Couldn’t help by repost this blog from our archives. it’s from 2 years ago but am going through a similar thing with my youngest daughter. Different situation but same outcome. Maybe it’s just an age thing?

 

My kids are still little.

   The oldest will be starting school in the fall and the youngest isn’t long out of diapers.  Neither of them are great sleepers. They have no volume control. They are beyond picky with their clothes. They are the slowest when we’re in a hurry and tend to scream their way through getting their hair washed. 

The little things that push our parenting buttons every day; they are different for everyone and somehow we all find ways to manage through them.  Making our own “manual” as we go, I suppose.  We play musical beds during the night and always have lots of extra facecloths to keep the water out of their eyes.  We find ways that work.  We manage.  I even thought we were getting good at it.

That was, until a few weeks ago.  Right out of left field, I was hit.  Knocked flat on my back, as if I had slipped on a banana peel that was strategically placed on a piece of oil stained black ice.  I couldn’t get my 4 year old to change her mind and it near beat me.

She’s not a shy child, but is definitely apprehensive when it comes to trying new things.  Moving rooms at the daycare has always been a challenge. She silently watched her first few dance classes before joining in the fun. And she’s typically just getting into the groove by the time any birthday party is over. 

So you can imagine our delight at the first soccer game of the season when she was one of the first kids on the field, kicking the ball around and squealing with glee.  My husband and I sat on the sidelines with shock, awe and a whole bunch of pride. Maybe she was turning a corner?  Not let her nerves get the best of her.  Embracing life. 

She loved soccer and life was good. Until we hit the third week.  Practice had started and warm-up was underway.  Then it happened. The kids were in a huddle discussing the next drill when the gas bubbles inside my daughter’s tiny body decided to surface.  Yes folks, she tooted…fluffed…farted, whatever you might call it, she had one for all to hear. Especially the boys, who clearly thought it was hysterical.

 

 

Then, just like that – marching off the field as fast as she marched onto it, only this time with tears in her eyes, soccer was over.  Done. No more.  And so too was our parental winning streak.   

While I hope it won’t become a defining moment in her life, it’s definitely been one in mine.   I’ve tried everything short of brute force to get her to go back.  Bribery, reverse psychology and borderline threats – but nothing has worked. She’s done.  Standing her ground. Not buying anything we’re selling.

I’ve since stopped pushing and left it alone.  She’s not going back and I’m ok with that. I understand. But as silly as it may sound, it was by far one of the hardest moments for me as a parent.  Not simply because I couldn’t find a way to manage through that one small incident but more so the fear of the bigger ones to come in her life.  

If I couldn’t help her shake this off, how will I help her to bounce back from other embarrassment when she’s older? If she doesn’t believe me when I tell her that everyone has gas and that boys actually think it’s cool, how will she believe me when I tell her that her first broken heart will heal?  If I couldn’t get her to be brave and go back out there with her head held high, how will I help her stand up to a bully in junior high?

It’s wild how one small incident can set a mother off on a spree of horrific thoughts. I guess that’s what I get for being a little cocky about coordinating the perfect daycare outfit three mornings in a row!