Reset

I am doing the Orange Rhino Challenge.  The pure intent of it is to go 365 days – an entire year, without losing control yelling at your kid.  For me, it is about more than yelling.  It is about less yelling, but also less nagging, less eye rolling, less heavy sighing (what I call huffing) – things that hurt my daughter’s soul.   There is a scale provided in the book that defines acceptable and unacceptable levels of speaking/yelling, and when you cross the line, you must reset back to zero, and sometime back to negative numbers.   I am developing my own scale of acceptable behaviors that extend beyond yelling to behaviors that are not values of the parent I want to be.

I wrote this post a couple of weeks ago about resetting back to zero.

Last night I had to reset to day one.  It was the perfect storm of my triggers.

I have PMS.  I hate using that excuse and I hate the stereotypes that go along with it.  But reality is that for a day or two, I am more sensitive and emotional. 

My daughter is pre-pubescent, so while she hasn’t started having periods yet, she definitely gets the PMS part of it, and two females in a household,  of course we are on the same cycle.

We came home, and although it is a bit chilly here the past couple of days, when my daughter wandered outside before I put the garage door down, I decided she could go ahead and play outside while I unpacked some purchases and got dinner ready.

Within minutes she was inside with a request: Could I come outside with her so she could ride her bike on the street? 

It was an activity we did once last fall, and she loved it.  Because I believe that higher powers give us messages we need, I thought about a blog post I had read that afternoon about giving children time to move at their own pace.  (http://www.handsfreemama.com/2015/05/19/change-the-child-or-change-your-world/) It was a post that made me cry, because so much of our lives are spent rushing, because summer is no different for my daughter because she has to get up, get dressed and rush out the door year round. 

My thoughts went to my tiny kitchen currently overrun with dirty dishes.  I thought about the piles of laundry I have neglected all week.  I looked at the dining room table covered with mail and papers.  And felt resentful.

I was resentful of the pressure I perceived as coming from her to ride her bike.  I was resentful of never having time for myself, because bike-riding would mean things wouldn’t get done, which means I will have to do them later and everything will take longer as I have to navigate around what isn’t done.  I felt resentful for having to make a choice in which neither option is something I want to do.  But really, I was resentful that our life isn’t structured in a way that allows me to say yes to such requests, and that is as much about my decisions, some of them poor, some of them forced by situation.

I looked at her clothes – a maxi skirt and short trench coat – and thought she should change clothes.  But my dreamer, my noticer, takes forever to do the everyday tasks of life. 

I said I didn’t think there was time.

Tears welled up in her eyes. 

She needs to be a kid.  She needs to play and feel free.  She needs to be able to ride her bike with confidence (something we are still working on).

And I said yes.

Just let me get dinner started.

But only for 20 minutes (the amount of time until I have to turn the meat over) and with the conditions that

She ran to get her bike and helmet.  I turned on the oven, and used the preheating time to get the dishwasher unloaded and start reloading. 

I poured an ounce of mango rum in a glass, took two sips and poured the rest down the drain.

She came in and asked if I was ready.  Nope, not yet.

She came in again.  Again I said not yet.   What?  I felt my control slip as I hollered back, I DON’T HAVE DINNER IN THE OVEN YET!

She just wanted to know if she should put her helmet on yet.

I get dinner in the oven, dishwasher partly loaded and head out, timer set so I don’t forget dinner.

She just rode her bike with her PapPap on Sunday, but today she is scared again.  Afraid she won’t be able to stop and will hit the car parked 3+ houses down.  She is afraid she will fall and get hurt.

We give it a try.  She runs over the little piggy who had none and cried “wee wee wee”, and separates the toenail from the one who went to market.

We try again. And again. And again.

Two minutes left and she has yet to ride more than 3 inches.  She’s crying because she can’t ride her bike.  I am crying because I can’t teach her to ride, and there is never enough time to thoroughly do the things we want.

Determined, and knowing she is running out of time, she tries again, without me even touching the seat and off she goes.  Only one property length, but she does it, by herself, and manages to stop without falling. 

