When I was pregnant, I heard many stories about “easy” babies and “difficult” babies. It seemed like every parent who paused to touch my swollen tummy had a theory about “boys vs. girls” or “first-borns vs. later siblings” and every possibility’s varying degree of challenge. Some linked disposition to the stars, some to the climate, some to what the mother ate, and some to the childbirth. I listened. I took notes. I read books. I prayed for an easy baby.

My prayers weren’t answered. On day two of her life, my daughter let out a scream that could curdle milk as I gently cleaned her bottom, and in the crystal moment of pure silence that followed, her dad and I quietly looked at each other and knew. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t in pain. She was mad.

I watched with discouragement and envy as friends bragged about their good-natured angels who never cried and slept all the time. I waited and watched my child grow into a toddler and then into a little kid. I watched her iron will grow even faster. Mentally, I did what parents are never supposed to do and started comparing children. I did more listening, note taking, book reading and praying. I started trying to make sense of the contradictory advice I heard.

My husband argued that her will was so strong because I spoiled her. “If you don’t pick her up every time she cries, she’ll learn that it doesn’t work,” was his approach to her infant tantrums. He warned that she would grow to walk all over me. Worried, sometimes I let her cry. I would make myself wait for three minutes, five, 10 and then 15 before going to her. She could cry for a really long time.

When my mother saw my new approach, she was horrified and threatened to turn me into social services. “Child abuse!” she screamed. She gave me the how-could-a-child-of-mine-be-such-a-horrible-mother-look and scooped Ayden up into her arms. Ayden stopped crying. Ayden = 1. Grandma = 1. Mom = 0.

But my daughter is not always so easily pacified. When a dark cloud passes over her spirit, there are no rules if she does not get what she wants. She morphs from a little princess to the possessed child in “The Exorcist.” She screams. She hits. She holds her breath until she passes out. She makes herself throw up. Often at the end a tantrum like that she and I are both crying and exhausted - as if we had both wrestled with the devil himself.

Even worse, inevitably, is the judgment and advice that rains down from well-intentioned strangers when these fits happen in public. Once when my daughter had a fit in a Wal-mart store, I quickly hustled her out to the car. It was summer - hot like an oven - and though I loaded my purchases into the car, with one arm around a writhing, hysterical child, I could not physically get my daughter in her car seat. I held her outside the car as she raged, and soon was approached by several concerned people. Many were truly worried and probably wondering if they needed to call an ambulance. Others were clearly more interested in the show - like those who slow down to gawk at roadside accidents.

One woman who stopped with her companion commented, “Kids never would have gotten away with acting like that when I was growing up.”

Frustrated, trying to be civil, and genuinely wanting some answers, I responded, “How is that?”

“Well,” she retorted, “I’d have gotten a smack in the face from my mom, and the belt from my dad.”

“Hmmm,” was all I could say, though I heard the lady mutter “Mothers today ...” to her friend as they walked away.

And believe me, I have thought about corporal punishment. My parents spanked my brother and me when I was a little kid, and I never thought that I was in any way abused. So one day when she was about a year-old and having a particularly obstinate moment, I popped her on the bottom. Her look made me swear off further spankings and a firm believer in time-outs. She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t in pain. She was mad.

I knew in that moment that if someone started off spanking her bottom, they’d wind up beating her simply because of her stubbornness, strong-will and high tolerance for pain. Recently, I was reminded of this fact when she pulled my hair. I explained to her that it hurt when she pulled my hair and asked her not to do it again. Mischievously, she did it again. To illustrate my point, I gave her hair a good tug.
She looked at me and grinned. Frustrated, I tugged again - harder. She grinned again. I gave one last, very hard pull to no effect. Incredulous, I asked, “Doesn’t that hurt?” “No Mommy,” she smiled, “It hurts you, but it doesn’t hurt me.”

I am not in favor of spanking any child, but in this age of time-outs, sometimes disciplining a child like Ayden is difficult at best. Time-outs usually involve me holding the door to her room shut from the outside while she screams, kicks, pulls and throws toys at the door from the inside. I’m sure the seeming lack of control when raising children in this post-spanking age is what leads many frustrated parents to medicating their children for behavioral disorders.

But just like spanking, I don’t think medication is really the answer either. There are many wonderful aspects to having a strong-willed child that I fear medication would dull, and most of the time, Ayden’s attitude is engaging, fabulously humorous in its largeness. At moments her compassion and kindness are enormous. She is smart, independent and brave. She is a leader. I doubt that she will be taken advantage of.

I believe that Ayden was born, for whatever reason, an extremely headstrong kid. And yet that does not excuse her behavior or make it okay for her to continue to demand her way into adulthood. I do want her to know that it’s not OK to hurt other people, even if she can withstand the pain herself. But unlike spanking or medication, modeling appropriate behavior seems to have less immediate, but hopefully longer lasting, less destructive effects. Now I pray for patience. And when I stop comparing her to other children, I see that my truest prayers were answered, and she is the perfect child for me.

(Esther Godfrey is a college English teacher. She can be reached at egodfrey@wcu.edu)

 

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