Just yesterday, I realized –much to my dismay –that my 3 year old is in control. What control I may have had, is now completely in her little hands. I have completely lost it. Both, to her and of myself. Although I am admitting defeat, I have not given up hope that I can overcome this situation and correct the problem. I have made a list of various self-help, child discipline books that I will pick up at the library and the bookstore this weekend. My game plan is to read up (get a clue), prepare my emotional stance (repeat: I love my kids, I love my kids), and man the battle stations (slap on my knee and elbow pads and put on my serious face) in anticipation of the attack of the crazy little people.
My beautiful, intelligent little girl has learned how to play me. And play with me, she does. This not-so-innocent little being of mine, who is a mere 3 years old, already knows how to play and win the game of life. My life, her life, either way –she is winning. I have gone from a person who has it all together to someone that is hanging on to what’s left of her sanity by a teensy, little, raveled thread.
I have tried everything. Super Nanny Jo Frost would be proud of my initial persistence, but I’m sure she would place me in the naughty chair after discovering that I have the patience of, well, a 3 year old. After 3 years of constant sleep deprivation –I can literally count on both hands the number of times I’ve successfully slept through the entire night without being woken –stamina in that department is not my strong point. I often wonder if Nanny Jo would be able to perform her miracles if she was living my life. Yes, she’s a great nanny and knows how to be in control, but she doesn’t work a full time, stressful, demanding job outside of the house every Monday through Friday while her husband is off working his 70-hour per week, sporadic schedule notwithstanding, job leaving her to play the single mom role. Jo Frost’s experience as a nanny came from her being just that –a nanny. While she was being nanny to two or three or four children, I doubt that she had to simultaneously manage the household finances (pay all the bills, deposit the checks, pay the taxes, etc.) , handle all the shopping, attend school functions (somebody has to be there with the video camera!), cook all meals, clean the house, wash the clothes, work a separate, full-time, out of the house job --all in addition to doing homework, reading bedtime stories, and sitting through countless birthday parties at Chuck-E-Cheese.
I mean, if her job is to be there for the kids, then she would have no clue what it means when you get that call from the school nurse that little Jessica has just thrown up in class and you have to cancel your next meeting and drop whatever you are working on to go pick her up immediately and spend the remainder of the day at home holding said little sick one. And then the next day is shot too because you can’t send her back to school just yet ‘cause she’s still a bit nauseous so you miss another day of work. Did I hear someone suggest working from home? Yeah, I’ve tried that too -doesn’t work. I don’t mean to be trashing Nanny Jo (truth is, I love watching her do her magic –as if I might actually be able to do it myself!), but I find it hard to find comfort and guidance in other people when the reality is –their lives are very different than mine and their solutions just don’t work for me.
I know persistence is the key to being in control. I know that kids thrive on routine and take comfort in knowing what is happening in their world and what is expected of them. See, I have actually read up on the matters in my desperate search for guidance. I know that when my child gets out of bed at night, repeatedly, I am supposed to –without acknowledging her actions (which usually include hitting, kicking, crying, screaming –not always in that order) or looking her in the eye –put her back into bed without so much as a hint of stress. Umm, yeah. Right. I also know that the process –her getting up, me putting her back, her getting up, me putting her back –could go on and on for hours until she (1) tires of the game and realizes it’s not fun anymore and stays in bed (I wish!) or (2) she gets physically tired and falls asleep (which means she didn’t learn anything at all and the game will start all over again tomorrow night). Yay!
Secret third option that I probably shouldn’t note lest Nanny Jo puts me back in the naughty chair: Mommy, in her chronically fatigued manner, tires of the game after the third round, loses her self control, and completely falls apart in front of the child. Her ranting and raving about STAYING IN BED AND NOT GETTING UP AGAIN! fall on deaf ears as this just reinforces the fact that the GAME IS ON and the little one is winning.
Options one and two above may be fine and dandy for a stay-at-home mom who doesn’t have a 8:30am meeting at the office in the morning. But for the rest of us who have bosses that expect us to report to the office each and every morning, Monday through Friday, bright-eyed, bushy tailed and rearing to give 100% effort in exchange for the agreed-to compensation, spending two or three hours playing the “bounce out of bed” game all night is not exactly a realistic option. And don’t even suggest that we take an entire day off in order to teach her how it’s going to be done. Do you really think that by having my work pile up for me at the office –waiting for my return so that I can be bombarded with an abundance of “must be handled immediately” issues –is an option to consider? There aren’t enough hours in the day as it is and I find myself running many errands on my lunch hour just so that I don’t have to do them with my wonderful children in tow. This makes the tasks much faster to accomplish and less stressful. Lunch hours are not just for lunch anymore. Rarely do I ever just eat on my lunch hour. “My” lunch hour. That isn’t realistic at all. I should call it the “errand hour” or “task hour”.
