My daughter and I are at war. All out, nuclear missile, weapons of mass destruction, war. W-A-R, WAR. What is it good for? That's right, absolutely nuthin'.
My heart hurts, my head is pounding and my throat is sore from yelling. And I'm pretty sure my neighbors are wondering who that crazy bitch is who moved in last year, the one who screeches at her kid. I've reached the end of my rope on more than one occasion over the past year and nothing I do seems to make any bit of difference. Not that screaming helps. Nope. That's just to release the frustration so things don't actually get broken. It doesn't work either.
Maybe it's the age? Her personality? My personality? It doesn't start out bad - I'm positive. I'm zen-mother-goddess. I praise, I reward, I praise, I reward, it devolves, I warn, I punish, I punish, I punish, I lose control, I scream. I do everything the experts tell me to do until it becomes clear it's not working and then it turns into a horrible shouting match. Doors are slammed, things are thrown. Everything, and I do mean everything, is a fight.
Hey Chicky, it's daytime!
No! It's not and you can't tell me it is. Hmmph.
But, but, the sun is shining. It's day. Really! Look! It's daytime.
NO!!! *screaming, crying, tantrum, slamming door, The End*
She's four, for Christ's sake. What's going to happen to us in the coming years if we can't get this sorted out now?
We don't have good days and bad days anymore. We have a good ten or twenty minute span followed by a few hours of hell. Or maybe we go a whole hour or two without arguing and I get comfortable and cocky and then she sets me off with her repeated insolence and rude, defiant behavior.
I want to wrap this up nicely with a pretty pink bow but there is nothing pretty or nice about ending the day with the both of us in tears. There are no learning moments, no future seen in soft-focus, only pain and frustration and fear. I fear that I'm failing her and by virtue of that, her sister who witnesses it all. These are essential years and I can't seem to get it right. It doesn't really bode well for the rest of their childhoods, you know?
I'm so tired. I was hoping by writing this I'd get some of this pressure off my chest and I'd feel better. Turns out, no. There's a list of child development specialists on my fridge that I can call, that I should call, so why does it feel like admitting defeat? Like I can't properly parent my child.
I sound like a broken record at this point. Feel free to move on. No humor, no cute stories. Nothing to see here. Move along.
And please ignore the screaming.