Happy Day!

Essie gave me an award! Isn't that cool? Brightens up my ratty week, anyway.

The supposed rules:

1. Put the logo in my post or within my blog.

2. Pass the award onto 12 fellow bloggers.

3. Link the nominees within my post.

4. Let the nominees know they have received this award by leaving a comment on their blogs.

5. Share the love and link to the person who gave you the award!

I don't think I can pull off 12, but here goes.

Life in the Grateful House
Recovering Noah
Rage Against the Minivan
Watching the Waters
Welcome to My Brain

Yesterday, Continued

Wowie wow wow. Yesterday actually got worse. I had Princess take a rest, and when she got up I let her know her laundry was ready to go into the dryer. She freaked. Out.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa Princess. You don't want to put your laundry in the dryer right now. Not a problem. No big deal. Go ahead and rest up, and when you're feeling stronger you can put it in."

"I'm not going to do it."

Oh.
And she didn't.

Unfortunately, she is entirely out of clothing. And money. She has paid Peanut $10 to wear Peanut's three-sizes-too-small clothing. And I am entirely out of ideas. That fact, right there, is upsetting me. I don't run out of ideas all that often. It has to be baaaaaaaaad for me to run out of ideas. And I am OUT.

In one hour we are going to church. Princess will be wearing something that is three sizes too small (and cost her a dollar). I haven't had to do much of the whole "public humiliation" thing since she stopped screaming and throwing things in Target three years ago. I'm trying to gear up for responding to looks and questions calmly and matter-of-factly. Fun.

Then, there's the matter of what to do when she uses said set of Peanut's clothing for a toilet. Peanut does not have enough clothing for her sister to pee in five or six times a day, so wearing more than one set of Peanut's clothes per day will have to stop today. My best idea for THAT is having her sit in her room in her bathrobe pantsless. Less than ideal.

I try not to think too far ahead. Heck, maybe she'll break down and put her laundry in the dryer today. Who knows. But SCHOOL. The fact that she is wearing Peanut's obviously-too-small clothing by her own choice will not matter. Uh-uh. Not at all. She will inwardly freak out about what the other girls think and probably have a major issue. I will need to be on call tomorrow.

Oh, and THEN! All pee aside. The child has not combed her hair in over a week. Josh has been suggesting for quite a while that I cut her hair to make it more managable for her to comb, and I knew he was probably right, but I just did not want to. I love her hair. She loves her hair. But she left me with no choice yesterday. After her shower (which, by the way, was taken fully clothed with me in my bathing suit in there with her washing her under her clothing- that was fun, let me tell you), she would not comb it. Just wouldn't. She go in the bathroom and come out two seconds later saying it was done, and I'd be able to get the comb about two inches down her hair before it would be stuck. So I cut it. She was maaaaaaaaaaaad. I cannot believe I managed to give her a decent haircut without her getting stuck in the eye. I have to say, it looks way cuter. But that's besides the point.

So, while Princess hangs out in the bathroom because it's 8:00 a.m. and she's already wet her pants and her sister is still sleeping so I won't let her go up and change into her too-small clothing, I will sit back and wait to get inspired.

Pe(e)- A Thorn in My Side

Princess has never been completely toilet-trained. She was just over three when she came to us, and, trust me, I have used every toilet-training technique know to man in the past four years. Well, three years. About a year ago I had a conversation with myself where I decided that it really wasn't a "training issue" anymore. It's not a matter of whether or not she can use the toilet, it's a matter of whether or not she does. It's a control thing. No one can make you eat, no one can make you sleep, and no one can make you pe(e). A lot of kids choose one as their battle ground. Pee is Princess's ground of choice.

So, for the past year, it is not my problem. Sure, it grieves (and annoys) me deeply, but it's not my problem. She has 20 pairs of underwear and 15 pants or skirts. If she's out, she can rent from her sister. She puts her laundry in a rubbermaid box that sits behind the curtain in a rarely-used shower. She does her laundry every Saturday. She puts it away. She sprays down the box with vinegar and starts over. Not my problem.

It comes and goes. Until her teacher had the audacity to have a baby, she WAS using the toilet, at least some of the time. Once, for an experiment, I mentioned to Josh in her hearing that her box smelled nice. Immediate toilet boycott. Hmm, I say. Hmm. This week has been especially bad. She was through all 20 pairs of panties by Friday. She's paid Peanut $4 dollars so far, and I've already discovered an additional pair of un-paid-for undies. She has lost A PILE of cash. And it's going to the sister. And so, an hour ago, it hit the skids.

