September, 2011

I Like You—You're A Bad Influence

Even though Suzy frequently told me it was fine to leave Lexi with her while I did errands, I rarely took her up on it. I didn't want to abuse her goodwill plus she was being paid to watch Mother (who, at 103, was getting more difficult to care for), not to be our personal attendant. But once in a while I would avail myself of her assistance.

Bar Harbor has monthly parent meetings. (You collect artwork on a daily basis, though. Boy, it piles up.) While Lexi finished her lunch on the patio, I had a quick confab with her teacher. Net result: Lexi was doing very well with anything in the arts and crafts area. She was quick with her math manipulatives—but still had a problem with raising her hand and waiting her turn to talk. "Of course, that's the number one problem we have with most of the kids," she laughed and I felt 100% better. She was head of the class in reading and part of the "reader bees" group that helped those who were still struggling (though she still liked to have a story read to her at bedtime). "The biggest problem she has is that we often don't understand her."

"Well, her 'l' impediment is getting better, we decided not to go with speech therapy—"

"Oh, no, not that. It's just that your daughter changes languages the way some kids change the rules in hopscotch. Frequently. And without warning."

I sighed. "I'm sorry. We're trying to break her of that. She doesn't know the rules of language for anything she speaks—even English—but she's picked up huge chunks from a couple of friends of ours." Uncle Jethro has a number of words and phrases from several languages, Daddy has the weirdest assortment in his repertoire and Aunt Ziva—well, she's a class unto herself. "The problem is, she'll be happily chatting away in French or German or Hebrew and the sentence runs into a word she doesn't know in that language so she'll stick one in in Italian or Farsi or Pig Latin for all I know."

"We've noticed. The good part is, the other kids are picking it up, too."

I tried not to wince. I had witnessed a major squabble between Ziva and Tony DiNozzo. I hadn't understood a word she said, but Ducky had. And he had been impressed with her creativity.

"Just a couple of reminders. Halloween is coming up—we'll be having a Halloween party and are looking for volunteers to bring treats and help ride herd on the crowd. Other than that, trick or treat candy is not to be brought to school in lunchboxes. Same for Christmas, Valentine's, Easter, whatever."

"I thought the school rules said 'no candy in lunchboxes' period."

"Yes—but it's amazing how parents 'forget' when faced with a four year old screaming over a Snickers bar from a plastic pumpkin."

"True."

I signed up to bring Halloween themed cookies for the party, corralled Lexi and went on our merry way.

First stop: library. Exchange her books, exchange my books, and check out a couple of novels for Victoria.

Second stop: Hancock Fabrics. After a month of dithering, Lexi had settled on being Violet from The Incredibles. Yes! Red leotard and tights would take care of 75% of the costume. The bad news? She wanted me to go along as Helen/Elastigirl. I tried to convince her that Halloween was for children to be dressed up; no soap, thanks to Abby and Ziva dressing up and escorting her last year. Oh, well; even if I have to dress up, I'm still getting off pretty easily, sewing-wise. I probably won't be so lucky next year.

Third stop: the supermarket.

Fourth stop: the booby hatch.

Let me backtrack…

The market wasn't very crowded when we arrived. The morning shoppers were gone, and the let's-stop-on-the-way-home-from-work crowd had yet to leave work. Nice. We whipped through the interior aisles first, then the produce, bakery, frozen, dairy and—oh, damn it, I forgot graham crackers. Aisle 8…

…which also holds the toys.

"Mom! Buy me that!"

I was surprised to say the least. Unpleasantly so. We had reinforced over the years to ask for and get recognition before proceeding with a question—so that you knew you had the person's attention. (This was especially critical with her grandmother.) (We were still working on "don't run up and interrupt a conversation.") No, 'Mom?' followed by 'Yes, dear?'' And then a demand, not a request? This was not normal for my daughter.

On top of that, what she was asking for—a dress up set—she had eight or ten times over at home. And better quality. This kit was plastic, net, a handful of sequins and some glitter. Worth a buck and selling for fifteen. Ignoring the lack of social graces for the moment I said, "No, not today, Lexi."

That surprised her for a second. Then her brows lowered and her mouth set in a hard line. "I want it! Buy it for me! Buy it, buy it—now!"

My jaw actually fell open. Who are you? Where is my child? "Alexandra Mallard," I said sharply. "This is unacceptable. Where—"

"Now-w-w-w!" she howled. Then she screamed, a screech of pure rage, and—holy crap!—threw herself on the floor and began drumming her feet and fists, crying and shrieking the whole time.

By now I was redder than the tomatoes in the top basket. I reached down and grabbed her arm. "Stand. Up. Now," I ordered. She tried to pull away; I caught both arms and forced her to stand up, then leaned down until we were almost nose-to-nose. "This stops now, young lady, or we will leave the store. Immediately."

