Power Struggles
Becky is almost three. I am in a rush to get to work. My shift at the newspaper begins at 3:30 pm, and my husband who works mornings in the same department is waiting for me in the Tribune’s parking lot, as he did every day: he’ll take our kids home, and I will go in until midnight.
But Becky does not want to leave home. She is busy doing her own thing. I asked her to put on her sandals–she can–as I wake Eddie from his nap. She ignores me. I stop for a second and look at her—what a cutie! She is adorable with that pacifier in her mouth (a permanent fixture on her face those days), busy with her plushies. A few minutes later, I am almost ready to go and run a checklist to see if I am forgetting anything. Diaper bag loaded? Check! Snacks and juice? Check! My dinner? Check! Am I dressed? Check! Are the kids? Eddie is good to go. I look at Becky: she is dressed and looking pretty, but her brown sandals are a still a few feet away. I start to panic–I cannot be late, not again, my boss had already given me a warning about this several weeks ago.
“Becky, please put your shoes on!” I plead, but there is no movement. Even the couch is more responsive than she is–at least it yields when I press on it. I go through my options: I could put Eddie in a stroller and grab her. Dang! The stroller is in the trunk… I cannot put Eddie in the car and come back for her–we live in an apartment complex, and not with the classiest of neighbors. The parking lot is too far away for my comfort, and safety is a concern.
Eddie is on my hip; the diaper bag and the lunch box are on my other shoulder. If only Becky would cooperate! But she does not. She is playing with her plushie. “Let’s go, Becky!” I shout. She barely acknowledges me with a turn of her head in my general direction. I cannot remember exactly what I say in the next minute–probably explain that I will get in trouble if she does not march out the door with me this second. “You do not want me to get in trouble, do you?!” I do not remember the exact words, of course, but the sentiment seems accurate—I am trying to make her understand and sympathize. She knows what “being in trouble” means.
I set Eddie down, pile my bags next to him, then grab brown sandals and try to put them on Becky. She resists. We struggle, and then she bites. She practically hangs on the upper-inner part of my wrist. I scream in pain, then peel her off by pulling her cute little ponytail and she lands on her butt. I grab her, grab the bags, and instruct Eddie to toddle behind me. She is kicking and screaming and trying to get away, but I am holding on to her as firmly as I can. We make it out; somehow, I manage the lock the door, and make a run to the car. A few more struggles and minutes later, everyone is buckled, and we are on our way. I am crying, and the exact nature for my tears is difficult to discern. Let’s see. It is a mixture of things, for sure: I fought with my toddler, and my toddler won. What kind of a mother has no control over her kid?! I felt like a failure, again! My ego is badly bruised, for sure. Then I recall how I pull her hair. Poor baby! I wonder if this was child abuse but conclude it was self-defense. I look at deep purple teeth marks on my wrist rested on the steering wheel in front of me. What could have I done differently? I sob and feel sorry for myself.
When I finally reach work, I have only a minute to spare, so I give my husband a quick kiss and show him Becky’s teeth marks to explain my puffy eyes. No time for anything more. Two hours later, when all my ads are in and the pagination department is satisfied, I go to my friend Beth’s cubicle. She is my mother figure in the absence of my own mother nearby. She is a mother of six and a very much involved grandmother. I pull up a chair and fall apart. “I pulled her by her hair! I am horrible!” I wail. She is patient. “I should go to jail” “Of course you shouldn’t,” she assures me and tells me of her troubles with her ten-year-old very spirited granddaughter, and I feel better.
At that time, I knew nothing of autism. I thought Becky’s terrible twos were just that, terrible. I read in books and heard from others that power struggles at this age are normal, and I dutifully tried every reasonable solution to improve my position. Some things worked, others did not. I now wonder what I would have done differently if I had known she will be diagnosed with ASD?