Before You Judge

Today, I had a doctor's appointment -- just a quick follow up for my anxiety meds. I brought E along and thought I'd have the doctor check a freckle on the back of her neck that's had me concerned (all was fine).

My appointment wasn't until 3pm, but I have to pick up E from day care in the same town at about 1pm, so I got her, ran a few errands, and headed over to the office early. E could spend all day playing with the waiting room toys, so I wasn't worried about being an hour early, and I'm finally far enough into the motherhood experience to be less of a germophobe. I let her have run of the place.

I don't know what it is about the last few weeks, but we've hit some kind of toddler terror phase. It's like terrible-twos on steroids (Growth-spurt exhaustion? Teething? It's anyone's guess). Every time I say "no" or even if I say "yes," she cries and screams. Our conversations go something like this:

E: I WANT WATER!!
Me: Big girl voice, please.
E (calmly): I want water, please.
Me: Ok, here's some water.
E: NOOO!! I DON'T WANT WATER.
Me: Okay, what would you like?
E: Water!!
Me: Here's your water.
E: I WANT WATER!!
Me: This is water.
E: Oh, thank you, Mommy.

Chaos, screaming, crying, all just to realize that I gave her exactly what she wanted in the first place. I get it. She's a toddler. She's going through a developmental stage. She's tired. So am I...

In the waiting room, I went into zen-mommy mode. E cried when she was too shy to talk to the little girls sharing her play table. I sat with her until she felt comfortable then went back to my seat. She cried again when I wouldn't let her:

-climb on the play table.
-climb on the backs of the waiting-room chairs.
-wrap the cord from the blinds around her neck.
-put her hands in the garbage.
-lick the window.

I calmly distracted her by playing at the play table with her, reading her a book, making up a game with a vegetable chart. I pretended one of the benches was E's house and the other mine and invited her over for coffee. I pretended I was a mailman and delivered her brochures. I hid around the corner and played peek-a-boo. I created a matching game by laying out magazines on the floor and having her put ones that were the same in piles -- essentially a game to organize the magazines she took out. Clever, right? Ha!

Finally it was our turn to see the doctor. I coaxed her to the nurse's office, to the scale with words of encouragement like, "Let's see how big you are!" and "Are you taller than the giraffe?"

Once in the exam room, the real challenge began. To E, there's no difference between the toys in the waiting room and the tools in the exam room. Finding appropriate things for her to play with is difficult to say the least. The toys I brought with me (books, paper, stickers, pens) paled in comparison to the new "toys" here.

I let her wash her hands in the sink and get a drink of water. She flooded the counter and spilled water on the floor. I had her help me clean it up -- as fun as making the mess at this age. We drew pictures on the exam-table paper. She climbed the lamp, turned it on and off. I let her use cotton balls and a tongue depressor to make "cookies." In between playing, she screamed at the top of her lungs because I wouldn't let her:

-jump off the exam table.
-lick the blood-pressure cuff.
-use the exam-table paper as a parachute.
-play with the light with wet hands.
-climb up on the counters.
-bang on the mirror.

My two-year-old actually said to me, "Mama, put me up on that counter so I can bang on that mirror." My "No," triggered another temper tantrum.

Each time, I calmly distracted her, managed to carry on conversations with the nurse and doctor. I put her in time-out when necessary, and through the toddler storm, I was able to communicate with my daughter and get her to listen to me -- even if she wasn't happy about it. "Go, me!" I thought.

After the appointment, she wanted to ride the elevator to the second floor. When the door to the elevator automatically closed, she assumed I had pushed a button. She always gets to push the button. Once again, super-toddler meltdown. I explained to her what happened and how she could do it herself, and she was all smiles again.

We finally left, even though she screamed at the top of her lungs because she wanted to do the elevator one more time. She cried half the way home until I put the radio on for my own sanity, and she said, "Oh, I like music! That make me better!" Had I only known 2 hours ago! I would have put on a flipping flash-mob musical for you, my dear!

Since the music calmed her down, I was able to talk to her about going to the grocery store and what my expectations would be if we did go. Though this triggered another crying fit (because she really, really, really wanted to go and was afraid I would just take her home for crying), she finally agreed to sit in the cart the entire time and not scream in the store. MUCH to my surprise, she did just that while I shopped for a few items to make dinner.

Until we got to check-out. Temper tantrum number 35 (? I've lost count). She wanted to push the buttons on the debit-card reader. Which I've let her do. Every single time. Since she was 9-months-old. But apparently I wasn't moving fast enough, and she asked the woman in front of me in line if she could "have her turn now!" The woman looked up surprised as E yelled at her again, "It's my turn!"

We apologized. I told her it was not her turn, that she needed to sit down right away or that we would go right home, and she wouldn't get to push buttons. Gah, do I sound like my own mother or what?

That worked, and she quickly sat down and waited for "her turn." While the cashier rang up my items, I let E push buttons. Then I scanned my own card, and off we went to the car. She cried the entire way home about one thing or another -- something felt wrong with her shoe, the seatbelt was too tight, she wanted the stickers that she had thrown out of her carseat.

I yawned and drove along, ignoring the more outlandish requests and calmly responding to the more reasonable ones. I pulled up our driveway, put her socks and shoes on for the fifth time. I helped her out of the car, held her hand in the parking lot. I cradled her head as I closed the car door to be careful not to bump it. I led her to the trunk, got our groceries, let her carry a bag, let her accidentally step on and squish the bread in that bag and walked her toward our building.

With my arms full of grocery bags, a day-care tote, my purse, and a go-cup, I began the trek up 3 flights of stairs. When we got to the first landing, E started crying hysterically.

"What is it?"
"Pick me up, Mommy!"
"Look at all my bags. I can't right now."

I started up the second set of steps, trying to keep my balance. E threw herself on the floor and started screaming. Just then, a woman who works upstairs came down to find us. She took one look at E then gave me that look. You know the look...

It's the look that says, "You're really going to let your child do that?"

I glared back at her with the look that says, "Oh, aren't you cute... you little twenty-something with your innocent wide-eyes, wearing skinny-jeans stuffed with skinny little hips that have never pushed out a baby... and way too much eyeliner, snappin' your gum and playing on your cellphone because you're just... bored."

I wanted to take out her gum, put it in her hair, wipe boogers on her skinny jeans, take off her cute flats, swap them with my sensible loafers, spit-shine her hair, take a Sharpie out of my purse and draw on her pretty white blouse like a flipping white board, put a glitter-glue hand print on her left boob, then get in her face and yell, "MOMMY!! MOMMY!!! MAMA! MAMA!!!" close enough to her that my nose was in her mouth while sobbing "I want watch Paw Patrol!! I want watch Paw Patrollll!!"

Then I'd calmly step back and ask her, "Now do you care if she's rolling on the floor?" and "Would you mind helping me with my bags?"