“Good morning!” I sing as I open the door to the nursery, which is in dire need of being transformed into a Big Girl room. But she’s still so little. A while longer as my baby won’t hurt anyone.
“Morning mommy. I didn’t peed!” She’s so proud of herself when she doesn’t soak the bed. She’s still in Pull Ups over night, but as often as she goes the night without peeing, she fills them to overflowing.
“Good girl! We still need to get dressed today.”
“Yes. We wear clothes during the day and save your footie pajamas for night time. You don’t want to wear them out, do you?”
“No.” The tears have begun.
“Then let’s get dressed.”
“No. Jammies.” Now tears and sobs.
“Jammies.” Tears, sobs, and wails. Her pajamas are her most valued possession. While potty training, we used her jammies as a reward. She could wear them during the day as long as she didn’t pee in her underwear. She kept her underwear dry from day one because she didn’t want to get her precious jammies wet.
THIS WAS A TERRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD IDEA. Sure, it helped us train her instantly, but it’s ruined her. She now wants to wear them all day, every day, long after potty training is over. Violently wants to wear them all day, every day.
She’s scowling at me now. Giving me her “angry face”, as she calls it.
It’s at this point that I know this isn’t going to be easy. See, I’m raising two very independent, stubborn, bull-headed girls. Very. They’re going to be forces to reckon with when they get older. So I lift her out of her crib and set her on the floor.
“Let’s get your underwear on.”
“Avery Quinn. We’re getting you dressed.”
I lay her on the floor. She flops over. I flip her onto her back. She violently flops over. By now the volume of the screeching coming from her foaming face hole has hit about 11.
Now, here’s where my martial arts training* comes in handy. I lay her out in a crucifix, with her legs between mine, my legs pinning her arms to the ground, gently but firmly. I am lucky that I’m not a guy because her kicking legs narrowly miss the spot where valuable junk would be. I can get her pajamas off this way, but getting the clothes on will prove more difficult.
“Avery, calm down. I’m just getting you dressed.”
“Avery! Calm your nerves!”
::kick, kick, kick::
“AVERY QUINN, SANTA’S WATCHING YOU.”
Nothing! Can you believe it? I threaten SANTA and she DIDN’T stop dead in pure terror! Clearly this is a classic case of demon possession.
Again, I utilize my MMA skills* and get her into side control. One leg over her torso, preventing her from turning, one leg under her legs to give me access so I can put on her pants and socks. ::kick, kick, kick::
50% success! Now for the top half. I sit her up, put one of my legs over her legs, the other behind her back and cross them around her. This props her upright and prevents her from standing up. Shirt’s on.
I stand her up.
“Now, freakazoid, was that so bad?”
The tears have stopped. The room is silent. She collapses into my arms in an exhausted, defeated, pile of snuggles.
“I sorry, mommy.”
It’s ok. It’s always ok. She’s my baby, possessed by the devil or not.
* Yeah, I have no martial arts training. I watch MMA, which is all the training you need when battling a 2 year old ball of anger.