Sometimes, CJ is incredibly gleeful, as in the above picture, running to meet her grandmother, grandaunt, and granduncle. She rarely gets to see them, but there she is, running up to them, full-speed, as if they were the source of her every happiness.
Other times, the loss of a few goldfish crackers has Vesuvian consequences. It’s in those times that you earn your stripes as a parent. I find myself constantly trying to crack her code, to get what I want out of her in a way that stops short of physically forcing her to accede. Dragging her upstairs to get her into bed is a loss. Letting her stay downstairs is a loss. Having her scream and writhe on the ground inconsolably for ten minutes is a loss. Convincing her to walk up the stairs herself is a win.
A conversation she and I had earlier today while she was strapped in her car seat and the car is sitting in front of the house:
“I don’t want to go out of the car.”
“But it’s time to go in the house.”
“I don’t want to go in the house.”
Followed by five more minutes of back-and-forth, and escalating whining on her part.
“How about this,” I say. “How about you use the other door to get out of the car.”
“Okay.”
Did I win that round? Did she? Who knows? I got what I wanted, but did she get what she wanted, too?
And that’s parenthood, at least for now: a never-ending, relentless series of negotiations, where the counter-party has a seemingly bottomless well of patience and an unknown calculus for an appropriate outcome, and every single instance of bargaining holds implications for the next instance, which lies only moments away.
For recent pics, click here.
