The Wonder of Sophie

I thought I was prepared.

Cammie and Courtney were teens.  I’d been Nanny for many years to a variety of children—strong-willed, introverted, attention deficit, bossy, whiny, needy, loud.  I nurtured newborn babies, bathed them and clipped their nails.  I potty trained toddlers, carpooled preschoolers and went on field trips.  I disciplined and demanded structure.  I documented my success our days as The Nanny Diaries for the parents.  No-it-all Nanny advice abounded.

But those children were sent home at the end of the day, often after classic fit-throwing in front of tired parents.  And so were my nieces and nephews who call me Nanny. 

I patiently waited to start the parenting process all over again.

And then she arrived. 

My pedestal was kicked out from under me.  My rule book was shredded.  Survival mode replaced rigid structure.  I’m 39 and she is 2.  Is this a joke, Lord?  Strong-willed?  NOW I get strong-willed?

She currently toddles into my bedroom all hours of the night with her blanky in tow, slides my eye mask up and wakes me from my slumber.  The frightful jolt from sleep keeps me from dozing long after I’ve returned her to her quarters and reclaimed my territory.  Diet Coke overloads my bladder as I ease my stress.  I wander aimlessly to my bathroom with my eyes half open only to plop down on Sophie’s attached potty lid.  Cushy, but small with handles that attack my bottom.

Those rules I applied previously to all manner of children are adjusted.  Sometimes I scoop her up in surrender and plop her in my bed only to be tortured by sudden punches in the face, jabs in the side or kicks in the stomach.  My extra pillow fails to protect me.  I reason that she’s been having “nightmaras”.  She’ll sleep in tomorrow.  That only happens when my schedule calls for an early rise.  Otherwise, she challenges me to remain calm when she wakes me at the butt-crack of dawn (Sorry for the harsh language…I’m feeling a bit worked up suddenly.) with her sweet grin.  “Gooood morning, Mommy.” 

I let down my guard and I melt.  Just when I think it’s safe, sudden aggravation overtakes her.  She doesn’t like my choice of T.V. shows?  “NO!  Not THAT one!  Want Dora!”

In a nanny-second (I made that up.  I was a Nanny, remember?) she sends hours (okay, sometimes minutes) of work into cyber-space.  “I’m checking my emails,” she says as she pecks away at the keyboard.

She’s a back-seat driver.  “DON’T pumpin’ gas!  Go bye-bye!”  “COME ON PEOPLE!”  “NO, NOT THAT WAY!”  “I wanna’ watch (listen to) THAT one!”  I find myself changing stations for a toddler.  Tension grips my shoulders, then she holds out her hands and says, “hug?”

Don’t misunderstand.  I am smitten.  How could I not be?  It’s just that the new look of smitten is disheveled.

“I like your face,” she says as she brushes my cheek.  “I like your pretty hair.  I like your eyes.  I like your nose.  I like your boogers.”  HUH?  “I like your boobies.”  She reaches for them.  “I’m gon-na get your boooo-bies!” 

She knows her full name, the last name of her sisters, her birthday, the street she lives on and even her state—”Deweesiana”.  But she repeats most of what she hears.  This has worked effectively on the conscience.  It’s clear that much of her language originated from the teens.  “WHATEVER!”  “I’M not a BOSSY!  YOU a BOSSY!”  She understands and knows how to apply words rather quickly—forget, remember, already, behind, backwards.  She said she was nervous when she was in the car the other day.   

She hates band-aids but picks her scabs.  We hog-tied her after many warnings and placed a band-aid on a scooped out sore.  “It’s gonna’ be ALRIGHT.  Just leave it there,” she attempts to comfort herself.  Several days passed and the band-aid was hanging on by an arm hair.  I took it off.  She hates band-aids, remember?  “NOOOOOOO! I WANT MY BAND-AID!”  I attempted to console her.  In between the heaving, it was apparent that she wasn’t going down to sleep without a fight.  I applied another band-aid.  “It’s gonna’ be alright!”

She hates medicine.  “I DON’T WANNA’ LIKE VITAMINS!”  But inconsistency is her theme.  I don’t have the energy to chase her down for Benadryl.  After laying it on the counter, she climbs up the bar stool and takes it herself.  THAT could be a ‘nightmara’.

She sneaks into her sisters’ rooms and comes out smelling like a french perfume factory.  “Mommy, I’m messin’ in Courtney’s room.”  After following her to Courtney’s room, I find a small bottle of strong perfume on the floor with its top close by.  Eyeshadow smeared across her face goes unnoticed when I leave the house.  The other day she had shocking pink nail polish on her neck.  I used to have it together.

It often takes four arms to hold her down to retrieve a booger.  It’s quite frightening.  I’d say it goes way beyond the normal fear of booger retrieval.  Yet the other day she found an eraser from a mechanical pencil and shoved it up her nose.  She was tortured—but unharmed—during its retrieval.

She pushes her cousins and hits children she doesn’t know while in public.  ”I.  HIT.  Her.”  No remorse?

But she constantly tells me, “I love you, Mommy.”  “I miss you.”

She draws beautiful pictures to mail to Cammie at the “Nashul Guard”.  Then she balls them up and throws them away.

Some children have very rigid schedules and do well.  But when change comes, many of the same children struggle with adapting.  Some children have very flexible schedules and go with the flow.  Yet many of these children resist being boxed in by predictable routines.

I often question my parenting of Sophie.  (Or lack thereof.)  I question my decisions and especially my inconsistency.  And well I should.  All of my children are different.  But that’s an obvious point.  Reluctantly, I have accepted the realization that changing what used to work is sometimes essential for effective parenting.  The dynamics have changed.  While I find relief from this insight, I am careful to remember that “the basics” must remain.  Discipline is crucial to the well-being of my child(ren).  What worked for Cammie and Courtney simply may not work for Sophie.  However, I must find an effective form of discipline that “will” work.  And I must be consistent.  The answer is still the same:  love and discipline. 

We are all unique individuals in the Body of Christ.  The many facets of Father God are reflected through us.  Our stories and testimonies vary.  The circumstances and messages that pointed us to Christ differ.  But we all came by Way of the Cross.  Regardless of need, circumstance or sin, His Word is our Authority. 

His is the example I want to follow as a parent.  His Book covers every need for every child.

I will remain humbled as Sophie challenges my expertise.  And I’ll likely continue to be humiliated at times.  Perhaps it will be a repeat of, “YOUR BREFF STINKS,” while we’re in public.  But then I’ll be encouraged again when she folds her hands together before eating, bows her head and says, “let’s pray.”