I called my mother last night and related to her our troubles with getting my youngest daughter, 23 months old, to obey my husband and me. See, my daughter is clever, and quite cunning, really. She knows what she’s doing; she’s advanced for her age in learning vocabulary, speaking clearly, counting, and grasping concepts such as sharing and general logic follow through. Having done it with her and her younger brother, but not with her two older half siblings (and, therefore, observing the difference), I can say that I recommend that Mozart in the womb thing. Anywho… the girl’s smart.

 

She is also very, very stubborn.

 

In way of example, I shared with my mother a recent incident in which my precious baby-girl adamantly and continually refused to pick up the building blocks she had strewn all over the floor (the result of which was that her baby brother was no longer able to crawl anywhere without stumbling over a brightly painted piece of wood), and my frustration over how nothing I did or didn’t do, in way of discipline (taking away her other toys and privileges, like the TV, etc.), did anything to sway her to put them away again after she had finished playing with them. When I finally lost my cool and yelled at her to PICK UP HER BLOCKS!!!, she threw a tantrum and told me she wanted to go to bed. It was her naptime, so I told her that, yes, she could have a nap, but when she woke up she would have to, you know, pick up her blocks – by this time I was sounding like a broken record. I took her to bed.  I put her brother down for his nap (which he took, wonder of wonders), and I got some rare sleep myself. When she woke up, I went and got her out of her room and asked her if she remembered what she needed to do. She said, very clearly and sweetly, “pick up my blocks”. I thought maybe we had made some headway. I carried her down the stairs, set her down on the floor and waited for her to put the blocks away. While I watched her she put two of them in their bucket and then proceeded to do something else and ignore my persistent attempts at trying to get her to pick up the – now – extremely irritating objects; I couldn’t walk for stepping on one and hurting my feet, and I had no place to put her brother down for him to play; my arms were getting tired from holding him and if I put him on the sofa he rolled or crawled off, thereby hurting himself. I couldn’t pick the things up myself, out of principle; it would set a “giving in” precedent were I to do that. But, as I say, nothing I did or didn’t do, in way of punishment, had any effect on her.

 

It was, however, having an effect on me. I called Jamie crying, sobbing about what a crap mum I am, feeling useless and ineffective and inadequate as a parent. I was at a loss. He told me he would handle it when he got home, and while there was relief in that, it just reinforced my feelings of failure and my frustration at myself.

 

Jamie did come home and “dealt with it”, as best he could, which amounted to – when she still would not relent and comply with our request – a spank on the bottom and making her stay in her room, while we, of course, had to pick up the blocks.

 

We discussed the episode with Jamie’s mum, who raised five kids of her own (most of them turning out relatively okay) and who spends a lot of time with my daughter now, and she – being all grandmotherly soft on the issue of her youngest granddaughter said, “It’s just a phase. Don’t be too hard on her. She’s just a baby.” But, I had my doubts. That just sounded too easy to me.

 

I told all this to my mother, and she listened with interest. And, then she said in a cheery but matter of fact tone, “I don’t know what the answer is. You did the same thing and, as far I know, you never grew out of it.”

 

Yep. That’s why I had had those niggling doubts in regard to the nice “just a phase” theory.

 

I laughed, both amused and chagrined, and replied, “I have yet to pick up my blocks.” It was a statement – a certainty – not a question, but my mother responded, “Yes, exactly.”

 

So, I still don’t know what to do about getting my toddler to do as she’s told…but, I think we all know, that isn’t really the point of this little narrative, is it?

 

 “I shall not be, I shall not be moved”. That’s time-tested obstinacy, that is. I have to conclude that anyone who would set his or her will against mine has to be a bit of a glutton for punishment. Because, after 34 years, I doubt I’m going to start putting away all my bright, hard, colourful…blocks. No, I’m going to leave them right where they are for you to stumble over.