We've had quite a morning. There's no warning as to when it's going to happen, it just does. All was going well with the morning routine, getting three nine-year-olds ready for school. Erika's bus comes earliest, about 7:45, so I start the final stage of "getting her ready" at around 7:25. Step 1: Give mom the iPad. (Mom packs the iPad for transport to school) Step 2: "Go potty." (as Erika still calls it, despite years of adults, including me, trying to get her to say "Go to the bathroom.") Step 3: Socks on. Steps 4 through 9 include the option of snowpants on or in the backpack, then putting on boots, coat, hat, gloves, and the bus harness that makes her look like she's about to jump out of a plane, once she puts her backpack on. But today, the thought of "Step 3: Socks on." sent Erika into a tailspin.
Refusals, taking socks off and throwing them, kicking, hitting, screaming...there's no telling how bad this will get, or how much time it will consume, so I have Erika's siblings getting ready at the same time, but they are to get everything they need out of their lockers, and get ready in an area a ways away from their sister. The hard-fought sock battle lasts at least four minutes, and I make the executive decision that we are going to skip the snowpants this morning. One less thing. The next part requires the most courage of all: Boots on. Because with boots on, the kicking can get dangerous. After several refusals and much unbecoming yelling and some necessary physical handling, the boots are finally on, but every step of the way is like this, with Erika often choosing to lay down and kick, or take something off which I've worked so hard to get on.
Finally, she's in the garage. The garage door has been opened, so we can watch for the bus. My God, I'm glad I haven't showered yet, because I am sweating my ass off at this point. On Mondays and Wednesday, I have class at 9 a.m., so I would be showered and ready to head out after everybody's on the bus. Luckily, today is Tuesday. She hits the garage door opener. It starts closing. "No. Don't touch." I hit the garage door opener. It opens back up. The sequence of closing and opening repeats twelve times, with my voice escalating each time, while I get my boots and coat on, and finally I stand next to the opener to physically block her from touching it.
She is agitated.
She lies down on the step just outside the entry door. She looks like she's about to kick me, because I am standing between her and the garage door going down again. "There is NO KICKING." I grab her raised boot. "Get up. That's all dirty." She doesn't, so I lift her up, all 95-resisting-pounds of her. She lies back down, and kicks the door. "NO KICKING. GET. UP." Finally, she gets up. She pulls down on the antenna on the passenger side of my minivan, as far as it will go. She lays her body over the salt-covered front hood. Just above the wheel well is a huge dent from a few months ago, a reminder to me of what Erika's rage plus Lands End rubber-soled winter boots equals.
"Let's wait outside." Yesterday, Erika gave a small resistance when it was time to get ready for the bus. My husband was here, and he witnessed it. Once we were outside (with snowpants on), Erika amused herself with the sled and the small hill along our driveway. I was very grateful for her quick attitude adjustment. She was enjoying herself immensely, and I cheered her on with an occasional "Ready, Set, GO!"
But not today. Today, she doesn't want to be out there. I pull her by her straps. I pull her by her backpack. She is resisting, but I need her outside. There is too much to kick here. There's the door. There's the car. There are my legs. She falls to the floor of the garage. Not the old carpet that we wipe our snowy, dirty boots on. She is lying on the floor where the dirty snow that clings to my car melts away, leaving a wet, greasy mixture in puddles. Now she's a mess. Now I wish I had insisted on the snowpants. I pull her up, because she refuses to do it herself. I notice that she is sweating as much as I am. She still refuses to go outside, where she stands a chance of calming herself down. After all, sometimes the taste of a fresh handful of snow will do the trick. She runs to the other side of the garage, where she throws down her backpack and lunch. She kicks my left shin, and climbs into the red radio flyer wagon, which I once thought of as an icon of an idyllic childhood.
There is pain on my left shin. If I were a Dodge Grand Caravan, there would be a huge dent on my wheel well by now. There is pain in knowing how uncertain this day is, as the bus pulls up to our driveway. There is pain in knowing that many times, her best days at school start out just like this, before the bus arrives. There is pain in knowing that whatever I have planned for the day, I may need to drop at a moment's notice to pick her up from school. I stand next to the bus as it pulls away. There was a moment when I thought she calmed down, but there is more pain as I hear kicking at the window where she is sitting, as the bus pulls away.
There is pain as I think about all of her love and affection this morning, before we got to Step 3: Socks on.
-Erika's Mom
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