“I miss you mama,” she says.
“I miss you too, Avery.” I return the gesture but I don’t quite understand. Unless she’s at school, my girl and I are together in every waking moment.
Since the brothers came along, people have been asking: How is Avery? Sigh. She is still a high-energy three-and-a-half who does very well with direct adult interaction. How about being semi-ignored except to make sure she’s on target? Less well.
All of the advice I received on how to support Avery as we welcome new babies into our family was the same: love, love, love. Make time for her. Make sure she knows mama still cares. I have; but it’s not the same.
We lost co-sleeping but we cuddle every morning until Toren calls for a diaper change. We read in bed before nap and bed time; unless Eirik starts to cry. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I tell her.
I am coming to understand, without understanding why, that beneath her antics is an extreme love for me. In intense moments, I’ve learned to ask: What does she want? Where’s the love?
“Where are your clothes?” I ask.
She looks at me straight-faced and says, “I couldn’t get my bracelet off.”
Indeed, she is wearing a bracelet.
*
Avery is smart. She recently did the zipper on her sweatshirt and announced: “I don’t need adults anymore!” She loves books – from Winnie the Pooh and Trucks Go to the Magic Treehouse series and graphic novels. She often rocks side-ponytails because they work with her DIY haircuts. She can do somersaults and fireman poles but struggles with basic human functions: Fall asleep. Eat with a fork. Keep food within a 2′ radius of your plate. Sit in a chair without falling out of it.
My girl doesn’t take orders so I work around them. Please go get dressed. What do you want for breakfast? I make requests and ask questions. I model exact language and respectful communication. I try not to break down like David Seville:
Avery? Avery!! AVERYYYY!!!!!
On Tuesday she still doesn’t want to get dressed. I say: “When I am ready the brothers and I will load up and wait for you in the car. But it doesn’t come to this. Somehow we get where we need to be.
On Wednesday, I do it. You are not the one who is late for school, say the books. Make it her problem. I’m fussing with the Bluetooth and trying to enjoy myself. I expect Avery to run out of the house at any minute. She does not.
This is why I avoid power struggles with my girl: She always wins.
After eight minutes I find her inside sitting in what remains of a house plant. She is wearing pants but is still topless. “My shirt was inside out,” she explains.
Consequences fly. Minnie mouse lunchbox? Gone. Sleeping bag and sleeping pad? Gone. It is my stacking of library books into a dramatic pile that stops her in her tracks.
“You return my library books?” she asks. “Without my books, I can’t reeeeead!”
“Get dressed,” I say. “I’m going to take books until you get dressed.”
*
Writing this post holds some shame for me, but so it goes. When I became a parent I did not become a perfect person.
All of us struggle through raising kids. Maybe I’ll imagine that parenting provides us each with a similar level of struggle. Even as this is not true, we might feel similarly maxed out, and in this we are together.
I am trying to shift from shame, pain, and blame punishment (physical or emotional) to inquiry. I ask questions and try to figure out what’s going on. Infuriating behaviors are a form of communication: She has so much to explain.
*
I’ve strategized and on Thursday morning I’m ready. “I made a biiiigggg breakfast,” I tell her. “When you are dressed please come out of your room and eat with me. I will leave the door half open.
She comes out, still in her foxy nightgown.
I returned her to the room, and repeat my clever line. “This time I will have to shut the door, but it won’t be locked,” I say. “When you are dressed, come out and we will eat breakfast. I hope you come soon, because I’m hungry and ready to see you.”
Again, she comes out in her nightgown.
“Avery, what is going on?”
“Mama, I feel sick,” she says.
“Okay,” I say. Clearly, she isn’t.
She beckons for my ear: “Sometimes,” she whispers, “when people are sick… they don’t… go… to… schooooool.”
“You are going to school,” I say, but gently.
No tears come but her voice breaks. “Mama,” she says “I don’t want to go to school. I just want to stay home with you and the brothers.“
There’s the love.
“My girl,” I say. “You have to go to school (so I don’t lose my ever-loving mind), but the brothers and I will miss you very much. Know what? We could put some gummies in your lunch. You know what else? Today is Thursday and it’s almost the weekend….”
All the while I am walking her back to her room. “Avery, I have to lock this door. Call me Coo-ee! when you are dressed and I will come get you to eat breakfast.”
A minute passes:
“Coo-ee! Mama! I am dressed!”
*
lovewarrior 