Not The Mama

Sometimes, I try to pretend that I'm not a lowly pawn in my daughter's ever-changing chess game.  I've lost count of the number of times that she's "check-mated" me.  

"Ella, it's time to eat lunch."

{whiiiiinnnnneee}

"Ella, I need to change your diaper."

{NOOOOOOO!!!!!}

"Ella, it's time to brush your teeth and get ready for bed."

{But I wanna watch Mike the Knight!!!!}

In my head, I know that every act of resistance is an opportunity for me to push back that much harder. Be firm.  Unmoving.  Unfeeling.   To say, "Tough toenails, kiddo.  I'm the MOM."  

But the reality is that I don't want to be the mom sometimes.  I want to be some obscure, favorite aunt who isn't around enough to wear out her welcome and therefore, has an endless supply of patience and energy (and candy).  She would be so much better to do all of the negotiating and coercing.  Because, truth be told, I'm just a bit of a pushover.  And I'm not so much interested in laying down the law as much as I'm interested in peace and quiet.  And sometimes, I just want a few extra minutes to muster up enough grit to forge ahead with a diaper change that could truly gag a maggot, or the ridiculous (and yet, impressive) display of stall tactics at bedtime.  

So, through a combination of happenstance and necessity, we've landed on the "five minutes" rule.  Every parent has said it:  "Fine. Five more minutes."  It's a compromise of sorts, because let's be honest:  as parents, we've met our matches.  These beautiful creatures who captivate us because we have no idea what we ever did to deserve to feel such love are also nature's pay-back for all the crap we did to our parents.   Sure, they're only 3 feet tall and can't control their bodily functions, but there's no denying that they've had us at their mercy from the day we brought them home from the hospital.  

So at times, I just like to give them the illusion of control.  Not giving in, per se, rather handing over an inch or two of the reigns without letting them take full control of the horse.  Ultimately, it buys them time to do whatever it is that's so incredibly important, and it gives me time to gather my nerves and patience.  And to top it all off, I'm momentarily spared the attitude and soul-sucking whine.  Maybe they'll forget that they didn't want to go to bed... 

But what I've found, surprisingly, is that those five minutes are often all that's needed.  Ella has now learned (and somewhat accepted) that when the timer goes off, there's no more debating.  She knows that she only gets one five minute rule at a time in our house.  And for me?  Those five fleeting minutes give me time to not be the bad guy, the negotiator, the time-out placer, the layer-down-of-the-law, the frazzled cook,  schedule coordinator, endless supplier of boo-boo kisses, and the car-pool fairy.

For five more minutes, I just get to be someone who maybe gets to finish her cup of coffee in peace.   And that's enough for me.