The crux of my matter: my three year old daughter. Wow, I need help. I am clinging by dirty and ragged fingernails to the last of my already splintered sanity. I would measure that approximately 80 percent of my child’s waking hours spent with me this past week have been immersed in preschool tantrums. We are at war, and I’m just trying to understand why.

It all started on Saturday morning. Both of my children appeared to be in fairly pleasant moods, happy to have the day at home to play. I walked around my house, surveyed the usual scattering of toys, and decided it was time to take action.

I alerted my little darlings that before they headed outdoors to enjoy the beautiful weather we had some cleaning up to do. My 21 month old son, who is only aiming to please these days, walked about singing a Clean Up song; picking up toys and placing them in bins. My daughter was none too happy with her present predicament and conducted an immediate sit-in. She plopped herself in the middle of her playroom and uttered various cries of protest.

“I wanna go outside! I don’t want to clean! I wanna watch TV! ”

I made my way through all attempts at reason. I tried giving her small tasks of the ‘please pick up that block and put it there’ variety. I calmly explained to her that with just a little bit of helping Mommy she’d have the rest of the morning to play. No dice.

My next move set into motion a fury that brought preschool angst to a whole new level. My son went out to play; my daughter remained inside. She wailed, kicked, punched, rolled about on the floor, banged on windows, swung at me, and flailed in such a way that I was just short of considering demon possession.

Tantrums for us are not new territory. I’ve listened to the behavioral therapists that attend my parent group meetings. I’ve tried all of their tricks of the trade. I remained calm. I did not yell. I stated plainly that she would be able to go outside to play as soon as she calmed down and helped me pick up a few toys. Then I went about my business and let her scream it out. Scream it out is exactly what she did for well over an hour.

This process continued. After nap that afternoon she again refused to help, which was killing me because it was such a beautiful day outside. I wanted to enjoy this time with my family, but I also couldn’t back down. I felt it was crucial to stick to what I had started. The tantrums continued. That night, after being confined all day I had a discussion with her, stating that I really hoped she would decide to help out tomorrow so that we could go outside and play. Her answer to me, “I didn’t want to go outside, so I didn’t clean.”

????

!!!!!

Seriously people? I felt like Mommy Dearest engaged in a battle to the end with her kid over a plate of rare meat.

The next morning brought more tantrums but I continued to stand my ground. Then all of the sudden she woke from her afternoon nap and picked up the toys that had been awaiting her attention for the past 30 hours. She was rewarded with praise and time outdoors. I thought we were in the clear, but that night and the days that followed only brought more screaming and crying about oh, you name it. The task of washing hands after going potty or getting ready for bed could easily set her off.

I confess that by Wednesday I pretty much lost it. My composure went out the window. After another hour of tantrums before bedtime (a portion of which was outside for my neighbors’ enjoyment) and my constant pleas to understand what in the name of all that is holy was wrong with her, I started screaming. It offered no help except to give me the emotional release that was required to get through it. At a loss, I picked her up, plopped her on her bed, and left my screaming demon spawn in her bedroom. I shut the door behind, sat in the stairwell, and drowned out her wailing with my own sobs as I cried my bloody eyes out. My husband came to my rescue and the change of guard seemed to help her, but not me.

I’ve been telling myself for months that she’s just three, that this will pass, and that she will settle eventually. Well, she’s almost four and it’s getting worse, by far not better. Her constant will is bearing down on me; a weight on my shoulders, resentment is brewing. I’m reaching the point where I can’t ignore that there’s something else wrong here. I’m searching for what it is that I am doing to precipitate this, and coming up empty.

For several more days the pattern continued. Then out of the blue this morning she got up, got dressed, was happy, did what she was asked to get ready for the day ahead, and had a very good morning. Are we out of the abyss? I’m not holding my breath on that one. I don’t know what to do, but things need to change. It’s not fair for my baby boy to be exposed to this mayhem. It’s not fair, all this stress that it’s causing me and my husband. It’s not fair, this sad little girl that I just want to be well adjusted and happy.

We can’t live like this. So tell me, is this normal? It sure doesn’t feel like it.

Help me Oh Internet, you’re my only hope.

I was a little concerned with how the morning would go, because I still had to get both kids out the door, and we needed to leave even earlier than the average work day. We got through it, but not without sacrifice (so much for taking a shower). The promise of going to Nana’s for the day was enough to persuade Sofia into a fresh set of clothing, with only a few reminders required to get her teeth brushed and hair combed into a pony tail. The great thing about going to Nana’s house is I don’t even need to feed the kids breakfast first. Eldest dressed and hygiene taken care of, baby changed and into something warmer (damn it was colder this morning), bottles…bottled, and we were on our way! Oh yeah. Kind of important, while I was doing this Tony was packing the clubs in the van. Drop the kids off, hit the road, and I start to ask my normal post-take-off questions that my husband just LOVES to hear. You know, the kind that do us absolutely no good considering we’re already on the way:

Did you put jar food in Dominic’s bag?
Do you have your phone?
Do you have money?
Did you make sure my shoes are in the van?

Tony utters a small expletive and slams on the breaks. Yes, he had remembered to check for my golf shoes. He had not remembered to transfer his shoes from his car to mine. Back to the house, grab the shoes, then back on the road again. We’re still surprisingly doing OK on time, so we pit stop off the highway to the Dunkin’ Donuts in Pawtucket. I’m trying to be good and stick to my diet, so I ask for a medium iced coffee, skim milk, three splenda and a wheat bagel, as is. Instead I get a wheat bagel toasted (with nothing on it….mmmm dry bagel, very appetizing), and even though Tony argues with me that it’s fine, an iced coffee with either NOT skim milk, or too much skim milk because it was a very cream looking drink. As I start to complain about these things Tony pulls away and it’s far too late when I realize that the Be-otch also didn’t give me a straw. DAMN!!! How hard is it to complete an order of two drinks and a bagel, that if she had done right she only needed to bag???

As I’m pouting and bitching about my bagel, Tony realizes that he went the wrong way to the course because he forgot the exit that used to be there off of Rte 10 no longer exists. One of the many great perks of the Ocean State. The next exit and several turns later, we’re in a not so great area of North Providence with no bearings on where we are or how to get to the course. NOW we’re going to be late. Eventually find our way back to the highway, turn around because we were going the wrong way on the highway, and we’re back on track. Only 5 minutes past the tee time. We have just enough time to go to the club house to grab a straw and we’re on the tee (thank you to Erin and Smitty for getting our green fees covered and cart ready to go). By this point stress levels are a cranking. It’s 9:15, and I’m already wanting beer.

I don’t get beer until 11:30, by which point I have remembered just how much having children has completely ruined my skills. I used to golf every week. I used to be half way decent. I now suck. The problem is, I forget that I now suck, so when I exhibit said suckage, it is always some how of great surprise to me. I end up aggravated and flustered, slamming my clubs, and wondering why I am even bothering. This is the same person that was talking all week about how much I was looking forward to this self torture. WTF was I thinking?

I did eventually settle down and laugh at myself (thank you sweet nectar). What was a rainy morning turned into a pretty nice day. I took some time to enjoy the sights of nature. Two enormous hawks got their asses kicked by tiny birds with balls the size of coconuts and unwavering focus to save their young. Some very loud bull frogs called out to each other…although that may have been to bitch about the ball I had just sent flying into their pond. And the soft breeze and sway of the trees reminded me of just how much I love to be out there. Even with my way too many swings to get that little white ball into all 18 of those incredibly small holes. I wonder how many tee times I can get my mom to baby sit during when we go to Myrtle next month.