Angel Wheeler

You Dance Over Me

I’m not sure what it was that woke me in the middle of the night. The dream. The fact that my left leg was asleep from stem to stern. Or my big barking dog in the backyard. Whatever it was, I was awake.

I wiggled my leg, feeling the pins and needles begin to subside; laid there deciding whether I should get up and shut up the dog and face a possible ax murderer staring back at me ( I always imagine the worst); all while I picked the pieces of my dream and put them in their place, making it all come together. It was a Dad dream, my favorite kind, and so I savored the memory of him for just a while longer before I ventured outside to yell at the dog.

It turned out, there was no ax wielding maniac, probably just a skunk. I returned to bed, but now I had a new problem. I was awake at four in the morning. Alone in my head. My thoughts crowding and bumping into each other.

As a mom-in-the-trenches, there are two things I currently cherish in my life.
1) My sleep
2) My alone time when I’m awake.

I debated them. Should I try to go back to sleep? Should I get up and write? (something I don’t have time for unless I’m awake and everyone else is asleep). I want to sleep. I want to write. I can’t do both at the same time. Instead I did neither. I played Words with Friends, then I thought of my dream some more, which carried me to a real-life conversation I had with my sister a few hours previous.

She had mentioned a scripture that she was focusing on. Zephaniah 3:17? Or was it Zechariah 3:17? Four in the morning memory isn’t so hot. She said she had highlighted it for her Bible Study and had left her Bible opened on the table. Later, she noticed that her daughter, who’s battling her own adolescent wars, had drawn a heart beside the highlighted scripture and had written her initials inside. That image touched me. The fact that an adolescent girl would pause to read that scripture, and that it was meaningful enough to her that she would make her own notations with her heart and initials.

I am unfamiliar with Zephaniah 3:17.

I got my phone and looked it up.
Zephaniah 3:17
NLT: “For the Lord your God has arrived to live among you. He is a mighty savior. He will rejoice over you with great gladness. With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will exult over you by singing a happy song.”

Then I read it in the NIV:
“The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.”

I read them again and again, mulling over these words and considered the relevance to my niece and her struggles.

God is with you.
Lives among you.
Mighty Savior.
Rejoices.
Great delight.
With gladness.
Calm all your fears.
Rejoice over you with singing.
Happy song.

It paints a happy picture, doesn’t it? It paints a loving picture. It paints a picture of a God who is crazy about us. One who cares.

Just then my little bed partner, Emma Kate, rolled into me. Her skin was warm and toasty and her breathing was full of slumber. I kissed the side of her head, and felt my heart bursting with love for her.

Those words echoed in my head:
Great delight
With gladness.
Calm all your fears.
Rejoice over you with singing.
Happy song.

We love because he first loved us. He is our example of love. We should strive to love like him. Those words are of a Loving God. And, just for an extra bonus, the words of an Old Testament God. The mean one, you know?

You see, I have a problem with God. Rather, I have a problem with my idea of God. I try to fit him into a mold and relate to him in ways that I relate to others. I’m told God is loving. I’m told He desires a relationship with us more than anything. I’m told that he cares for us. But, sometimes I can’t help but see God as aloof, off in Heaven doing his own thing, his back turned to me, his ears barely hearing my pleas. He’s busy. He’s working. He wants to be left alone. Maybe he says, ‘In a minute.’ ‘Later.’ ‘I need to finish this first, then I’ll get to you’. Or maybe he says, ‘Can I just have a few minutes to myself? Geez, all I’m asking for is a little quiet time here. To regroup. Recharge. Is that too much to ask?’

Or wait. No, that’s me.

You see, I think God relates to me the way I relate to my child. And others.

But he doesn’t.

My ways are not your ways. My thoughts are not your thoughts.

We’re told here in Zeph. 3:17, that he delights in us. Sings over us. Rejoices. Yagil. That literally means he dances, skips, leaps. He shouts over us with shouts of joy.

Whoa.

When was the last time you danced and sang over somebody? Not with somebody. Not for somebody’s entertainment. But OVER somebody. As much as we think we love, it’s no comparison to how he loves is it?

God does not have his back turned. He’s not saying, “not now, later.” He cares. We are his children, and He is not weary with us. He has shown up to live with us. He has arrived.
Annnnnnd……He is full on dancing, singing, rejoicing, and loving us.

How awesome is our God?

I think that knowledge is worth getting up at 4 a.m. for.

