Why My Daughter's Not A Princess

We have the same crazy infatuation with princesses at our house as you do at yours. We have Barbie princesses and Disney princesses. We have princess dresses and princess tiaras. We have cars named after princesses - my Jeep is named "Belle"; the car is named "Snow White." And, of course, we have every princess movie known to man (or girl). The one thing we don't have is a princess who lives here. You won't hear me call her princess because she doesn't get to act like a princess - not in the way the word has come to be known.

They say she gets her way; I say she goes out of her way.
How dare we raise a generation of girls who think so solely of what they want that they miss the needs of those around them. How dare we take what's best about being a girl - our hearts - and turn them inward instead of outward. We were designed to love and care for people. It's what makes us great. How dare we teach our daughters that their wants come before someone's need.

They say she's beautiful to look at; I say she's beautiful.
I never want Brynna to look in a mirror and think that what she sees is less than a work of art. I never want her to think that the way she looks defines anything about her. If her long lashes break off, if her blonde hair falls out, if her skin isn't smooth as porcelain...I never want her to think that changes her worth.

They say she's the object of a man's affection; I say she's the object of God's affection.
This is not a feminist argument, although one can easily be made, that a woman's value is not rooted in how a man feels about her. I actually believe that whole-heartedly. The love of no (hu)man can heal a hurting heart. No earthly sacrifice - no matter how big - can save a broken soul. There is nothing on earth that can satisfy the deepest longings in her heart. When Brynna reaches the age of searching, when she starts looking for something to fill her life with meaning, I never want her to think she has to chase the affections of a boy. I hope she gets to experience the joy of being loved fully and completely by another. But until she understands her place as the object of God's affection, she won't be able to accept love from any other source. My job is not to teach her how to turn eyes. My job is to teach her to focus her eyes on one place only, no matter who's looking.

They say she's sweet; I say she's bold.
"There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you." You are unique. You are smart. You are strong. It takes courage to stand in who you are. You have to be bold to influence others rather than letting them sway you. What a disservice I would do to her if I let her think she needs to lessen who she is to gain acceptance.

They say she's special; I do too.
There is one person who does call Brynna princess. He's the same person who calls me princess. He's the man who is unconditionally committed to loving, protecting and providing for us. He's the man whose compliments come with no strings attached. He's the man who will model for her what it means to be loved and respected by a man. He loves her not for what she can do for him but simply because she's his. And if she gets that, deep down in the quiet places of her heart, it will help her to understand that she is also loved by God not for what she does or doesn't do but simply because she's His.

We have a saying at our house. Every now and then, I ask Brynna, "Do you know why I love you?" Her answer is always "because I'm yours."

And she's His. My daughter's not a princess. She's the daughter of a King.

It's my job to teach her that.

The Great Divide

I knew it was inevitable. I knew it would happen eventually. The older Brynna gets, the more sure I've been of it's inescapable arrival. It's been happening in little ways over time but never to the extent that it was so glaringly obvious. Now is different. Now we've reached the day (the first of many), the point (with more to come), the great divide when she had to pick a side. Do what Mom says? Or do what everyone else does?

We had lunch with friends at Chick-Fil-A today. When we arrived, I told Brynna that she was not allowed to go into the play area until our food arrived, and she was finished eating. I reminded her that regardless of what another is allowed to do, that was the expectation we've always set and we will uphold it whether alone or with others. Brynna went to find us a table, and I ordered at the counter. When her friend arrived, she called Brynna to come play with her. Brynna explained that she had to wait until she was done eating. The friend suggested that she could come back out when the food came but just to play for a minute. Brynna said again that she couldn't. The friend asked if she was in trouble and that's why she had to wait. Brynna said no. Then, the friend reasoned, that since I wasn't there and she wasn't in trouble, she should play just until I came to the table. **I pause in the telling of the story to point out: I know every word they spoke because we were IN CHICK-FIL-A. I didn't leave the building. I was 12 feet away!** What I saw over the ketchup and napkins was maybe one of my proudest moments. It's a picture I will hold in my heart forever. Brynna obeyed. Brynna chose to do as she's been taught even though it's not what she wanted. She chose to say no to her friend to say yes to her mom. She was forced to do so, and she picked a side. In that moment, the divide that's been a little obvious for a few weeks became evident for all to see.

