her eat on the floor. Sophia: 2. Mommy: 0. She gets a little food in her. Sophia: 2, Mommy: 1. We get out of the door in 15 minutes instead of an hour: Sophia: 2, Mommy: 2.

Finally in the car, and headed North, Sophia demands “E O! E O!” (Translation, “Please, mother, could you play Raffi singing, ‘Old McDonald Had a Band,” on a constant loop for the next 45 minutes?”) At first, I try to ignore her, but the kid has staying power. “EO EO EO EO! Mama! Song! EO!”

As I reach for the CD player, I think about something that I learned in couples therapy: there is no malice; only competing needs and desires. I think of Sophia’s need to be independent. To exert her will and make choices in this world. To hear a little music while strapped to a chair in a five-point restraint.

I press play. Raffi’s dulcet tones replace my toddlers piercing cries.

I catch Sophia’s eye in the mirror. Signing, she extends her hand from her mouth towards me, “Thank you,” she says and smiles. The words are spontaneous and genuine.