You are a creature of habit. And some of those habits I believe border an obsessive compulsive disorder. But as you're only three and half, and I am an unlicensed child psychologist, I'm willing to overlook it.
"Wait," you might say years from now, "what are you talking about? I was a little girl."
Yeah, well let me explain the routine that must be followed EXACTLY, or a meltdown ensues.
After your bath we put on your pajamas and read two books. Lately, in the middle of the second book you say, "Can we read three because I love you so much?"
I usually cave because I love YOU so much and what's the harm of another book. However, although you SAY love me so much, you don't LISTEN like you love me so much.
Sigh...
Yes, that's all 'within the spectrum' as they say. But here's where it gets weird.
After we read, I tuck you in. I make sure you have socks on and that you have all five of your kitties to sleep with. You arrange them accordingly - EVERY time. This one on this side, that one next to that one, the other one ever there, etc... I pull your blanket up, then the smaller blanket with the pink polka dots facing up, and then the tiny blanket with the tag up on the lower right side. I go to the right side of your bed and sing You Are My Sunshine before hugging you and kissing you and giving you a series of high fives. Up until a few weeks ago the high fives went, "Five, ten, twenty, twenty." Now they go, "Kitty, fairy, princess, kitty." I walk to the door and turn puppy light on to pink so you can pink your friends. You raise each of them to the light. "Pink, pink, pink, pink," you say. And then, 'Daddy, can you please pink Purple Kitty?" I go back to your bed and hold up Purple Kitty. "Pink," I say. Oh, and recently we added moisturizer to this routine. "My tummy is itchy," you said a few nights ago. So now, every night since, I rub Curel with 'ultra feeling' on your tummy. Somehow your legs and feet also became itchy so I have to put moisturizer on them, too. Anyway, after 'pinking', I turn off your dimmed room light. "Goodnight, Nola," I say, "Mommy and daddy and Judah love you very much. Laila tov." As I close your door you say, "Can you turn off the hall light?" And then I do.
That's the routine. I usually get it right. But if I forget any one of these, you cry and scream. So I'll come in and complete whatever the task and then you say, "I want my tears wiped."
It's a bit much.
Last night while we were reading you interrupted and said, "I need my nails cut."
"I don't think that's gonna happen, sweetie. It's late. It's sleepytime."
What started as a whimper escalated to tears in seconds. You jumped off my lap and started down the hall.
"Nola, come here please. Nola, please come here. Nola, are you listening? This is your first warning."
But you were already racing up the stairs.
Sigh...
Here's the thing, sweetheart. Daddy's tired. And he's tired of you not listening. Yes, I understand you're not the pinpoint center of the universe anymore and you feel compelled to act out, but quite frankly, you're being a fucking asshole.
Bam!
There, I said it. That felt good. Huh, who knew? I mean beside Louis CK...*
So now you're upstairs with mommy telling your sob story about your nails to her.
"Let me finish feeding Judah," mommy says, "and then I'll come down and cut your nails, sweetheart."
Grrrrrr...
"Now apologize to daddy for not listening," mommy continues as she looks at me glaring in the doorway, "and I'll be down in a little bit."
You mumble a half apology with your thumb in your mouth and we go downstairs to finish the book, which I really don't feel like reading anymore. In other words, I'm done with you.
I mechanically finish the book and we sit in silence until mommy comes downstairs. I chill in the other room as she cuts your nails.
"Rib?"
I come back in.
"I have to finish feeding Judah. Can you tuck her in?"
I nod.
"Good night, sweetheart," says mommy as she heads back upstairs.
"Daddy," you say, "Kitty Caw didn't go to ballet today because she-"
"Nola, it's sleepy time."
You've already moved on from our row. I have not. Nonetheless I go through the routine. I make sure the tiny blanket has the tag facing up on the bottom right side, but I go immediately to puppy light. No song.
"Daddy, can you sing You Are My Sunshine?"
"No, I don't feel like it."
"Daddy, please." Your voice is trembly. Some of the hard frozen edges of my heart start to flake off.
"I really don't feel like singing, Nola."
"That's not nice."
Really? You wanna go there? Ok, fine.
"Nola, what's not nice is when you don't listen. That's not nice. Running out of the room in the middle of a story is not nice. Crying and screaming for no good reason is not nice. You're a big girl, sweetheart. Are you not a big girl?"
I don't know what structure you call a question like that, but yes, that's hard to answer. Regardless, your thumb is locked between your lips.
"You hurt daddy's feelings when you didn't listen."
Silence.
And then you take your thumb out of your mouth.
"I'm sorry, daddy."
Beep. Shzzzzzzzz...
Apparently there is an instant defrost setting on my heart.
"Ok, well, I appreciate you saying that. Thank you. That makes daddy feel better."
I sing the song quietly, finish out the routine. But before I turn off the hall light, we go over kitty removal. Your mom is the genius who came up with the kitty removal strategy and this is the first time I remember to employ it. "Nola," I say, "if you have to go pee pee, or need a drink of water, you can go ahead and do that. You're a big girl. But if you get out of bed for any other reason, what happens?"
"You or mommy take a kitty."
"That's right. Now go sleepytime. Mommy and daddy and Judah love you very much. Laila tov."
I go upstairs to make dinner. Really I'm just heating up the oven to 450º before throwing in a frozen pizza. But at about 275º you're at the top of the steps. Purrah is draped over your arm.
"Daddy, can you smooth out my blanket?"
I feel like a spider. A mean cruel ugly spider. This meal is too easy. I barely spun a web.
"Sure," I say. "No problem. But you know what happens now, right?"
"What?"
"I take Purrah."
You're caught. You twist and turn and writhe, but there's web all over you. You can't get free. You scream out and cry.
Purrah is just a kitty head attached to a washcloth, only it's the softest washcloth in the world. I don't know what these things are called. It's not a wash cloth, but it has no arms or legs and it's sooooo soft. Purrah is your oh so soft kitty that you love oh so much. I believe she is your favorite, that she has even topped Kitty Caw.
You are crying. And crying. You can hardly catch your breath. I walk you to your room, take Purrah. "Sleeytime," I say. "Now."
I close the door. It doesn't seem possible, but you cry and scream even louder.
I. Feel. Terrible.
I wait at your door.
Screaming, crying. Screaming. Crying.
I hear you come to the door. You open it. I'm right there. Between sobs and sucks of air you say, "I want my tears wiped."
I steer you back to your bed, wipe your tears.
"I love Purrah so much," you manage to say.
"I know."
"Can I have her please? I'll listen. I have my listening ears on."
You put your hands at your ears.
Beep. Shzzzzzz fssssshhhhhh. Gurrrrrrggggg.
My heart melts.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Those are the rules."
But instead of screaming out in ear drum damaging horror, you continue to sob and open your arms for a hug.
Beep. Shzzzzzz kathunnk. Chgrk. Fssssshhhhhh. Klank. KaBOOM!
My heart, which is just goo, actually explodes into a million pieces.
I lean in for a hug.
"Ok," I say - because I can't take any more - "I'm going to give you Purrah back, but let this be a warning for tomorrow night and all other nights. Purrah will be taken away. Do you understand?"
You nod, reach one arm out because the other is connected to your thumb which is now connected to your mouth. I hand you Purrah and pull the blankets up, smooth them out.
"Sleepytime," I say. "Sleepytime."
I close the door, and that's last we will see of each of this evening. It's been a tough night. For everyone.
*
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