"Princess, it looks like you didn't take a sticker off your money chart. Why don't you fix that."
"Ok."
"Um, Princess, it looks like you didn't do something else, too."
Princess goes and stands by her wallet with her finger in her mouth staring, staring, staring.
Peanut says, "can I have my dollar, please?"
"I KNOW!!!!! YOU'VE SAID IT A THOUSAND TIMES!!!!!!"

"Oooooh, Princess. This is so hard. I'm right here. You want to be SuperInControlOfTheToilet Princess, but you want what Dry Pants Girls have, too. It's a hard, hard choice. But you chose to be Super In Control Princess, so you must pay Peanut her rent."
"here."
Peanut thanked her.
"I KNOW! YOU DON'T HAVE TO KEEP SAYING IT! QUIT IT!"

Josh reminded Princess that the more appropriate response would be "you're welcome," which must mean "please start a tantrum" in Princess language.

Soooooo I walked her upstairs, commiserating about how hard these choices are, sometimes they're so hard that they exhaust us, it looks like she needs some time to rest and get strong, here's a blankie and my bed, I'll see you in an hour." Which was probably hard to understand, as I kept getting hit in the mouth.

I wish that I could make her choices for her. Mommies, at least, should have that power. It's so painful to watch. It hurts me. I want her to feel proud, and successful, and, well, powerful. And sometimes she seems to want something entirely else.

Regression

Sigh.

All that progress. I know she'll get it back, but,

Big, heavy sigh.

Princess's hand-selected first-grade teacher has been on maternity leave for two weeks. I saw it rolling in last week. If it can be stopped, I haven't figured out how. It's like an wave- just waiting until it crashes on the shore and retreats.

This entire week, Princess has spent every waking minute not doing homework. She gets up, sits at the table, and doesn't do homework. She gets home from school, sits at the table, and doesn't do homework. She finishes dinner, sits down at the table, and doesn't do homework. Don't imagine for one minute, though, that all this not doing homework is quiet. It is most certainly not.

Yesterday I spoke with the school and found the problems are not restricted to home, and we set and "intervention" meeting. We're still not done with it. I am so thankful for these people and their dedication to my daughter. Unfortunately, my Suburban was parked in the wrong place for how long the meeting went, and the secretary announcing over the loudspeaker that a "gray Suburban is parked where it is not supposed to be and is blocking the buses," as well as my subsequent tearing through child-filled halls dragging a curly-headed three-year-old clued in Princess that I was there and that I was there for her. Fortunately, she responded to this information by doing her homework. Correctly. In five minutes' time.

As a "good parent," I felt like we should discuss "what was the good thing you were getting out of spending all your time doing your homework wrong." She wouldn't play. She kept saying "jealous," because it was the big feeling LAST TIME, so even though it makes no sense NOW, what the heck, my mom is an idiot. And really, I should not have bothered. She was no where near regulated, and she was not in a mental place to access her feelings. I decided to give her the answer this time.

"It feels pretty powerful, doesn't it? NO ONE can MAKE you do your homework right! NO ONE can MAKE you use the toilet! You are IN CHARGE! You are IN CONTROL! You are IN CHARGE PRINCESS! The SUPER-CONTROL GIRL! I even hummed a theme song and flew around the room with an imaginary cape. I must have hit the nail on the head, because she did. not. like it. Cue fussing and flailing and wailing, "nooooooooooo! Stooooooooop it!"

Math: 4. Mommy: 1. But I get bonus points for creativity, so I still win.

Sticky Fingers

Actually, I'm pretty surprised this happened for the first time yesterday, considering the Cuddle Bear is the youngest of four. She's been toying with the idea for quite a while, but has not yet completely pulled it off. She finally did it.

The Cuddle Bear shoplifted.

She and I had gone into a gift shop to buy an item Buddy had been saving for. Then we went to the Social Security office (barely-related note: children adopted out of foster care are at very high risk for identity theft). First, she walked up to the flag and recited the Pledge of Allegiance and sang "My Country 'Tis of Thee." Then, she worked the room and learned everyone's name, age, make of car, and profession. Finally, she sat down next to me and softly patted her pocket with a dreamy and contented look on her face.

"What have you got in your pocket?"
"Nofing."
What is it?"
"Nofing! No peeking. No peeking! No peeking! No Mommy! I said no peeking! NOOOOOOOO!"

It was a shiny, sparkly, bejeweled Christmas ornament. And, by the gift shop price tag, quite a pricey one.

"CUDDLE BEAR! This is not yours! You took it without asking. We'll have to take it back."
"No."
"YES!"

We finished at the Social Security office (new numbers in four weeks) and drove back to the gift shop. The back of the Suburban was unusually silent. We parked.

"I no want to go in."
"I'm sorry. It's not a choice. We're going in. You're going to give the lady the pretty, and you're going to say, 'I took this without asking. It was wrong."