But here's the thing: before Brynna could reach her day of great divide, I've had to face hundreds of them. Before she could choose to obey when it was hard, I had to. Before she said no when everyone else was doing something different, I had to. Before she could show me what it looks like to trust the one in charge, I had to show her how. I had to be the mom who doesn't let her wear makeup when everyone else is allowed on special occasions. I had to be the mom who does her hair everyday even when she doesn't want to sit still. I had to be the mom who enforced the punishment even when it was  more work for me. I had to be the mom who got up and left when I said I would. I had to be the mom who took it away when I said I would. I had to be the mom who sat on the floor after each instance and explained not just what she did wrong but why she needs to do differently. I had to teach her that you obey not because of who's around but who you are. And I had to do it over and over and over again.

Hear my heart. This is not a dissertation about my friend or her little girl. This is not a judgement about the choices of other moms (We put enough pressure on ourselves. We don't need to add to one another's burdens.) , nor is it a commentary about the misbehaviors of kids. They're kids. That's what they do. We've been that kid, too. And we will have opportunities to learn by being there again.

This is a declaration from a proud mama!
This is a statement of truth - they will do what you do.
This is encouragement to keep going; they will learn what you teach.

But, moms, we have to DO. We have to TEACH. Every. day. When we feel like it and when we don't, when it's convenient and when it's not, when we've got the energy and when we feel like we don't.

I have to show her that I am willing to be the different mom so she has the courage to be the different girl. I have to stand on one side of the great divide so when she gets there, she's not alone.

The Hardest Thing

You heard it a million times when you were young. Or maybe you were better behaved and didn't hear it quite as many times as I did. "This hurts me more than it hurts you." My response as a 10 year old kid was "YEAH RIGHT." (In my head, of course. I may have gotten in trouble, but I valued my life.) My response as I got older was, "Maybe I get it. I know parents love their kids a lot, so maybe it does make them sad when their little ones cry." Then I became a mom. And it hurts. Bad.

It's the hardest thing...
to take away what I know will make her happy.
to see her tears when I love nothing more than the sight of her smile.
to follow through when it means more work for me.
to stop what I'm doing to address what she's doing wrong.
to administer the consequences when she made the choice.
to be what she needs no matter what I need.
to let her be mad at me today so she will be better tomorrow.
to do the best thing when everything else would be easier.
to do it day after day after day after day...

It's the hardest thing to do the hard things that matter more than all the other things.

Twinkle Toes, Shorts and Other Crimes Against Humanity

I'm the meanest mom ever. I'm unreasonable and strict. I blow things out of proportion that don't require the level of consequence that I impart. I enforce rules above the age level of my sweet, innocent child. I persist in punishing for an issue that isn't that big of a deal. At least that's what I'm told. But guess what?

I'm ok with that.

That's why we have a new rule in our house. Brynna loves to wear dresses. She will choose a dress when going to ride bikes, eating at a restaurant or playing at the park. Unfortunately, that playing (and sometimes just standing in line at the grocery store) ends in her panties being shown. Like most 4 year olds, she hasn't yet mastered the art of being ladylike. She is, however, Phi Beta Kappa in spinning and ending with a finale that includes flipping her dress over her head. Knowing that she's a little girl and these things happen, I invested in bloomers. They are the cutest little things with ruffles on the butt. Adorable. Good, new age parenting. I protected her from being inappropriate but didn't thwart her precious creativity and spirit. The problem is - she didn't learn anything. She didn't behave differently because she didn't have to. When I said "Boys don't need to see your panties," she responded with "They can't. Those are my bloomers." So our new rule is this: If you wear a dress and I see your panties OR BLOOMERS, the next day you wear shorts or pants. The result of this rule: crying and gnashing of teeth. You'd think I were shooting bamboo under her fingernails.

This drama has led to our second issue at the moment. Brynna is going for the academy award daily - in whatever category is at hand. She's even been known to attempt the Best Supporting Actress role when she feels her friend or cousin needs help turning up the showmanship. Recently during a tantrum, Brynna stomped her feet. Yesterday, she slammed a cup down on the table. Each outburst is met with a timeout or swat. Each time we discuss what she did and why it's not appropriate. That's how I know she's aware of her behavior. So today, when she kicked a door, a new rule was born. If you choose to show your anger inappropriately, you also choose to lose something. Before the door swung back to hit the wall a second time, I calmly reached down, took Brynna's coveted Twinkle Toes light up shoes off her feet and sent her to her room. Cue meltdown. After some time alone to recover, I went up to tell her to pick a new pair of shoes. Cue meltdown #2. She then had to put on the new shoes and have her hair combed. Cue meltdown #3. (Are you seeing a pattern?)

