Greetings from the front seat of my car, parked on the side of the road beneath a shady Australian Willow tree in a neighborhood I don’t recognize. I can faintly feel the nice breeze outside as I crack the window just enough to get some air, but not enough to disrupt the carefully orchestrated combination of sensorial elements which have finally put the mini-slavedriver in my back seat to sleep. Please excuse any typos. It’s tough to type when your elbow is jammed between the dashboard and the window, while balancing a laptop on one boob and a steering wheel. Have I lost my mind? Obviously. But these were my options: 1. Navigating the cosmic and legendary meltdown of a screaming 3-year-old, who has suddenly decided she does NOT want to nap anymore, yet so desperately needs the sleep that she rolls around with her tongue hanging out, mumbling and whining like that girl who shows up to a party having had four too many cocktails already and then starts in on the sangria. OR: 2. Driving around in my car every afternoon for 20 minutes or so until my kid’s screaming abruptly shifts to a snoring snoozefest, then pulling over on the side of the road under a shady tree and reading a book for two hours. I mean, the choice is a no-brainer. Hey, I read two books over the course of two weeks, a great luxury I have not afforded myself in months. So really, this is working out great for me.
Let me be clear: My kid is running my life. Yes, I have succumbed to the insidious brutalization and beat down by a preschooler. Being one of those moms who always says things like, “Oh, we will never let Scarlett run our lives. After all, she’s 3 and we are like, really OLD!” This has not been the easiest of humilities to swallow. But the key is: We never let her think that she’s running things. As far as she can tell, we are In Charge. But there are limits to my compromises. Yes, I will sacrifice my posture and a flat surface to do some writing, in order to give Scarlett the sleep she unequivocally needs for the time being. But when it comes to behavior and manners, I lay down the law. It was recently brought to my attention by a British friend of mine that we Americans are deifying our children. That, culturally, we have decided our kids walk on water and can do no wrong and that they deserve a medal just for waking up in the morning. And as a result of that belief, we don’t really discipline them or teach them limitations. Jeez, why are the Brits and the Europeans always right about everything? (Sorry Paris, we regret our fanny packs and running shorts we traveled the world in in the ’80s, okay? Although, according to Project Runway this season, fanny packs could be having a major renaissance … so, hold your judgment.) I think my friend has an excellent point though, and I’ve seen it myself, and it drives me crazy. If Scarlett were to scream and yell and throw things in a restaurant, or run around smacking other kids on the playground, she’s not “expressing” herself or showing how “smart” and “independent” she is. She’s just behaving badly. Scarlett expresses her smarts and independence with her wardrobe choices, her building skills, her dance moves, and her rather innovative interpretations of the books we read. Her throwing a fit is not, in my opinion, her expressing herself. Though she might be releasing some frustration and dissatisfaction, that doesn’t mean I’m supposed to endorse it. It’s just bad behavior. And if I don’t tell her so, how will she ever know it’s wrong? Believe me, I understand the feeling when your kid starts screaming and flailing like you’re hanging him from a sharp object by his toenails, when all you did was ask him to put on his shoes. Or when your 3 year old has a tantrum over a cupcake and suddenly flings a xylophone at your cranium insisting, “NO! You don’t DO THAT!” like you just lit her hair on fire or something.
