Fashion of a strong willed child

This is my middle child.  She's a melancholy personality (from her dad) with a generous side of choleric (from me).  If you don't speak this language, a good translation would be that she's endowed by God with a strong desire for order, she has a well defined point of view that she thinks is better than anyone else's and she willing to die on a hill for most of her ideas.  Or she will kill you if you get in the way.  Whichever, someone's gonna die.  In simpler terms, she's strong-willed.  And she thinks this looks good.

The problem with this ensemble is not the pajama pants or mixed prints or that it's 90 degrees outside.  Those are all battles and my personal policy is that she must win every battle possible.  She's hardwired to have a greater than average need to control (the good kind).  She must have an outlet to assert her ideas, exercise her independence, to disagree in a respectful manner.  Her personality needs it almost like her body needs food.  If her needs go unmet, she will fight. It's hardwired and wonderful.   Isn't that what most parents find challenging about strong willed children is the 'fight'.  It's really simple, don't fight battles.  Let them win.  Tiara to church?  Fine.  In fact, you look great.  You want to sleep upside down in your bed?  How clever you are.  I never thought of that.  You want to take a shower instead of a bath?  Fabulous.  In fact, I see now that you like to make decisions for yourself.  Would you like to use pen or pencil to do your schoolwork?  Spoon or fork?  Brush or comb?  Tennis shoes or flip flops?  Peas on the left or right side of your chicken? 
Who cares?  Create opportunities for strong willed kids to have a vote on what you don't care about so that you will have 15 "that's a great choice" comments in the bag when you have to whip out an "I'm sorry honey, that's not gonna work."  And you do need to whip that out with authority and without negotiation when it is important.  The battles are her's, but the war needs to be the mine.  Otherwise, the teen years will be especially unpleasant.  Not to mention the rest of her life.

Publishing a list of family values, beliefs and non-negotiables is the greatest way to deal with stong willed children (and grown people, for that matter).  When it's time for conflict, it's just simply a matter of asking the whether or not the behavior or attitude in question is in line with the published, previously agreed to set of criteria.   For example, the only objection I allow myself to have about the outfit above is that there is a triangular shaped opening which exposes her tummy.  Because I have previously published the modesty standards for our family, I just simply need to ask "is showing your tummy in agreement with the standard or not?"  It's not negotiable.  It's not a matter of opinion.  She's allowed to have all kinds of opinions as to color, texture, print, season, etc., but she's not permitted to deviate from our standards of modest dress.  Guess what?  No argument.  And here's the important part:  it's her problem to solve.  She has the freedom to solve that triangle problem any way her heart desires.  She can change tops,  Put another shirt on underneath it.  Whip out her sewing machine and fashion a triangle fabric solution.  And I will be sure to praise her creativity and affirm her excellent problem solving skills.  And she will think I'm a great mom for appreciating her sense of style.  It's a win/win.

Modesty: an outward reflection of an inward condition

Do you love Him?  God, that is.  He didn't take me out of this world.  He wants me to live in this world as an ambassador, an alien and stranger.  But He does not want me to conform to this world.  If I were going to witness to a bunch of Hell's Angel biker types, I'd wear a leather jacket.  If I were going to speak with a group of muslim women, I'd cover my head if I felt like my uncovered head would be a distraction to my message.  I'm free.  There's no harm or slight to the gospel.  Would I conform my dress to witness with ladies in the adult entertainment industry?  No.  However, many of our young girls in church dress more like they have a need to attract the eyes of young men (and older men) than to fullfill their mission to help point all eyes to Christ.  Where are the dads?  Why aren't they telling their daughters "NO".  Maybe that's why they do it.  Will some man notice me?  Will they care enough about me to call out the princess I have been redeemed to be.  If my dad won't, then surely the whole princess thing is not true.  It must be for the other daughters of the King, but not me.  Look past the dress.  Their hearts feel more like the ladies on the corner than of the hearts of those of infinite value.  It's a lie.  Love them enough to tell them the truth.http://www.oneplace.com/ministries/familylife-today/

It all starts somewhere...

All the sacrifices seemed for naught.  I had dressed in my metaphoric SuperMom suit and tackled the staging and ad nauseum cleaning of our old house, during the Christmas holidays, while homeschooling 3 kids. Two of which had birthdays.  Thankfully, my realtor was a good friend.  She knew where the mop was if I missed any footprints on my way out.  In the next town over, I painted every wall surface in my new home, including a mural in one room, while continuing to try to sell "old" house and still homeschooling.  Did I mention my youngest was 2?  Did I mention that "new" house was a stripped down foreclosure with not one light fixture, a/c vent, door knob, cabinet pull or appliance?  After 2 months of DIYing, we were able to have the celebratory, although cliche, glass of ice tea overlooking the strawberry fields from the back lanai of our new home.  The birds sang.  I think.  I hung my SuperMom suit in the closet for another time.

Oh, at first we blamed it on seasonal pollen.  Logical.  But the breathing problems continued past pollen season.  Then our new appliances and air conditioners required servicing during which we discovered all the copper parts had become black (a tell-tale sign)  After 6 months of suffering in our new home, we found ourselves packing again and moving into a borrowed home in a nearby retirement community.  I was left trying to simulaneously metabolize the diagnosis of Chinese Drywall and the shock of the white carpet in my borrowed home.

