I'll Cry If I Want To

It's been one of those parenting days that brings tears to my eyes. And not in a good way. In an "I'm feeling sorry for myself" kind of way.

The morning started rough. I had sort of an upsetting rehearsal last night and was up late ranting and raving about it to David (patient man!) So I wasn't "perfectly rested" (as he would say) when the trouble began. Seems a certain person in this house is not always keen on getting ready in the morning. And the situation seems to escalate dramatically with very little provocation. Like, I can say "Let's get dressed now" or "Let's brush teeth" and suddenly there's a lot of screeching, foot-stomping and slamming of doors. What was all this about the terrible twos? And when are those supposed to end, exactly? My kid is pushing five. The furious fives?

Before I knew it, I was holding her door closed (it's the only way to keep her in the room after saying "Go to your room.") while listening to heavy objects ricochet off said door and the frequent repetition of "I don't like you! You're not my friend!" (An aside here: I actually find it almost painfully adorable that this is the worst thing she can think to say.) By the time we were able to get her shoes on without a scuffle (David had to hold her upside down for a while--it's not what you think; she requests it) she was almost a half-hour late and I was missing my scheduled morning walk with a friend.

I took a moment of gratitude as I watched them drive away, reflecting that we'd surely seen the last of Hurricane Jarrah for the day. Silly, silly me.

When I picked her up this afternoon, I had grand plans to take her thrift shopping (I need a giant pink purse for my costume), followed by fro-yo. There were even some gently used princess dress-up clothes in it for her if she cooperated. But the plan fell apart almost immediately. First, she refused to use the bathroom before we left school (a problem, since thrift stores don't have them.) Then, she said she wasn't going shopping no matter what. When I bribed her with fro-yo, she demanded fro-yo FIRST. That's when I said something I probably shouldn't have:

"No, not first. After we shop. I'm the mommy and I make the rules."

That did not go over well. More of the high-pitched screeching and foot stomping, and then she fled to the car. I ran after her, mouth set in a grim line. She refused to hold my hand crossing the parking lot (luckily it was empty) and ran screaming to the car. She wouldn't get in the car, so I got in and waited. She got in and resumed screaming, now with additional seat-kicking. I got out of the car. She got out. I got back in. She got back in. Rinse; repeat. I could feel my blood pressure rising like the water in the washing machine window at the beginning of the cycle. Suddenly, I swooped around, picked her up, and pinioned her into the seat with one hand while clipping her in with the other. I'm surprised she let me.

Now she shrieked that she wanted the window open. Then closed. She wanted the music lower. Then off. The shrieks became more and more specific.

I DON'T WANT YOU TO PICK ME UP ANYMORE! ONLY DADDY! I ONLY LIKE DADDY! NOT YOU! I WANT TO LIVE JUST WITH DADDY!

I have to admit, this stung a bit. I furiously repeated in my head, "She's four, she's four, she's four. She's trying to get a rise out of you. That's all." But I could still feel my temple throb.

I WANT TO LIVE BY MYSELF! BUT I WANT TO HAVE STAIRS! NOT PRETEND STAIRS--REAL STAIRS! AND I WANT TO LIVE IN A CASTLE! A REAL CASTLE! WHY WON'T YOU LET ME LIVE IN A CASTLE??? NO ONE LISTENS TO ME! NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME!

I remained eerily silent throughout. I didn't really trust myself to talk. When we got home, I went in the house, and I could hear her muffled shrieks from the car. Eventually, she came inside and continued where we'd left off.

There was a very funny moment (do not laugh, do not laugh, do not laugh...) when she stomped into the kitchen (where I was emptying the dishwasher) with a murderous look on her face, positively poisonous, but she was holding a sparkly purple pinwheel next to her face while she did it. She paraded the pinwheel through the room, glaring daggers at me, and then stomped out. It was like a Parade of Fury.

Eventually, I walked to my room and put myself in a time out. I locked the door, climbed into the bed, and pulled the covers over my head. And cried, just a little bit. But I didn't stay long. When I opened the door, Jarrah came shuffling around the corner, her little face swollen and tear-stained.

I'm sorry, Mommy. Sorry I had a fit. Can I have a snack now?

Not so fast, young lady. We need to have a conversation.

Sigh.