"I no want to say that."
"Oh well."

We went in. The Cuddle Bear bowed her head, extended the arm with the ornament, and walked toward the manager. The manager said, "what do you have there?" The Cuddle Bear's face contorted, and she wailed,

"I TOOK this!"

The manager got down next to her and said, "oh. And you know that's wrong, don't you?"

(snuffle snuffle snort snuffle) "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!!" Tears stream down her face as she sobs.

We went back out to the car with the Cuddle Bear doing the twitchy thing she does after she cries.

"That didn't feel very good, did it Cuddle Bear."
"No. My head felt all shaky inside and I fot I was going to fall down."




Good.

What's Sneaking Around Behind Your Anger?

Yesterday evening I walked in the house and was greeted by the pleasant sound of all four children playing a game together. I foolishly commented to Josh how nice it was hear them playing cooperatively when a fight broke out. I could hear Princess complaining about something and, having played with her before, had a good idea what it was without even being in the same room. The game was too difficult for the Cuddle Bear, so Buddy was helping her, which causes Princess to "not win." Princess has high anxiety and is very competitive. That mixed with things in general being harder for her than for the other children makes a dangerous soup. Withing seconds, it escalated to Princess tossing her emotional cookies around the room: roaring, wailing, threatening, and throwing of the game pieces. I removed Princess from the room. It was about bedtime anyway, so I walked her loud, flailing self up the stairs. She wriggled around like a buttered snake, making it impossible to stuff her into pajamas, so I rolled her in her comforter and laid down next to her while she scratched, kicked, and pinched me while wailing, "I want pajamas" at the top of her lungs. She's an excellent multi-tasker.

Only very, very recently have we started to try to help her process what went wrong in these situations, and Josh has always been much, much better at this than I. But yesterday Christine posted an excellent video on talking children through their feelings. This morning I grabbed my handy "Managing Your Anger" chart and sat down with Princess.

"Princess, remember back to that game last night? Buddy was helping the Cuddle Bear because the game was to hard for her. You weren't winning. You acted very, very angry. You looked kind of like this (pointing to the middle "angry" face). But, you know what? There was a bigger feeling, too. It was being really sneaky. It was trying to hide behind the angry so we couldn't see it. It was one of these (pointing to the faces in the circle around "angry"). Which one was it?" Princess pointed right at the "jealous" face and said, "jealous."

"Aaaah. You felt jealous. You felt jealous that the Cuddle Bear was winning. You felt jealous that Buddy was helping her play. You wished Buddy would help you instead because you wanted to win." This was probably as far as she heard, but I went on for good measure: "but you can be proud of you even though you didn't win. This game used to be hard for you, but now you understand what your eyes are seeing, and you can find the pictures yourself, without help."

But anyway, wow! Wow wow wowie wow wow! This is a child who never ever NEVER tells the truth about how she's feeling. EVER. And this is the third time in the past month that she's opened up a little. It's always exciting around here, I tell you!

It's Not Fair

The Cuddle Bear climbs in bed with us every night, which means she gets up when I do and we have a few minutes of just us and a cup of coffee first thing each morning. Week day mornings I choose everyone's breakfast to cut down on the before-school chaos, and today it was pancakes. Every month we order a box of food from this co-op (sort of), Angel Food Ministries, and this time there was a bunch of heat-and-serve pancakes in it. We don't eat a whole lot of processed or prepared food, so obviously the kids were chomping at the bit to suck these down. But the Cuddle Bear pulled out a box of Raisin Bran. I told her we were having pancakes, and to please put the cereal back. To my surprise, her little face crumpled, tears began to roll, and she wailed, "but I want Raisin Bran! It's not faaaaaaaair! I don't WANT pancakes." She went on while I empathized in my best "too bad for you" voice when she came out with, "I want CHOCOLATE pancakes!"

A-ha. See, here's the thing. Three months ago, the Cuddle Bear began breaking out in terrible hives whenever she ate chocolate or used cocoa butter products. We went to the allergist, but he couldn't tell what food allergies she had by the usual scratch test because- guess what? The Cuddle Bear is also apparently allergic to cuts and abrasions. Her skin releases hystamine and she scratches herself into a case of hives. Then, a blood test turned up that she is also allergic to dairy and egg whites.

Don't get me wrong. I know this is not a big, life-altering deal. But I feel so BAD. She's three. She's a trooper. But I was at a Golden Arches birthday party with Princess yesterday thinking, if this were the Cuddle Bear, there would not be a thing here she could have. Except apple juice. And the fries, I guess. We try to make her changes "special." And she hasn't complained. Until this morning.

And I. Can't. Fix it.