Letting Go

Sophia just told me that she wanted to go to the pool, which—in my mind—justifies the fact that I am holding her down and vigorously applying sunscreen to her tender baby flesh. 

New skin is perfect.  Smooth, poreless, incredibly soft.  I would stroke my child all day long if she let me. 

It is my duty to protect this skin!

I am half sitting on her, one hand gripping her arm, the other smearing white sticky goo up and down it, intent on my mission, deaf to her protests. 

Then, from beneath me she cries.  “I AM NOT A TOY.  I AM A PERSON.  STOP TREATING ME LIKE A TOY!”

Is this a ploy?  Is she trying to arouse my guilt for trying to shield her from the searing North Jersey sun?  Or could this be how she feels?  Manipulated, like a doll, as if she is not real.  As if I have no respect for her feelings.  Her humanity. 

I feel sick.  I let go of her. 

She is still livid with the injustice.  Clawing at me.  Hitting me. 

Unfortunately, we are not alone.  I have an audience.  My friend Pam is there, along with some of the other parents and kids who share our cabin at camp. 

Pam says calmly, “What do you usually do?”

“Give her a time out until she calms down, but how do I do that here…?”  Here, at camp where no space is private.  Pam acts swiftly, picking Sophie up and depositing her into an adjacent room full of bunk beds.  It’s where the adult campers with disabilities have been sleeping.  But right now it is empty.  As Pam closes the door I hear the thud of Sophie’s sandal against it.  Pam chuckles. 

This is the second tantrum Pam has witnessed.  The first was in the shower, when I tried to wash Sophia the other night.  As I soaped her up, she squirmed away, as slick and slippery as an eel.  Pam held her and told me, “You know, you’re much too thorough.”

It’s true.  Whether I am washing Sophia’s body, brushing her teeth, wiping her butt, combing her hair, or applying sunscreen, I make sure I get every nook and cranny.  It feels obsessive as I’m doing it, but I can’t bear the thought of missing a spot.  It rises from my gnawing perfectionism.  From the fear that I might be remiss as a mother—any pimple, cavity, snarl or sunburn evidence of my failure. 

But the truth hurts.  I couldn’t hear her.  Not then, in the moment, frustrated and overwrought.  “Can we talk about this later?”  I asked her, not kindly.  In that moment, I just wanted her help, her extra hands.  The patience every mother has for a child that is not her own—not her advice.  Pam got it.  She gave me what I needed.  We got through it.

And now, my daughter is raging in the other room, and I am ready to listen.  I need another pair of eyes.  An objective, unemotional view.  Wisdom from someone who has been there. 

She tells me that she used to fight every battle, until it was killing her.  She tells me how she has learned to let things go.  I’m listening.  I believe her.  I have known her to be every bit as hardcore and unyielding as I am. 

She suggests that I let Sophia do more on her own. 

You mean, give up control?  Let a four-year-old wash herself?  Brush her teeth?  Comb her hair?  I have tried to let Sophia do some of these things, with less than stellar results. 

I would have to be okay with that.  I try it on.  I feel the muscles in my arms and chest tighten with resistance. 

Then I hear a voice inside my head telling me to question anything I hold dear. 

“Okay.”  I tell Pam, “Thank you.”  She hugs me.  We check on Sophia.  She has fallen asleep.  I have not learned the lesson my broken foot was meant to teach me. 

She was exhausted. 

When we get home, I give Sophia a bath.  I hand her a washcloth and tell her that we’re going to try something different.  This time, she’s going wash herself, and I am going to help.  She likes the idea, proudly soaping her chest and legs—letting me get the hard-to-reach places, like her back.  She still dilly-dallies.  She still resists me.  But it’s less combative, more collaborative.

And now, a few weeks later, I realize that Sophia has not asked me—not even once—to wipe her butt after using the toilet. 

More importantly, I haven’t offered. 

I'm in Time Out

I’ve been spending a lot of time in time out lately, and, for the record, I’d like to proclaim my innocence.