In my book, anyway.

C’ est La Vie

Do you ever have moments in your life when you realize you don’t even know who the hell you are? Maybe I’m the only one. But sometimes, I can’t believe the way I behave or the thoughts in my head and I have to pause and say, where did that come from. That’s not like you.

Case in point: I’m sick. I’ve been sick for a while and it’s beginning to get to me. I’m convinced the house is filled with black mold and it’s slowly killing us all. Google; it’s a wonderful thing and an awful thing. Used to, back in my normal, younger years, I would have sucked it up and carried on my wayward son. But now, it does nothing more than knock me on my butt. I need chicken soup and NyQuil and two or three days to veg in my bed with tawdry romance novels. But I’m a momma and an auntie and I have to carry on, despite it all. Back when I had sick days, I never took them. Now I’d give anything to have a sick day. You know?

If you don’t really know me, and you only read my blog, you probably think I suffer from clinical depression. My blogs are full of doom, despair, and agony on me. But life isn’t interesting when it’s happy, is it? I don’t suffer from clinical depression, it’s just that I like to blog when life is kicking me in the pants. Which is more often than not, seems like. So maybe I do suffer from clinical depression. Or maybe it just helps me cope. Complaining is the best medicine. Or is that laughter? I get confused. Especially when I’m sick. And blue. And suffering from Clinical Depression.

It’s on days like these, when I want to fast forward life 20 years to see how this all turns out, that I have to remind myself that I’m just having a bad day or maybe a couple of bad days, but not a bad life. Suck it up, butter cup.

So now that I’ve unloaded my warped mind and feelings on you, I’m feeling better, so let’s discuss a few important things:

1) For starters, remember when my EK loved her silver high heels? That’s all she would wear. Dresses and high heels. One day, after months and months of dresses and silver high heels, she just decided she was done with all that and would wear pants and shirts and shorts and tenny runners (what my dad would call them). I thought she had retired the silver high heels. Until today, when she woke up and decided she wanted to wear them. With jeggings. And purple socks. So we did. Not a battle I’m willing to fight.

2) Speaking of fashion, when is chevron going to go out of style? It’s probably one of those fashion things I’ve totally gotten wrong. Like capris. Twenty years ago or something, people started wearing capris. You know, they used to be called knickers, then peddle pushers. I looked down at my then Levi’s 517’s and thought to myself, ‘those peddle pushers are the stupidest looking things, and you won’t catch me dead in them’. Famous last words. My whole entire wardrobe consisted (consists) of them for years, maybe it still does. Wishing I could put myself in some Levi’s nowadays. Twenty some-odd years passes and suddenly we’re bombarded with chevron. You know, it used to be called zig-zag. I said to myself, ‘well, that’s cute, but it won’t last. It’s a fad’. So I resisted. I own nothing in chevron, and yet it’s still every where I look. Clothes, walls, furniture, floors. Pretty soon, someone will paint their car with it.

Have you seen those cute little eyelashes people put on their Volkswagons? You know, they used to be called slug bugs. If I had a hippie van, I’d put eyelashes on it. But I wouldn’t paint it chevron. But daisies? Now we’re talking.

3) I’ve been trying to edit a book that I wrote a year ago, and I’ve just decided it sucks. I suck. And it was a stupid idea to ever think I could write anything life changing or even substantial. I’m ready to give up on this dream of writing. Maybe I’ll become a curmudgeon instead, it sounds like a better lifestyle choice and I think I’m more cut out for it instead.

Then I have to give myself a pep talk and say where did that come from? That is not like you. Then I get on Pinterest and get some inspiration and then I tell myself not to give up. That I’m just having a bad day, not a bad life, and to carry on my wayward son. Then I blog and tell you all my troubles and I feel much better.

4) Ash has started Driver’s Ed. Yes, this is happening. She also has a boyfriend. That’s happening too. And has had a car date (to a homecoming dance with another couple). Part of me can’t believe she’s old enough for all this and then part of me is ready to marry her off so I can veg out in my bed for 3 days instead of chauffeuring her around and cooking supper every night. Then I’m reminded I’ve still got 16 more years with this other one before I get to lie in bed with tawdry romance novels for days on end.

And yes, I hear you all…….Cherish this time, it will be gone before you know it, enjoy your children, you’re going to miss this.. Blah, blah, blah. I hear ya, I hear ya. I’m just having a bad day, not a bad life, okay?