Is a cup on a table that big of a deal? Maybe not. She didn't throw anything, make a mess or break anything. Is seeing the ruffly bloomers of an adorable little butt so bad? Maybe not. She isn't making inappropriate gestures. She's just having fun. That's what little girls do.

But the reason I'm ok with holding the title of meanest mom ever is that I am more concerned about who she becomes than what she thinks of me in a moment when she's upset. I care more about being her mom than being her friend. I value being what she needs more than what she likes. And after Miley Cyrus made me and a million other moms tear up this week with the heartbreak of imagining our little girl feeling like that's what she needs to do for attention, I'm ok with that.

Do I like taking away the shoes that make her hop and smile with glee? Absolutely not. Is it easy? Never. Do I enjoy the argument that ensues each time she has to wear shorts? No. Would I rather skip the exhaustion and watch her joyfully twirling in a pretty dress? Yes. All day, yes. But that's not what will shape her character. So pardon my tiredness and haggard appearance. Motherhood is a contact sport and if my pain is her gain...I'm ok with that.

Punishing the Punisher

BG slammed a door.
I told her we don't slam doors.

She said ok and as she walked away, she slammed the door.
She went to Time Out and then we discussed why we don't slam doors. I explained that if it happened again, she would not get to go to ballet.

As I walked away, BG went into her bedroom and slammed a door. It wasn't one of those blatant slams but the testing kind - the kind that's just hard enough to see how serious you are about the threat of punishment.

Unfortunately for her (and me), I'm serious.

We are now at home instead of at ballet. There has been crying, flailing, wailing and maybe even the gnashing of teeth. (I'm not 100% sure; I walked away.) She's asked 12 times what her class will do without her and what she will do if she misses a class. She has run through the house naked (not kidding) and spent a good 10 minutes curled up in a ball under a blanket.

Who exactly is being punished here?

Dear Brynna,

I am not confused about what you want. I hear you crying "I want Mommy" over and over and OVER. I have heard it for the past 45 minutes. My lack of response is not the result of your lack of asking. I'm not deaf nor am I sitting here thinking "When she gets to the 1,000th time. THEN I'll know she's serious." I am aware that you don't want to sleep in your bed. I understand that you want me to sit in your room or let you come in mine.

Yes, I closed my bedroom door. There is someone screaming across the hall, and if I am forced to fold this load of laundry, I'd prefer to do it in relative peace. I also hear you walking around in the hall outside my door. I appreciate that you're just smart (or scared) enough not to open my door. In fact, it is a source of pride. Sorry to burst your bubble. That one back-fired on you.

I am aware that you are prepared to scream until your voice gives out (which by the sound of it, we are nearing shortly). You should know I am prepared to wait that long as well. At least at that point I can turn my movie back on. (Right now, unfortunately, I can't hear it over the screaming.)

You can't understand now - and clearly don't agree - but this is best for you. I love you more than words can express which is why I will suffer with you if it means you are stronger, smarter, more confident and independent. I am building the character of the woman you will become. That's no small task, so in this battle of wills, mine will always win. I'm a mom. It's my job.

Goodnight, Little Bear.

Love,
Mama

Love is...

Love looks like the perfect pair of shoes that ties the whole outfit together.

Love sounds like Brynna’s giggle. 

Love tastes like my mom’s cooking.

Love is that one pair of jeans that make you feel pretty no matter what you weigh, what time of the month it is or what else is going on in life.

Love feels like that spot on David’s chest where I lay my head and it’s like it was created to fit me alone.

Love sounds like “I’m sorry.”

Love feels like the presence of a friend who knows you better than you know yourself.

Love is that moment after Brynna’s thrown a fit and she finally relaxes and lets me hold her.

Love is when I’m tired, overwhelmed, exhausted and upset and Miles lays his head on my lap, looks up at me with big, brown eyes and sighs…because he doesn’t care about that other stuff.

Love feels like a lump in my throat when I can't quite find the words to tell Taylor how proud I am of who she is.

Love is when you smile and wave goodbye with a tear on your cheek.

Love feels like the sting of spanking someone you love so much you refuse to let her be anything but her best.

Love is the moment when you admit you aren’t perfect, you can’t do it on your own and you let Jesus fill in all your empty places.

Love is 40 hours in planes and airports to hug the neck of the person who loves even the ugly parts of you.

