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According to my little girl, if you say something enough times (and in some cases if you say it with enough volume), your belief will become true. Knowing her current predilection toward (shall we say) embellishment, when she comes out the bathroom door after a scant twenty seconds spent doing her business, naturally I question her. “Did you flush, baby? Did you wash your hands?”
“Yes I did,” she solemnly declares, locking her sweet blue eyes onto mine with the sincerity of a praying nun.
I know she hasn’t. The bathroom is right off the living room and my well-trained mommy’s ears can detect everything that goes on in there. “Go wash your hands and flush, honey.”
She has the temerity to argue with me. “I did, Mommy! I did wash my hands!”
I motion her over for a sniff test, realizing too late that I’ve been sucked into a futile argument with a toddler. “They don’t smell like soap,” I point out.
“Oh all right! Fine!” she complains, sounding exactly like her elder sister. She disappears behind the door. I hear water running, then the toilet flushing, then more water running. And then begins the splashing.
I storm the door and find my lil darling wearing a layer of soap from shoulders to fingertips. The sink is decorated in a similar manner. She’s shocked to see me there. “He did it!” she exclaims, pointing a drippy finger at her brother who has peeked into the room around my hip. “He spilled the soap!”
For once the boy bears no blame. Up until that very moment he’d been playing quietly down the hall. My patience with the girl is nearly through. I yell at her to quit playing, to finish washing her hands, to stop blaming her brother for things that she has done.
But before the door half-way shuts behind me, she pops back out again. “I need a hug!”
It’s her standard defense to any trouble she finds herself up against, and I’m having a hard time managing this particular childish ploy. Whining does not move me. Nor do begging, crying, stomping, screeching, or muttering “You’re the worst Mommy ever,” move me. But demanding a hug as a means of avoiding trouble is draining the ever loving life out of me.
I know it’s nothing more than the most transparent attempt at manipulation; it’s the hope on her part that if she can ignore fervently enough the issue at hand, then so will I.
Unfortunately for her, life doesn’t work that way. She’ll learn eventually (though I’m sure we all know adults who could stand a refresher course in this lesson), but for now I’m at a loss. What do you do with a child who asks for hugs when discipline is needed?
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