Three is the New Thirteen

The little V-meister is not quite four years old and already I feel the two of us are on a collision course.

Is that even possible?

I’m writing this post at the local library, having flown the coop after serving dinner tonight. This (the need to flee) happens approximately every 28 days, but today was especially taxing because the V-meister seemed intent on breaking me.

Moments before the P-dog walked through the door this evening, J and V had been in the throes of a colossal meltdown that included screaming at a pitch just below the one that only dogs can hear (if they had just jacked it up one notch, all would have been well). The carnage was precipitated by the J-dog’s audacity in daring to edge his way to a spot next to the little V-meister on her thumb-sucking and hair twisting throne, aka the brown chair.

(Why is it that the screamfest always subsides two seconds before the hubster walks through the door in time to see you standing in the middle of the kitchen, chugging cooking wine straight from the bottle while two worn-out, albeit slightly red-eyed children, play quietly in the living room?)

Honestly.

But my sadness and anger today are mostly the result of a feeling that is always just beneath the surface of many of my interactions with the little V, and one that was bubbling closer to the top all day today: a sense that she is already gearing up to hate me.

I know that much of her behavior is common to children her age and maybe I’m just being hyper-sensitive, but sometimes her cold defiance and anger just totally floors me. How is it possible that this child whose Montessori teacher describes as a joy to have in the classroom, a child who practically oozes sweetness to total strangers, could morph into such a flailing little banshee at home?

I recognize that often, my not exactly placid reactions to her tantrums are not doing either of us any favors and I suspect that if she received more one-on-one attention from me, or if I was more mindful in the way I address her, some of our run-ins could be averted. I won’t deny that I have a tendency to give orders and don’t always preface my requests with a “please” or follow up with a “thank you”. Then again, I’ve known mothers who bend over backwards not to offend their children’s delicate sensibilities with stern language of any sort, and I can’t say they were any better behaved.

It’s possible that I could pick my battles more wisely. Why, for instance, couldn't I have let her poke and prod at her (lovingly prepared) lunch until it was time to get dressed for school instead of insisting that she hurry up and stop playing with it and did you know that there are children who don't get to eat lunch at all (oh, yes I did, but I did not mention where in the world they might be) and here you are, acting like it's rat poison! Why didn't I just let her pour sugar on her strawberries as she demanded tonight? It wouldn’t have killed either of us. (But the cavities! The hyperactivity! The sense of entitlement!) Am I in the minority in still believing that some things should be done just because I said so and I’m the mom?

But still.

I sense a storm brewing. And I don’t know how I’ll ever weather it if days like today are already getting the best of me.

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Home now. Feeling much better. It seems the little V-meister is not holding anything against me (a sure sign she hasn’t entered her teens yet). According to the P-dog, she was asking about me all night. When he tucked her in, she wanted to know if I’d be back to sing her the song that is part of our nightly bedtime ritual. When informed that I would probably return well after she's asleep, the little V-meister requested a song from Daddy, who obliged with the only one he knows by heart:

"C-O-F-F-E-E
Coffee is not for me
It’s the drink some people wake up with
That it makes them nervous is no myth.
Slaves to the coffee cup
They’ll never give coffee up.”

To which the V-meister responded,

“Where’s mama?????”

So maybe I still have a couple of good years left. . .