On the upside, we only had to pay for the utilities, and we could breathe (no small gift).  The "challenge" column was a little longer.  The owners had not vacated.  Every closet, pantry, cabinet stuffed to capacity with the ben-gay, polident, polyester and out of date, easy to fix meals.  SuperMom pointed out that WalMart carries plastic containers for such an obstacle, and the paint to decorate them.  There was a pool.  Yay!  Except it was nearly November.  Boo!  It was on the golf course.  We don't golf.  And they mow at 5 a.m. which is just about a half and hour later than the train barrels through town, driven by the sadistic and horn happy engineer.  I'm sure he's a lovely man, "bless his heart" (which is southern for "I'd like to kill him, but I can't say that in Christian company) 

We did get to meet some of the neighbors.  Mostly when they approached the house with the assistance of a walker to peer in the front window and ask "how long will you be staying?"  Translation:  "This is a retirement community and you have kids.  When will you be leaving?"  Besides, we didn't own a shih tsu which was clearly the homeowner association approved pet, and apparently a requirement. We were able to take care of some maintance things for the homeowner.  Changing filters, scrubbing grout and capturing and humanely relocating the family of raccoons that had taken up residence in the attic.  Just so you know, they like tuna. 

Holidays were a real tickle.  I had just bought the fabric and plastic bones to craft Pebbles and BamBam costumes for my youngest 2 and was looking for a place to plug in the sewing machine when the whole family came down with swine flu.  No matter how many times I thanked God for a roof over my head, it never seemed to made the hard-sided, needle point patterned sofa any more comfortable.  But I did have plenty of time to contemplate the thought process behind the homeowners placing it at a 45 degree angle to the TV.  When Christmas rolled around, SuperMom pulled off the most holy, non-commercial Christmas ever.  She's brilliant, that one.  Advent boxes, gifts for the less fortunate.  Who needs a tree when you can handcraft a nativity out of homemade flour/salt playdough with a recipe found online?  And since we were studying Aboriginal culture, we made paint out of crushed leaves, clay and spit.    To surprise the kids, we woke them up Christmas morning and drove to our house where my husband and I surprised them with the tree we had set up and the fact that Santa had, in fact, come.   We just opened the doors and windows and exchanged 42 degree, cold damp air outside for the build up of toxic Chinese drywall  air inside, and it was worth it to be in our own space. After all the unwrapping, we loaded in the van, stocked up on chocolate donuts and coffee from the local quicky mart and headed to SeaWorld for the day.  They had giant, decorated trees, sea lions in santa hats, the Polar Express ride and a jazz saxaphonist backed by a church chior singing Christmas songs.   I 'got my praise on' to a Shamu performace of 'O Holy Night' with a finale of fireworks.  It was the best SuperMom could do to try to forget that we were a displaced family with no long term solution to the fact we had to continue to pay a mortgage on a home we could not live in and whose resale value was about 20% of what we paid for it. 

But I'd not hit bottom yet.  Bottom came for me after I let my hairdresser cut my long hair off and donate it to locks of love.  It's a great cause.  It is.  But I was left looking like I should dye it blue, wrap it around some foam rollers and sit a spell under a large commercial hair dryer.  I was starting to look like the ladies my retirement community.  I asked my stylist if she knew a shih tzu breeder.  I became nostalgic for my 20's.  I was young, thin, free.  I was cool. I had a cool, black Mazda MX3,  5-speed.  I thought it was a worth while sacrifice to trade it in 11 years ago for a very uncool,  mini-van when I was pregnant with my first son.  But tonight, it was worse.  The van was in the shop and I was punching in the code at the security gate, sporting my geriatric hairdo, driving my great grandmother-in-law's 1992 Caprice Classic low rider with AM radio and I may have actually been wearing something polyester (probably not, but I felt like I might as well)  I had taken up crocheting and the borrowed TV only seemed to tune to 60 Minutes with Andy Rooney.  I had lost my home....but good grief, not my cool.  I was done.  How could I go on?  All that was left for me was to take up Bingo and mix up a Metamucil cocktail.  This would probably make more sense if I told you I had just turned 40.  I stayed at the security key pad, crying, until I was forced to move when another resident, over 80 with a cooler car, pulled in behind me.  I dried my eyes, and drove 6 miles an hour thru the gate with my left foot pressing lightly on the brake pedal so that my brake lights shone in the night.  I wasn't sure if it was a rule, but I had seen all the other residents doing it, and I didn't want to cause trouble. 

So I had my moment.  My mid life pity party.  I received the cleansing that can only come to a woman through tears, well placed in the space when she gets a few moments alone.  Then I remembered, the pewter, platform, peeptoe Madden Girl pumps I had just purchased (on sale).  I checked my makeup in the rearview, before entering the house and hugging my pajama clad, freshly bathed kids.  I love that smell.  I soaked in the sound of their precious voices, "Love you, Mom.  Good night."  I love you, too.  My husband was even encouraging.  He took one look at my hair and said, "it'll grow back".  I thanked him, and walked right passed my crochet to the master bedroom.  In the 18 inches of the closet I sqeezed out for myself, I picked out my sassiest (and yes, modest) dress to wear with my Madden Girls to church the next day.

 I felt strong and tall as I practically struted down the aisle in those shoes, to my seat, in my church to worship my God.  He has always been faithful to me.  He has blessed me beyond what I deserve.  He reminds me to consider it all joy, when I encounter trials of various kinds.  He is testing my faith to produce patience.  He wants it to have the work of making me perfect and complete, lacking no good thing.  This is not my first time.  Nor is it my worst trial.  But it is an assurance that I belong to Him and His favor is upon me.  Because He wants me to know, that I know that I know, He will never leave me or foresake me.  I am much more valuable than the birds of the air and the flowers of the field.  He knows my every need and that I have no greater need than to know Him. 

Dorothy had red ones.  Mine are pewter.  This is not my home.