Reasons My Daughter is Freaking Out

This post was inspired by the book, Reasons My Kid Is Crying, by Greg Pembroke who captures frustrating yet funny parenting moments through well-captioned photos of unhappy kids. Join From Left to Write on April 15 we discuss Reasons My Kid Is Crying. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Tantrums at six look at lot different than they did at two.  For one, they are far more verbal.  Whereas a toddler will throw herself down on the floor kicking and screaming bloody murder, a six-year-old will engage you in a lawyerly argument about what an awful parent you are, how maligned she is, and how, after she is done haranguing you, she may never speak to you again.

Ever.

At which point it takes everything in your maternal power not to say

In my dreams

But the one thing that remains unchanged is the endearingly irrational reasons she is having a tantrum in the first place.  Here are a few of Sophie’s from the past couple weeks:

• I sang Let It Go wrong and now we have to start all over again.
• I told her it was time to take a shower.
• She wasn’t allowed to have Oreos and Marshmallows for dessert.
• I asked her to do her homework, and handed her the wrong sheet.
• I put broccoli in her eggs.
• I wouldn’t let her wear the same pants three days in a row.
• I asked her to put her jacket on when it was 40 degrees and raining.
• I took her out to lunch and to see a play, but she just wanted to be home with daddy.

If I was to snap a picture of Sophie in one of these low moments, I think she would bum rush me and break my iPhone. I’m not going to try it and find out.   I’m not stupid.  Besides, I wouldn’t want to.  What might have gone unnoticed at two, would be humiliating at six.  The sense that I was mocking her would only thrust her more deeply into her angry and injured position. 

To be fair—if someone did that to me, I’d flip out too.  (Despite what I may think, my reasons for throwing a fit are no more sensible at 43 than they were at 6—we want what we want and sometimes our desires defy all rationality.)

If there is one thing I have learned in four years of meltdowns, it is best to let the storm rage and blow over.  To avoid stoking it with words or attention, making it a bigger deal than it already is.

In these moments, I find it best to take a step back, appreciate the absurdity of the moment and laugh, but silently and to myself. 

Join me.  What’s one of the reasons your little one flipped out recently?

Every Little Thing

Sleep deprived and locked in a brutal conflict with my meltdown queen, I’ve become highly irritable. I have zero tolerance for even the slightest of infractions. And, the fact of the matter is, I can’t let anything go with Sophia. If I give her an inch, she takes 26.2 miles.

Here’s the problem. On top of the usual battles, I’ve been manufacturing issues. I didn’t get it until my mother pointed it out after dinner.

While we were eating, Sophie crammed her whole hand in her mouth, triggering her gag reflex. Oh, she wasn’t quite to the point of retching…but she’d kind of turn red and choke for a second, pull her hand out, reinsert, and repeat.

Now, in my book, it’s dinner. And at dinner we eat. We don’t deep throat our fists. So I told Sophia to stop. You have to imagine me doing so not in a Zen mother kind of way, but in a totally grossed out, thoroughly pissed off, almost sisterly kind of way. And, thus, she reacted as any sibling would.

She smiled, reinserted her fist, and proceeded to gag herself with even greater enthusiasm.

I look at my mother and give her my bug-eyed look. The one that says, “I’m about to go completely insane.”

“Melissa, calm down,” my mother says in a whisper loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “This is not a big deal. She’s not hurting anyone. She’s not anorexic. She’s doing it to get your goat. Let it go.”

I wanted to whine: But mo-om! I can’t. She’s gagging at me! On purpose. Make her stop!

But, to my credit, I didn’t.

I tried not to look at Sophie. Still, I could see her, out of the corner of my eye. Her fingers slick with saliva. Drool leaking out of the corner of her mouth. Really? Was I supposed to let this go?

Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer, “Sophia, finish your dinner or you’re going straight to bed.”

“Without a book?” She asked, weighing her options. In her estimation, the potential elimination of the book might make dinner worthwhile. But I was not about to withdraw it; the book is my only leverage at this point. I needed that leverage for whatever was about to come next.

“We’ll discuss the book later.” I say, “If you can’t keep your hands out of your mouth you must be done with dinner.”

“I am. May I please be excused?” She was already climbing out of her chair.

“Yes. But then we’re getting ready for bed.”

“With a book?”

“Yes, WITH A BOOK!” I said, completely exasperated.

After we fought to get her pajamas on and her teeth brushed and she ordered me to leave the door cracked so a little light will shine through and to please sing her goodnight song as a duck and I quacked her to sleep, I collapsed on the couch across from my mother.

“Melissa. You can’t fight her on every little thing. I almost feel like, you’re too intensely focused on her. If you had another child, you wouldn’t be able to do this.”

“If I had another child, I’d lose my mind.” I retorted. But I knew she was right. I can’t let every little thing she does get to me. But I also don’t know how to reel myself in. Maybe if I just get some sleep.

Well, that night I got some sleep. So did Sophia, for a change. (I had finally solved her run-to-the-bathroom-40-times-each-night problem by putting a potty in her room. Having a bedside toilet quelled her fear that she wouldn’t make it to the bathroom on time, and so her checking behavior: “Do I have to go now? Do I have to go now? Do I have to go now?” finally abated.) I don’t think she got up once that night.

The next day was the most conflict-free day we’ve had. Oh, I had to struggle to get her dressed because the outfit I brought to my mothers’ had some blue in it and wasn’t solidly pink. And she also resisted the tooth-brushing, running to her bed and pulling the covers up over her head. But she compliantly put on her shoes and followed me out to the car. And after nursery school she reported that she had “no fusses,” which her teacher corroborated. She ate her lunch without incident, and napped for a full hour and a half. Afterwards, we played Candyland, and she actually moved her pieces when she was supposed to and didn’t hoard the candy cards. We laughed and sang on the car ride home, stopping for a girls-night-out at Wegmans where we ate sushi overlooking the produce section. She sat beautifully through dinner (i.e. didn’t shove her fist down her throat), and afterwards she performed three improvised dances for me while I finished my salmon.

Heading home, I looked into the rearview mirror and told Sophie what a wonderful day I had. How much I enjoyed being with her. How nice it was when she was fuss free.

“I love you.” I told her.

And then, she said it back. Not in the rote way that she generally does, but with her eyes and voice filled with emotion.

“I love you, too.”

And in a quiet voice she added. “I’m always with you. Even when I’m not in the car. I’m always with you.” It was a variant of a reassurance I had given her, before I found the potty solution, as I put her to bed. “I’m always with you Sophie, even if I’m not right here in the room.”

She’s always with me. For better or for worse. She’s always with me.