Orchestrating Chaos... An Example

This post is also available at my new website Trauma Mama Drama.  If you enjoy reading my blog, remember to update your feeds, emails and bookmarks with the new link, because eventually I will only post updates on the new site's blog.

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I know I sound absolutely paranoid and borderline insane when I talk about my kids sometimes. I mean, before I learned about Reactive Attachment Disorder, I know I'd have questioned someone's sanity if they'd told me how their extremely young child could manipulate almost anyone and could orchestrate chaos out of thin air.

But kids with traumatic histories can do these things! And they do them so well that it is almost awe-inspiring... but it's not, because it's so damn frustrating when you are trying to parent them!

Middle and Little can read people, situations, and surroundings at a level I don't think I have reached yet after thirty-two years of living on this earth. And if Husband and I could just nudge their manipulation skills toward good instead of "not good," our children will grow up to be incredibly successful adults.

Yet, even though I recognize the potential of this skill, it is not a skill I particularly like...

Okay, I hate it. I hate dealing with it. I hate dealing with it all the time, every day, all day, constantly. It's infuriating.

I'll give you an example so that you can see what I mean, and why it's so frustrating. Keep in mind that similar situations to this arise multiple times a week.

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Middle came home Tuesday and started in on her after-school routine. A few minutes later, she called me back to her room.I found her standing next to her bookshelves, her hand on her hip, her shoulders raised. "WHERE ARE MY SLIPPERS?!" she asked in the most accusatory tone her 7-year-old body could muster.

I took a deep breath and answered, "We donated them, remember?  They were too small."

"I DO NOT REMEMBER THAT."

"Well, I do.  We went through your room and donated things that were too small, and threw away the broken stuff."

"I remember THAT, but YOU said I could KEEP my SLIPPERS!!"

"Huh. Well, if I didn't donate them, they must be somewhere around here."

"BUT WHERE?!"

Another deep breath. "I don't know. Is it my job to keep track of your things?" I asked as I walked out of her room to escape her withering, angry stare.

Things did not go well that afternoon. I had to constantly separate Middle from Little, and I couldn't do anything with her because she was angry. She even got angry with me when I let her have computer time because I wouldn't put her on the website she wanted to get on to and instead put her on an educational site. And when I told her computer time was over and to get her things for her bath, she really started "poking" at me (she was picking out "daytime" clothes instead of PJs, she forgot to bring in new underwear, she "got lost" in her closet, she broke a hanger, etc.).  When she got into the bath, I asked her if she wanted me to wash her hair. "NO."

"Oh... What's the problem? Is there anything you need to talk about?"

"I JUST MISS MY SLIPPERS SO MUCH AND YOU THREW THEM AWAY!!!" she wailed.

I told her that we'd decided to donate them, together, and I was sorry she didn't remember that. I told her that missing her slippers is no excuse to treat me like crap.

But she wasn't going to take that answer as justification for her slippers' disappearance. She assaulted me with a verbal tirade and I left the bathroom before it got too serious. "If you change your mind about me washing your hair, let me know," I said over my shoulder.

Things only went downhill from there... Middle and Little started engaging in some unsafe behavior. Neither of them has been sleeping well this week, and they both had monstrously dark, large circles underneath their eyes. We chalked up the crappy behavior to being tired and we decided to make them dinner and send them to bed about an hour early.

Middle was clearly unhappy with this decision, and she refused to eat.  I left the room, again, because I could feel my face starting to get hot. I was on the verge of yelling at her, and that wouldn't help anyone. I went back in her room and my eyes landed on a box, sitting out on her bed. I'll bet she hid those stupid slippers in this box, I thought.

DING DING DING DING!

After finding the slippers, I remembered that when we went through her room, she'd told me she wasn't ready to give up her slippers yet. I told her I wouldn't donate them, then, but encouraged her to get rid of them when she was ready so she could get new slippers that fit better.

I stomped out into the living room where she and Little were eating, slippers clenched in my fists. "HERE ARE YOUR SLIPPERS!"

She looked up at me and made "the face"... You know, the one that she makes when she realizes her jig is up. "Oh."

"You know where I found these?!"

"In the box?"

"YES IN THE BOX! Why you would hide the slippers in the box and accuse me of throwing them away?!"

::Middle's "face" intensified::

"Did you just NEED a reason to be mad at me?!  So you made one up out of thin air?!"

::"Face" intensified to max strength::

"WELL YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM TONIGHT!" I said yelled, and put them in the "toy time out box" we keep in the living room. "You really hurt my feelings and I'm angry."

The slippers joined Oldest's camera and Little's shirt in the time-out box. At least they weren't lonely.

I stormed out to our porch for an oh-so-calming cigarette, and by the time I got back inside, she was in bed, her food uneaten. But she didn't fall asleep until 2:30 in the morning.

............

At which point Little woke up, and I pulled out every strand of hair from my head and screamed into pillows until morning broke.

Or at least that's what it felt like.