Ready for the Bad Mama Hall of Fame

Well, I'm not, really, but The Young Man thinks I should be. This morning involved a fair amount of yelling, stomping, screaming, sobbing and carrying on, and not by me. I was duly informed that the police should come and take me away because I would not let my son wear shorts, and then would not let him even bring shorts to change into later in the day after he threw a fit. I informed him that he was free to dial away and report me. (An empty offer, I assume, since he cannot reliably dial a number yet, which as actually decent parents I suppose we should work on with 9, 1, and 1 for emergencies. But I digress.)

I distinctly remember being at a similar impasse with my mother (in my early teens), and it was so disappointing when she handed me the phone. I felt for him, at that moment, but I wasn't interested in participating in the drama. Age 4 seems to be a deeply felt time.

Of course, this really all had to do with moving to a new daycare this morning, and later on, as I drove him to school (after some sniffling and snuggling and making up), he did inform me that, "Mama, it wasn't about the shorts."

Indeed.

All this aside, it is such an unsatisfying position to be put in as a parent, to remove privileges in order to gain compliance. I know many folks do it with nary a qualm, and I do believe that there should be some consequence for rude behavior. But I knew he was scared and concerned about the impending daycare transition, and felt powerless to help him navigate those concerns. I think it was the press of time ... knowing I had to be in for a morning meeting, and not wanting to be late for our first daycare drop off. I probably was carting around my own anxiety about the change. I was loving and firm, but still drained afterwards.

Tonight, he gets to wear shorts.