We Can Work It Out

A mother of one of Emma's schoolmates relayed this conversation she had with our oldest recently.

"Emma," she asked. "What does your dad do?"

The mother had seen me at many of the school events and needless to say, most of the volunteers are not usually men. I suspect that having such a good-looking fella around causes the women-folk to inquire.

"Huh?" my daughter answered.

"What kind of work does your dad do?" she rephrased.

Without a bat of an eye she answered, "He helps people that can't help themselves."

"That's quite a job description." the mother thought to herself as she performed a follow-up, "So is he a social worker?"

The six-year old replied frankly, "No."

"So, does he work out of your home?"

"No." Emma answered.

The line of questioning continued by the confused, yet intrigued woman. "Is he a therapist?"

"No. He just helps others."

It was at this point the mother decided that she was going to have to get the real answers from one of us.

After hearing her story, I decided to ask Emma the same thing to see for myself what she thought. I began, "Hey honey, do you know what I do?"

The freckle-faced child stared at me.

I tried again, "Do you know what my job is?"

"Yes." she boldly answered with no further explanation.

"What is my job, babe?" apparently I had to phrase the question in a more correct format.

"Your job is to make sure that Ellie and I are safe."

I Want Candy

Our first born, Emma was quiet, patient, and absorbed each rule we introduced to her without question or argument. She spent her time looking at books and enjoying our company. Within a week of deciding that she should try to begin to use the toilet, she was completely potty-trained. She gave us the false impression that we had this "parenting thing" perfected.

As soon as our second child's head poked out of her mother, we knew we were dealing with a different creature. Ellie was colicky, restless, impatient and refused any rule unless it was her own concept. It wasn't until this past year, after her third birthday that she finally began to simmer down; just a little bit. We bribed, begged, and even gave up the potty training ordeal until she finally decided herself that it was time. She is a negotiator, where her older sister is the good soldier, taking her orders as they come.

Since rules are only speed bumps for Ellie on her road to life, we have been forced to reduce her instructions to three simple concepts:
1. Do not cry over silly things.
2. Do not be mean.
and the last one, which is the one she always "forgets"
3. Listen

Parents, these three simplified rules have worked for every situation we have experienced with our more difficult, ill-tempered little girl. They have even worked with her big sister. I highly recommend them, for you can take any altercation and quickly explain to the irrational offspring why they are in the wrong. It doesn't mean that the child will always care to know what it is they are doing incorrectly, but it has created a small, safe-haven for our sanity, and a sturdy basis for our disciplining for the past month or so.

Tonight Ellie was bursting into flames and crashing hard. She had played vigorously this afternoon, and it was later in the evening before we began winding the girls down for bed. There was one burst of tears when bed was mentioned. Then a second explosion when she was told to brush her teeth. She screamed at her sister to put the toothpaste on her toothbrush and was immediately confronted by me, again, as she stood at the bathroom sink screeching. Her chubby face was blotchy from exasperation when I asked her what the problem was. I knew she wanted someone to turn the faucet on for her, but not a single legible word emanated from her tiring tonsils. I began the three rules to coerce her into asking me for help.

"Ellie, you do not cry over silly things, right? Now, what do you want?" I calmly questioned her.

She refused to answer me.

"What do you do when you want something?" I continued.

Not even a budge from her tense, tiny frame.

Attempting to get her to communicate with me, I tried a different approach. "What do you do when you want a piece of candy?" I figured this would be a "slam dunk".

Without raising her eyes from her toothbrush she answered instantly, "I go poop in da toilet."

And I'm Losing Control

The girls have a problem with the frequency or maybe the volume of my voice. I am constantly battling for their listening attention. Because of this, I have become my mother. I have comfortably fell into the rambling gyrations of fits and actions of a person who would otherwise be considered mentally disabled if found alone on the streets. On-lookers are aware of the fragile emotional state parents' reside when they hear the symptomatic rants of neglected or ignored mothers or fathers. Smart people cross the street to avoid any unexpected lashings.

Despite the constant nagging I shower onto my girls, they sometimes surprise me and remind me that this is, in fact, my job to repeat myself throughout the day, and it is theirs to pretend they can't hear me, and test the outer edges of my sanity.

We were walking out of the local library, books, CDs, and movies in hand. I was telling the six and three year old that their mother was going to meet us and that we were going out to dinner.

"Mommy is going to meet us here in a few minutes." I began, "Get out of the parking lot, please, Ellie. Come hold my hand. Emma, get out of the parking lot, come over by us. Ellie, give me your hand, please. EMMA! Get out of there. Come over here with us."
As the two of them began bickering over who was carrying who's books, I raised my voice to continue.

"We are going to put all of our stuff into the truck and go out for dinner with your mother, okay?"

Only the spring wind spoke between the three of us.

We reached the truck and I began placing all of our borrowed items into the vehicle.

"What are we doing?" Emma asked concernly.
"Where is Mommy?" Ellie chimed.
"What are you doing with my books!" Emma started to cry.
"Where is Mommy?" Ellie chanted.

"Girls! I just told you. We are putting the things in the truck and Mom is going to meet us here. I am really getting tired of repeating myself. I shouldn't have to, and a lot of the times, I tell you things so you are safe, like in the parking lot just now." I started my parental breakdown.

At this time, the two of them were facing my backside as I dumped our collection into the truck, I continued my lecture to the unfazed audience.

"We are dropping our things off and Mommy is going to meet us! Got it?" I asked.

There was nothing but silence between the two children.

"Now what did I just say?" I questioned their listening comprehension.
Simultaneously the two answered, "Got it?"

I slumped onto the truck seat attempting to hold back the tears of desperation.