The MamaTrip

My three year old is driving me crazy.

Overemotional.
Tattletale.
Crybaby.
Clingy.
Cheeky.
Sassy.

It's gone from the occasional sassy that's somewhat cute, to full-blown obnoxious. "CB, don't touch the sanitary napkin trashcan!" said in a theater bathroom elicits a melt-down of epic proportions. Simple requests for picking up after herself are met with deaf ears and cheeky glances (so you know she does hear you). Everything is a reason for her to melt-down. H took her chair, she doesn't WANT to pick up her room, R won't let her use the computer, she can't have more milk.

So, I went dictator on her tiny little person.

Not ACCEPTABLE! Not COOL! Not HAPPENING! Time OUT! No STORIES!

I heard echoes of my father's authoritarian approach and my mother's hysteria. And, after I put her to bed, I cried my eyes out from exhaustion and frustration at having to be a hard-case. It's the hardest part of parenting, I think. The part where you have to draw a hard line and then figure out your strategy and stay consistent despite exhaustion and wanting to just give in to get a little peace and quiet.

You want it to be effective without harming their burgeoning personalities. You want them to understand appropriate from inappropriate and differentiate between respect and disrespect without breaking their spirits.

And, in the process, sometimes this little person breaks your spirit and your heart all at once...

Then, in the morning, you go in to wake up this child, still bracing for terrific frustration, your shoulders standing sentry at your ears, your abdomen taut, body in battle formation.

What you find is an angel there, where the demon went to sleep. And the angel is loving and snuggly and kissing you all over the face, telling you she loves you. The angel is docile and sweet and simply gorgeous and your heart overflows, and the walls of frustration melt into rainbows like you were on some kind of massive acid trip.

And, that's how I'd sum up motherhood, at least today.

A really effed up acid trip... but it's happy acid...the kind you'd drop again next week.

...but she's ours!

We arrived home from our big weekend in Chicago with CB in tow, fresh from her stay with her Dad, his wife M and his whole family for a week. When I say fresh, I mean it the same way my mother used to say "Don't use that fresh tone with me, young lady." She's fresh, alright. Freshly spoilt. It's to be expected. But, dealing with it isn't a rose garden.

Getting your child back from their other parent is a double edged sword as with so many things in loving your child. On one hand you feel complete, an aching hole is filled, the world is brighter. On the other, your head feels like it is in a vice with the constant whining, jokes you don't find funny (but the child's other biological half clearly did) and the general exhaustion that can strike anytime, but seems to strike harder when you've had a week of peace and quiet.

I've done this before, so I know that my patience runs thin that first week, despite my joy at having my girl back. When my mother asked if she and my dad could take CB for the weekend right after she returned, I didn't hesitate with my "yes."

My sister KW decided to come out from Philly for an impromptu visit and take CB up to my parents' house for them, a day early. Monday night, sitting around the dinner table, I mentioned KW's visit and CB's subsequent departure. Much to my surprise, H got indignant. "So, CB is going away AGAIN?" he asked. I said yes. His voice went up two octaves and he said "But, we just got her back -and now she's going to leave again?!" I explained that my parents hadn't seen her at Christmas. He went on: "But, she's ours! She should be here with us, not going everywhere else!"

H's indignant response was music to my ears. So is the way he'll quietly take CB under his wing and teach her things, or the way he'll patiently play Candy Land with a two year old who has the attention span of a gnat because he sees the value of teaching her to love board games, knowing that it's an investment in years of beating her at chess. For my part, I think she'll give him a run for his money.