Yesterday I wrote about Number 7’s first day of preschool.
It didn’t go so well.
I’ve done quite a bit of thinking between the time I picked her up at noon last Friday until drop off this morning at 9 a.m.
I wasn’t worried about Number 7’s emotional well-being.
I knew she wasn’t traumatized or scarred for life, and I knew most of her tears on Friday were due to anger from not getting her way.
But being that parent of that kid really sucks.
Number 4 and Number 7 have similar personalities.
And many of their unique qualities and characteristics were evident from birth.
They just don’t have it in their blood to be calm or quiet or passive.
So some of their behavior isn’t going to change.
But after some serious self-reflection, I realized something on Friday.
I’ve been letting Number 7 get away with a lot of crap and using her innate personality traits as justification.
As an excuse to not deal with them.
And I think I’ve made them a little bit worse.
When you are stressed out and tired and have six other kids to worry about and your marriage is on shaky ground and you are spending most of your energy trying to figure out how to earn money so that you can keep your house or put food on the table, well, you just might not have much energy left to deal with a persistent and downright exhausting two-year-old.
And so you might let her get her way just so she will shut the hell up.
You might force the rest of your kids to let her do what she wants just to avoid the world’s largest temper tantrum.
You might do whatever you can in the short term to get her to leave you the fuck alone and consequently lose sight of the long-term consequences.
Before Friday, I thought I was pretty tough on her and fairly consistent.
I’m not a pushover.
But dealing with a personality like Number 7’s is kind of like when you are trying to lose those last five pounds.
When you first start that weight loss journey, even a small change will result in weight loss.
But once you get within a couple pounds of your goal weight, you have to be pretty vigilant.
You can’t really make exceptions.
You’ll see any slip ups on the scale.
It’s the same with Number 7.
I haven’t been disciplined with all aspects of her behavior.
With some kids, you can get away with that.
With others, not so much.
And so, starting last Friday at noon, I was vigilant.
Disciplined.
I did not give in.
When the crying started, I rode it out.
Or I followed through.
I stopped negotiating and bargaining with my two-year-old terrorist.
And already, in just three days, I see changes.
I am by no means out of the woods, but we have made progress.
It hasn’t been easy.
In fact, just this morning I caught myself.
Number 7 saw Number 4 packing up animal crackers to take to school in her lunch, and she asked to have some for breakfast.
I told her she could have some at lunch time but not for breakfast.
And the hysterics began. Immediately.
Number 7 went from 0 to 60 in about 3.4 seconds.
She was crying and yelling and demanding animal crackers.
And in an effort to shut her up and distract her from her not-wanting-to-go-to-school thoughts, my first thought was to say,
I will give you some in the car on your way to school.
I started to say I-
and then I caught myself.
I just said no.
Again.
And then I had to put her in another room because she was crying so loudly.
But I didn’t give in.
This is a rough time for me… that before school rush.
The last thing I have patience for is meltdown of epic proportions.
But I realized that I also don’t have patience for a preschooler who earns a reputation as that kid.
Number 7 isn’t stupid.
She knows what she’s doing.
And she’s able to comprehend.
So we talked about her morning.
We talked about her making it through drop off without crying or throwing a fit.
I also told her I’d reward her for a smooth drop off when I picked her up at noon.
That I would give her those animal crackers she had asked for in the morning and that I had to go to the bank and I would get her a lollipop.
She looked me in the eye and told me she would do it.
I wasn’t convinced. At all.
But I had a little bit of hope.
We got to school.
Number 7 said hello to all of her teachers.
She walked to the sink to wash her hands.
She was doing so great.
And then, as soon as she stepped away from the sink and toward me to say goodbye, her little face wrinkled up. She started to cry.
“Mommy, I want you to stay with me,” she said, through tears.
And this time, she wasn’t being a jerk.
She was having some serious separation anxiety, and I felt so bad for her.
She is still two.
And she is still my baby.
I leaned down close and whispered in her ear, “Don’t forget about those animal crackers.”
She looked at me, and with all of her strength, she pulled herself together.
I asked her where she wanted to sit and she pointed to a chair, sat down, and started playing with the Play-Doh that was neatly laid out on the table in front of her.
I quickly made my way to the door and turned around for one last look.
She was trying so hard.
She held her lips together and looked at me and then down at her Play-Doh.
I ran out of the room before she had a chance to lose it.
I thought about her all morning, and when I walked down the hall to get her at 12:00, I had no idea what to expect.
I walked in the door to the classroom, and when the sea of parents who had entered the room ahead of me parted, there was Number 7.
Sitting in her seat.
Not a tear or red cheek in sight.
She had a couple bumps in the road during the day, but nothing close to the roller coaster she had ridden on that first day of school.
My girl.
We are digging a new groove together.
I know how hard it is, and I’m really, really proud of her.
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