For me, motherhood seems to be this endless inner-battle between two dueling desires. The first one wants my child to be loving, caring, and obedient to authority figures (OK, really at least me would be nice). She fights against the second me. The one who wants to raise a strong and independent thinker who will be successful in life and not easily taken advantage of. How do I reconcile the dichotomy?
More mornings than I can count have looked eerily similar to this one. We’re getting ready to go somewhere, and my four-year-old dawdles, resists, and questions my every request.
“Zachary, put your trains away.” I say for the third time down the stairs to him as I shovel another mouthful of mango mush into his sister’s mouth.
“Why?” He utters; his go-to response to everything.
“Because it’s time to get ready to go to grandma’s.”
“Why?”
“She’s having dinner for us for your birthday.” Using the word birthday in this sentence, to him, must have sounded something like “because blah blah blah blah blah blah blah birthday [CAKE!!]” because I can hear him begin to throw his toys in the bucket at speeds that would rival anything the US Air Force has been training their fighter pilots to withstand.
A few minutes later, he’s shuffling up the stairs twisting the sleeve of the pajama shirt he just took off into a rope. Yes, it’s 2pm and he’s still in his pajamas. So was I until half an hour ago. This is a judgment-free zone. Now he’s bare chested, and only has one sock on. A feeble attempt at the request I’d just made to “Go get dressed.” I repeat it again.
Before he turns to walk upstairs, he asks “Why?”
“Because you can’t go to grandma’s house in your pajamas.”
“Why?”
“Zachary, you slept in them and they are smelly.” He laughs, brings his shirt to his face, feigns disgust, laughs again, and bounces up the stairs. I can only hope he’s getting dressed. Oh, the dresser drawer just slammed. I assume that means we’re making progress. A few minutes pass and I go in to check on him. We’re down to yesterday’s underwear and there are pajamas mostly in the direction of the hamper. He’s wrangling his greatest nemesis, the sock. Better than I expected. “Good job, kiddo. Keep going.” I walk past his room and in to change the baby’s diaper. Great. No more diapers. “Zachary? Can you come in here and reach mom the new box of diapers?”
“Why?”
“Because I am changing Jillian and I don’t want her to fall.” He bounces in and hands me the new diaper box. As I struggle to open it one-handed, I glance over at the miniature version of my husband standing in the closet doorway. I think to myself “he got those shorts on awfully quick…” so I ask him “did you change your underwear?”
“I took the old ones off….” as he reaches around the corner, grabs the new pair, then puts a foot in the leg hole.
“What are you doing? Underwear go on first.” I’ve played this game long enough to know what question is coming next, so I preempt him with “That’s why they’re called UNDERwear. That way you don’t get skid marks on your pair of shorts.” He furrows his eyebrows at me, but takes off his shorts. You know that ominous silent pause in movies right before the flaky chick screams? That’s what I’m feeling. That. Was. Too. Easy.
“Momma?”
Crap. I knew it. “What, kiddo?”
“Why’s it called a pair of shorts when there’s just one shorts?”
“Well because….” Hmm. Yeah, this’ll be good. Because why? Give it up. He got you. You have no freaking clue. Pair of shoes. Two. Pair of socks. Two. Pair of animals on the ark. Two by two by two. Maybe there was a “pair” of unicorns and that’s why there aren’t anymore. Wiff…. focus! What other single things come in pairs? There’s a pair of scissors. That’s one object, too. Why? Seriously, why haven’t you thought of this before now? He’s 4. You’re 28. You’re telling me that for 28 years, you’ve just ACCEPTED the fact that a pair of pants isn’t called “a pant”? Maybe it’s because there are two legs? No. Shirts have two arms and you definitely put on a shirt, not a pair of shirts. Maybe…. but I don’t have time for the next maybe. The hourglass has run out of sand and I must answer.
“Momma? Because why?”
Here it comes. My least favorite response to his question. “I don’t know, kiddo.”
All day, every day. This is my life. It makes me nuts. At the same time, one of the traits I admire most is that he doesn’t just accept things at face value. Since about two-and-a-half, Zachary’s favorite word has been “why?” (and why’s fraternal twin brother “why not?”). He challenges beliefs that I’ve long held but have no logical basis for holding. This is not the kid who will ever buy anything he doesn’t need from a silver-tongued salesman.
When I tell him to go put shoes on and he comes back with my pink flip flops on his feet, I tell him I meant his shoes. He inevitably asks why. When my question of “What do you want to dip your chicken nuggets in?” is met with an unanticipated answer of frosting, I tell him no. He follows up and asks “why not?” I don’t have a reason, it’s just weird. Maybe my reason is I don’t want to watch you dip chicken nuggets in frosting. Gross. Maybe I don’t want you bouncing off the walls. Yeah, that’s it. You don’t need any more sugar.
I often find myself growling in frustration “Why can’t you just do what I ask without asking questions?” Instead of becoming frustrated, I have to remember to refocus on what I know is the ever-growing mind of my future medical research scientist, Supreme Court Justice, or clinical psychologist. If I squash the why, I squash the thought process that brought on the question with it. He thrives on the big picture. When given a piece of information, he likes to know where it fits in the greater puzzle. This global thinker mentality is a generally desirable trait in the real world. So, I need to fight the urge to beat it out of him. I need to remind myself to tolerate the Why Master rather than change him. And, I need to find a way to change what I say to give him what he needs before he asks (because it’s the question, after all, that makes me crazy.. not the kid). So far, this is what I’ve got:
Choices. It’s a simple concept, really. If I rephrase the way I speak, it shuts down his ability to ask why instantly. If he needs clarification, we go from there. Open-ended questions are brain killers for mom when time’s a-wastin’.
Instead of “What do you want for lunch?” use “Do you want leftover casserole or chicken nuggets for lunch?”
Replace “What do you want to dip them in?” with “Do you want ketchup, honey, or ranch dressing on your nuggets?”
Specificity. Even simple instructions do well with specific options. “Go put shoes on.” leaves room for any kind of shoe. That little lawyer-in-training will find and exploit any loophole I leave him. I can’t be upset if he comes back with my pink flip flops on his feet. However, if I say “Go get your socks and gym shoes on. Or, are you wearing sandals today?” it gives him a zone of creativity where I’m not just barking orders at him but he can’t go too crazy.
Connection. The more information he gets on the front end, the less he needs after the fact. Moreover, the better I can relate it to something in his life, the more connections he can make. The other day, we went to a new park that was driving distance away. When we got there, I noticed a kid in a wheelchair at the edge of the wood chips who was sitting and watching a girl (presumably his younger sister) play on the playground. Instead of ignoring him and hoping Zachary didn’t notice/ask, I asked first. “Zachary, how would you feel if you came to the park but couldn’t play on the equipment?” He told me it would not be fun. We talked for quite some time and by the time we got out of the car, he had come up with a game plan. He brought the tennis ball out with him and asked the boy his name and if he’d like to play catch. “Micah and sure!” They did. Well, sort of. They played more of a game of fetch than catch, with neither of the two boys being very good at the whole hand-eye-other-person’s-hand coordination thing. I anticipated and avoided what could have been an awkward situation of staring and pointing at a strange unknown by connecting it to something Zachary understands well.
Do you have a Why Master in your house? What are some coping skills you’ve learned for challenging the one in your life?
Wiff Love 