I could write a novella trying to explain it. About how children who experience sensory deprivation or inadequate stimulation in the first year of their life often crave extreme sensations like dizziness or stomach flips that a swing provides. About the massive tantrums over and over no matter how many times we went to the park or how long I let her swing. Whether I pushed her for an hour or for five minutes or refused to let her swing at all. About leaving every playground, every time, in misery and sometimes carrying anger that stretched into the evening, coloring the rest of the day with my children, making me impatient and sharp. About my dread of outings that never failed to end in tears and screaming and consequences.
What it boils down to is this, I am the weird, mean parent on the playground. I have rigid rules about swinging that I enforce with maniacal consistently. I have been judged by the Dad who agreed to push my winsome, sweet-talking daughter on the swing. No, she's not allowed to swing, thanks. I don't mind pushing her. I appreciate it, but she's lost her swinging privileges. I've stood there, my face beet red, my heart pounding as she writhed and screamed on the ground because I won't make Gee leave the playground to avoid enforcing my edicts in public.
I have endured well intentioned help from friends and family who said in her earshot, I'll push her as long as she wants, no biggie, it's a park. I've smiled and nodded and cringed inside because tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that for as long as it takes, I will be alone with four children and my beautiful, smart, incredibly persistent, high-structure craving little girl will test me and test me and test me again because that one day with grandma was different.
I have fought the urge to yell and lost. I have fought the urge to hit and barely won. I have fought tears all the way home. I have lost that last battle many, many times.
I've developed a straightforward rule that, after two years of consistent enforcement, works about 50% of the time. The rest of the time she's lost her swinging privileges and we can avoid the issue.
You may not swing until I give the five minute warning. If you scream about getting off of the swings when our last five minutes are over, you will not swing for a week.
Yesterday, we walked to the park with friends later in the evening than usual. This new early-retiring winter sun was setting and the wind blustered and puffed. I told Ess that she could swing for the last five minutes, that I would push her twenty times and that when she slowed down, it was time to go. I reminded her that fits would mean no swinging for a week and then I stood there and felt tired and cold.
It had been a weird day. We toured a bakery with the preschool class that morning and she threw a mild tantrum about leaving and lost her cookie. Another minor meltdown occurred over leaving a friend's house, which built into a major tantrum over my request that she use the bathroom before quiet time. She had a time out and then we discussed the appropriate response when I give an instruction. The appropriate tone of voice. We practiced.
I pushed her twenty times and watched her swing with a heavy heart. "She's really learning to pump," my friend noticed.
"Yes," I sighed, "it's going to be a battle because I told her when the swing slowed down we were going home." I admit it, I had a negative outlook. I know my daughter and I can see a showdown over loose parameters a mile away.
The sky darkened further and I called the boys, started loading the stroller. "Ess," I yelled into the wind a bit hopelessly, "we're all done." She stopped pumping her feet and shifted her body off the seat to hang from the chains and drag a toe on the ground. She got it slowed and jumped off herself and then turned to me.
"Yes, momma," she said, slowly, deliberately, somewhat thoughtfully. Her face broke into a huge smile and she catapulted herself at my legs for a hug, so proud of her accomplishment.
Hugging her tight, I thought of the thankless conundrum that is parenting. There was no one there to see. The Dad that I refused to let push her, the friends that tried to help, the hundreds of parents that have seen us leave that playground in grand dramatic form. Not my mom. Not my mother-in-law. No one. So many witnesses to my humiliations, my floundering, my failures and not one person to witness our small, every day triumph. Everyone notices a white mom hauling her screaming black daughter off of the swings. Who notices a family happily leaving the playground?
Just my proud, beautiful daughter hugging me in joy for controlling her emotions. "Doesn't that feel good?" I asked her."Doesn't it feel great to stop swinging and get a hug and leave the playground happy and know that you can swing next time?"
"Can I swing next time?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, quietly, "yes, you absolutely can."
"Are you happy, momma?"
Beyond words, baby girl. And once again I fought tears all the way home.
See, Jessica, I need validation as much as the next person. Sorry my comment responses suck this month. I read them all, sometimes many times.E&E Tally: 2572 words (still keeping my head above water)
Blog posts: 5/30
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