30 minute snapshot

In the few minutes before the preschool door opens and my "Cat-in-the-hat-spider" bursts out, I am refreshed, happy to have had a productive morning accomplishing things, feeling optimistic about life in general--until that door opens. Once that door opens, my positive outlook is over rather quickly, and all it takes is a 30 minute snapshot to see why.

There's usually always a problem when that door opens: 1. she doesn't see me soon enough (even though I'm waving and calling her name) so she panics=screaming 2. people navigating the hallway get between us and she literally has to shove and stampede her way to get to me, because of course we cannot be patient and wait our turn=screaming 3. I don't get her coat on fast enough, or get every last one of the buttons/snaps fastened, or get her boots on fast enough, or gather her belongings fast enough=screaming. One or all of these apply at any one time, as well as other miscellaneous dramas, and today was no exception. Meanwhile, all the other parents are having pleasant, normal interactions with their child="So what did you do today, Isabel?" And they go on their merry way chatting about the events at preschool and what fun things they will do the rest of the day.

MUST BE NICE.

By the time we get to the car, my jaw is starting to clench and I'm getting that "walking on eggshells" feeling. I successfully get the music cued to the right song--the same one it has to begin on, every time we get into the car--and start to feel relief of so far so good. But then, horror of horrors, the stoplight on the way home turns red! OH NO! The kicking starts. Boots drumming on the back of the seat. Then the shrieking follows. And crying and tears and wailing. "Want green! Want green! WANT GREEN!" Futilely, for the millionth time, I try to explain that the light is red so we have to stop but that we can go when it is green.

Oh, hell no. Not in the world of "Cat-in-the-hat-spider." There can be no stopping!!! No waiting in lines, or pausing, or slowing down, for any reason. So she just screams louder to drown out my voice. And she's not just upset at the world and the unfairness of it all. NO. It's all directed at me. She really does believe I have control over stoplights (as well as television programming).

So now my teeth are grinding and the headache is coming back.

We get home about 3 minutes later. She notices that the morning's snow has melted. "Snow all gone."

"Yep, the snow is gone." I concur. "But there might be more tomorrow!"

"Next time." She adds.

"Yep, maybe tomorrow!" I agree.

"Next time!" She insists, with brewing hysteria.

"Yes, I know. Maybe tomorrow." I persist (because the weatherman said so!!!).

"NNNEEEXXXTTT TTTIIIMMMEEE!!!! WWWWWAAAAAAAAA!!!" Then the hysteria unleashes full force and we now have a show on the front porch for the whole neighborhood. Screaming, shrieking, flailing, gagging, etc.

All because she wanted me to repeat "next time" after she said it. And instead, I said "maybe tomorrow." That wasn't the right answer, obviously...

I let her freak out and go nuts until the door closes behind us and we are inside. Then I offer her a spanking. She decides she'd rather just stop crying. Good choice.

So, let's see, how did the remaining minutes of this 30 minute snap shot wrap up? Oh yes, the mashed potatoes.

I show her a box of mashed potatoes. It seems to her liking, or at least not to her disliking. She says, "OK." That's as affirmative as it gets around here.

I get out the pan and start reading the directions because I rarely make that stuff and never remember when to add the milk. But I can't read or think or even measure the water because she's chanting with increasing volume, "Want honey. Want honey. WANT HONEY!!!!!" Of course she wants me to either drop what I'm doing and get the spoon of honey...or sprout extra arms. Neither one ain't happening because now I'm just PISSED OFF after being treated like garbage since I picked her up from school. She doesn't really want honey. She just likes to give orders. I firmly refuse to get the honey until I'm done with the mashed potatoes. She contemplates an explosion but sees the look on my face and hears my heavy, measured breathing and chooses to put her head down and pout instead.

Pouting is okay with me. I like pouting. It's QUIET! It's bliss compared to meltdowns. Pout away. As long as you want.

Of course, one bite of potatoes and she doesn't want anymore. I'm defeated and tired and ready to hide in the pantry and eat her Valentine's Day candy. I realize then that I'll be having mashed potatoes for dinner. It's not so bad when I remember I have leftover chicken and stuffing to eat anyway (and I say "I," because "Cat-in-the-hat-spider" doesn't join me for meals because she doesn't eat--at least not the kind of food you eat at meals). I just want her to try one more bite though, with the hope that she'll decide she likes it and perhaps will eat more (though secretly it's really just to get in ONE win in the battle of wills). I coax, and cajole, and finally--she takes one more bite!!! I'm happy, and she's happy too. Not that she'll eat any more mashed potatoes ever again in my lifetime. Maybe she won't. But I don't care. I'm just happy that I broke through the big wall of "NO!" just this once. So I'm happy, and she's entertained at seeing me happy. I'm so happy at this moment that I completely lose my head and let slip out a very innocent expression that is commonly used in the world, though I'm not allowed to say it at home. "Thank you!" I said. Yes, I said it. And from the look on her face I may as well have told her to go straight to hell (actually, she would have preferred that since she doesn't know what it means.) For some reason it's okay for her to thank me all day long. "Thank you, Mommy" is what I hear over the slightest thing. You'd think she was the most polite little thing you ever saw. But just try saying it back!!! Just try it! I have no idea why. If I could explain I would. It's a mystery to me. It's just another one of her arbitrary rules I have to remember to keep the peace around here. But I can't always remember every single little thing I can't say or do that sets her off, or always remember to repeat everything she says like she wants me to. Sometimes I'm just a human, and not the Keeper of Her Majesty's Fragile Universe.

So with the fuse lit to another meltdown, I'll end the 30 minutes snapshot here.