Dear Arden,
How can such a small, puny, white body contain so much feist?
This morning, while daddy lay sick in his bed, your heart was broken when George did not appear. And then the rages came. I am so sorry that I cannot control Public Television - and force Curious George to come on instead of Sesame Street. I am also sorry that I had to mess with your morning routine by getting you dressed BEFORE breakfast, instead of after. You screamed your head off through hair brushing. You nearly bit the end of the toothbrush off during teeth cleaning. More snot came out of your nose in a 10 minute period of time than an entire day of 3rd graders at school.
Unfortunately, my darling, I was late this morning. I hadn’t slept well. I had two nap mats, a laptop computer, a briefcase, a cell phone and a purse to carry. This meant I couldn’t carry you either. It also meant that I couldn’t, even though I knew I should have, stopped and held you until you calmed down. You let me know how you felt about being hurried along by letting loose the most ear-piercing, glass-shattering scream I’ve ever heard. It went on for a good 30 seconds. The garage door was still closed, so your voice bounced like a rabid racquetball off the concrete floors and walls. Lily covered her ears, looked at me with a pleading glance, and whispered, “Mommy, Arden is LOUD.”
In the car, I opened your granola bar for you. Mommy lets you eat in her car, which is why Mommy’s car looks like a garbage dump and Daddy’s still looks like it could be on the lot with a “gently used” sticker on the windshield. Then the real disaster came - the granola bar broke. In half.
For the 20 minute ride to school, you screamed, wailed, kicked the seat, and threw chunks of Nutri-Grain bar in my general direction. Lily sat in silence, fingers in ears, eating quietly. I turned up the music. I begged. At one red light, I think I might have turned into Satan and screamed at you to Please.Stop.Screaming. Because, you know, I always teach by example. By the time we got to school, you were beet red and exhausted.
Arden, I love you a ton - but honey, you have got to get it together. It’s my job as a mother to prepare you for a life that isn’t always going to give you exactly what you want, exactly when you want it. You are now 3 years old plus 4 months. I try to remember that you were given to me to teach me as well. I am learning how to stretch my patience beyond any limit I ever thought I could. I’ve been doing what others have told me. I try to ignore your tantrums and not feed into them. I try not to yell (sometimes I fail). I try not to get upset, or take it personally, when you rebuff me. I have tried to avoid kissing or hugging you when you don’t want it (but sometimes I kiss you anyway). So can we call a truce? I don’t want my mornings with you full of tears and rage. And I know that tonight when I pick you up, there will be another argument - this one possibly over you putting your coat on, or wanting to go to Chick-Fil-A for dinner and realizing that instead you will be eating my mediocre cooking. I am doing the best I know how. I surrender - white flag is up - and I will work harder on my patience.
In the meantime, I beg of you to channel that wonderful mind of yours, that great strong will of yours, into something positive. Like art. Or playing outside. Or reading, so that if you can’t allow me to love on you, you can read these words and know how much I DO love you - even when you are jamming your finger on my very last button.
