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.

And an angel she was. I was just as enamored with my little girl as any doting mother. For the first 18 months of her life I trumpeted every milestone, cheering her on as she learned her way, marveling at her easy disposition. What pure joy she had brought to our lives. I became much more certain of myself every day, and felt like I was beginning to find a strengthened comfort zone in my role as Mommy.

That was until she learned that vile two letter word that has been battered against my bruised and twitching brain for the better half of the last two years…”no”.

NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!!!!

“No” evolved into 3 and then 5 word sentences…

No, it isn’t.
No, I’m not.
No, I won’t.
No, I don’t want to!

Accompanying the elevated level of sentence structure are the acts of kicking, screaming, the pounding of fists, and general flailing around on the ground like a fish out of water.

What??? Where did this come from? When, oh my god when, does it end? I can remember hearing about the terrible two’s, and thinking, “How hard can it really be?” It would appear I never had a full grasp of the scope of what was to come. In fact, it was not until she turned 2 that fellow parents began saying to me, “Oh, wait until she turns 3…that’s much worse.” There is no way in one blog session that I can even come close to properly explaining just how very worse it got; how something as mundane as the request “please put your sneakers on” can at times set off a fire breathing, house shaking, Exorcist head spinning kind of reaction out of a 3 year old little girl. It is simply mind blowing.

More than any aspect of the challenge that is early childhood development, the stress this behavior assails on my body and my psyche is what leads me to sometimes barricade myself away from my daughter into our bathroom (while she continues to scream bloody hell in the hallway). During those few solitary moments I take in an effort to calm down, I could be found looking myself in the mirror, straight in the eyes, and thinking in total clarity and stinging tears, “I CANNOT DO THIS.” It is very unsettling to admit; a realization that is fraught with failure.

I do not regret our decision, but I am none the less reminded that this is territory I fretted over before we even conceived our first child. I decided I wanted to be a mother. I concerned myself over whether or not I’d be a good one. I worried that I’m not the type of person that has the patience to make that a reality. I decided it would take time, effort, and love. I decided I would make it work. After I revisit this thought process during a brief counting session (I would never have believed counting actually works) and take several deep breaths, I find the will to face my way back to my 33 pound bundle of wrath.

I just struggle so much with this end of the spectrum. When she’s feeling agreeable, we’re great! When she’s not getting her way, you can actually feel the air start to turn. I keep waiting for my daughter’s horrible 3’s to peak, to reach a point where I can say, “It’s getting better. We’re getting better.” We’re not there yet, and so I remind myself that this is the solidification of an independent soul; she’s going to be strong willed, opinionated, confident. Still, as my son is about to reach the 18 month marker, I cringe that it’s about to start all over again. When I think of this during one of my daughter’s more tempestuous moments, I want to find a deep dark hole in which to hide.

Please, tell me I’m not alone in these moments.