Love sounds like “I do.  Forever.  No matter how hard.”

Treat Them Like Babies

I watched the movie The Decedents last night. There are several themes in the movie, but the thing that kept pulling on my heart was the relationship between the dad (George Clooney) and his daughters. Their relationship is so deteriorated that at one point he asks his 17-year old daughter’s young friend what he’d do to reach the girls. It’s not even the crux of the movie, but I found myself yelling at the screen, “Let them be babies!” (Watching a movie with me is never a dull experience.)

Few things make me passionate like the treatment of children, so for one moment, allow me to step up on my soap box…

They are babies.

I don’t care how old they are, they need you to hold them and hug them and tell them they are safe. They want you to protect them so they don’t feel alone. Children are a gift. They are entrusted to your care for a brief moment. They do not exist to comfort you, provide you friendship or partner with you. Even as they mature. Even when they rebel. Even when they make seemingly adult decisions. They are babies. They need you to care for them not the other way around. They need you to teach them and give them boundaries.

When you come to a place of doubt in this messed up, crazy hard thing called parenting, remember one thing: they are babies.

That doesn’t mean “baby” them. They don’t need your condescending demands. But treat them with care. Set boundaries and kept them. Make rules and enforce them. When they don't know, teach them!
The same care you gave them at 2 months is the same care they need at 2, 12 and 22. They are babies.

I headed for bed after the movie ended with these thoughts in mind. As I plugged my phone in, I saw a tweet with this photo. Taylor had run across a picture from her graduation and shared it. I call Taylor my daughter-in-love. I did not birth her, but she grows under my heart just as Brynna did. She’s a college graduate and proud new homeowner. She’s getting a master’s degree and has a job. But when she’s lonely or nervous, those things don’t matter. From her “mom,” she just wants to be a kid. She wants someone to tell her she’s safe and loved.

no matter the age...they are my babies

Regardless of how old he is, what she’s done or said. Hug her. Hold him. Pray for her like you did when she was a baby. Because from her mom, she’ll always need to be.

Time Out

While it's not hugely popular in today's society, I have never made apologies for the fact that I believe in spanking.  I absolutely do not believe in any form of abuse, but I most certainly believe in discipline.  The funny thing is that as strong-willed, often defiant and extremely stubborn as she is, we rarely ever spank Brynna.  Because of her personality, she needs to know that she made a choice, so that's what she gets.  She can discontinue her inappropriate behavior (throwing toys, blowing bubbles on my sofa or practicing her spitting in the kitchen) or she can go sit on the step.  It's her choice.  Often she tries not to choose, but she's learned after months of consistent discipline that no decision (and the continuation of said bubbles on my sofa) is the same as deciding to go to Time Out.  She's spent a lot of her two-and-a-half years on the step (my step, Yaya's step, Tania's step, Honey K's step and even once at the entrance of Steve Madden).  On rare occasions that she chooses to continue disobeying even after time on the step, the punishment has to increase so that she learns that every action has a consequence.

Our most recent battles have been waged in the arena of whining.  I'm not sure how every toddler has perfected the exact pitch of voice that sends his/her mother into hysteria, but they are skilled artisans.  How they can say something perfectly normal in a voice that shatters glass in three counties, I'm not sure, but they can.  And they do.  Brynna is no exception.  I'm convinced she sometimes doesn't even know that she's doing it.  It's like she zones out into another dimension where apparently people speak at 140 decibels.  Needless to say, we've spent a lot of time on the step.  After she has a few minutes to calm down, I sit beside her so we can talk about it.  (Side note: As a general rule, if you send a little one to time out, have the decency to GO TO THEM, talk ON THEIR LEVEL about why and LOVINGLY reassure them of your love.  If you send them away and then forget or call them back in to you, you've made no effort to parent and therefore, why would they make an effort to obey?  Sorry.  I just felt someone's toes.  I'll get off the soapbox.)  This weekend, as I sat next to Brynna at the bottom of the staircase in my parents' house, I asked if she knew why she had to go to Time Out.  She said she did.  She said, "Because I was whining and not talking like a big girl."  I asked if she could speak politely and tell me what she wanted.  Her response has stuck with me for days.  She said, "Yes.  Because I want to come be with you."