5) I’m still off Facebook! Yea me. It’s been almost 2 months. What have I missed?

6) Here’s a couple pictures of my lovelies, in case you’ve been missing them.

And here’s a picture of me:

Just having a bad day, not a bad life.

Pack up all my care and woe

Right now I am drowning in this parenthood thing. Drowning, I tell ya. The most frequent thought that runs through my head is packing a little knapsack and running away. Far, far, away. Seriously, I’m considering getting a job just to get a break. Is that crazy? Really I should have a handle on this by now, but I don’t.

EK is 2.5 and I think this is the hardest season we’ve gone through so far. For starters, only mom can do anything. Only mom can dress her, wipe her, hold her, pour her milk, put on her shoes, fix her noodles, etc. etc. etc. And second, she is wanting to be independent, bossy, and rule the roost. Then on top of the “push the limits” behavior, the binky fairy visited and took her binkies to all the babies of the world. Biggest Mistake Ever. This has totally rocked her world. And mine. And I’d just like to say right here for the record, the INTERNET IS A BIG, FAT LIAR!

I always go to the Internet because I don’t have an old, wrinkled, medicine woman from an indigenous culture living with me, but oh how I wish I did. First off, I timed the fairy’s visit with the farmer’s almanac for weaning animals and children. Stupid farmers.

Second, I was told by the so called “experts” it would be a couple of rough nights, maybe up to a week. Well, let me tell you folks, we are on day 11 and rough doesn’t scratch the surface. She still asks for it 2-3 times a day and all night. She’s not napping, she’s not sleeping, which translates into I’m not napping. I’m not sleeping. Which translates into one huge, grouchy mother.

Do you want to know what we’re doing? We’re crying. We’re fighting. And I’m drowning. I almost caved last night. I almost, after 11 nights, gave it back to her. It was pushing midnight and she hadn’t napped in days and everything was and is a crisis. But instead of caving, I got the Tylenol. A swig for her. A swig for me. Actually, a couple swigs for me and a carefully measured, accurate dose for her because she truly is a little sick which is like the cherry on top of everything else. We made it until 4:30 a.m. before the next crisis.

Right now the reason I’m able to even blog, is because my husband dragged her out of the house to go build a princess castle in the woods, whatever that may mean. I’m just thankful.

It means I’m alone. It means the house is quiet. It means I can refuel my soul from every ounce that has been drained from it, to prepare for the next siphoning session to begin.

I truly don’t know how parents do this? How do you people do this? So say a prayer for us, would you? I know this isn’t the biggest issue in the world, but it’s the biggest issue in my world, and I’m selfish. And tired.

What happened when I quit Facebook

I quit facebook. It was huge for me. I think either today, tomorrow, or the next day marks two weeks. Two weeks!

I don’t even know why I did it, except that somewhere in the past few years, months, weeks, or days, when it happened I’m not sure, but at some point, I kind of lost myself. It’s not face book’s fault, but just a combination of my choices. Maybe it’s never happened to you, but I got to the point where I just found myself sick to death of everything, including myself. So I pulled the plug. I can’t pretend it wasn’t hard. Within moments my mind was racing with pathetic thoughts. The first thing I worried about was that if I died, while not on Facebook, no one would be able to visit my wall to eulogize me and tell my loved ones how much they missed me. Or give a nice story. Or even know I died at all. That thought process right there may be indicative of the health of my mind at the time.

The next thought, after the death one, was that my sister’s birthday was coming up in a couple of days and just how was I going to handle that? Usually it was an ol’ happy bd fb post, but now I would need an alternate method. To the card store I went. It got me thinking that I didn’t receive one card in the mail on my previous birthday, except from Bealls, the local department store, with a friendly $10 gift to use toward my purchase. I may not have received a card for my birthday, but I know I probably got more than a hundred fb messages. What is that saying about us as people? Anything at all? Sending cards will soon be filed away in the same archaic vault as sending a lock of hair to a loved one. I almost sent one to my sister, just for old times sake.

Then over the next few days of my fb fast, I would catch myself thinking “I should put that on Facebook”. Or wondering about certain people who I only kept in contact with through that venue. It was comparable to a grieving process, how for a brief moment you pick up the phone to call your mom or your dad, only to remember they’re no longer living. But as the days passed, it became easier and better. I haven’t really missed it. Except maybe, a little.

