Montana Momoirs

Here's a link to my column. And for those who don't want to click through, the text is below:


It was supposed to be a quick trip to the grocery store with my 3-year-old, Peter, to pick up a couple of things. I planned on being in and out in five minutes. But as soon as we walked in, Peter spotted the pint-sized shopping carts.

“I want to push the cart!” he announced, as he grabbed one and promptly crashed it into my leg. Then he was off and running to the fruits and vegetables section. Though we have a rule about not touching anything at the store, Peter seemed to have forgotten it completely.

“We need some apples,” he said as he reached into an exquisitely stacked pile and began to pull one out of the middle.

“Whoa! Stop!” I yelled at him, as I envisioned an apple landslide. But Peter was unstoppable. He pawed at the oranges and broccoli and hit my shins a few more times with his mini cart. Finally, I reached the end of my rope and put my hand on the cart to help him steer. Peter stopped walking.

“Guess what! You get to push the cart,” I said to him, sensing impending doom. “And I’m going to help you just a little bit!” I smiled brightly to lessen the blow.

But my forced happiness didn’t work. “I want to do it myself! By myself!” If there was a Wailing Wall at Van’s Thriftway, Peter would have been at it.

Which is where he seems to have been spending a lot of time lately. There’s just something about being 3 that turns a little person into a big mess of emotions. They’re not babies anymore, but they’re not exactly big kids either. Peter, for instance, can put on his shoes but he always gets them on the wrong feet. When I point out his error, he informs me that actually, I am the one who is wrong.

And it’s not just the shoes or the little shopping carts. There’s also hand-washing, another thing Peter wants to do by himself, in spite of the fact that he can’t reach the sink. Peter also wants to make his own lunch (resulting in a mangled sandwich of peanut butter and half a jar of jelly). When I dared to pull a shirt over his head the other morning in an effort to get us all out the door on time, he completely dissolved, “Noooooo! No! I wanted to do it myself!”

He then spent 15 minutes taking the aforementioned shirt off just so he could put it back on again himself as I beat my head against the wall repeatedly.

I’m trying my hardest to let him explore things he wants to do (and can do safely). After all, he has to learn how to do these things sometime. But while getting him ready for an appointment one morning, he offered to stay home all by himself. I told him to get his coat on and steeled myself for the next world war. But instead of throwing a fit, Peter dashed away from me, took one arm out of his coat as I slipped the other arm in, kicked one shoe off as I put the other shoe on. As time ticked by, I grew frustrated. We were going to be late.

“I have had enough!” I said sharply (though, you probably could have called it yelling). “I am through – DONE!” I then turned on my heel and walked out the door in a huff, even slamming it behind me.

As I stood on the front porch cooling off, I caught my reflection in the glass window of our door. And what I saw was my very worst self – red-faced, tense and angry.

It made me wonder: as a parent, do you ever get to be done? Part of me says, yes; it is perfectly acceptable to very occasionally lose your temper with your kids and let them know in a very definitive way that they have crossed a line.

But another part of me says no; as a parent, you need to be a rock, a pillar of compassion, understanding and strength. After all, Peter is just doing what 3-year-olds do — exploring boundaries and trying to figure out how he fits into the world.

Of course finding your place in the world does not always fit conveniently into the real world. Sometimes you have to go to appointments — on time even — that you don’t want to attend. Sometimes people will hurry you along when you don’t want them to. Sometimes people will slow you down when you need to get going.

And it’s important to learn and remember that throwing a fit and crying — or stomping off and slamming a door —

doesn’t change the situation. It just makes everyone feel badly.

When I opened the door a couple of minutes later to check on Peter, he was hurrying to put on his shoes and coat.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” I said to Peter. “But when I say it’s time to go somewhere, I need you to help me instead of making things more difficult.”

“That’s OK, Mom. I’m almost ready to go,” he said to me, his face splotchy from crying and his nose running. “I’m just getting my coat and shoes on — all by myself!”

“Thank you,” I told him and meant it. And this time, I decided not to mention to him that his shoes were on the wrong feet.