I had to acknowledge quite some time ago that Brynna did not get her temperament from her father, but instead from her strong-willed, often defiant and extremely stubborn mama.  And like my little bear cub, God lets me make choices and then consistently reminds me that every action has a consequence.  I have recently found myself whining - crying to God in a voice that I'm sure sends Him into parental hysteria at a decibel I'm sure all Heaven would like to tone down.  I have been lamenting my situation, recounting all the things I'm sad about.  Rather than making me feel better, though, all that whining made me feel worse.  The longer I cried, the more lonely I felt.  The louder I yelled, the angrier I became.  And when I had nothing left to say, I sat quietly and realized...God had put me in Time Out.  Of course I felt worse instead of better - He left the room.  Of course I didn't feel comfort - I chose to sit myself on the step, away from the presence of Someone who loves me.  And today my little girl's words are ringing in my ears.  She said she would learn to speak more appropriately because she wanted to be with me.  She realized that her choice was the only thing that separated her from me.  And the same is true for me.

As soon as she chose to obey, I was waiting with all the love her little self could contain.  I'm so grateful my Father waits for me...and you.  What are you whining about?  When you're ready, He's waiting with all the love your little self can contain.

Why I Had a Standoff with a 2-year old (and why it matters)

I have said it before and I’ll say it again: those with compliant children can’t quite understand those with strong-willed children.  That’s not to say anyone’s job as a parent is easy.  Absolutely not.  It is to say, however, that there are some things that a strong-willed parent must do that the parent of a more compliant child doesn’t understand and may view as downright harsh.  If you have a strong-willed kid, you know what I mean.  If you haven’t heard these terms before because you’ve never read the book “The Strong-Willed Child” in an effort to convince yourself you aren’t crazy, you are going to find this harsh.  Consider yourself warned.

I tweeted it and mentioned it in passing.  Here’s what actually happened…

We were having a fun family evening.  Just before dinner, we were playing in the den when something (I can’t remember now what) didn’t suit Brynna’s fancy.  As is sometimes her response, she got angry and threw some toys from her kitchen where she’d been playing.  She knew before I said it that she’d have to go to timeout, so she wasn’t shocked when I instructed her to go.  She did decide, however, that this was one of those days.  This was a moment she would assess if Mom and Dad are to be trusted; if they are as strong as they claim to be.  So what did my pint-sized wonder do?  She turned and gave me that Look – the one where I know she’s about to openly defy me – and said, “no.”  The Look is not a sneer or one of manipulation but simply a full-faced, straight-in-the-eye stare that says, “I’m willing to push as hard as I can to see if your boundary is tough enough to hold me.”  David immediately instructed BG to apologize.  She turned, gave him the same look, and said, “no.”  David took her to timeout, explained that we don’t throw and we don’t tell Mommy and Daddy no and walked away.

After the allotted time on the step, David went to release Brynna.  He bent down, and asked if we should throw.  She sniffed back the tears and said, “no no.”  He then said, “We don’t tell Mommy no.  You need to say you’re sorry.”  She looked him straight in the eye and said, “no.”  So back on the step she went.  Two minutes later, I went to free the captive but the scene repeated.  She fully acknowledged her understanding of the situation and at the same time made fully clear her intent NOT to apologize.  Round 3 carried with it the added penalty of a spanking.  Round 4 went similarly to Round 2.  By Round 5, Daddy headed upstairs to make dinner.  Round 6 also included a spanking; Rounds 7, 8 and 9 carried added measures of tears and wailing but still no apology.  By Round 10, dinner was ready and I headed upstairs to eat – a bag of microwave popcorn because after 10 rounds that’s all you have the patience to make. Before going up the stairs, I sat on the step and looked at my red-faced little girl.  Our conversation went something like this…

Me: Brynna, do we throw?

BG: no, no

Me: Do we tell Mommy no?

BG: no, no

Me: When we act bad and are disrespectful, do we have to say ‘I’m sorry?’

BG: yes

Me: Do you want to come upstairs and eat with Mommy and Daddy?

BG: yes

Me: Can you say Sorry?

BG: no

Me: If you can’t say I’m Sorry, you have to stay in time out.  Do you want to get off the step?

BG: yes

Me: Can you say Sorry?

BG: no

As I stepped over her and headed upstairs, I said, “I love you, Brynna Bear.  I love you so much that I’ll do this all night if that’s what you choose.”  I will never be able to prove it and she’d never admit it, but I promise I saw a little twinkle in her eye.  There was a little recognition in her tiny spirit that said, “I need to know that.”

