In the How To Raise Laurel handbook, I have noted the challenges of day-to-day activities involving my amazing four year old. Getting her to put on clothing appropriate for going out into the world is a daily challenge. Getting her to go to the potty is a challenge, and one I have decided to give up on, as we’re locked in a power struggle. It’s not a struggle *I* can win. The only way to win here is for Laurel to take control and give up the fight. I tell myself this every day. I’m trying to be patient with this.
Last night, we had a huge meltdown because it was Kelsey’s night to pick out the book. Today’s meltdown is about Laurel’s clothing to go to the dentist. Nothing unusual here. And then she has another meltdown because Kelsey won’t let her get in on her side of the car.
Both Kelsey and I are refusing to take the path of least resistance with Laurel and let her have her way all the time. I can tell, as Kelsey asserts herself, that she tires of all the battles and tantrums. It’s important to Kelsey that she doesn’t always give in to her sister. Part of me wishes she would in this case, but I need to let K have her own relationship with L instead of negotiating every exchange.
At the dentist, Laurel runs around like a crazy thing while I am trying to schedule a return visit for Kelsey’s mouth full of cavities. This is very unlike Laurel, as she is usually very well behaved in public places. Then, on the way out, she decides to make us wait while she counts every chair in the office before exiting. THEN, she runs back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the car, grinning at me while I’m doing the 1-2-3 count. Finally, she gets in and I strap her into her seat.
We drive to a store to fax some documents for Allen’s new employer, and I am waiting for both girls to get out so that I can push the lock button on my side, as my remote is broken. Laurel doesn’t move. I wait. She doesn’t move or say anything. Finally, at the end of my patience, I reach over and undo her seat belt and motivate her physically to get out of the car, as she slumps like a boneless chicken.
“Are you punishing me for something?” I ask, my voice frustrated.
“You wouldn’t let me wear the glass slippers” she mumbles around fingers stuck into her mouth. Big sad eyes look up at me.
Flashback to 2 hours ago: While trying to get kids out the door, I see Laurel in a pink dress, crown, and dress-up heels. I can deal with the crown. I mean, how many little girls do you see walking around with a crown on? Probably a few at least, right? But the dress up shoes are clicky, and too big, and plastic with no rubber on the soles. Not appropriate footwear for leaving the house. I ask her to please put on her shoes, and she refuses. Curls up in a ball on the floor and whines. So, I get her shoes and socks, put them on her while she is in said position, and muscle everyone out the door so that we aren’t late for our appointment.
All this plays through my mind as I’m walking my kids across the street to fax the documents.
“So, you’re sad and angry that I wouldn’t let you wear the dress-up shoes, and THAT is the reason for this behavior?”
“Uh huh,” she replies.
My child is getting her vengeance. And maybe she’s justified.
There are some things I know I need to tirelessly fight for: Parking lot safety, appropriate behavior in public places, crossing streets, required parental permission before going anywhere out of my range of vision — things where the common element is the safety of my children.
And then there are the other things.
The manual for Laurel has been updated with a note, suggesting that fighting over things such as wardrobe are in the “Is it really worthwhile” column. Yes, the glass slippers are an injury-waiting-to-happen. But, they are also important to the way she wants to identify herself. What’s the better road to take? Let her wear the dress-up shoes and risk the possibility of a boo boo. OR, take the dress-up shoes away, and with it you take away a child’s fantasy, her sense of power, of identity.
Suddenly, I am the evil stepmother, and Cinderella is a sad little four year old who will never become a princess.