I knew this day was coming, therefore I was prepared for it. I did not expect it to come this early; nevertheless, I was not caught unawares.
The first shot in the battle of wills was a fountain of tears from a little girl's bedroom.
"Would you go in there and tell her to stop that?" my wife said, indicating the agonized wailing filling the house.
We're just minutes home from H-E-B, the local supermarket chain, with our weekly consumer foraging. On the trip home, both children had fallen asleep. Mommy had taken supertiny to her room for a nap, which was well underway. Big Tiny - a.k.a. Biggie Smalls - a.k.a. Sydney - was also in need of a "rest", since she would be going to church with Grandma later.
This did not sit well with Stubborn McBullhead.
I go into her room and rationally explain to her that she needs the rest so she doesn't fall asleep at church, that she doesn't have to sleep, she just needs to rest and stay in her room. None of this pleases her, but it stops the wailing and derails any further meltdown. I leave the room, telling myself (but not her) that as soon as we're done sorting the groceries away, she can come out.
With the food mostly parceled and placed, I go in to retrieve the small one. I am greeted with an ugly face and an absolutely abhorrent attitude.
"I'm just going to run away from home and not live here anymore."
Oh yes she did.
It was maybe a month or so ago that I'd been having the discussion with someone about this. The consensus was that the most successful strategy for dealing with a threat of this magnitude was to call the bluff. That's what my mom did. That's what Lynn's mom did. That's what all the other parents with which I had conversed had done, and had experienced themselves.
And thus it had come to pass in our home.
"How come?" I asked.
"Because I'm not going to be your friend anymore."
"Okay, then," I said. "Would you like me to help you pack?"
There was a moment's hesitation - just the briefest flash - before she consented.
After that moment, everything started happening so fast, I can only remember feelings and impressions. I retrieved her backpack from the front entryway and informed her mother of the situation. With a big smile on my face. I went back in to her room, where she remained obstinately on the bed.
I asked her if she would like me to pack her some panties? She did.
Socks? Yes. Pants, shirts? Yes, yes.
While this is all happening, I'm maintaining a very somber, disappointed countenance, but am completely committed to my charade. She, on the other hand, is starting to show signs of second thoughts. She breaks down in wracking sobs, "I'm really gonna miss you guys!"
"We're going to miss you too!"
But she still insists that
- She's not going to live here anymore.
- It's because I'm not going to be her friend anymore, which is because:
- She's not going to live here anymore, because
- I'm not going to be her friend anymore
Extrapolate that, you get a nice big circle, of course; hey, we're dealing with a four year old.
I hand her her backpack, and we walk to the hallway. I get my shoes on and tell her I'll walk her out. She's not sobbing anymore, but is still crying pretty hard. She says goodbye to Mommy, who is putting on one hell of an act. Mommy says she'll miss her, and goodbye.
We go outside and walk down to the sidewalk in front of our house. She's still crying. I ask for a kiss goodbye, which I get. And a hug.
I ask where she's going. Her first thought is her friend Skylar's house, but then she decides her main objective is Grandma Sandy's house in Oklahoma. It's pretty far, but I point her in the direction - roughly north up the sidewalk. She wants to take her scooter, but I tell her she can't - if she's not going to be here anymore, the scooter will be for Cameron.
Eventually, off she goes. I think this image will be burned into my head forever. Her tiny body in her new blue-and-brown dress, with her oversized Dora backpack, striding purposefully down the street, pausing every 30 feet to see if I'm following. I'm not. Every time she looks back I just wave.
She makes it about three quarters of the way to the end of the street before she stops and turns around.
"DAD! COME WITH ME!" she yells.
"NO! I LIVE HERE!" I shout back.
"BUT IF YOU DON'T COME WITH ME I'LL BE LONELY!"
We shout back and forth more of the same for awhile, but eventually I wave her back. She runs - full throttle - back to the house. So fast I worry she's going to trip and fall and the whole exercise will be derailed by injury.
But she makes it back, where she continues trying to get me to come with her because she'll be lonely if I don't come. I say I'm sorry, but this is where I live and I'm not running away. I ask her where she's going to eat and sleep. She's not sure. But eventually I tell her that if she's going to get to Grandma Sandy's she better start now or it'll get too dark (hey, eventually she'll get it, but for now the parameters of the exercise are determined by the bounds of her knowledge and experience.)
I think she got a little more frustrated this time, event though she insisted she was going to miss us so much; when she left, she ran up the street. She stopped again, though, like she'd hit some kind of psychic forcefield, in the same place.
"COME ON, DAD, COME WITH ME!" she shouts.
This time, I pull out the big guns: I wave back at her, turn, and walk back towards the house. The message is clear - this isn't a game. I'm not following. I'm going on with my life without her.
In reality, as soon as I'm behind the Escape, I duck down and try to watch her through the windows. What I hear is an anguished scream - like when you turn the life sucking machine up to 50 - mixed with the sound of small shoes running back towards me.
"DAD! NO! DAD!" As soon as I feel like she might be able to spot me, I bend over and pick up a rock, then toss it in the hole where the bouganvilla used to be. As she approaches, I turn and look back as if surprised to see her.
About that time, the garage door opens and Mommy comes out, ready to plant our new climbing roses in place of the old thorny bouganvilla. This time Syd wants to take her bike, but no, we're giving that to Cameron, too.
We go around and around about how much we'll miss her and how sorry we are that she feels that she has to go, but that she should probably get a move on, until the words we were waiting for:
"I'm not gonna run away anymore, guys..."
At that point, the love opens up, we're all smiles and celebration. I ask her if she wants to go unpack her bag. She breaks down sobbing, but nods.
We go into her room and I just hold her and rock while she cries, but I tell her how happy we are that she's staying. Eventually she gets all the cries out, and we unpack her backpack and come back out to join Mommy. The new rosebush is in and Mommy goes to get a bucket of water for it. "Can I watch you water it, Mommy?"
"Of course!"
"Okay, but don't get any water on my new pretty dress!"
Afterward, Sydney and I start to trim out the plumbago - the original intent is to yank it all out, roots and all. We thought it was dead! Turns out there's new stuff growing just under the surface. So I cut and the two of us start stuffing the old dead stuff into a trash can.
And what a change. This girl is 100% sweetness and light. She cycles phrases like a pull-string toy from the 50's.
"I really love you guys!" "I'm so glad I'm going to stay here!" "I would have missed you guys so much if I left!" "I really love helping you, Daddy!" "This is so much fun!"
Seriously, I was turning diabetic from all the sweetness.
But it all worked out in the end. The rest of the evening went much better, she was good at church for Grandma, and now she knows to be careful what she wishes for.
Because she just might get it!