"I—want—it!"

Fine. You just made your choice. Propelling her along (with several stops along the way to fling herself on the floor again), we made our laborious way to the customer service desk.

It wasn't hard to catch the eye of the manager. "I do apologize," I said in a grim tone. "But would you be so kind as to put my cart in the cold room in back? I'll be back within fifteen or twenty minutes to collect my groceries. It seems my daughter has left her manners at home and needs to go back to be with them."

"Certainly!" He almost literally leaped at the chance. "I'll put your frozen items in a bag in the freezer."

"Thank you. The name is Mallard."

Lexi was stunned by the change of plans. "No! No! I want to go shopping!"

"If you don't use manners when you go out, you don't get to go out," I said firmly, leading/dragging her to the van.

"No! It's not fair!"

"Misbehaving in public is not fair—to everyone else. Misbehaving in public is rude. Tantrums are not acceptable behavior," I managed to get out around wrestling her into her booster seat.

"No-o-o-o-o-o! I'w be good—I'w—" It looked like she was sifting through mental post it notes. "If you buy it, I'w be good!"

I couldn't stop the sarcastic laugh. "Oh, no. Not a chance. That is not how it works, young lady. Blackmail doesn't happen on my watch any more than giving in to a tantrum in the middle of the market will!"

It was an unpleasant ride home.

Mother was delighted to see us. She was understandably upset when I said that, no, Lexi couldn't stay downstairs and play. (I think Mother was being punished more than Lexi was.) "Lexi needs to sit in her room until I come home and think about what just happened." (If I'm lucky, she'll devote two minutes to thinking and the other twenty-eight to reading.) "Sorry," I muttered to Suzy as Lexi stomped up to her room.

"Been there, done that, wrote the book—several times," she said with a rueful laugh. "I'll keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't burn down the house. And keep Victoria distracted while Lexi is in solitary confinement."

"Does this get easier?" I asked hopefully.

"Nope."

"Gee. Thanks."

I ducked back to the store. The manager took me aside and—making me feel much better—thanked me for dealing with the situation as I had. "I can understand that parents sometimes have to bring children along when they shop, but—" The rest was left unsaid. (He didn't have to say anything.) He had tallied the groceries, so it was a matter of slide the card and go back home—bringing a half-dozen roses with me as a thank you.

Lexi was still in her room when I got home and, yes, she had totally forgotten about what had happened. Attention span of a gnat, like most kids her age. I decided to defer the discussion until after dinnertime, when Ducky and I could present a united front. Instead, I said, "Grandma is getting ready for her afternoon walk, are you going with her?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" She literally skipped out of the room in time to her yeses.

I bit my tongue to keep from saying, 'Now, that's the little girl who lives in this house.' No sense in stoking the fire again.

I snagged Ducky when he got home; we had a quick confab in the kitchen and decided the three of us would have a 'discussion' after bath and jammies time.

Suzy had long ago started staying through dinner—one, to help Mother, two, who turns down a free dinner? (Sometimes she even cooked.) She often stuck around for post-dinner games before heading home. So we played a few hands of Crazy Eights; Lexi gave Suzy and Grandma hugs and kisses and I took her upstairs for her bath and let her choose the jammies d'jour (a riot of giant daisies in colors not usually found in nature). Then it was time for… the inquisition.

To make it less threatening, Lexi sat in bed and we each sat beside her—Ducky on the left, I on the right—the way we always do for bedtime story.

Ducky didn't open Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which we in the middle of reading. And he didn't tap dance around the subject. "Mommy told me what happened at the market today." Lexi looked puzzled; she truly had forgotten. "You saw a toy you wanted and you asked Mommy to purchase it." (Demanded, Daddy, if you want to be accurate.) "And when Mommy said no—" Her face was starting to crease. "You had a bit of a temper tantrum." His voice wasn't accusatory—it was matter-of-fact and, actually, quite gentle. "What did you hope to accomplish by that?"

We'd vowed from before she was born that we wouldn't talk down to Lexi—but from her silence I wondered if 'accomplish' wasn't nailed down in the Lexi lexicon. Then she shrugged. "I dunno," she mumbled, staring at the quilt.

"Well, we certainly don't know." He tipped her chin up so she was looking at him. "This is very unlike you, Alexandra. Let's go through this step-by-step. All right. You're at the market and you see this—what was it?" he asked in an undertone.

"Dress up kit," I supplied in a similar tone.

"Dress up kit. What did you think?"

"It's… pretty."

"And you wanted it?"

She nodded.

"And you asked Mommy for it?"

She nodded again.

"Actually—" I was shooting for his tone of voice. "You didn't ask. You demanded."

Ducky gave her a look that was a little shocked, a little disappointed. "Oh, my…"

Lexi shifted uncomfortably.

"And then what happened?" he prompted.

"Mommy said no." She pouted slightly. But she was looking a little guilty, too.

