Raising Matzohballs

“Put on some pants,” my husband tells our daughter Isabella, “and I’ll take you to the park.”  But she does not want to change out of her dress and tights, because she needs them for some specific purpose only she knows. However, every time she goes to the park in tights, she ruins them; thus, no pants, no park. Instead of just changing, she goes upstairs to pout. Half an hour later, she still hasn’t changed, which means she’s made her little brother wait, and he no longer feels like going. The park outing is canceled, and as expected, she throws a hissy-fit. I ask her if it helps, which of course it doesn’t, because now she really isn’t going to the park. She doesn’t yet realize it, and finally puts on her pants, so we have to explain to her again that it is now too late to change daddy’s mind. She should have listened in the first place.

Children in general, and ours in particular, are irrational; they make sure to remind us every day that logic doesn’t live here anymore. Tell them to do one thing and they’ll immediately do the opposite; then they’ll complain if they get in trouble.

There must be a communication breakdown somewhere, a disconnect between parental instruction and my children’s actions; what other reason can there be for the fact that I always have to repeat myself?

My son, although younger, is already equally irrational in his behavior. In addition, he is both inconsistent and picky in his tastes. If on Monday he absolutely refuses the green socks, he will move heaven and earth on Tuesday to wear them; he will cry himself to sleep over a lost toy, only to throw it down the stairs when you finally find it. He will put his soft little hands on either side of your face, kiss you, tell you he loves you, and then head butt you in the nose.

My daughter applies this same principal to food: what she loves one week, she hates the next. If you go soft while shopping, and decide to stock up on that particular food she swears is “the best thing I have ever tasted” you can count on it still sitting in the fridge three months later. And I have to say it, it drives me absolutely insane. My children are like Matzohballs: when you plan to make a few, you end up with enough food to sustain a small army, but when you need to feed the whole family, the mixture doesn’t stretch. Even though you follow the instructions every time.

Maybe that has been the problem all along: I need different instructions.