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Larkin

Posted January 7, 2009

By Christmas we'd had every kind of weather here: two walloping snowstorms; a balmy 60-degree day of respite; a drenching rain; then deep freeze again. Icicles hung from our roof, giant stalactites that let loose in thundering avalanches, waking us in the night with a sense of dread.

That's not all that woke us in the night. Three nights running, circa 2 a.m., Molly and I sat bolt upright in bed as Larkin shouted hysterical complaints from her room. "My pillow is upside-down!" "I want water!" "My blanket is off of me!" One or the other of us would go in, only to find ourselves caught in a whirlwind of rage. And this wasn't just a moonlight tantrum. In recent weeks, life with Larkin has grown full of confrontation -- our days spent locked in battles over food, over clothing, over anything and everything. Molly and I ask ourselves, Who abducted our sweet-tempered daughter and installed in her place a warrior, raring for battle?

Toddler madness is a series of whimsical preferences pursued with fanatical intensity. You stand there, stupefied, as your child goes nuts over the tiniest thing. At Panera the other day I bought a bear claw to share with Larkin, and she cooed with pleasure -- until I made the earth shattering mistake of cutting the pastry in half. "Nooooo!!!" she shrieked. "I don't want it in half! Don't cut it! Don't!" She fell to the floor, writhing and shrieking as if I'd bullwhipped her.

This behavior is amazingly draining for all three of us. Every step Molly and I take to defuse conflict these days just seems to lead to more. Escaping the house, we take Larkin out to the children's room at the library. It's her favorite place in the world; but eventually the outing has to end, and that means another pitched battle. Back home, we read her the new books she got for Christmas. Fine -- until we refuse to read them a third or fourth time, and here comes that epileptic rage again. And when she's not yelling, she's busy dishing out brisk commands ("You go over there, Mommy, and Daddy, you stay here!"). Or just being defiant. At breakfast she demands a sip of my orange juice. Can you say please? I ask. "I don't like that word!" she says. "I don't want to say that word anymore." And she smacks the table with her palm and stares at me.

This girl, says Molly, has a will of steel.

A will of steel. It's true. I recall the time, a year ago, when Larkin fell headlong in a store and smacked her head on a shelf. The impact was bad enough to leave a big welt and a bruise that lasted for days. But she didn't cry, not even a peep. When I rushed over to comfort her, she pushed my hand away with a look of silent fury. She just wouldn't give in to pain.

For the most part Larkin's a sweetheart, generous with other kids, affectionate with us; a little girl who can tenderly cradle your face in her hands and tell you, I want to keep you forever! But beneath her genial exterior lies a deep stubbornness. At 3 a toddler's personality really begins to emerge, and the personality emerging in Larkin is one of steely stoicism, emotional perceptiveness, moodiness, and an implacable desire to do things her own way. She smiles a lot, but she's stubborn as all hell.

She's actually my mother, in other words -- but that's another story.

More immediate for Molly and me are the tactical challenges of coping with her forceful will without going crazy. Which is why the day after Christmas found us at Barnes and Noble, buying a book called Raising Your Spirited Child, by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka, a parenting educator who runs a series of "Spirited Child and Power Struggles Workshops." Molly's been reading the book, and she keeps tapping the pages and saying, That's Larkin! Kurcinka describes the spirited child (read: strong-willed) as intense, persistent, sensitive, stubborn, and resistant to change. The child whose mood in the morning lets you know right away that this will be either a great day or a horrible one. Well, that's Larkin all right.

I'll read the book and be grateful for any help we can glean. Meanwhile, I'll try not to dismiss Larkin's toddler caprices as a form of demonic possession. It's a challenge, trying to get inside a toddler's mind. Their world is so small, tiny things can loom large. Like that bear claw NOT being cut in half. There's a fixation on experience being experienced a certain way and not another way. To Larkin, my cutting the bear claw might seem scary or weird or just plain wrong. Or - who knows? - maybe she was thinking about one of her teddy bears.

So, as is usually the case, being a halfway decent parent will require some imagination. And patience. This wild phase in Larkin's development will pass, just like that changeable New England weather. (A friend of Molly's says she's glad she had her two children right in a row, because "if I'd waited until the first one was 3, I'd never have had a second.") In the long run, we'll appreciate having raised a person of resolve. For now, though, it's going to take superhero energies to go toe-to-toe every day with the girl of steel.