It’s the last day of the “Mommy and Me” dance class I’ve been taking with my almost-three year old daughter, Rutie. As we file out of the classroom and into the dressing room, the other moms call out to the teacher: “Happy Holiday, Miss Madeleine!” “See you next session!” “Thank you, Miss Madeleine!” I’d like to call out something, too: “Thank God this is over!”
Some weeks, Rutie has been perfectly happy to put on her leotard and tights and come to the class. But once here, she has steadfastly refused to do anything the teacher asks. When Miss Madeleine says, “Let’s all be little birdies and flap our pretty wings,” Rutie careens around the room, more like a race car than a sparrow. When Miss Madeleine says, “Let’s all be little kittens and drink our lovely milk,” Rutie climbs on me like a demented Tom being chased by a pack of dogs. Miss Madeleine glares at us and says in an exasperated voice, “That’s not how the little birdie flaps her wings!” or “That’s not how the little kitten drinks her milk!”
Other weeks, Rutie has fought me tooth and nail about putting on her leotard and tights and then we’ve spent most of the class with her sitting in my lap, refusing to participate at all, while Miss Madeleine glares at us some more. Miss Madeleine expects her “little dancers,” all two or three years old, to stand quietly in line while waiting their turns and to politely share the colored scarves and stuffed animals she gives them to dance with. I suspect that Miss Madeleine, a tall, elegant woman in her fifties, has never had children of her own.
Once in the dressing room, we search for our clothes in the crowd of moms and nannies and “little dancers.” The room is even noisier than usual. It’s late in December and Christmas is only a week away, so the excitement in the room is palpable. It’s been heightened by the gift exchange the children have just had in class. I’d been dreading it, not least because my family is Jewish and doesn’t celebrate Christmas, but it went reasonably well. No one cried about not liking the gift they received. Even Rutie seemed satisfied with the set of markers she unwrapped. I’m so happy that the class is over, it doesn’t occur to me to wonder how Rutie is feeling…
I have a doctor’s appointment to get to in half an hour, so I start taking off Rutie’s leotard so I can change her into regular clothes. She’s in the middle of toilet training and the leotard will make trips to the potty complicated.
“No!” she says, pushing me away, “I do it myself.”
“All right,” I say calmly, used to this response, “you can do it yourself, but you need to do it quickly. Remember, we have an appointment with Dr. Tim and we don’t want to be late.”
“OK,” says Rutie cheerfully. I put on my boots and coat, figuring it will be easier to be patient if I’m doing something other than watching her. But when I turn back to her, she’s just standing there and her leotard is still on.
“Rutie!” I say, my voice rising a little, “You’re still in your leotard. Come on! I told you we have to hurry.” I start to take the leotard off myself, but she struggles and again claims that she will do it herself.
“All right,” I say again, forcing my voice back down to a calm level, “but I’m going to count to three. If you haven’t taken off your leotard by then, I’m going to have to take it off myself. I don’t want to be late for Dr. Tim.” I count to three very slowly, willing her to take the leotard off by the time I finish. But she doesn’t. Her face is full of worry as she sees my disapproval, but it’s also full of a stubbornness I know only too well.
I sense that I’m at a fork in the mothering road. I’ve been a mom for twelve years now. Rutie is my youngest. So I’ve been at this particular fork many times before. In one direction lies escalating anger on my part, increasing stubbornness on my child’s part. A little further in that direction lies the relief of giving in to my frustration and fury and screaming at my child. But then will come the guilt of losing control, the guilt of knowing that I’ve frightened my own kid. I don’t want to go that way.
But the other direction is often hard to see. I take a deep breath and try to think. What are my options here? I can’t just wait Rutie out — we have to get to this doctor’s appointment. Dr. Tim is my chiropractor and his treatments are one of the things that help me deal with my back pain. But I realize now that scheduling an appointment so soon after the end of Rutie’s class was a mistake. I take another deep breath and then it occurs to me — she doesn’t really have to take off the leotard and tights now. She can take them off the next time she uses the toilet. All she really needs to do right now is put on her coat and boots.
Smiling, I say to Rutie, “You know what? Why don’t you just keep your leotard on and we’ll change you into your clothes later. That way you can show Dr. Tim how you look when you’re dancing.”
“OK!” she says happily, the anxiety in her face disappearing. I start to put on her coat.
“I do it myself!” she yells.
“All right,” I say yet again, “but please hurry. It’s really getting late.” Once again, I turn away from her and busy myself with something, this time stuffing her regular clothes into her backpack, so I can try to hold onto my patience. And once again, when I turn back to her, she’s just standing there. Her coat is on the floor.
“Rutie!” I yell. This time I make no effort to keep my irritation out of my voice. “What are you doing? I told you to hurry and put on your coat. You haven’t done anything!” She looks startled, but makes no move toward the coat. I’m sorry to have startled her, but I’m reaching the end of my rope. “This is your last chance,” I say sternly. “I’m going to count to three and if you haven’t put your coat on by then, I’m just going to put it on myself. We have to leave!”
