Yesterday, I experienced a 9-year-old meltdown of epic proportions.
Well, actually the ones we all experienced when she was 7 were probably much more noteworthy, though stashed into my “let’s forget that ever happened” mental folder that I tucked between my own dusty mental folders containing grade school spelling and elementary history. Interestingly enough, it seems I need those other two folders to navigate my children’s homework, not to mention their literary interests.
Funny how all things old become new again.
It’s been awhile since my daughter has carried on (and on and on) with tears and sobbing that could bring U.S. Army drill sergeants to their knees. The first few times we encountered these severe emotional outbursts, we were angry with her. And we were determined -- like the good parents we were trained to be -- to outlast her. Put our collective foot down and not give in to her whims or acknowledge that her behavior was even remotely acceptable. Besides, how could anyone in their right mind be so upset?
Turns out, those two words – “right mind” – might have been a key indicator. Several early fits, including one that still strikes guilt into my heart for my unrelenting stubbornness after a full hour of her crying, were indicative of the side effects of her new ADHD medication. Would have been nice if we’d been warned by the doctor so I wouldn’t still be reeling from the side effects of my who-will-outlast-who showdown with Abby over God knows what? The details escape me now. Needless to say, when we realized it was a medication thing, we got very forgiving real fast. We aren't monsters, you know!
Sometimes when you have a very strong-willed and emotionally-driven child who also happens to have ADHD, the line between what she can control and what she cannot becomes very gray and blurry. So, we’ve made mistakes – hope she’ll forgive us – and applied what we learned as we move forward.
I guess that’s why I am proud of how I responded yesterday. If I had condemned her for her behavior, as many parents would, this breakdown could have lasted indefinitely. I tried a more gentle approach. In a way because I thought – I really, deep-down believed – that surely this wasn’t really over a shirt.
Let me pause here. Because if you don’t know it, my Abby has a thing with clothes. Or, ahem, we have a thing with clothes. What we go rounds about most often is her wardrobe – the fact that she never puts things in the laundry, that she wears dirty clothes, that she wears torn clothes, that she wears the same clothes over and over, that she rips and destroys her clothes, that she won’t even try on half of the beautiful clothes in her closet. You see, I admit, the issue here is my issue. She could care less, and maybe I should be more like her, but I believe in standards – like socks that don’t stink or have holes in the toes. Is that so much to ask? I mean, I’m open and forgiving about the way in which she wears her clothes, despite not understanding it for the life of me.
OK. I feel better. So what happened is this. She and I were painting in my studio with a high school friend of ours. We decided to take a break and go on a hike. Abby wanted to surprise me by wearing jeans and a new sweatshirt I bought her for Christmas (that she pointed out on a rack one day and still hadn’t worn some 13 days after she opened it despite wearing dirty shirts from her summer wardrobe more than once). OK, so I helped her pull her socks over the pants, so I knew my non-jeans loving daughter was actually and truly wearing jeans.
Her brother walked in on her changing her shirt. Word on the street was she kicked him until he left her alone. Moments later, we were preparing to leave, and she wasn’t anywhere to be found.
I called her name. I searched. Finally, I checked the studio. She was bawling in the dressing room and screaming at me not to look at her with the type of desperation in her voice that I attributed to her having done something terrible – ruined a $500 muslin with her paint? Cut her hair? Cut her clothing? Got paint in her hair?
Somehow her brother, and then me, unearthed this surprise of her wearing this specific outfit for a hike. From there, she managed to run to the bathroom and lock the door, screaming and crying about how everything was ruined. And then oddly, if she could just find her brush, life would be good again. Can I say, WTH?
Dan attempted to gently talk her into opening the door. I really liked his approach. He told her that we couldn’t help her find her brush if she didn’t let us in, and that if she didn’t open the door, he would just get the key. He reminded her several times that we could get in anytime we wanted but that what he really wanted was for her to open the door for us. I like that he was respecting her right to be upset and her right to privacy and to be the one in control. Ultimately though, he had to open the door with the key. Luckily, it didn’t unleash more demons. Sometimes you never know!
In the end, we found the brush. She surprised me with the shirt. I fixed her hair in an all-new do that was a stretch for this mom that can barely do a simple braid (Thanks American Girl for the step-by-step directions and detailed photo!). We hugged, kissed away tears, snuggled and exchanged several “I love you’s.” And I really, really meant it. In this moment of pure vulnerability, I so loved this complicated daughter of mine. (It was like my heart grew three times that day because I saw this stubborn little back-talking creature's potential to just be authentic -- in the good and the bad. I feel privileged to be her mother, and I mean that. Because I'm so full of pride, I don't like to let anyone, especially my mom, see the true side of me! It could be really, really ugly, and that's not how I was raised!)
What I hope Abby got out of it was this: 1. We may not always understand her, but we’ll always love her and embrace her even in her worst moments. 2. Our home is a safe place for her to express her emotions. And 3. We all have bad days, and it’s important to find a healthy outlet, get it out and come back into our arms. Because I know my heavenly Father would do 1-3 for me, and in fact, he does -- over and over again.
What I hope I got out of it was this: 1. I don't have to totally understand my daughter, but I can still love her even in her worst moments. 2. It’s my job to make our home and my embrace a safe place for her to express her emotions. 3. We can work through her emotions together in a healthy way, and I should be able to hug her wholeheartedly every time even if I don't like what I just saw.
I know with her temperament and her disorder, we are going to have these days. Especially in the hormonally-charged teen-age years. I am scared to death, but I hope it’s in these baby-step crisis moments that I find the tools and the patience to be the best mom I can for my daughter because I do believe in all my heart that God gave her to me for a reason. We were designed for one another, and I am capable of being her best mom. I just need to believe it – sometimes that will take daily affirmations!
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