My daughter and I rarely jive. If I agree to pink, she
changes to black; if I suggest reading, she insists on colouring; if I give her
a choice of two foods, she refuses to eat unless she has her own choice. She
might end up hungry at these times, but she makes sure everyone else is just as
miserable. And my daughter is only 6 years old. But age means nothing – at
birth she decided she only needed to eat 2 minutes on each side and that she’d
only be happy when held by men.
Part of me admires her. She is so independent and confident
that she is like a tank rumbling over anyone or anything in her way. She has an
argument for everything – an excellent reason for why she needs to wear that
odd concoction of clothes, a perfectly rational explanation for why her rules
are better in this game. But, in essence, I am a rule-follower and most of the
time I just wish she’d…follow the rules.
But there are rules and then there are rules. I find myself questioning, like she does (constantly), do we have to follow this rule? Why? She doesn't accept that she has to follow a rule because her brother always has (and boy does that cause some head-butting). I have to come up with blindingly brilliant reasons for why we obey each rule. If I can't come up with one, then I either have to find a graceful (or awkward) way to back down, or it's battle time.
Battle days – those days when my daughter and I lock horns –
are traumatic. There are screaming and tears and slamming doors. My son either
retreats to his room or sometimes starts shouting at his sister – not helpful,
though he tries. At the end of these days, I ask God, “Why me?”
Seriously – I am bewildered that God felt me capable to
raise this amazingly independent, intelligent, utterly free-spirited person.
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