So for the next hour, I proved it.  In total, we spent over an hour and a half in our standoff on the step.  After 3 trips to the potty – 2 of which were an adorable attempt to sneak out of punishment – we spent Round 27 (or thereabouts…who knows; I lost count!) naked because she refused to put clothes back on.  After that, we changed into pajamas, marched upstairs and went to bed without reading books and without Minnie Mouse, Baby or the 13 other stuffed friends usually in her bed.  As I closed the door to her room, I told her the same thing I had all night and do all day – “I love you.” 

The last 5 minutes of the standoff happened in her room.  I finally took her out of bed, sat on the floor holding her and we talked it all out from the beginning.  I know you’re thinking that by this point she’s not even two years old and had no idea what was going on.  That’s the parent in you who doesn’t have a strong-willed child.  She finished every sentence I began.  No, we don’t throw.  No, we don’t say ‘no’ to adults.  Yes, we always say we’re sorry.  If Daddy hurts feelings, what does he need to say?  I’m sorry.  If Minnie Mouse acts badly, what does she need say?  I’m sorry. (That line got repeated more than the others.  We had to ensure that the rule applied for everyone – Aubie, Other Minnie Mouse, Baby, Frog and Wombat) Did Brynna act badly when she told Mommy no?  Yes.  Should you say sorry?  Yes.  Can you tell Mommy sorry?  No.

Finally, after almost two hours and a repeat of the above conversation three more times, she buried her face in my chest and said, “Mommy, sorry.”  We then went downstairs for some food and a cup of milk and it took another 5 minutes to tell Daddy sorry.  But she did it. 

It was never about the words “I’m sorry.”  A dozen times a day she does what she shouldn’t or forgets to apologize.  It wasn’t about breaking her spirit.  I never, ever want to do that.  It wasn’t even about asserting authority.  She knows who’s in charge.  It was about assuring Brynna that no matter how hard she pushes, the nets are sturdy, the fences are secure, the people in charge are strong enough to trust.

Harsh, crazy or exhausting as it may be, she knows that.  And harsh, crazy or exhausting as it may be, that’s my job.  To make sure that my very strong little girl becomes a a very strong woman.

Why Somedays Motherhood is War

Hundreds of publications have been written about kids who are strong-willed and high-spirited.  I've read them.  Dr. Dobson and I spend lots of time together - him telling me I'm not alone and me searching the pages of his book for renewed strength for what he accurately calls "war."  For those of you with compliant children, I know that seems harsh.  I'm sure you think me cruel to consider a trip to the grocery store with my child a war, but let me assure you, war was waged today at Central Market.

I'll get to the war, but first, I have to explain this phrase that has come to describe my baby girl.  Some children are, for the most part, even-tempered.  They cry, fuss or cause a ruckus at times, but it in no way defines them.  In my new bedside reading companion, The Strong-Willed Child, Dr. Dobson calls these kids "compliant."  Compliant children wish to please their parents and are generally willing to comply to rules and boundaries so as to keep that good-will relationship between the generations.  Then there are strong-willed kids.  While a compliant child accepts a boundary at face value and stays within it, a strong-willed child challenges every authority, pushes every boundary and attempts to break every rule.  It is innately imbedded in their DNA to respect only that authority which they have challenged and deemed worthy.  As with any descriptive term, there is a bit of a sliding scale involved.  Some kids are more drastically strong-willed, while some push the limits but submit rather quickly.

Brynna has a will and a boldness that would melt most adults. On the sliding scale, we're bumping up against the dot at the far end of the line.  That doesn't mean she's not undeniably fun.  She just has this internal need to see if I really am as strong as I tell her I am.  So many times a day, we battle.  And sometimes, we have to fight a war.

Our day started with a fun adventure.  Brynna woke up happy and smiley and got dressed with Daddy.  Then she and I loaded in the car and met Nay Nay for breakfast.  She sang, clapped and talked to passing traffic the whole way there, but as soon as we entered, she didn't want to play.  She wouldn't talk to Janay at first and tried to climb from her highchair in an attempt to leave.  After she and I had a strong conversation in a heavy whisper, she decided it in her best interest to sit on her bottom.  As breakfast went on, she warmed up a bit and eventually colored and blew kisses to passers-by.

Battle One - Mom: 1, Brynna: 0

After breakfast, we had a few errands to run.  We stopped at Target where we only needed to make a return so had no need for a cart.  This did not please the princess, who threw herself to the ground in front of the rows of red shopping carts, blocking exiting shoppers.  Another strong conversation was had (this time not whispered) and a leg was spanked.  Once again, BG decided it in her best interest to listen and obey, so we made it to Customer Service and completed our transaction.