"Now, why… did Mommy say no?"

From her look, she thought I said no to ruin her life. "I dunno."

"Maybe you should ask her."

Reluctantly: "Why did you say no?"

"Well—one, you have a ton of dress up things, including beautiful, old dresses of grandma's, things Aunt Abby's friends have made or given you, plus things we've bought. This wasn't anything special or unique. It was also very poorly made—it would have fallen apart pretty quickly. But even it if had been handmade, perfect, one-of-a-kind—when you ask for something, you ask. You don't say 'get me' or 'give me' or 'buy me.' And you definitely don't say, 'if you buy me this thing, I'll behave.'" (Plenty of time later for her to discover that's the way of politics and law and order.)

"Wherever did you get the idea that throwing a tantrum will convince Mommy—or me—to buy you something?"

She was at war with herself for a minute or two. Finally, reluctantly, she said, "Wewh… Windsay said—"

Ducky and I exchanged a look over her head. 'Lindsay said.' The sage of the age. A spoiled brat, a bit of a bully, but able to get the kids to follow her lead just by crooking her finger.

"And because this 'always works' for Lindsay, you thought you'd give it a try," Ducky supplied when she finished her stop and start tale of Lindsay and—you have got to be kidding me!—her new cell phone. (Who in their right minds buys a three—pardon me, four-year-old a cell phone? Strike that. Lindsay's parents were in the middle of a loud, messy, expensive divorce. They weren't in their right minds, which is why the school was asking everyone to be understanding about the situation.)

Lexi nodded.

"Sweetie… do you like to play with Lindsay?" I asked. She nodded, but with a bit of a frown. "You've told me that sometimes she can be bossy. Mean. Kind of bratty." Small nod. "And she's not much fun to play with when she does that. Is she?" Headshake. "That's like when we go shopping. It's fun to go shopping with you." (Well, comparatively speaking.) "Like—figuring out which is a better buy." (It will be faster when she gets to multiplication and division.) "Or when we buy a roast, playing the what-comes-next-leftover game."

She nodded, smiling widely. "Pot roast. Then hot sammies. Then beef stew. Then pot pie!"

"Excellent. And finding special treats for Grandma, for her afternoon tea." She grinned and nodded. "But… today wasn't fun when we went shopping. It's like when you and the girls were playing circus and Lindsay came over, started bossing everyone around… and finally nobody wanted to play? That's how I felt when you acted the way you did this afternoon."

She threw her arms around me and burrowed into me. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"That's all I need to hear." I gave her a hard hug—and then another one.

We wriggled around so she was on my lap, leaning against me and I was leaning against Ducky. Mallards nested together, if you'll forgive the pun. "Why is Windsay mean sometimes?"

I sighed and Ducky reached over to stroke her hair. "You know sometimes Lindsay goes home to stay with her father and sometimes she goes home with her mother?" Lexi nodded. "Well… that's because they're getting a divorce." She nodded; with Uncle Jethro in the family, she understands the word 'divorce.' "Well, her parents are fighting. Quite a lot. And that leaves no time or attention for Lindsay. She's found that she can't get attention by being good… so she gets their attention by being bad."

"So… I shouwd tewh her I won't pway with her if she's mean?"

Cut to the chase. Ducky sighed. "Well… that might make her defensive. It might hurt her feelings," he clarified.

"But she hurts my feewings."

"I know, sweetie." I kissed the top of her head. "You remember when we were training Harvey to use his litter box?" She nodded. "When he did what he was supposed to, we praised him and gave him treats. When he didn't, we gave him a little scold. Eventually, he always used the litter pan and we never had to scold him again." She nodded again. "Well… if Lindsay is nice when she asks to play, say yes. Reward her. If she's mean, or bossy, say no. But you can say no politely."

"No, thank you."

"Very good. You can even say, 'no, thank you, maybe later' so she doesn't feel quite so pushed away. Maybe we can train her to be nicer, like we trained Harvey."

"I'w try."

"That's my girl." I gave her a hug. "Time for bedtime story."

As she settled into her bed, she looked serious. "Shouwd I ask Windsay to pway with us?"

"That would be very nice."

"No more tantrums?" Ducky asked as he opened the book.

She nodded. "I promise." She held up her pinky. "Pinky swear."

The three of us hooked pinkies. "Pinky swear," Ducky and I said together.

To make the evening end on a pleasant note he read not one but two chapters. Hugs, kisses and Foot taking his place on the rug next to her bed, and Ducky and I slipped from the room.

"Poor Lexi," I sighed, plopping down on our bed. "I never had to deal with schoolyard bullies at three."

"Poor Lexi," Ducky sighed in agreement. He caught my eye; his gaze was sad and thoughtful. "Poor Lindsay."

Would it be too much to ask if he could buy a remote island and we could run away…?