Me (in exasperation): Why don’t you just listen to me!?
Kiddo: I can’t!!
Me: But whyyyyyy?
Kiddo (matter-of-factly): Because I want to do it my way!
Oh the foreshadowing in this exchange when she was merely 3 years old! This girl does not mess around - she knows exactly what she wants and aways has. Before she could even talk, the insistent energy behind her little hands pointing and patting was not to be ignored. I wish I could portray with written words the tone that she has now when she oh-so-confidently puts out her demands. She’s like a tiny surgeon or a dentist using one word directives to indicate the thing she needs instantly. She doesn’t even necessarily raise her voice (at first ask), just makes a direct, clipped command with a slight inflection to hint at the urgency behind it.
Drink? Bathroom? Water? Blanket? iPad? Shoes? Remote? Remote!?!? REMOTE!!!
I remember trying to draw on an analogy from something she was interested in to put her in her place when she was just a toddler. I had my territorial hackles up because of how much space she was taking up in the house. I tried explaining that I was the QUEEN of our home. She could be the princess, but I’m the one that usually gets to decide the big things (like what I want hanging on the living room wall instead of letting her literally tape random toys on it). I’m sure you can imagine how that went down. I discovered to my surprise that I am most definitely NOT the queen after all. I am now her attendant. Her butler. Her lady-in-waiting. Her equerry. This word is new to me, yet it perfectly defines my job description as a parent of a PDA’er. Apparently, the role of an equerry is often associated with senior members of the Royal Family, like the King or Queen. They’re often described as the monarch's "eyes and ears,” holding the role of personal assistant. What a fit.
She obliterated my clever royal kingdom analogy the same way she dealt with my personal space illustration when I attempted to regain some bodily autonomy back in the early days. When I explained that everyone has something called “personal space” and it’s like imagining that they have a bubble around them that others should respect, she said, and I quote: “Well mom, I popped your bubble.” Yes child, yes you have.
Back to being an equerry. When she wants help, she can be standing right next to either her dad or me but will rather bellow for the other parent to come assist her. This used to be wildly frustrating and perplexing to us; not only are we both vey capable of helping, she often insists on doing all the things by herself. She also does this thing where she’ll yell for help when we aren’t focused one hundred percent on her, making it sound like she’s about to perish. I will dash over only to see that she’s positioned herself into a mildly compromising posture that she can easily come out of on her own, like standing on her head on the couch. Over time there’s been a “boy-that-cried-wolf” effect, and the other day when I did NOT sprint across the room to her rescue, she allowed herself to fall over the back of the couch onto her head. Of course it was my fault. Now I see that these “games” are part of how her nervous system tries to feel safe. They’re a way for her to co-regulate, to equalize; a way to get reassurance that we are within her realm of influence and are ready to accommodate whatever comes her way. She is not out there on her own with no control. Thankfully she often cracks me up with her wit and entertains me with her creativity, especially in her outrageous defences to perfectly reasonable requests such as this:
Me: Kiddo we neeeeeed to clean your fingernails.
A: No. Because I’m a tiger. Tigers have dirt in their claws.
Obviously. The queen hath spoken.