My very first memory is being four. I was shy and timid. I remember being at preschool and it was Dad’s day. I was sitting playing playdough and my Dad walked in. You know that overwhelming sense of pride you used to get when your parents would be at your school to see what you did. I remember that. I felt that. I had my hair out, super long {almost down to my bottom because my Dad never wanted me to have it cut, despite my desperate pleas for a bob}, with a big pink headband on. I was a good kid. If you asked my Mum she’d tell you I was a dream. Painfully shy, but well behaved. That was me at four.
And then there’s Lacey. She’s confident and sassy. She’s loud and outgoing. Her favourite things to do are dance, sing, perform, dress-up, talk to people and do laps around our block.
When meeting new people in our town, I’ll introduce myself, “I’m Chantelle, and this is my husband Shane…” Before I can even introduce her, she pipes up, “…and I’m Lacey.” At that age I would have been hiding behind my Mum’s legs.
Living in a small town now, I love that everyone talks to everyone. We’re all part of a community, and we help each other out, or at least take time to say hello and ask how each other is doing. On Sunday I stopped at my local store/newsagent to grab the papers. Lacey spotted a paint set that she had to have, even though she had an almost identical one back at home.
“Put that back, you’re not having it,” I said in my determined mama voice.
“Yes I am,” she said in her determined 4 year-old voice back at me.
This went on for about 30 seconds. The locals also grabbing their papers, looked on sympathetically. I made my way to pay for my papers, and she held onto the paint set with a tight grip. I had a plan: pay for my papers, take the paint set back, grab her and RUN.
A female customer at the counter before me, gestured my way, “Serve her first. She’s got a battle on her hands.”
Dallas, the newsagent, looked down at Lacey and said, “You can’t have that today.”
Lacey didn’t care. Not even a strange man telling her what to do could deter her determination. So I paid for the papers, grabbed the paint set, and returned it to the display. Lacey threw herself on the ground screaming. I scooped her wriggling body up in my arms, and we left the shop. It took about 13 minutes and she had finally forgotten the paint set.
This is nothing new to me. I’ve calculated that 20% of my day is spent fighting these sort of battles. Sometimes they’re in public, but most of the time they’re at home and over menial things like baths, getting dressed, eating dinner and not killing the puppy. One hundred percent of the time I feel like I’m on an island, parenting alone with a child who is 4 but thinks she’s 14. On Facebook last week a friend posed a question about her own 4 year-old and how hard things are parenting a child of that age.
I rejoiced. I got a little teary. My favourite quote popped in my head, “What you too? Thought I was the only one!”
Yesterday I went back to the newsagent, alone. Another older lady was there, as was Dallas behind the counter. “Did she survive without the paint set?”
I nodded. “I almost came back and got it for her, because I just couldn’t face the tantrum,” I confessed.
“Never give in,” Dallas advised me.
The old lady asked, “How old is your daughter?”
When I told her, she sighed, “Oh the same as my granddaughter. She’s just like that.” She went on to tell me about her little Sam and the trouble she gets up to. She was an exact replica of Lacey. They were made from the same mould, it seems.
I find great comfort in knowing that others are going through the same thing as me. To feel like I’m not alone. While the 20% of my days make me want to pour a wine and a bath, and disappear behind locked doors, there’s always the 80%. The moments when she’ll snuggle up next to me and tell my funny stories, or when she’ll say the cutest things, or draw rainbows and unicorns. And I know that 5 is only months away. I hear that’s a dream. I saw someone write about it on Facebook.
