The Haves and the Have Nots

It’s a big joke.  Three years old.

 

I’m pretty sure that 3 is much worse than 2.  That’s part of the practical joke “seasoned” parent play on the new ones.  Just jolly new parents along with the hope that the tantrums and pushing that happen at 2-years-old will go away because it’s called “Terrible Twos” not “Totally In-Tolerable Threes.”  Then, just when the young parent starts to slap themselves on the back and think – I’ve survived, we’re going to make it! – usher in the 3’s and sit back and laugh.

 

Good joke.  Ha ha.  Funny.

 

I guess the problem is that Mia is now old enough to formulate logical arguments and can stay focused on one subject long enough to hold a grudge.  She’s started calling me a “mean lady” when she doesn’t get her way.  She has an intense imaginary world she lives in and if you disrupt her plan with then her control over all emotion completely dissolves.

 

Some sassiness had her on the naughty bench earlier this week.  I told her that she was “misbehaving” and could come play after she had thought about her actions and was willing to behave and become a sweet girl again.  (I added the extra descriptions of her previous behavior – harpy, demon-child, exasperating offspring – only as internal dialogue.)

 

All was quiet on the Western front for awhile.  Then I heard the little girl voice chirp from the naughty bench.

 

“Mommy?  Can I get up now?  I have my “have” back.”

 

I love the thought processes of my child!

 

Another “have” story around here:

 

I just had my first experience with Mommy… something.  I don’t know exactly what to call it, but I know that it’s a powerful emotion and it’s tied to my mother-bear instinct.

 

We went to a play date with a large group of moms and kids from church.  They’re all good people, good kids.  We happened to spend time with another family just yesterday, so Mia immediately went over to – let’s call her Sara – and wanted to start playing.  Sara looked at her and shouted, “No, you can’t swing by me, I want to swing with Katie!”

 

What?!  Are you serious?!  It’s a swing set with six seats on it.  They’re 3 years old!  Does the pack mentality begin so young?!

 

Mia just sat there for a little while looking forlorn, shrugged and then went to play on something else.  (Probably one of her imaginary friends who don’t’ rebuff her advances of friendship.)  I, however, was sitting there gritting my teeth and wanting to fight the world, all for the emotional well-being of a little girl who didn’t get terribly upset by the whole encounter.

 

*Sigh.*

 

Writing this has helped me calm down a little.  I cried a little, too.  I know that kids are mean.  I know that sometimes adults are mean, too.  I recognize that I can’t – and shouldn’t – protect my kids from snippy behavior, only educate them so that they aren’t the ones perpetuating it.

 

In the midst of all of my frustrations with my kids, I guess I also have to acknowledge that I think they’re really special.  I mostly can’t understand why that little girl wouldn’t want to play with Mia… doesn’t she know how cool Mia can be?  I mean, seriously, who else can take a backpack and the leash to an imaginary dog and create an in-depth story about how they’re traveling on a plane to Jacksonville to visit dolphins and stingrays?

 

I am determined not to be a “helicopter” parent.  You know, the ones who do everything for their kids and hover protectively.  I deal with helicopter parents at the college regularly.  It’s irritating and it actually disables the kids from being successful adults.

 

With my deep commitment to letting the girls fight battles on their own, I guess I’m surprised at my own emotions in this elementary situation.  I can control myself and not run to dust them off every time they fall… but I suppose I now need to learn to let them dust themselves off emotionally.

 

It’s funny.  By this time I would assume that I’ve learned most of my “that’s just life” lessons.  Yet it takes one visit to the playground to let me know how much I still have to learn.