I have done nothing wrong.

Unlike SOME PEOPLE, I do not bite. I do not hit. I do not refuse to give up empty fruit squeeze containers to my mother, who is desperately pleading with me to do so as a children’s museum docent makes her way over to us to point out the sign over our heads:

Absolutely no food allowed outside of the cafeteria.

Most of the time I am very well behaved. Oh, every now and then I lose it when CERTAIN PEOPLE are not moving fast enough in the morning. Or are, in fact, dawdling ON PURPOSE when I am trying to get out of the house to make it to work on time.

And sometimes I become irate when A PRESCHOOLER WHO SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS yells a command, demand or reprimand at me when I am driving. Or worse, chucks something into the front seat.

“That’s dangerous. We could get into an accident.”

“No. YOU’RE DANGEROUS,” comes the voice of opposition, “YOU could get us into an accident.”

“Well I might if you don’t SETTLE DOWN.”

“No. YOU need to settle down.”

“Sophia, I’m warning you.”

“I’m warning you! Don’t talk to me. Don’t LOOK at me.”

I look at her in the mirror, raising my eyebrows in a way that I hope communicates: back down now.

“I said DON’T LOOK AT ME! Don’t look at me! I’m going to put you in TIME OUT.”

Funny. I was just thinking the same about you. Actually, that’s not true. I rarely put my daughter in time out. It’s true that sometimes I suggest she go upstairs to CALM DOWN. But she only get’s thrown into the pit of despair when she’s aggressive.

Like the other day at the children’s museum. As I tried to wrestle the fruit squeeze container, which had been drained of every last atom of organic bananas and peaches, she sank her sharp little incisors into my right pointer finger.

“YOW!” I cried out. Several parents and their small children turned around to see what all the fuss was about.

“YOU DO NOT BITE!” I snarled and marched her over to the closest corner. What a mistake. It was laden with electrical wires, steps leading to a door armed with an alarm, and, I think, a pile of rusty nails.

“SIT ON THIS STEP AND DO NOT MOVE UNTIL I SAY SO.” Bent her head down and charged me. I lifted her back onto the step and try to body block her escape.

“Get out of my way, Mommy! I’m not in time out! You are!” We had a growing audience and she was clearly enjoying performing for the crowd.

“That’s it,” I say, my voice a low growl. “We’re leaving.” She kicked off her shoes. I picked her and the shoes up and carried her towards the front door.

At the coat rack, I handed Sophia her pink buffalo coat (“I won’t wear it! It makes me look like a buffalo!”) “I’m not putting on my coat,” she sang provocatively.

“Stand in the corner,” I hissed. I whipped out my phone to call my friend, Nan, who we had met her for a playdate, for backup. She was the reining queen of therapeutic holds at the school where we both used to work. It took a few seconds for her to arrive. I felt relief that I didn’t need to speak. Didn’t need to be embarrassed. She asked one question, “What do you want me to do: the hold or the jacket?”

“The jacket.” She jumped in, swiftly acting.

“Don’t zip it! Don’t zip it!” Sophia protested, as Nan expertly maneuvered her into the buffalo coat.

Then, she zipped it. I love this woman. “You want me to help you get her in the car?” she asked, her toddler waiting patiently at her side.

“No, thanks. You guys have fun. I can take it from here.” I carried Sophia out to the car, fettered her to the carseat, and closed the car door on her screams. “I'm not in time out! You’re in time out Mommy!”

Yes. I was taking a little time out. FROM HER.




Epilogue

Many hours later, after the incident was all but forgotten, Sophia and I were chatting. I explained the concept of New Year’s resolutions to her. “Many people see the New Year as an opportunity to make a fresh start,” I say. “A chance to improve something about themselves. What do you think? What’s your New Year’s Resolution, Soph?”

Sophie looked thoughtful, tilted her head in an endearing way, and replied, “to be nicer to you Mommy.”

So she was sorry.

“What’s yours?” she asked?

I met her halfway, “to be nicer to you too.”