I did want to post Ashlynn’s first day of 10th grade, so here it is:

Isn’t she lovely? This was the day after she was released from the hospital with yet another stomach blockage due to adhesions. It had been a while since we have had to deal with this, and it was downright scary. She spent three days in there feeling terribly. Normally, I would have been straight on fb for prayer, because it is a great avenue for that. My sister kept the Facebook world updated and many prayers came for healing and I am much appreciative. I know her healing is from God and I know the many prayers of friends and family reached the heavens.

Friends helped keep her spirits up. She developed a nasty cough right afterwards, but about has that whipped now too and is on to smooth sailing.

********

So here it is nearly September, and we are squeezing the last drops out of summer as we can. We went and took Emma out on a paddle boat the other day and found ourselves way too far out with just a few minutes to get back. Our thighs were burning trying to get back to the dock in time. Emma was crying in the beginning, she is such a cautious child and really tends to get anxious at new things, but she was all smiles in no time. A package of m&m’s might have helped.

She’s a full blooded two and a half year old now and keeps me laughing. She’s so good and a true blessing and joy in all of our lives. I really need to write down more of what she says because they’re just so darn funny.

All in all, since my fb sabbatical (and my deletion of all other social media, save pinterest and words with friends) I am feeling much more light hearted. I’m finding my focus, which primarily should be on the people who live under my roof. Other than that, each day is just a repeat of the previous. Sometimes it’s drudgery, sometimes it’s chaos, but there is always beauty to be found when I pause long enough to look around.

The big things are still the same: I’m still trying to find my purpose in life and still trying to grow my bangs out, both of which might take to the end of my days. And in the event the end of my days might come, you might have to go to the card store to send a condolence. Go ahead and stick a lock of hair in their too, okay, just for old times sake.

We Call It Rocky Muffin

I’ve never been a cat person, mostly because my family was dog people and I’ve never had an opportunity to be a cat person. That, and the fact that I’m allergic. I didn’t discover I was allergic until I was about 18, and so I mostly just avoided them after that. It’s not that I detest them or anything.

But, this little kitten has kind of stolen my heart. I love her. I think it’s a her.

She was born next to our house in a litter of four. The mama cat would come periodically and take care of them, and then she would move them to new places. So every 4-5 days they would disappear. I can’t pretend it didn’t break my heart a little every time I discovered they were gone. But then, two of them came back. I would put out a little kibble when I saw them, and in the process I fed many skunks at the same time. We called the beautiful little calico, Callie. She was my favorite and I secretly never wanted her to leave. And we called this black one Rocky, because she was a little fighter and wouldn’t hardly have anything to do with anyone, while the others were more gentle.

A few days passed and they disappeared again. I was resigned, you know. It was probably best that they go on their way, find a home or stay feral. I told myself I gave them a good start and that was the end. It’s not like I need any cats, I’ve got plenty of animals around here, and that’s not counting all the ducks in the duck pond.

But one day, this little Rocky was back. And she hasn’t left since. In fact, she’s started coming up to us, instead of staying hid out in her original place beside the house.

EK and I read a book called Meet Muffin, about a cat of course. So EK started calling her Muffin. Sometimes she even calls her Bagheera the Panther. And sometimes I just throw Lopez on the end because of a little joke I know. EK is convinced she’s a boy. I’m not completely convinced she’s a girl, but I think I have a little more experience with determining that, and how do I explain that to a 2 year old. I’m as dumb as they come when it comes to cats, so I’m not 100% about anything.

For the last couple of days, Rocky Muffin Bagheera the Panther Lopez has wandered in the house. Skittish and scared. She’s also wandered on top of the kitchen table. Curious and bold. I was torn about this whole cat thing until I noticed I don’t seem to have any allergy to this one. Then, when she chowed down on some shared Ramen noodles, I knew she was destined to be a part of our family.

Now she rubs up against our legs, wrapping herself around them purring so sweetly. Today she jumped on my lap when I was sitting outside. I gave her a saucer of buttermilk and I think we’re pretty much BFF’s now.

Black cats are even considered to be good omens in some cultures, bringing good fortune. In that case, maybe we should call her Lucky.

Rocky Muffin Bagheera the Panther Lucky Lopez—-Welcome.

Building a Duck Pond

The past two days, EK has woken at six bells. Because the sky is not dark, she thinks it’s time to get out of bed. I wholeheartedly disagree with this concept. Yesterday morning, I handed her my phone with Peppa Pig primed and ready to view, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Some days, you just gotta do what you just gotta do. I don’t feel a bit guilty about that. Well, maybe just a tad.