Here’s a typical scene from my life:
After putting in a full day of work at the office, I rush to the daycare to pick up my 3 year old who immediately, and quite proudly, announces that she “had no timeouts today”. However, her cunning smile and quickly darting eyes tell a different story –as does the daily Time Out report attached to her sign-out sheet. To my dismay, she had three time-outs. One for hitting a child, another for throwing toys, and another for simply not listing to the teacher. Add to it the fact that she just tried to lie to me about not having any (just so that she can still get her usual treat when we get to the car), and my count of naughty events is already at four and we haven’t made it to the car yet.
We make it outside to the car and while I am unlocking and opening the door, my inquisitive little blossom finds fascination in the many interesting rocks beneath our feet. She retrieves a large one, a nice grey piece of limestone about the size of a half-dollar (remember those?), and I ask her to put it back down so we can get into the car. Her quick response is “no” and she pulls her hand in close, against her side in an attempt to hide her precious treasure. As I reach for her hand, telling her that we don’t play with rocks and to please put it down, she quickly pitches the rock –directly onto the hood of the car to our immediate left. The car’s owner just happens to be at the car’s side and we both watch in stunned silence as the rock skims the hood of the car, bounces off the top edge of the hood, tumbles up the windshield, and then rolls back down and across the hood. ACK!! Luckily, there was no obvious damage and the owner didn’t seem to be as shocked as I was. My look of horror, immediate apology (OMG, I am soooooooo sorry!), and quick scolding of my child must have been enough to satisfy her as she quickly went back to her business of buckling her child into the car seat. I spend the next five minutes fussing at and explaining to my child just why throwing rocks is not allowed and that she had better not pick up any more rocks. Then I spend another five minutes trying to get her to understand that mommy is quite disappointed because of the timeouts. All the while, my sweet, innocent-looking child is silently peering out the window –obviously tuning me out.
We finally arrive home and my tween-aged DD, who has been instructed to “be dressed appropriately and ready to go when I get home” meets us at the door. Her sense of style is pretty good at this point, but she hasn’t grasped the concept that you don’t wear plaids and stripes together. She is sent back to her room to change her striped slacks to plain black jeans and to hurry because we are leaving for the restaurant in five minutes. My rock-throwing child and I head to the closet to change her top to something without traces of lunch, paint, and whatever the hell that other stain is. “Nooo! I don’t want to wear that shirt. I like this one,” she yells. I don’t know what I am thinking when I try to reason with her –“But this one is all dirty. And it even has a hole in the sleeve,” I say as I point to the little hole. Peering directly at the hole, but pretending it isn’t there, she states “that’s no hole.” And so the battle begins. “Look honey, we have to hurry and get changed because Aunt Angie is waiting for us to have dinner with her.” “But why?” she asks. “Because it’s her birthday and she wants us to celebrate it with her,” I explain. “But I don’t want to” she complains. This could go on forever. “Just put on the shirt so we can go,” I tell her. “Nooo!” Three minutes of struggling with the wiggling worm she has just become and I finally manage to get the shirt changed. Now her hair is a disaster and has to be redone. Grabbing the brush and a hair tie, I decide to delay the impending fight until we arrive at the restaurant, hoping that the enticement of new crayons and activity pad will get her to allow me to fix her hair.
An hour into dinner and things are going pretty well. My little angel is behaving very well and keeps acknowledging this fact to me –as if I had better be taking notice now because it will be changing very soon. So far, we have only had to visit the restroom once –to play the “I don’t really have to potty but I do need to check out the facilities” game and were lucky to get it over with before our food arrived. So far, so good. Her uncle has been keeping her preoccupied and coloring with her (you can never go wrong with crayons and activity books!) so I have actually been able to eat some of my food while it’s still warm. An incredible feat in my world and something I am quick to acknowledge. Thank you Uncle B.!
Tween-aged DD, behaving quite nicely herself, has finished her meal and needs to use the restroom. I instruct her to sneak away while I distract lil’ DD’s attention. No more than a minute goes by before my little hawk-eye notices the absence and she hops off the chair and dashes away in search of her missing sibling. I immediately play chase, turning the corner she just darted around and stop short. Did she go right toward the front door or left down the hall to the bathroom?! My heart skips a beat as I think of her headed toward the front door and out into the parking lot –right next to the busy boulevard! Oh yes, she would. But my instincts steer me to the left toward the bathroom and just as I walk in, I see her run into a stall and slam the door. A quick spanking –no tears, I notice –and we are headed back to the table where she smiles and colors and acts like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. It’s all a game, and I have just lost.
With a set bedtime of 8:00 pm, the “Bedtime Games” typically start around 7:30 pm. Tween-aged DD is shuffled off to the shower with instructions to hurry up because it’s almost bedtime. Does she kick into high gear? Nooo. She continues on at her normal, I’m in no hurry at all, pace. In the meantime, I have to corral the 3 year old into her pajamas, get her teeth brushed, get her to potty, read three books, argue about why she shouldn’t sleep with the three books in her bed all night, finally compromise and agree that she can sleep with 1 small soft cover book, toss under the covers all the stuffed animals that are within her sight and being wined for, tuck her in, give kisses and hugs, and turn out the light. Before I can even make it into the living room –a mere 8 feet from her doorway –she is behind me, giggling and laughing about being out of bed. And the games begin.
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