I have heard her described as a wild child. I myself have called her feral on a bad day. She’s high energy and high volume. At almost 4 1/2 she has yet to sleep through the night more than a handful of times. She is emotional and has a flaming hot temper. She is also sweet as sugar and has compassion and forgiveness wrapped up better than most grown ups. My every morning begins with a little prayer of patience. She’s teaching me to take a moment as often as necessary to breath deep and find my strength.
Some kids are just harder. There I said it. Pop culture would have us believe that we parents make it harder, that we somehow allow them to be difficult. And maybe we do, but maybe we don’t. Or maybe we do because sometimes some children are harder. So we have to self care, we have to pick our battles very carefully. Perhaps we are so wrapped up in letting ourselves go so we can care so perfectly for this little glorious person that we just don’t have anything left for the little things. Perhaps we are so desperate to say yes or to give a hug of praise instead of a hand of correction that we let things slide.
I’ve heard “it’s just a phase” more than once. And maybe it is. But these phases come in like tidal waves and leave destruction in their wake. The monsoon rains of arguing and fighting and running and yelling and sneaking feel like days of deluge. It’s nothing we can’t handle, be sure. It’s nothing we haven’t done before. But day after day and month after month it simply makes us tired.