Half of everything she knows, I owe to some animated being, whether it be Elmo, Barney, Cinderella, Ariel, or good ol’ Peppa. Some I’m thankful for, and some not so much, but it is what it is. In one particular Peppa episode, they visit a duck pond. So EK got it in her head that we should to. This posed a couple of problems.

1) I don’t know where a duck pond is in this area.

2) That would require leaving the house

So we did the next best thing and made our own in three easy steps that didn’t require us having to brush our hair.

STEP ONE

STEP TWO

STEP THREE: Put on your “babing suit” and swim with the ducks.

A duck pond and a big smile. And it didn’t even cost a loaf of bread.

Dirt Baths Aren’t Just For Chickens Anymore

I have this little girl who is as prissy as they come. She insists on wearing dresses and silver high heels everyday.

We fight over her hair, already. She wins.

She’ll only wear dresses that have a sash on it.

She compliments my make-up (when I wear it) and comments on other girls’ clothes and shoes.

It’s a little bit crazy. I don’t remember being like this when I was a little girl, and I’m certainly not like this now. Have I told you I’m letting my hair go gray? Yeah, I am. I do remember a small spell I went through about the age of 7 where I wanted to wear the same skirt every day of my life. It was taffeta. Black, white, and red checked. I loved the feel of it and the sound of it. It twirled, like really good. My mom hid it from me eventually and claimed she didn’t know what happened to it. I understand her desperation now. Other than that, there was a lot of bracelets I wore to school around the age of six. My dad said they sent me to school looking like a gypsy. But that was really about the extent of my girliness. The rest of my time, I was just average in the prissy department.

So I’m kinda treading on unchartered territory with this over-the-top fancy stage. And to think she’s only two years old. My only hope is that this stage of princess poo-poo is a phase and preferably a short lived one, or lordy mercy, we are in for it people.

As much as I love to share her cute dress up pictures, I really love it when I can share pictures like the ones below.

We went camping and I accidentally on purpose forgot to pack her heels. That left her no choice but to wear t-shirts and shorts. She got a little bit crazy with the dirt. It kind of made me cringe at first, thinking maybe she would get worms or something, but then I just rolled with it. I don’t even know how one contracts worms, but somewhere in my brain I have it filed in the same drawer as playing in the dirt.

She just doesn’t like wearing pants. There’s just something about them I guess. So she traipsed around in her undies, barefooted and had a fine time. Then when she discovered the dirt, she was like backyard chickens taking a dirt bath.

It did my heart some good to see her get down and dirty. There is hope that she might turn out okay.

When she was done, I took a rag and some water and sponge bathed her, so the funny thing is, she was probably the cleanest of us all.

But you can bet after we made it home, she asked to put on her dress right away, even before her real bath.

Summertime Splash

Do you think my kid could use a bigger pool? Or even one of those plastic ones with a built in slide instead of our redneck contraption here?

There’s not even any room to splash in this thing.

She doesn’t mind, trust me. We’re talking about a kid who won’t even lay down in the bathtub. This super chill girl is more than content to sit and soak her feet. But really, once we put the slide and the ring and the kid in the pool, there’s not much room for anything else.

Oh my goodness, this teeny weeny pool just drives it home to me. How in the world did she already outgrow this? This was last year’s swimming pool, the smallest they made. Because after all, she was pretty small. A one year old, practically a wittle baby.

But not anymore, now she’s a whole year older and apparently a whole lot bigger. This summer I pulled out the little plastic guy and discovered many little puppydog teeth marks that were keeping it from holding water. Never underestimate the power of duct tape. After a few little patches here and there, it’s just like a brand new one. Since the weather was relatively warm, we (meaning EK) dove right in.

Summertime and the living is easy. We don’t get very many days here that are hot enough to endure that icy cold water straight from the hose kind of swimming, so we got to take advantage of it while we can.

Just today I saw a post on pinterest that said something along the lines of “Don’t save things for special occasions. Today is a special occasion.” How true.

Just watching my little girl sing in the pool with not a care in the world for either of us makes today a special occasion.

Maybe tonight we’ll eat our ramen noodles off the fine china.

