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Why I Sometimes Bang My Head Against the Wall
I never for one moment thought that raising a child would be easy. I was, therefore, pleasantly surprised at just how natural being a mother felt. I juggled feedings and diaper changing and teething and late-night crying spells with one hand tied behind my back. This, I thought, is going to be a breeze.
And then Taylor learned to talk.
And then she learned to talk back.
Now, before you get the wrong idea, let me hasten to assure you that my daughter is not one of those rude, smart-alecky, sassy children that make people long for the days when it was not only socially acceptable to engage in corporal punishment, it was the social duty of any bystanders to help. No, she is something much worse. She is a thinker. A negotiator. A child who always has an answer. And she is smarter than me.
I first realized this when she was two. I told her to pick up her toys. She told me no. I responded with a thoughtful, rational, detailed explanation of the power heirarchy in our household. I told her that she was not allowed to say 'no' to me.
"Do you understand?" I asked.
"Yes" she said.
"Then go pick up your toys."
She looked at me unblinkingly for a moment, then said, "I don't think so."
I would like to say that I responded with another thoughtful, rational explanation. I really would.
The next year, our family went from three to two and she immediately saw her chance to tip the scales of power. This resulted in many thoughtful, rational discussions about how the balance of the power remained with me. One night, however, when she demanded to know why she had to go to bed, I abandonded the rational and went with the tried-and-true.
"You have to go to bed because I said so. I am the boss; you are not the boss."
"But Mommy," she wailed in true indignation, "I'm the one with all the good ideas!"
It's not just me, either. Last year I caught my husband in the bookstore huddled over a copy of Raising the Strong-willed Child. He still claims he thought he was in the science fiction section.
Taylor and I have fallen into a sort of truce these days; she has accepted that I am the supreme ruler and I have learned not to set myself up. Well, almost. Last week we went out to dinner, just the two of us. One of those special mother-daughter moments. And for some reason, she decided to start every sentence with, "Is it just me...". As in, "Is is just me, or is it hot in here? Is it just me, or is this turkey really good? Is it just me, or it this a great place to eat? Is it just me, or is that lady's dress pretty?"
After about a half hour of dropping subtle hints to knock it off, I fixed her with a stern look and said, "Is it just me, or is this getting really annoying?"
Without missing a beat, she looked up at me and replied, "No, Mom, I'm pretty sure that's just you."