We Can Work It Out

I love my husband.  He is—above all things—my beloved friend, and since the day we’ve met, we’ve enjoyed talking to each other for hours on end. 

But, as in any marriage, there are times when communication breaks down.  When anger rises within me, overtakes me and makes me want to say mean and nasty things to the one I love:

“You never…”

“You always…”

“I don’t understand why you just can’t …” 

“If you would only…”

These moments are always the product of competing needs and mismatched perceptions.  Each of us has a valid point of view that we are willing to die for.

Over time, I have learned, that it is best in these moments to bite my tongue and give myself a time out.

The draw to be right, to win, to pummel the other into agreement with one’s own perspective is great.  Sometimes, if I’m really incensed, I return to mutter stuff under my breath. 

But more and more, I make an effort to take a step towards Kevin.  To swallow back all the brilliant, witty, caustic remarks that seep from my mouth, and get curious.  Probe deeper.  Try to understand where he is coming from.  Acknowledge his point of view.  Own and apologize for my own wrongdoing.

It is at once, the hardest and most simple thing to do, setting aside your ego, but it is necessary for preserving the relationship.  Ultimately, that is what I want—not to be right in this particular argument, or to get my way, but for us to live peacefully and happily as possible.  To get away from this place where we have become monstrous, and return to love. 

It’s hard because my parents fought viciously.  At some point, they lost their way and could not find the path back to where they started.

I rarely saw reaching out.  Resolution.  Repair. 

Which means that it took me that much longer to learn how to do things differently. 

Yesterday, we spent a lovely day with friends who also have one child, a boy, Sophie’s age.  Together, the kids played in the pool and frolicked in the spray ground, while we idly looked on, chatting.   I quietly observed that, personality-wise, Sophie and Jacob were evenly matched.   I am always amazed when Sophie meets a child equally intense as herself and, rather than butt heads, they inspire each other.  Sure, there were rubs, taunts, and a moment where one pushed the other under a bucket that dumped a torrent of water on the other’s head.  But the desire to enjoy each other’s company clearly trumped any bump in the road.  Hurt feelings were quickly smoothed over.

Riding in the car, on the way home, Sophie suddenly announced, “I want to kiss Jacob.”

Kevin beat me to my question, “How come?”

“Because I love him.”  She was beaming with the memory of their day together.  “I want to marry him,” she added.

I thought about all the other girls and boys who had suddenly got bumped from the future spouse list.

“Why do you want to marry him?” I asked, genuinely curious. 

“Because he’s fun.  We had five fights today.  But even when we fight, we find a way to solve our problem.  Then we have more fun!” 

At five, she’s already got it.  

 

Only Love Is Real

It’s breakfast time and Sophie hasn’t quite finished her oatmeal, but she can no longer bear being confined to her seat. 

She is up, wandering, doing a little dance, pulling the magnets off my mother’s refrigerator, I ask her to please sit back down or ask to be excused from the table.

Instead, she crawls into my lap, making her eyes large and round and fingering the locket that hangs off a chain on my neck.  “Please don’t pull on it Sophie.  You’ve broken it once before.” 

“I’m not,” she says, trying to pry the locket open.  “I just want to see it.”

“Here, let me,” I say slipping a fingernail inside the crack.  It pops open and Sophie reads the words inside in a whisper, “Only love is real.”

It gives me the shivers, a little, to hear her say this. 

I bought this necklace for myself, to wear as a reminder of the truth, when I get sucked into believing anything else, which happens often. 

“Mommy, what does that mean?” She is looking at me with those eyes as big as saucers. 

“Um…well…it means that love is the only thing that really matters.” 

“Oh,” she says, her face serious, but unreadable.  It is impossible to tell if this has resonated with her deeply or she has no idea what I’m talking about.  She reads the locket again in whispery, reverent way, before hopping off my lap. 

“Time to get ready for school, mouse,” I tell her. 

“Aw, mom.  I want to read a book first.  Will you read this book to me?”  I sigh.  We’ll be late.   Again.  But what does it matter, really.  Only love is real. 

*

A couple days later we are back in our own home.  I have just awakened Sophie who has the uncanny ability to only sleep late on weekdays when there is somewhere we have to be.  She is grumpy.