Adventures in Parenting a.k.a Grody Things

It’s the day after Mother’s Day. The chocolates have been eaten, the flowers are wilting, and all the mothers around the world are back to cooking suppers and cleaning up messes, don’t forget the never-ending messes. Yes, throw me into that lot as well as it has been a doozy of a day with the mess o’ meter going full throttle here. It’s needle is all the way to the right, the red light is blinking rapidly and horns are blaring. This is the house of a toddler.

Through the messes and the accidents that have occurred just today, I have come to the very profound conclusion tonight, that my sweet girl will not make it in the medical profession. I’m writing it down in case I forget to tell her when she’s taking anatomy and filling out admission papers to some high falutin’ medical school 9,000 miles away. Not that I care whether she is a doctor or a nurse or a street-walker, I’d love her all the same.

I don’t know, I could be wrong, I’ve been known to be. So let me lay it out for you and you can understand where I’m coming from. For starters, this morning she had a bit of a mucous problem, putting it nicely. At one point, she smeared her shirt sleeve along her nose, as all kids do, and well, “stuff” ended up on her sleeve. I was rushing for the kleenex and she sat in the chair, looking at it, rubbing it on the chair, and gagging.

What? 2 year-olds gag at grody things? Two year olds ARE grody things, how can they differentiate?

Later in the day I got a splinter. We’d been outside playing and who knows what I did, but I somehow got one of those tiny, annoying, yet painful splinters in my thumb. We came inside and she followed me to the bathroom. The instant I pulled out the tweezers and went to work, she began to cry and protest and tell me she doesn’t like that. Then she ran off crying.

Then somehow later in the day, I scratched my arm pretty good. By what or how, I do not know. I’m as bad as a kid myself. It’s the kind of scratch like the end of a pipe cleaner would leave. A wire scratch. Once again EK started crying and protesting how she doesn’t like my scratch and exited the room.

Then tonight, when it’s supposed to be winding down time, and a mom should be able to put up her feet and drink a glass of wine, a really big mess happened. To save my daughter’s dignity in case she reads this when she’s twelve, I won’t go into details. Let me just say in order to get the point across, it involves the bathroom, bleach, a mop, and a mother’s love to clean it up. It was a case of bad timing on Ek’s part that left her in tears and the bathroom with a lot of sights and smells.

I’d just returned from taking out the trash and returned to a wailing toddler in the bathroom. I go into mother-drive and begin the cleaning process which involves cleaning the toddler as well. The whole time I’m cleaning, she is sitting on the potty and gagging. I thought she was going to vomit, her gagging got so bad. I had to hand her a trashcan so I wouldn’t have that to deal with as well, but fortunately she got it under control after about a minute. And I got every thing else under control about 30 minutes later.

This is definitely not a learned behavior. No one gags here. No one cries and runs off at the sight of a boo-boo. Unless there’s a lot of blood, and in that case, I have a tendency to almost pass out, but that was a long time ago and a whole different blog post.

So she cries and runs off at the sight of a scratch and tweezers, and gags violently at the sight and smell of bodily functions, I seriously think performing open heart surgery or a colonoscopy is out of the question for her. At age two anyway. Perhaps she’ll outgrow it and go on to deal with lots of grody things in stride. But for now, it’s a little bit comical watching her react this way. Well it would be comical if it wasn’t so grody and I wasn’t the one having to clean it up. But after it’s all over, it’s a little bit comical.

Tonight when everyone winds down, I’m going to put my feet up and thank my lucky stars that tomorrow is a new day and that I don’t have carpet in the bathroom.

Two, but not terribly terrible

I went to the bathroom and I mean to tell you, I was not in there longer than a minute. Probably 40 seconds tops. I don’t piddle in the bathroom. Well I do piddle, but I don’t piddle, if you know what I’m trying to say. All those years of teaching school taught me how to pee fast. When you leave 20 some-odd young children alone in a classroom, you better only do it for less than a minute. That real life skill has proven to be very handy when you also must leave a 2 year old alone in another room of the house, which doesn’t happen very often. Usually she follows me right along. But today, she had more important things to do, like picking out her fingernail polish.

Earlier we had a fight, a big one. You see, every day this little girl wants to wear a “beautiful duress” as she says. I let her choose one this morning that she wore until afternoon. Then, after eating lunch with Ashlynn, the dress was wet and dirty. She wanted it off and wanted another beautiful “duress”. Well, this time I chose, and she didn’t want to wear it. It turned into a fight. A literal, physical struggle of me trying to push the thing over her head and pull her arms through the arm holes, while she cried and fought and kept getting it back off her head.

