After getting in late from a beach day and pulling up to my brother’s car in front of the house, I knew Zora’s excitement at seeing him would equate to trouble falling asleep. I let her stay up much later than I should have, allowed her to sleep in our room, and settled for knowing that she’d be tired the next day.
When the morning came, her body woke her (just five minutes after her usual wake-up time)… with the realization that she had started peeing on herself.
“You caught it!” I said. She placed a towel in the bed, changed underwear and we counted it as a crisis averted. Then, I asked if she wanted to do yoga before camp or sleep a little longer. She chose the latter, so I found my way into the living room and lost track of time taking naked selfies (because my pregnant body amazes me in a particularly special way) and updating the baby’s registry.
About ten minutes before we needed to leave the house, I decided to finally buckle down and wake the sleeping giant. She kept her eyes closed and maintained dead weight as I sat her up, pulled her to the edge of the bed, and did a 10-second count down asserting the amount of time she had left if she wanted to choose her own outfit versus forfeiting her right to autonomy. (In hindsight, I recognize that this was one of my biggest mistakes. Like an amateur… I opted into a power struggle with a tired six-year-old.)
And you probably already guessed that she was completely unfazed by my countdown.
So, I went into her room, picked out (I’d say an acceptable) outfit, and was blown to find her back under the covers when I intended to begin getting her dressed. I grabbed one of her feet to put it into the hole of the skirt I chose, and she kicked back while being sure to keep her eyes closed. Choosing to believe that wasn’t a conscious reaction, I grabbed for her foot again. She responded by opening her eyes and saying she could dress herself/choose her own clothes. I pretended to push back as if I actually intended for her to wear my selections as much as I intended for her to get out of the bed and get dressed.
I followed her into her bedroom and narrated her process, hoping to rush her into picking something out versus the usual production she makes of selecting her outfit of the day. Once she chose her top and bottom, I walked out (bc I was still fully unclothed and needed to dress myself).
This is when the hysterics began. I could hear her crying in her room, but I continued getting dressed.
Once I finally had clothes on, I told her to go brush her teeth and asked if she’d be wearing her hair down or in a ponytail. She chose a ponytail, while tearfully explaining that she didn’t want to go to camp. Then, she resisted when I tried to do her ponytail for her as she began putting toothpaste on her toothbrush.
“I don’t like the way you do my ponytails,” she said.
“Remember you said that,” was all could I say in response. Because I was hell-bent on making sure to remind her of this comment the next time she asked for help with her hair. Pregnant and petty was clearly the mood for my morning.
I watched with a look of annoyance as she struggled through putting her locs in a ponytail and refused to leave the bathroom until she picked her toothbrush back up. At this point, I don’t even remember what I intended to do when walking away, but some part of me recognized that being a watchful eye wasn’t making things any easier.
Imagine my surprise (alternative wording: how pissed I was) to walk out of my bedroom and see her back in bed, under the covers at that, with her toothbrush in hand.
That did it. She decided for us both that she wouldn’t be brushing her teeth this morning. I didn’t have the time or patience, and it felt like she wasn’t even trying. So, I urged her to go put on her shoes. She threw them on the floor and wriggled a floppy foot around as if the shoes suddenly didn’t fit and her body didn’t know how to help itself.
I squatted down to her level, grabbed her firmly by both arms, and told her to “pull it together.” I may have said something about taking deep breaths and definitely had the thought that she was struggling to self-regulate. But in all reality… so was I. So, I told her to go to the car as I grabbed the few things she needed for camp.
In this moment, I was thankful that just the night before we had discussed her buying lunch instead of packing something. Because the way I was feeling, she was lucky that I chose to put a waffle in the toaster and grab her a piece of fruit for breakfast. I was trying to use this moment to regain my composure but all hope was lost once I reached the car and saw her kicking her feet at the center console. Just… why?
I placed her backpack beside her, told her that she had fruit, goldfish, and water in her bag if she wanted a snack later. Then, I passed her the waffle and made a mental note that she didn’t say thank you. As I buckled myself, she continued wiggling her body, so I asked if she needed help buckling up.
She said no and then said, “I don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to what?” I asked.
Would you believe her response was, “I don’t know.”
Clearly, sis! I heard one click across her chest and begun backing out of the driveway. In attempt to encourage her finding some calm (alternative wording: tune her out), I put on her bedtime playlist. We made it through two traffic lights before she began eating her fruit (internally, I was insulted by her attempting to nourish her body AND maintain her tearful production). After another traffic light, she asked if I could turn off her music. I noted that she said please, but I responded that I didn’t want to hear her crying anymore than she wanted to hear her music and that I’d only turn it off if she agreed to stop crying and take deep breaths.
She agreed. I turned the music off (and listened intently, fully prepared to turn the music right back on if she continued with her antics). She began taking deep breaths, and I began replaying the countless mornings I experienced my sibling having a terrible start to their day. I recalled the gentleness with which my mother would wake me. The silent vow I made to never send my child into a school building with a tear-stained face. And as she sat in the back seat, content on eating her breakfast, I found myself trying not to cry.
She clearly needed help regulating, and yet there I was… her guide… beyond my own control.
As we pulled up, she noted that she hadn’t finished her waffle. I told her to take a second if she needed to. Pushing down every inch of pride that was fighting desperately to have its way, I added, “I’m sorry for allowing you to sleep in this morning and making you rush to start your day. We’ll do better tomorrow.”
Without missing a beat, she replied, “I’m sorry for sleeping in this morning and rushing. We’ll do better tomorrow.”
And there I was, staring back at myself… receiving an apology only after being willing to extend it. I was stumped. I didn’t know if she thought I was instructing her on what she should say or simply being accountable for herself. Never mind that I definitely felt owed an apology for how she acted.
We hugged, and I felt her stifling a new flow of tears as I stifled my own. I wiped her dried tears using the towel she had wrapped her fruit in, and she put her book bag on with newfound composure.
After she entered the building and I got back in the car, I wanted to cry. In preparation for my upcoming labor and delivery, I’ve been working on breathing techniques that help me recognize when I’m holding onto tension versus releasing it. I told my body to relax. I wanted to let the tension go, but I wasn’t sure how.
Then my brain began writing this post. So, here I am. In real-time. Practicing the release of tension. Learning how to self-regulate in my adult life. While preparing to parent a second child.
If only our kids knew that we were just kids, too. [exhale…. release]