The timer is beeping.  I silence it and look into her big beautiful eyes.  “One more run,” I tell her.

We run back up the street, and she makes another run, riding past our house and the neighbors and almost to that car she was afraid of crashing into.

It breaks my heart, but dinner is getting overdone and our street isn’t safe for her to ride alone yet.

She returns her bike to the shed, which is a story for another day, and I go in to rescue dinner.

Our meal is good, albeit dried out a bit, and I am feeling at peace with my decision, even though I am wondering how I will get through tomorrow with no clean dishes and if we have enough clean clothes to get through another day.

As she undresses, I redress to take action on my promise to myself - to get myself into a healthy shape.   Dressed in an ancient pair of bike shorts and sports bra, I am nudging my happy girl into the bathroom when I hear what sounds like a car crash.

A quick check out the window proves that it is worse than I thought.  It is my speed demon mother,  the undercarriage of her little red sports car scraping the driveway, showing up unannounced. 

“REALLY?!?” I think.  This is becoming an issue with both my parents, as their marriage is in tough times, they aren’t speaking and each is trying to fill the void and stake a claim on us.  So they appear individually at random times.   I had already turned down an invitation to dinner so I could go home and get caught up, and I haven’t gotten caught up and she is here.

The pressure of being put in the middle of their issues is wearing on me, and combined with the pressure to be a mom, a “housewife” and a person, inwardly I am screaming already.   

Swearing, I beat her to the front door, and struggle to open it without saying, “Why are you here?!?”, but she hears the message in my tense, “What’s up?”  

“Are you in your underwear?” she asks loudly, making me aware of my overweight figure in the relatively skimpy clothes, and the startled look of the man walking down the street as he sees me, and the beautiful neighbor with the incredible figure getting out of her car next door.  I am ashamed and even angrier.

She says she just stopped by for a visit, and I struggle, and fail, to keep kindness in my voice as I explain that her granddaughter is on the way into the shower and I am about to workout.

“Do you want me to leave?”

How do I answer that question?  Yes, I want you to leave.  Actually, I want you to have never stopped by.  Because then I won’t feel like I am rejecting you, yet again.  Because I won’t feel the pressure of having to choose between what I need and what you need.  Because I won’t hate myself later for putting myself last.  So if we could just go back in time and you go straight home, that would be great.

I sigh and tell her that her granddaughter will be in the shower, but I will not exercise, and she says she will leave.  She manages to not sound hurt or sad, which is a testament to her.  She calls my naked daughter down the stairs for hug; daughter wisely dons a robe first, and gives her grandmother a rare long loving hug.

Daughter returns to the bathroom and Mom turns to leave and feeling guilty, I tell her that my daughter isn’t the only one who can give hugs.  Giving my own rare long and loving hug, she tells me that a hug is what she really needed and I feel marginally better about “throwing” her out.

I return to the evening’s agenda, but the damage is done.  My girl is now distracted by God-knows-what, and not getting into the shower.  After several directions, I get the water going and call to her. 

She closes the bathroom door in my face and tells me to lock it.  I open it.  She closes it again, asking me to lock it.  After the third time, it happens.   I cut loose with a scream that is an 8.5 on the mommy scale. 

She opens the door, scared, eyes filled with tears.  She was trying to test a twist tie to see if it would unlock the door. 

And there it is again.  The tremendous pressure.  The pressure of wanting her to have the freedom to explore and experiment.  To get everything done.  To let her be who she is – a noticer, an observer, a scientist of life.  To have some whitespace in my life. To not rush her through life.  To get her to see the value of moving faster.  Even though I hate it myself.

But I blew it.  Again.  Another wrinkle on her soul.  Another fiber of trust broken. 

Workout, shower and bedtime routine done, bedtime blown.  She is filled with affection and love.  Tells me I am the best mom in the world.  And I wonder how she can think that.  Is she saying it trying to keep me from blowing again?  Trying to keep me happy, so she feels safe.  How will I ever know?  Will I ever be back to the place where I can hear that and feel like I have earned it?  Feel like I can believe it?

I reset back to day zero, and start again.