Yes, part way through this battle, I thought of giving up. It was a dress, for crying out loud. A truly inconsequential item. Why was I fighting a 2 year over what she was going to wear, especially when we weren’t even leaving the house? The thought crossed my mind, but was overruled by another thought. The little girl is headstrong. Of late, she is super duper, bigtime headstrong, and if I gave up, it would send a message to her. The message that she won. The message that she is the boss of me. That the simple act of throwing a wall-eyed, screaming Mimi fit is all it takes to get her way. Because of that, I dug in, and because I’m bigger and stronger, I won.

She left the room crying loudly. She wanted nothing to do with me after that. She paced back and forth crying. Pulling the skirt of the dress out to look at it, she kept repeating, “it isn’t beautiful. It isn’t beautiful”. I felt terrible. She wouldn’t let me console her. So I did what all first time, questioning mothers do, I left her crying in the hallway and I went to google.

I read: The strong-willed child is self-motivated and inner directed. They aren’t easily swayed from their viewpoints (or choice of “beautiful duress” in this case) And they want to be in charge of themselves (and in EK’s case, everyone else as well). I was advised to give her authority over her own body. Exactly what I didn’t do. This article went on to make me feel terrible as a mom by saying these children feel their integrity has been compromised if they are forced to submit to another’s will.

My thoughts went something like this, like the angel/devil on the shoulder thing:

Mom 1: BUT SHE’s TWO! She can’t run the show all the time!

Mom 2: But it was just a dress. Completely unimportant.

Mom 1: But it is a matter of principal.

Mom 2: But it wasn’t a matter of morals.

The strong willed child wants respect. They like to have choices. They want to pick out their own stinking dress.

The article went on to give me suggestions on how to handle her, of which did not say to pin her down and force her to wear something that in her eye is not a “beautiful duress”.

So, yeah, I botched this one.

Big time.

Later…..I amended it, I hope.

We made up, I think.

At nap time, she slept in my arms, as sweet and as precious as the day she was born. While I watched her little mouth do that suckling thing, I thought about what kind of kid she is. I wondered if this new EK was a stage she is going through or if this is her personality, just now appearing.

I truly did not ever imagine she would be so independent. So head strong. So…..dare I say it……bossy. Just a few months ago, she was a timid, cautious child who sat back and observed before jumping in. She was easy to deal with, curious of all things introduced to her, sweet and kind. And now, she’s hitting the dog with a stick, and bossing anyone and everyone who will allow her to. She is raising her voice and demanding people do her bidding. She wants it to be her idea first. She argues like something I’ve never seen. And if you change your standpoint and agree with her, she’ll argue the other side that she was just arguing against! She tells me she’s busy and “just a second” when I tell her to do something (Things she’s heard from me, I know) When do you punish your kid for sounding like you?

I realize that she is only two and that she has great qualities and traits and potential for leadership, but in a little toddler who still sucks a pacifier, sometimes her ways come across as a little bratty. That is the last thing I want. A bratty kid.

Wow, this parenting is no easy gig.

She is two. But she is not a terrible two. Before you start thinking I’m all down on my kid, I AM NOT. She is my love, my precious gift, and she is amazing in so many ways. She does not wreak havoc, make disastrous messes, or terrorize or even throw tantrums. Yet. I’m going to say yet. Because I am not sure what is ahead. It’s all just a little confusing because it’s just a side of her that I haven’t seen and didn’t think would be a part of her personality, and I really, really hope it is only a stage.

Anyway, back to the purpose of this post. I held her while she napped, and then suddenly her eyes popped open. She began crawling out of my lap, informing me she was going to paint her fingernails. Informing me. Not asking. But telling me she was going to paint her fingernails. I chose not to fight this battle with a no, and instead told her I WOULD PAINT HER FINGERNAILS FOR HER. But first I had to go to potty. She was left to choose her polish and that’s when I went to the bathroom.

40 seconds, people. I was gone no more than 40 seconds. Heck, it could have been 25. It’s not like I timed it.

When I walked out of the bathroom, she was already in charge. Full leadership mode. She had chosen the color she wanted from Ashlynn’s bag full of polishes, unscrewed the lid, and was taking care of business.

I can’t complain.

She was doing a great job.

So I let her finish her left hand, and then I painted her right.