Stall Tactics

"I am calm!", she screamed at me, tears streaming down her red face.  Clearly my seven-year-old and I have different definitions of calm.  One thing we can agree on, however, is that getting ready for school shouldn't be this hard.

Many mornings start quaintly,  the morning sun streaming through the window, the intoxicating scent of bacon wafting through the house.  Smiles, high-fives and laughter are our currency.  Then at some mysterious moment that I'll be damned if I can identify the entire "transaction" of school preparation turns South.  Maybe at some point my sweet kid goes off the rails because she is seven. Or because she is female. Or because she is a tiny psycopath in panda pajamas. 

I say the cause is mysterious, but you don't have to Andy Sipowicz to figure out almost every time a morning hits the skids it is when Grace is asked to switch from Gracie Time to Real World Time.   Grace could la-dee-da her way through an entire day.  Believe me, I wish I could too.  Yet, the pesky school system decides when school begins, not Grace.  The girl refuses to bound by time constraints.  When I tell her we have to leave in a half hour, I might as well tell her we have to leave in six months or 12 parsecs.  And this is why we clash.  Despite learning in therapy to ease my anxiety by relinquishing the idea of controlling every detail bouncing around in my head, I hold on to the notion that getting out the door on time is one thing that I can control. If only my stubborn, independent, free spirit daughter would co-operate.  (I chuckled simply typing that sentence.) Normally, I love that Grace is independent and care-free, but sometimes when it is time to go, IT IS TIME TO GO. 

When faced with a deadline Grace slows the pace.  I don't necessarily mean she moves slower, she just stalls by doing everything but what she should be doing.  Former Major League baseball player Mike Hargrove earned the nickname The Human Rain Delay with his habit of stepping out of the batter's box between each pitch to engage in a ritual of adjusting his equipment thereby grinding each at-bat to a snail's pace.  Grace is my personal Human Rain Delay.

A typical sideways morning goes something like this:
Me: "Grace, please finish your cereal so you can go upstairs and finish getting ready."
G: "Can I have a piece of candy?"
"Of course not, candy is not a breakfast food. Please finish."
" But you gave me like a hundred grapes."
"It was 10. Please go upstairs to get dressed."
"Okay, Daddy. First, may I show you my new cartwheel/somersault/jumpkick/dance move?"
"No, please go upstairs to get dressed."
*Does cartwheel/somersault/jump kick/dance move anyway.*
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. As soon as I say good morning to Mama Kitty."
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. Let me just clean up my markers."
"No. Please go upstairs."
"Right after I put on these fifteen bracelets."
"Why are you not walking up the stairs?"
"Because I am waiting to walk up with you, my special daddy."
*Deep breath, choke down the rage, trudge upstairs, send her into her room to get dressed.*
Ten minutes later...
"Why are you not dressed?"
"Oh, I have been standing in the mirror practicing every hair style I will need,like, ever."

This invariably leads me to shout something  extremely helpful like "JUST BRUSH YOUR DAMN TEETH!" or "WE HAVE TO GO. FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESE, FIND SOME SOCKS!" To which she starts whining about needing help putting on her socks. Putting on her socks? If I had said we had two minutes to get to the playground she could have pulled off a Houdini underwater straight jacket escape, but something I need her to do? Forget it.  At this point, Grace is lucky I don't possess the Force. If I did, she'd be gasping and clawing at her throat like one of Vader's Imperial flunkies.  So we clash, we get pissed over socks, and she ends up red-faced professing her calmness. 

I struggle to find the line between running an efficient, disciplined household and having a happy-go-lucky child. Today, I think I will look for it at the bottom of a beer mug.