by Amy Graves
Today is not an easy day. You see, I’m living with a
toddler. No, there was no surprise pregnancy that I never told you about. No,
we didn’t adopt. I’m not talking about my pre and full teenagers. I’m not even
complaining about my husband. The toddler I’m living with is me.
I woke up today with a 3 year old grumping around in my
head. At first she was too full of musty sleep to realize we were even up and
doing adult things like helping to get kids off to school, but then, suddenly,
she was awake and she was mad.
I’ve been trying to walk every weekday morning. The kids
leave and then I put on the proper outer wear given the weather and head out
the door to meet with the families I no longer would get the chance to see if I
didn’t do this since our kids now operate on differing school schedules. These
people are my reward for getting outside and moving. And it works…most of the
time. But today is one of those days. The weather is cold, windy, wet,
threatening to stat drizzling again, cloudy, blechy. Yes, blechy. Remember…3
year old.
I stood at the door after my daughter left and just stared at
the outside. The toddler me knitted her brows together, a frown growing into
her face. I need to walk today, I
think. I didn’t walk yesterday, so I need
to walk today. The frown deepens.
Mind you, I’m not wearing a frown, my face is mostly a
passive façade’. I’m tired and don’t have the energy to frown. But the toddler
inside is frowning so hard I can feel the frown from the inside out.
Set the timer, I
tell myself. The noisy reminder will get
my attention, make me check the time, make me move forward when I could so
easily let time slip past and not notice. Then it would be too late to meet the
others. Then it would be too easy to not go. Toddler me crosses her arms and
her brows get more knotted. She doesn’t like timers.
I get some breakfast and while we eat she relaxes and
happily plays on Facebook. I let her. I’m too tired to fight. Besides, she’s
having fun and not making me miserable. It’s a win win.
Then the timer goes off. I can feel the physical jolt of her
toddler foot slamming into the floor as I close the web page.
“NO!” she shouts, the words ringing through my head just as
loud as if she were standing next to me. I ignore her and go turn off the
beeping. She follows me and demands to be heard.
“NO!” she shouts again and stands there with her fists on
her hips. I know this because I can feel them pressing on my hips. I can feel
the fabric of my pajamas on the backs of my knuckles. Except my hands are in
the sink rinsing out my cereal bowl.
She doesn’t like it when I ignore her. The stomping starts
and I feel every smack of her foot against the floor in the soles of my feet,
the sting, because we are both barefoot. I turn off the water and take a deep
breath. When I turn from the sink she stands in my way and will…not…budge.
You cannot reason with a toddler. Not when they are
hell-bent on getting their way. Not when they are absolutely certain that you
are going to ruin their life by making them do something they do NOT want to
do. I know this. I have children. So I try to reason with her anyway because I
am too tired to find my backbone.
And this tactic works horribly.
Walking
is good for us, I say.
“NO!”
We’ve been doing very
well so far….
“I DON”T WANT TO!”
You know, I say, trying to be scientific because that
always works, if we don’t go today, then
we might not go tomorrow and it will get easier and easier to not go and then
we will suddenly be not going and all the benefits will disappear.
She stomps her foot and shouts again. “NO!”
So I try guilt because that’s a classic trick.
If we don’t go then we won’t get to see our
friends.
Another foot stomp rocks my spine. “NO! I DON’T CARE!”
I look at the ceiling, realize that some how my arms have
gotten crossed over my chest (I don’t remember doing this) and I am standing
rigid in my kitchen, my knees nearly locked with frustration.
You are the adult, I remind myself. You are in control. You make the decisions. I look back at the
toddler me blocking my way and take a breath. I got this, I tell myself, trying to bolster my will
power. Her brows could not possibly get
any closer together, that little body could not possibly make any more noise, could
not make this any worse. She’s not really here, after all. But I am wrong.
We’re going and that’s
the way it is, I tell her and leave the kitchen to get ready.
There is a fraction of a second where nothing happens and I
think it will be okay, I’ll push through and move on with the day. A fraction
of a second. Then the tantrum really starts.
She’s not “real”, this toddler me. She isn’t really standing
in front of me, nor is she actually stomping her foot in my kitchen or shouting
at me with her dark angry little face lifted towards mine. But she is real in
that she inhabits my inner-self.
The tantrum rolls through me like a wave of electricity,
like hot stream, like rocks poured on my head. I can feel her throwing herself
on the floor and kicking and thrashing. She screams over and over in my head,
“NO NO NO!! I DON’T WANNA!!” My shoulders are taut, my stomach tightens, my
toes curl…I do…not…want…to…go…on…this…walk!
I take another deep breath and continue walking to the
bathroom to change and when she sees that I am ignoring her she scrambles off
the floor and runs at me, grabs my legs and digs her nails into my skin. I am shocked – who IS this insane little
girl?!? All I want to do is go for a walk for crying out loud! How, exactly, is
that going to ruin her life?!?
Somehow I manage to disengage her from my legs long enough
to pull on a pair of yoga pants. I manage to drag on a t-shirt and a light
jacket even though she tries to rip them away from me. She sits on my foot and
wraps her arms and legs around my leg when I try to leave the room to find my
shoes. She is crying that angry, tearless cry of a toddler who is so furious she
can no longer use the limited vocabulary she possesses.
I drag the two of us into the dining room, find my shoes,
and struggle to put one on while she refuses to release my other leg. There is
a two minute wrestling match before I can get her off the one leg long enough
to get the next shoe on.
She throws herself at my feet as I pull on my coat and
gather my keys. The tears are flowing now and she tries a last ploy to derail
my exit. She begins to untie my shoes.
Now that’s enough! I scold her. You stop that right now or there will be no chocolate!
I know…it’s bribery, but sometimes it’s the right answer.
And I know me. Chocolate is a high motivator. She stops trying to untie my
shoes and sits up, her face blotchy, tear-streaked, snot covered.
“But I don’t want to gooooo!” she wails.
I look at her and shake my head. I feel bad. I
know you don’t want to go. But it’s important. It’s not a bad thing. You don’t
have to like it, but we need to do it.
She hiccups and puts her thumb in her mouth. I reach down
and pick her up. She puts her head on my shoulder and in a very soft, very
tired voice she says, “ok.” She’s too tired to fight and falls asleep before I
reach the front door.
I live with a toddler. She’s me. We have our good days and
our bad ones. Today is looking a little better. She just needed a nap and a walk.
© Amy Graves 10/05/16