We smiled at each other for a moment, in mutual understanding. Oh, I knew it would soon be broken, but in that moment, her recognition of wrong-doing and her good intentions were all that I needed to hear.

Happy New Year!

Mean Mommy

We are late for nursery school. Again. Sophia is refusing to put on her sweater. Since I have already told her that she needs to put on the sweater, even though whether or not she wears the sweater is really not a big deal to me, I feel I can’t back down.

Kevin and I had a parenting discussion the other night. He noted that I have been some bargaining with Sophia: setting a boundary and then letting her negotiate me down from it. It’s true, I do this, particularly in front of others because I don’t like appearing like such a hard-ass all the time.

But when I’m alone, and there is no one I feel I need to appear sweet and understanding in front of, I turn into Mean Mommy.

Thus, when Sophia tells me, “I am NOT putting on that sweater.” I say, “Oh yes you are,” stick her in the depression formed by my crossed legs and thrust each of her arms into a sleeve. As I reach in front of her to fasten a button, she gets an arm free and hits me.

Yes. My daughter hits me.

I see red. “YOU DO NOT HIT,” I yell, remembering with shame that I used to say I couldn’t imagine ever yelling at Sophia. “YOU NEED TO GO CALM DOWN!” Why am I still yelling?

Because I need calm-down time.

I pick her up. She’s kicking and bucking in my arms as I carry her to the bedroom, drop her in her toddler bed, and tell her, “Take a few minutes to calm down.”

“I need Snakey-Pie to calm down!” she sobs.

I give her Snakey-Pie, turn out the light, close the door and go to the living room to take a few deep breaths.

I lost it that time. I am deeply disturbed by the fact that, sometimes, more and more frequently, I don’t enjoy parenting. Maybe because I’m constantly feeling like I’m the heavy. Setting boundary after boundary. Making her bathe, dress, comb her hair, eat, go places—do thing after thing that, in the moment, she just doesn’t feel like doing. The deep breaths aren’t working. I start to cry.

What is happening?

It’s true that for the past three years most conflict between Sophie and me was preventable. I made sure she was well-rested, adequately-fed, appropriately dressed…and she went with the flow.

But now, suddenly she is getting her Own Ideas. She wants to do what she wants to do.
For example, it’s hard for Sophia to conceive of a future that is better than the present. She’d rather stay right here and read books than go through the trouble of donning her sweater, boots, coat, hat and gloves to get in the car and drive half-an-hour to nursery school. Even if they are acting out Goldilocks and the Three Bears today, one of her most favorite stories.

And though that makes sense to me, it’s not acceptable.

So I push through her resistance, physically making her do what I want her to do, feeling a mix of sorrow and resentment: How long do I have to keep doing this? When will it be fun again?

I have to remind myself: feeling utterly powerless, children crave power. But once they have it, they don’t know what to do with it. It feels all wrong, terrifying. If I want her to feel in control of herself, I have to be in control of myself. Of her. Of us.

Right now, I don’t feel in control.

As her will grows more formidable, her ideas more expansive, as she begins to assert herself in the world, I , who was her primary playmate have become her primary combatant. This is hard to come to terms with. I’m still the same; why does she have to change?

I try to reframe it in terms of what she needs. I can remember how much happier my students were when I held the boundaries, stood firm, gave them something they could push back on, but not push over. I need to reach deeper, to find something stronger, to stop taking this so damn personally. I need to act from what I know to be true and not what I want to be true.

I retrieve her from her room. She is contrite and compliant. At nursery school, she gets to be Goldilocks. At the end of the day, she is happy and spent. We are driving home when Sophie suddenly says, “I could also be your mommy.”

“Oh?” I say, glancing into the rear view mirror, “What would you do if you were my mommy?”

“Take care of you,” she says, simply.



.

Time Out!

I’m so sick of there being a right way of doing everything. And that that right way changes on a week-to-week basis.