Battle Two - Mom: 2, Brynna 0

The walk back to the car was fun - we skipped and ran - and then we headed to Central Market.  Immediately upon entering the parking lot, Brynna started calling for a balloon (how she knows one grocery store from another is beyond me).  Green balloon in tow, we breezed through produce, talked to a friend from church near the granola bars and then made our way to dairy.  As I attempted to buy Brie cheese for my husband (I don't eat it so I get completely confused), Brynna informed me she needed to potty.  We hurried to the restroom where she did, in fact, potty like a big girl!  Of course her excellent potty skills deserved a dance break, so we danced and giggled in the bathroom and then talked the man at the gelato counter into giving the big girl a treat (aka: M&M).  (Sidenote - We spared the nice gelato man the details of why we needed the treat.  While I believe in rewarding and praising children, I do not feel the need to discuss bodily functions with strangers.)

Then we got in line to pay.  Or as I like to call it, we entered the arena.

I needed to pay for our groceries, apparently Brynna needed to leave.  With no warning at all, Brynna decided she did not need to ride in the cart anymore and began attempting to jump the 3+ feet to the ground.  She caused such a scene that a woman approached and begged me to be careful as her child had fallen from a shopping cart and ended up in a body cast.  While I sensed how serious she was and appreciated her concern, it was not for lack of care that my child was trying to swan dive to the linoleum.  It was merely the boundary she decided to push this day.  There was nothing Brynna wanted and no reason for her not to sit in the cart.  Simply put, she did not want to do what I wanted her to do.  And she was willing to give it all 20 pounds of her might to fight me about it.  So as the two patrons in front of us rang and paid for their groceries, Brynna and I did head-to-head, no holds barred combat.  In addition to trying to leap from the cart, she was kicking, screaming, hitting and flailing.  There is a vast difference in a hurt child's face and what I was looking at.  She was not sad, she was mad.  She was not crying, she was making a deep-gutteral sound usually reserved for large animals.  I tried holding her but her flailing legs almost took out the poor woman behind us, so back in the cart she went.  At one point, I had her strapped in and was holding her arms in one hand and a foot in the other.  We paid in a similar locked position and walked to the car intertwined.  I then wrestled her (literally) into her carseat where she finally calmed down about 5 minutes from the house.

I know you're thinking what half the store was..."Oh my gosh, what's wrong with that child?"  (Or you were just thinking you're glad your kid is compliant!)  If I'd had a microphone, even though sweaty and frustrated, I would have loved to explain.  Instead, I was at war.  So here is my response to the sweet patrons of Central Market on Lovers Lane in Dallas:


There is absolutely nothing wrong with Brynna.  While she appears angry, she really isn't.  She could care less about a shopping cart.  It's not about a cart at all.  It's about who's in charge.  I say I am.  She wants to see if I really am.  She is simply looking for someone to be strong enough to trust and respect, and until I take my last breath, with everything I have, I am going to prove to her that I am that person.  She needs to know she can trust God.  She needs to know she can respect the authority He places over her.  And it is my job to fight tooth-and-nail to show her just that.  I'm sorry our battle had to be in the grocery line today, and I apologize if it disrupted your day.  I would have much preferred a calm morning as well.  But bigger than my desire for calm is the desire to fight...and win.  I will fight Brynna for Brynna.  And you will thank me...one day she's likely to be your president.


War Tally - Mom wins

Brynna-tude

Brynna-tude: | bri-na-tood | a show of individuality manifested in boisterous actions and behaviors; typically loud and attention-grabbing, often unbecoming, usually embarrassing (for her or me...or both); most always funny (after the fact)

Exhibit A: Gymnastics

Brynna has more energy than her little body (and certainly mine) can handle.  She often refuses to nap during the day because she's just that wound up and can't lay down for fear of missing something.  (I've tried to explain all she'll miss is me trying not to fall asleep while doing chores, but she is convinced I spend her sleeping time throwing parties with fabulous people).  This summer, we decided that a good way for her to expend some of her energy would be in a gymnastics class once a week.  Her daddy was a gymnast, she's built just like him, she's not afraid to sacrifice her body...it made sense.  We had to wait for her to be 18-months-old, so when that time came around, we headed to ASI for her free trial and to sign up for monthly classes.  I purposely chose a Wednesday morning because there were no other classes happening and given her tendency for short attention spans, I felt it best to minimize distractions.  So last Wednesday morning, we loaded up and off we went...