“You weren’t supposed to wake me!  I was supposed to get up and go down stairs to see daddy!  Go back to bed mommy.”  

I wish.  This is not a plan I agreed to, but one masterminded by Sophie, probably after bedtime last night when she was reading books by the light of the hallway, instead of going to sleep. 

“Soph, unfortunately you slept late this morning, so I need you to get up and get dressed.”

“No!  I am never getting dressed.  I am staying in my bed forever.”

“I’ll give you a few more minutes to get up, “ I concede, “but then I’m coming back in here, and you are getting dressed.”

She has already disappeared under her fuzzy purple blanket.  An obstinate lump in her loft.  The lump says “hmph!” as I walk out. 

When I come back in a few minutes later, she has not changed position.

“Okay.  It’s time.”   I stand in front of the ladder to her bed.  My voice is even and calm, but firm. 

“I don’t want to go to school.  I want to stay at home and play with daddy.  I want it to be the weekend.” 

I can sympathize with this.  Once again, I imposing my adult schedule and adult needs upon her, thwarting her carefree, live-for-the-present-moment state of being. “I know, honey, but today is Thursday.  Daddy has to go to work, Mommy has to go to work, and you have to go to school.  You’ll get to play with him when he comes home tonight.”

She is quiet.  I take this as an in.

“Come on, honey, let’s pick out something supercool to wear,” I coax.

“No.”

“Soph, I don’t want to have to count….”

“Don’t count!”

“Then come on down.”

She doesn’t move.

“1….”

“Stop mommy!”

“2….” She begins to cry, angry stubborn tears.

“But mommy!  Only love is real!” 

I stop counting.  A smile peeks out of the corner of my mouth.  She has invoked these words in the wrongest and rightest way. 

On the one hand, there is the recognition that we are dancing a familiar dance.  That we do not have to do this.  That it can be interrupted.  She understands that what is happening between us is of our own creation, and just as easily as we conjured it, we can change it.  What is happening between us is not real. 

On the other hand, it appears she is hurdling this as a reminder for me, not herself.  I am the one who needs to stop pressing my agenda.  I am the one who must back down.  She is asking me the question, “How can I possibly be so insistent, so unrelenting, when only love is real?”

(Another possibility, my husband suggests, is that she is simply conning me.)

I am not quite sure how to talk to her about this paradox.  That sometimes we just have to do what we have to do, despite the fact that ultimately it’s not really important.  We have to live our lives. 

I look her in the eye.  “Thank you for that reminder, Sophie.  I don’t want to fight with you.” 

She is crying now, “then please stop counting, Mommy.”

“Okay.  Shhhh.  Calm down,” my voice losing its edge.  She leans over the side of her bed towards me, and I hold her for a moment. 

“Here, let me help you pick something out.” I whisper into her hair, “And once you get dressed you can come down and see daddy while I make breakfast, okay?” 

“Okay.”  She begins her decent as I disappear into her closet. 

There was no avoiding this fight.  The rubs are inevitable as we come together with conflicting perspectives, conflicting needs.  But with each moment of recognition, with each repair, the sinew that bonds us gets stronger. 

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?

My New Golden Rule

Since infancy, Sophie has hated the bath. People have told me it will get better as she gets older. It hasn’t. At four, she still has a strong aversion to the indignity of being washed; experiences hair washing as physical pain; pulls her limbs from me as I try to soap them up. I’ve found ways to help her cope: I don’t do it every day. I give her fair warning. She can select toys she wants to have in the tub, and I set the timer to allow her some play time. When I can no longer delay the actual washing, I tell her stories or sing to her as I scrub. Most of the time this makes it tolerable for both of us. Some of the time, there is no amount of preparation, no degree of sugar-coating it that will make it palatable.

This was one of those times.

“Sophia, it’s time for a bath.” She was downstairs playing Beauty and Friendly Beast with Kevin, while I was filling the tub.

“I’m not coming!” I hear Kevin say gently, “Come on, Sophie,” and her feet on the steps. Once upstairs, she stomps into her bedroom and slams the door.

“Get in here. Now.” She appears in the doorway, her hands on her hips in a defiant posture.”

“I don’t need a bath.”

