"I hate you!"
I heard it first around age 5 with Peanut. It was about something ridiculous - having to put on shoes or the like. Her words were noted, but didn't actually hurt.
As kids get older though, the phrase gains heft. Peanut is 10 now, and pretty clever. If she wants to leave a mark, she can do it.
Which is why I decided to go on the offensive. She needs to see that when she says something mean, with heat, it can change the way people feel about themselves - the way they move through the world. So I try to provide living illustration.
Last month, when she muttered hateful words at me when I denied her something (like a sleepover on a Tuesday and a Slurpee 30 minutes before dinner), I talked in a crying wail for an hour. It was high-pitched and sobbing, with the occasional hitching sob/sigh/snort sound thrown in.
And two weeks ago when she was trying on mean-humor one morning and made a crack about my plentiful backside, I stuffed two kitchen towels down my pants, padding my already round rumpus, tucked in my shirt, and hoisted my pants up to under my boobs (my favorite look) while slumping my shoulders. The effect was sobering. Especially when I told her I was walking her into camp that way.
Now don't get me wrong - when she's mad about something legitimate, I don't belittle that or treat it flippantly. But I can see the teenage years on the horizon - the extreme sensitivity, the weepiness, the angst and the hair-trigger temper. I know some of it is unavoidable, but I believe there is some dramatic padding starting already that I want to nip in the bud. I want her mind to go, "Hmmm, if I get all upset about turning off the TV right now, Mom's likely to eat cheese on purpose so she can fart in front of my homework partner all afternoon, so maybe I'll just live with no TV. [dramatic sigh]. My mom is SO WEIRD!"
Yeah, did you catch that? I inadvertently revealed something about myself - my oldest is only 10 and already I've given up dreams of being the cool mom, and now I'm content with being labeled supremely weird as long as it mimizes the battles. It's a relief, actually. Being "weird" in the eyes of a pre-teen or teenager is so much easier than being cool. All you need is a full box of bandaids and some imagination.
Anyway, I'm going to try this for awhile and see how it goes. Honestly, I already think it might be working. Just the other day when I reminded her to put away her laundry, I saw her whip her head around and open her mouth. But she saw me standing there holding a pile of her father's underwear and I just knew in that split second she could imagine 100 different horribly embarrasing things I could do with that underwear, should she give me guff. Honestly, I could see the ideas run through her head, and she shut her mouth, took a deep breath and took her clothes upstairs.
Course she shoved them all in drawer instead of hanging them up, but that's a self-correcting behavior. As soon a wrinkles matter in school, she'll hang them up. In the meantime, I'm just going to enjoy the quiet, wrinkled peace that comes only to the supremely weird mama.
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