Monkey tested limits this weekend, and found out where they are. It was just great. She threw a fit for being asked to pick up her toys, then threw even more of a fit when we made going to see her cousins (for ice cream) contingent on picking up her toys, and then threw the biggest fit of all when — after about 20 minutes of this — DearDR and I pulled the plug on ice cream altogether. Because she wasn’t listening to us. (Bun and I went. DearDR picked up the toys.)
I really hope it’s a typical almost-5-year-old thing, or a “I’m-really-ready-to-go-back-to-preschool” thing (she doesn’t start until next Wednesday), but the not-listening combined with the fly-off-the-handle meltdowns have got to come to an end.
Here is Monday night’s conversation:
Monkey: Kennywood is the funnest place on Earf … Earth.
RPM: It is pretty fun. (thinking: too bad we didn’t get there this summer.)
Monkey: Bun, Kennywood is the funnest place of Earth. You’re going to love it. Mom, can we go there tonight?
RPM: No, it’s too late tonight —
Monkey: No, Mom, really, can we go after dinner?
RPM: Monkey, we can’t go tonight —
Monkey: You mean we CAN NEVER EVER GO AGAIN?
RPM: No, Monkey, that’s not what I said, I mean —
Monkey: So we can go tonight?
RPM: We can go on a Saturday, soon. (thinking: Oh dear Lord, please tell me Kennywood is open weekends for a couple more weeks.)
Monkey: Can we go tonight?
RPM: Monkey! No, we will–
Monkey (wailing, complete with tears in her eyes): WHY CAN’T WE EVER GO TO KENNYWOOD AGAIN?? WAAAHHH! (stomps off to wail in another room)
RPM, thinking: WTH?
(Video taken live at the Green Day concert in Pittsburgh — not by me. I thought of Monkey during that whole first of the last two songs. Sigh.)
DearDR advises that I have to stay even-keeled during these conversations (which, DearDR, that’s pretty ironic. You know what I’m talking about). I am trying: breathing deeply, talking softly. If I get upset, the girls just get more upset. But attempting to reason with an unreasonable creature… Well, it sure is challenging.
The worst part? I keep picturing these conversations when Monkey is 15, and we’ve added hormones to the mix. (Okay, more hormones. Never let it be said that I don’t have my crazy, PMS-induced moods.)
Help. Send beer.
Red Pen Mama 