Currently, there is a strong backlash against behaviorism, and I have to admit, it’s throwing me into a bit of a tizzy. Mostly, because I, a self-proclaimed behaviorist, agree with a lot of what is being said against the practice of time out, rewards and punishments. But not all the time, not with all kids, and not under all circumstances.

Alfie Kohn, author and progressive education advocate, wrote what turned out to be a very provocative essay in the Times last week, “When a Parent’s ‘I Love You’ Means ‘Do As I Say’.” His main point was: you should not make your love for your child conditional, that is, contingent upon whether or not your child exhibits behaviors that you consider to be appropriate (giving praise when a child does something the parent considers to be good and withdrawing attention, e.g. “time out” when your child does something you perceive to be “bad.”) He cites research that this “love withdrawal” does not lead to compliance, instead it breeds resentment (we won’t delve into the quality of that research here). Kohn suggests that parents should "take a stance of unconditional acceptance accompanied by 'autonomy support'", i.e., giving rationales for your requests, allowing your children to make choices, being supportive but not manipulative, and seeing situations from their point of view. In a follow-up column, Kohn makes it clear that simply saying, “I love you, but not your behavior,” (something I have always said to kids) is not as easily separated in the mind of a child. How does a child address the philosophical question, who am I, outside of my behavior?

I agree with Alfie in spirit. I am a firm believer in what I’ll call proactive parenting. If Sophia is having a meltdown, gets into trouble, or does something “naughty,” I pretty much consider it to be “my fault.” Not in a masochistic, guilt-ridden way, but in a should have saw it coming…I’ll know better next time kind of way. For example, if I’m trying to get her shoes on to get her out the door and she’s resisting me, begging to “play downstairs,” but I haven’t explained the necessity of getting out of the house ASAP to make it in time for (insert activity) I have no right to get angry with her or punish her for her “resistant behavior.” She doesn’t understand my concern about being late. She doesn’t feel the need to be doing anything other that what she wants to do right now. I immediately see a need for "behavior modification"—but not of her behavior, of mine. I need to change the antecedent…the thing I did that preceded her resistant behavior…instead of asking her to put her shoes on, I needed to explain what is going to happen next and WHY she needs to put her shoes on. This is not indulgent; it is considerate.

(Not to mention it takes a lot less energy to engineer for calm than to later deal with the storm. I would rather explain than yell at Sophia, give her choices than have to follow through with imposing an undesirable option, and empathically soothe her frustrations than withdraw from her, frustrated.)

However, I do believe that with some children who do not or cannot understand your rationale, either because they do not have the language or the cognitive ability to make sense of it, that rewards and punishments can be helpful until they do get it. And then, you fade back those rewards and punishments back just as fast as you possibly can. Case in point: I had a wonderful non-verbal preschooler with autism who came to me with all sorts of maladaptive behaviors—biting, hitting, spitting. He resisted any demands that were placed on him (get dressed, eat, come here, etc.), and he lacked both the receptive and expressive language for me to be able to communicate my expectations. I started off concretely and slowly with him. I lined up a set of pictures that alternated images of what I wanted him to do and what he wanted to do. The intervals of what I wanted him to do were short and the ones of what he wanted to do were long, but gradually…almost imperceptibly…I reversed this. And once a mutually respectful relationship was established (this is key), I was able to teach him language, which came more quickly than I ever could have predicted. And then I was able to give him choices. And when he flipped out, which he still did, I gave him a time out, letting him rage until he calmed and then we went back to whatever it was we were doing. You can do this with love. You can communicate “I love you, but I don’t love it when you hit me.” You can give particular children, under certain conditions a time out to calm down…and not have it be a withdrawal of affection, but a withdrawal from unproductive engagement until you are both ready to try again.

Sometimes, my husband and I take “time outs” for this very same reason.

So far, I have not found a single reason to time out Sophia…or yell at her for that matter… and, to be frank, I have a hard time picturing one. I’m not ruling out the possibility, but for me, right now, the most important thing to remain mindful of is that her behavior occurs in the context of our relationship. The regulation of her behavior seems inextricably bound up with the regulation of my own.