While I count, I become aware of the fact that the dressing room has suddenly gotten very quiet. I hear one mom say to another, “They can be so difficult at this age,” and I hear the second mom murmur her agreement. But somehow, this doesn’t make me feel any better. It hasn’t escaped my notice that while Rutie and I have been struggling to find our way through this, other daughters have been standing in front of their mothers docile and quiet, letting their mothers undress and dress them like a room full of dolls.
Wearily, I get to three and am not surprised that Rutie’s coat is still on the floor. I pick it up and start trying to put it on her. She pulls away from me and runs to the other side of the dressing room, laughing. It’s another fork in the mothering road. One kind of mother would laugh herself at this point, would turn the whole business into a game, chase her daughter down and smother her with kisses. Another kind of mother would say, “To heck with the coat,” and let her daughter go out to the car in just her leotard. But this morning I’m not either one of those mothers. This morning I don’t find this situation amusing or my daughter’s behavior adorable. And I’m not willing to take a small child out into below-freezing weather in just a leotard, even though I know it’s a germ, not the cold air, that causes pneumonia.
So I work my way through the moms and daughters and boots and coats and backpacks and gifts until I’ve reached Rutie. She’s still laughing at me, but I see that worry has crept back into her face as well. “Too bad,” I think, “let her worry. She’s made her choice.” I don’t think much about the fact that I too have made a choice. Instead, I grab one of her arms and stuff it into the sleeve of her coat. Then I do the same with the other arm and quickly pull up the zipper. Rutie is caught a bit off-guard by my sudden action, but catches on quickly enough and starts trying to pull the zipper back down.
“Don’t you dare take that coat off!” I hiss at her. I notice the mom next to me listening and I hear my voice with her ears. So I try again to find my patience.
“All right, Rutie, now we need to put on your boots. Would you like to put them on yourself or would you like Mama to do it?”
“I do it!” Rutie screams.
“OK,” I say, “I’m counting to three.” Rutie does not put on her boots. Instead, she attempts to take off her coat.
“That’s it!” I scream. I’m going over the edge and no longer care about stopping myself. I grab one of Rutie’s feet and try to jam it into her boot. But this time she’s ready for me and begins to struggle as hard as she can. She breaks loose and starts crawling away from me. I crawl after her, catch her, and pin her down. All around me, other moms are beginning to leave. Holding their daughters’ hands, they head for the door, calling goodbye to each other, wishing each other a happy holiday. My daughter does not hold my hand and walk sweetly out the door. No one says goodbye to me or wishes me a happy holiday. I’m alone with my thrashing daughter and my ugly behavior.
Grimly, I continue trying to get Rutie’s feet into her boots, as she screams and kicks. Having been in my own coat and boots for nearly twenty minutes now, I’m sweating and red-faced. The door to the classroom opens and Miss Madeleine sweeps into the dressing room, a beautiful fringed shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
“What’s the matter?” she asks.
Using what tiny bit of self control I have left, I smile weakly and say in a nearly normal voice, “Rutie doesn’t want to put her boots on, but she has to, because we have a doctor’s appointment to get to.”
“But she’s screaming,” Miss Madeleine says indignantly. “Everyone in the building can hear her.”
“Yes,” I say, my indignation matching hers, “I realize that she’s screaming, and I’m sorry if it’s bothering people, but I’m doing my best and I’ll get her out of here as soon as I can.”
“But you must move her right now. She can’t stay here, screaming like this.”
“I really don’t think I can move her right now!” I shout. Miss Madeleine looks shocked, then without another word, retreats to the safety of her classroom. I’m a bit shocked myself — did I really scream at Miss Madeleine the same way I’ve been screaming at Rutie? My only satisfaction is the clear knowledge that this woman definitely has never had children.
Somehow I finish getting Rutie’s boots on and then I carry her, kicking and screaming, out to the car. I’m exhausted and ashamed. While Rutie howls in her car seat, I stand outside her door in the freezing air, trying to take deep breaths. We’re going to be ridiculously late for the doctor’s appointment, but I’m beyond caring.
How can I make things right with Rutie? How can I make things right for myself? I take one more deep breath and then I open the car door and tell her I’m sorry — sorry that I yelled at her, sorry that I forced her into her coat and boots. She stops howling and listens to me solemnly. When I tell her that I love her, her lips start trembling and she says, “I love you too, Mama.” I feel tears come and then an idea, an inspiration. It’s ridiculously late, but still helpful.
“Rutie,” I say gently, “was it hard to leave today because it was your last class?” She nods.
“Are you sad because your dance class is all over?” She nods again and starts to cry.
“Oh, babe,” I say, “Mama is sad too.”