10:00 - pulled up to ASI, Brynna finished her (imaginary but apparently hilarious) conversation with Papa and we walked in as she laughed like a goofball

10:05 - Checked in and met another little girl named Riley

10:10 - First up, trampoline - Brynna didn't love it, but I jumped with her and she started smiling.  Until I stepped off (since I wasn't actually allowed to be on anyway).  At this point, she threw herself to the tramp and began rolling, kicking and screaming.  Meanwhile, Riley is standing 4 feet away, staring at the crazy girl but continuing to jump with hands on her head, belly, etc. as the teacher instructed.

10:15 - Twin boys arrive, happily run to their spots on the trampoline and join Riley in the fun - the fun being following the teacher while watching Brynna who is by now army crawling off the trampoline toward the "fun zone" where she wanted to slide.  (I know she wanted to slide because she was crying, "SLIDE! I wanna SLIDE!" at the top of her lungs.)

10:20 - Next up, circle time - After trying to jump but having difficulty thinking over the sound of Brynna's fit, everyone moved to the circle area for music and movement.  They walked.  I carried my child, still kicking and screaming for the slide.  For about 17 seconds, Brynna's crying abruptly stopped, while she determined if this was fun enough for her discerning taste.  It wasn't.  As though brought about with the flip of a switch, the red face, tears and screaming started back up in full swing.

10:25 - Mommy needs a time out because she got smacked in the face...twice.  Brynna refused to calm down whether I was holding her or not, so we went to sit on the bench and watch from afar.  As we walked away, one of the moms looked at me and said, "It's ok.  Patrick didn't like it at first, either.  It's just new and scary for her."  My filter was non-existent at this point, so I smiled back but said, "This girl isn't scared of anything.  She just wants to do what she wants to do.  But sadly for her, I win."

10:30 - Brynna and I put shoes back on, spoke briefly to the lady at the desk about maybe trying again in a month or so and promptly went home.  Her (still imaginary) conversation continued as soon as we got in the car as if the previous 30 minutes didn't happen, and she was saying, "Sorry for that interruption.  I'm back."

If i were a drinking woman, it would have been a start-before-noon kind of day.  I'm not.  So instead, I put Brynna in her bed with some books and her Minnie Mouse doll for some "me time" and went on the back patio for some "me time" of my own.

Exhibit B: Shoes

I take full credit and responsibility for Brynna's love of shoes.  (I share with Honey K, NayNay and Auntie Kel, but I'm her mom, so I'll fall on the sword.)  Although the "SH" sound is not all that easy to say, "shoes" was one of her first words.  She insists on picking out her own shoes each day and has for months.  I lay out 2 or 3 options, she puts back the ones she doesn't want and starts the attempt at putting on her chosen pair.  Yesterday was chilly, so I gave her options, but all were tennis shoes so she could wear socks.  Brynna did not want to wear tennis shoes.  She wanted to wear her butterfly flip flops.  In her defense, they matched her shirt well, but they weren't an option.  I explained that we do not, under any circumstance, wear socks with sandals and began putting on her Pumas.  A Fit then ensued while I put shoes on a moving target.

If you need a play-by-play of what a Fit (capital F) looks like, see Exhibit C: The Video.

As usual, it took a minute, but I won.  We loaded up and headed to school.  I handed her over to Mrs. Kelly, who put her down to play with the other kids.  But did my chid begin to play?  No.  Brynna Grace Johnston sat in the middle of the room, looked straight at me and started removing her shoes.  I told her no and explained our morning.  Thankfully, Mrs. Kelly knows Brynna very well, and she ensured those shoes stayed on all day.

Now, don't think I'm a shoe Nazi.  I love them, but I normally don't care if the shoes stay on or off.  But ages 13-18 are going to be exciting enough without her learning now that if she doesn't like Mom's rules, she can change once she gets to school.  Lord, give me strength! 

Exhibit D: ........................

Another day...I'm exhausted just writing about it!

Please note before watching:

1.  I am not responsible for the repercussions if you watch at work with the volume too high and get in trouble.  Consider yourself warned.

2. This video was a few months ago, but it still pretty much looks the same.

3.  Yes, Miles has become so accustomed he just walks by without acknowledgement.

4.  Yes, you are correct.  I chose to record it before addressing it.  This was not the first or the last.  I needed documented proof.  I am not crazy.  If I keep saying it, it will be true, right?  I am not crazy.