Arguing With a Three Year Old: 101

Confession:  I get into arguments with my three year old.  I wish I could say I was kidding.   Some days, I find the inner strength to take the higher road, keep my voice calm and steady.  "Love, I understand you're upset, but you really need to take a nap."  Or, as I stealthily dodge a half-eaten turkey sandwich, "Wow, that must make you really angry." 

Then, there are times when I've reached my breaking point, and it's only 1:05 p.m. and I say, "To HELL with the higher road.  Love and Logic, my ass."  

"ELLA.  CLAIRE.  You WILL go upstairs and take a nap!"

"No!"

"Yes ma'am."

"NO!  I want five more minutes."

"NO, we're going up now.  RIGHT NOW!"

"NOOO!   I'm gonna hit you, mommy.  You're ugly!"  (Her new favorite phrase- isn't it charming??) 

. . .and before I know it, I get overly excited and then I over-deliver punishment:

You do, and you'll NEVER be able to drive a car, EVER!  (Wait....mental note:  Next time, it might be more effective to just take away her TV privileges).

And then, silence.  But it's not over.  Not even close.  Now, we've entered the "death-ray stare" phase.

I snarl her name slowly, through gritted teeth, stretching it's normal two syllables into six.   I lock my pupils into firing position and we stare each other down, jaws set, chins jutted out.  I also try to make my nostrils flare because I'm sure that would add to the overall effect, but I've never mastered it, to be honest.  (I'm working on it).   We stare, without blinking, and now my eyes are stinging and watering, but I won't give in.  Then, she makes some sort of guttural noise in her throat that I swear I've only heard on National Geographic.   Pretty impressive.  And still, I think:

She will. not. win. this.  

I'M the mommy.  I'M the boss.   I'M mean, damnit.   I can dish it out just as good as she can and I've got way more experience.

And so I pick her up as she's kicking, screaming, clawing.  I carry her upstairs and gently place her on her bed, tuck her in and kiss her forehead.    Okay, no.  I don't always do that.   Usually, I drop her on her bed and haphazardly throw her blanket on her.  Then, I say something menacing like, "I don't care if you stay up here and cry the rest of the afternoon because you're acting like a big baby."   And then, because I know I'm already WELL past the point of no return, I storm out of her room and slam the door, just for good measure.

I stand outside her room for a moment and wait.  I keep waiting to feel accomplished.  To feel just a little bit victorious.

But I don't.  Not one bit.

Instead, I feel defeated.  Deflated.   Exhausted.  Maybe even a little pathetic.

Then, something deep inside me starts to hurt.   And in about 90 seconds, I've gone from hell-bent to  heartbroken.  It's not the first time, and I'm positive it won't be the last.  And oh God, here comes the guilt.   Oh God, have I broken her?  How big of a check should I be prepared to write for her future therapy sessions?  Will she grow up to hate me?  Walk on egg-shells around me?  The inner dialogue is incessant.  It's utter torture.  

And so I walk back into her room, sit down on the bed with her, and even though I don't deserve it, she fumbles her way into my lap and curls up.  And I cry, too.  Oh, I wish I was always so quick to forgive people the way she forgives me.  Being a three year old is rough.  And being a mommy to a three year old might be even rougher.   

And in the end, I'm sure I've learned the bigger lesson.   Funny how that works.