Sunday, 13 May 2012

When I Couldn't Fake a Mary Poppins

You hit me! I cannot believe you hit me. You little s**t.  How dare you! Ouch! by the way. This is not how it is suppose to be.

I watched Make Room For Daddy and I Love Lucy. They weren't hit by their children. The Partridge Family-Single  mom odiously ogled by her manager, and Brady Bunch- blended family, hormones brewing, and let me say, none of those children ever hit their mother.

Don't you know that I carried you for nine months.  I know that has been said before, but it is still true.  Nine months it took to create stretch marks, gain fifty pounds, cause my bladder to spasm endlessly, where I couldn't sneeze without wetting my pants. My fat feet with broken arches barely fit into those stupid flip flops as I waddled, sweating profusely through the summer, till you decided it was "time."

Three hours my feet pushed at stirrups, not to mention the fifteen hours prior of deepening, developing pain I laboured through. Three hours, I was told to breathe, three hours, I heard "almost there." then "forceps may be an option and may need to consult with doctor." In my semi-conscious state, I watched the midwife push that little red button and I watched a woman, only slightly bigger than that tiny red button, rush into the room, stand on a stool, push my chin to chest and like a military sergeant and shout "Push!" and I did and out you finally came.

That is not to mention sleepless nights, high fevers, endless profusely, projectile poo and sucking at my boobs with such tenacity that they very quickly turned into wrinkly pancakes, which even the wonderbra couldn't save.  So, yes, I have the right to tell you to change into your pyjamas and, when you struggle and when you moan and when your neck muscles stretch out and "eeeee" comes out of tight grimacing little lips as you battle with a button, a button you have undone a dozen times, I have the right to mimic you and laugh.  I have the right to say, "Come on, of course you can do it." And when you approach me, nose to nose, open mouth, so I can feel your little milky breath, screaming, "You are being horrible to me," I have the right to release a nervous giggle. A giggle which is misinterpreted, a giggle which shocks you, makes your mouth open and hand strike.

I don't care if mother earth and all the cosmic forces unite and tell me that I handled that like shit and had it coming. They are wrong.  It is my house.  I am your mother and I am always right, just because. You, however, are a little girl and survive do to my good graces and tolerance and you do not have the right to hit me. I don't care about how frustrated you are, about poor impulse control, about being six.  You cannot hit me.

You are lucky to have the mother you do.  I could have said, "Watch who you hit, they might hit back." And stare at you with such intensity that it would melt ants on the pavement.  OK, maybe I did, but before I could say anything else stupid, I stood up and said, "You do not hit your mother.  I am going to leave and give you a few minutes to think about what you just did."

I heard the volume of your wails increase. Your attempt at influencing me as I considered your punishment.  It did not work.

After your sister had two stories read and a snuggle.  I felt more in control.  I left her room and reentered yours. I sat on the edge of your bed and made my first attempt to deal with the situation. You, pulling your quilt up and over your mouth so all I can see is your huge reddened brown eyes and a little nose. I start in my most grown up voice: "I am not a friend or another child on the playground, you do not hit me."

Your reply: "So I can hit my friends and kids on the playground. I didn't think that I was allowed to do that. That wouldn't be very nice."
My response: "Your certainly are not allowed to do that.  I never said that."
Your reply: "You did."
Mine: "Did not."
Yours: "Did."
and mine: "Did not. Let's move on."

The second attempt:
"This is a kind house.  We do not hit each other in this house; nor do we scream at each other." I explain calmly.
"You scream at me." You answer.
"I do not." I respond.
"You do," adding determination to your voice.
"Do not," I respond again.
"Screamed at me last week to hurry up," your hands fly around to validate your conviction.
"I did not, that is not screaming," I explain.
"It is," you nodded frantically.
"Trust me, if I scream at you,  you will know it," I start to develop a bit of a snarl, my voice slightly raised. This conversation is not going to plan.

Third attempt:
"You will miss out on story-time tonight."
"NOOO," you shout.
"Yes," I answer.

Your lips pucker out, whimpering, chin quivering, breathing in with a snotty nose.
I take my tissue out, ask you to blow and try to stay strong.
"Daddy and Mommy's job is to teach you to be a responsible adult (learned that from Dr. Phil so it must be right). There are consequences to your actions. Do you understand?" Absolute quiet.  "When you do something naughty, like hit your mother, you have to learn that is not right."
You answer, "And that happens by not getting my story," sniffle, sniffle.

Fourth Attempt:
"Mommy loves you very much, more than I can ever explain. So, when you hit me it hurts my heart," I pushed a tear soaked hair from your face. You went into a silent cry, with only broken breath heard.  This one was real, you turned and curled into your pillow.  "I would never want to hurt you, Mommy." "I know pumpkin," I whispered. "It was a mistake. I know you will make a different choice next time." You nod.

"Do you love me still?" you ask.
"Of course, I will always love you.  I love you every second of every minute, every hour of every day of every month of every year. That is just what mommies and daddies do, they love no matter what, but part of loving you is to help fix mistakes."
"I understand, Mommy. I will always love you too. Cuddle?" Arms are held out and spread. We hold each other in silence for a few minutes. I believe that I may have actually taught something, we, you and I, have actually had a "moment."

You picked your head up and place your little hands on my cheeks, "So, Mommy, now that I understand, How about a story?"
I breathed in slowly and laughed aloud. You smiled, raised your brows and waited. "No, bedtime, Darling." I fixed your sheets, kissed your cheek, say, "Night night. Oh, yes, don't ask Daddy, he  will also say no." I turned the lights off and shut the door. I heard you laugh.  I am amazed at how fast things can change.

Leaned against your door, I realised that this time would not be the last time your behaviour would shock me and it  would not be the last time I fumbled and faltered when dealing with it. I wondered about what would make me gasp and go quiet in your adolescence and teenage years. I wondered if one day, I might even be the one questioning your love for me and desperately needing a cuddle. It makes me uneasy.

As I walked downstairs to tidy the toy room. I decided that it best to deal with these things as they happen and simply keep my thoughts on the day.


  1. Oh my goodness - you dealt with that well. It's so hard. And they are so canny aren't they "Can I have a story now that I understand?" - sounds familiar. Good for you for sticking to your guns on that one.

    1. Thanks, everyday there seems to be a new challenge. Funny how they can "play" us so well but can't seem to hang up their clothes.