I am not arguing this point. It is most definitely time. “Sophia, take off the princess dress.”

“No. I won’t.”

“If you don’t take it off yourself, I’m going to take it off of you.”

“No! Don’t touch my dress!” She runs into her room. I make chase. Unfortunately, I’m under a time constraint. I have to get this done before she goes down for a nap and I have to leave the house.

“I’m going to count to three!” I warn.

“I said I’m not taking off the dress!”

“ONE....”

“NO MOMMY!”

“TWO....”

“STOP COUNTING!”

“THREE!” I begin to rip the princess dress off her body. I’m all jacked up on adrenaline now. She’s pulling it down as I’m trying to wrestle it over her head, so I grab her pearls instead.

“DON”T TOUCH MY PEARLS! YOU’LL BREAK THEM!”

“Then take them off yourself.” I say, trying, trying, trying to stay in control.

“Noooooo!” I pull the elastic band of beads over her head. She grabs for them and I seize the opportunity to remove the dress.

At last. Down to the underwear. She grasps the elastic waistband and pulls it up to her chest, giving her the most painful wedgie I’ve ever seen. “Don’t touch my underwear! IT’S PART OF MY BODY!” The way she is pulling them, they have become part of her body.

I slide her feet out from under her, take her down on the bath mat, making sure her head doesn’t hit the floor, and work the panties off her. Then, I pick up her naked body and deposit her in the tub. Her limbs churn the water, instantly soaking me and the floor.

“Sophia. I’m warning you. Stop it RIGHT NOW. If you want to keep your toys in the tub, you need to stop.”

She continues to thrash, brandishes a bowl and threatens, “I’m going to dump water on you!”

“Give me that,” I say, taking it from her. She raises a large plastic water wheel over her head, about to chuck it at me. I take that too. “Now you’ve lost your toys. What a shame.” I tell her.

She goes into a blind rage. A tidal wave rises up and sloshes out of the tub. I’m soaked again. I glance at the clock. I’m supposed to be out of here in 15 minutes.

This is when I lose it. I pick up the pitcher that I use to rinse her hair. “Knock it off NOW, or I’m going to dump water on you.” I am hopeful that, like cats who are fighting, one douse will end it all.

She continues to churn the water with her legs. I dump.

She’s in shock. “Mommy! You got water in my eyes! You’re hurting me.” Then, she kicks again, only harder. I do it again. She screams, still kicking, “Let me calm down! Let me calm calm down!”

I really hope, one day, she isn’t going to be talking about this in therapy.

I pull the shower curtain closed so that she can continue to flail without soaking me, and, perhaps we can both calm down. I take a deep breath.

I am really, really tempted to spank her naughty bottom. I see how parents get to this point. Low on sleep, on patience, on time it’s easy to be gripped by rage. To let it get the best of you. To incite you to do things in a calmer, saner moment, you never would.

This is not how I want things to be, between us. This is not what I want to teach her. To model.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have done that. I lost my temper. That was wrong.” I wait a moment and then I say it again, “I’m sorry, Sophia.” I am sitting here, hoping she will take a little personal responsibility for her role in the fight.

I expect a lot from her, I know. She is only four.

“I’m not ready yet.” The curtain says back.

“Fair enough.” I reply. “Just let me know when you are.”

“Maybe in a few minutes.” I call the person I’m meeting to let her know, I’ll be late. Working this through is the most important thing I could possibly doing right now. Conflict is inevitable. Repair is essential.

The curtain says, “Okay. I’m ready now.”

I draw it back. Sophie is sitting there, eyes red, tears clinging to her face, “You hurt me,” she accuses.

“I am sorry I dumped water on you Sophia. I shouldn’t have done that. It was not nice. But, don’t forget, you had a part in this, too.” I raise my eyebrows.

“I’m sorry too, Mommy. It’s just that I wasn’t ready. I wanted to play more with Daddy.” I know. I know.

“Sophia, you’re going to be with Daddy the rest of the afternoon. You’ll have plenty of time to play with him.” She seems cheered by this.

“Okay. You can wash me now. But can you tell me a story?”

I tell her the story of what just happened between us, using this moment “There once was a little girl who never wanted to talk a bath....”

The story has a moral: Do unto mother...as you would have your mother do unto you.