I'm pretty certain that everyone who passed my daughter Janie's elementary school at dismissal time a few weeks ago now knows me by sight. Yep, I'm that woman whose daughter threw a tantrum so gigantic and so spectacular that it took us over a quarter of an hour just to move to the front of the school and strangers felt moved to ask if she needed medical attention. I'm the woman who stood there for more than a half an hour next to a six-year-old girl who was sprawled on the sidewalk, as people passed by with nervous glances asking if everything was ok.

Yes, everything is ok. First grade is just hard, and tiring, and this has caused our mother/daughter relationship to devolve into a hostage situation. The hostage being me. Her demands are: 1) a juice box right now, 2) that I carry her backpack, 3) that I carry her, 4) ice cream upon arrival home. Otherwise she is not moving, nuh-uh, no way; she's going to sit here and cry until it gets dark and then sleep on the sidewalk. (This is her actual plan.) My position is that I do not negotiate with terrorists, I do not have a juice box anyway, I have neither the desire nor the ability to carry a six-year-old anymore, and I'm not rewarding a hissy fit with ice cream. As you can imagine, this produced a standoff.

Now I know that some of you are thinking, "Well, make her move! You're the mom! You're the boss! Demand it!" And believe me, that's what I was telling myself. I'm the mom! I'm the boss! She ought to do what I say! She ought to be enticed with the (non-ice cream) snack that awaits her at home, and she ought to be mortally fearful of the consequences of her behavior. Yet she didn't care at all. Have you ever seen a donkey just refuse to move? You can yell at it and beat it and push it and drag it and still it stands there stubbornly. I had a little donkey and had neither a stick big enough nor a carrot tasty enough to induce movement.

So there we stood, until we were each able to bend just enough to reach a mutually agreeable settlement: I would not carry her but would let her lean on me, and I would carry her backpack, but in return she would have to downgrade for a week to her preschool backpack which was smaller, lighter and much less cool looking. So, an hour later than usual, we staggered through the front door looking precisely as if we'd just fought a war: me, sweaty and disheveled and Janie with debris clinging to her hair and her grimy face streaked with tears.

As expected, a snack and a rest on the sofa greatly improved the matters, but the ceasefire ended at bedtime, when Janie refused to get into bed.

"Time for bed."

"No."

"Janie, get in bed now."

"Or else what?"

Or else what? Who did she think she was talking to? Or else this!

Now, we must pause for a moment to allow you to imagine "this." I find that whenever I divulge my specific parenting methods, it distracts from the story I am trying to tell. People get caught up in the details. So at this point, don't think about what I did, imagine what a good parent (whatever your definition of that is) would do. Imagine what you would have done. If you would have spanked her, spank her in your mind. If you would have told her "no story tonight," then no story. If you would have made a sticker chart for nice talk, go make a sticker chart. If you would have lifted her firmly into bed and left the room, go do it.

I did what you would do. I did what I thought was going to have the effect I wanted.  I called on the examples of parents I knew and admired and did what I thought a "good" parent (whose children do what they are supposed to do) would do. Furthermore, I did it calmly and firmly. I even used what Janie calls my "stun voice" (which I think is a variation on "stern voice").

But here's what you have to imagine now (and this is the hard part): imagine it didn't work. You spanked, she cried louder and refused harder. You told her no story, and she screamed, "I don't care! I'm not going to bed!" You offered ice cream or stickers, and she told you she wanted that plus fifty thousand dollars right now. You put her in bed and and she jumped back out and tried to run out of the room. Whatever you did, the situation escalated, she got more adamant and more upset and still was not in bed.  And if you tried again, she escalated the situation still further.

That was where I was.  We were getting nowhere, and I was in despair.  Here I am doing what everyone I admire says a good parent is supposed to do and my child is acting like a complete nightmare, thus proving that I am a bad parent.  I don't get it.  Why am I so bad at this?  What the hell am I supposed to do?  What have I done already to make things this bad?  I can't even ask anyone for help, because then I'd have to admit to how much I've clearly somehow screwed up already.

That's when the answer came.  Beyond the point where Janie was kicking and screaming on the floor, a book on her bookshelf caught my eye. Actually, a single word in the title caught my eye: God.  Cheesy, huh?  The old me would want to punch me for something like this, but I thought "No, wait.  That's it!  God's will, not my will!" I knew what my will was: I wanted to be a good parent by bossing Janie into bed. (She's tired! She needs to be in bed!) But what was God's will?

So I took a deep breath and said, "Janie, this isn't working.  I'm going to try something different.  Right now I'm worried because we're fighting over bedtime.  Bedtime isn't something I'm trying to make you do to be mean.  We all need enough sleep so our bodies can be healthy, and it's my job as your mama to protect you and help take care of you and help you learn to take care of yourself.  I don't want to fight about this, but I don't know what else to do right now.  I'm stuck.  So, do you know what I believe?  I believe there is a God part inside each one of us and if we are quiet and still we can hear that part of us tell us the right thing to do.  So I'm going to be quiet and still now and see if that God part can help me figure out what I need to do now.  And maybe you can be quiet and still and think — not about what you want me to do — but what you should do for you right now."

Janie stopped crying.  She turned away from me and scooched across the floor to where her beloved stuffed animal Gigi lay, and she sat there for a bit, hugging her knees.  Then she turned to me and said, "Mama, I think I can go to bed if I show you something."  So I joined her, and she showed me a bead she'd found on the floor: "It's pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said.

"Can I make something with it in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Ok.  I'm ready for bed now."

"Sweetie, can I give you a hug?  I think we've both had a rough day."

"Yes."

So, I gave Janie a hug that felt like melting, like walls dissolving, like peace.  Then she climbed into bed.  I smoothed her hair, and she smoothed mine, and she was asleep in minutes, holding my hand.

I've been giving a lot of thought recently to the 12 Step saying: "Let go and let God." I was talking to a (non-program) friend about those words a few weeks ago and she asked, "What does that mean? Let go and let God? I don't get it." And as I struggled to formulate an answer, I found myself approaching the words anew.

I've had a lot of letting go I've needed to do lately. Among other things, we suffered the death of a pet this week, and death is the ultimate letting go. And at this very moment, Gigi, the stuffed animal that soothes my daughter Janie to sleep each night, is missing. I've torn the house apart and can't find it. I can't remember where we last saw it. I don't know if she had it last night because a babysitter put her to sleep. But she can't sleep without it, right? It must have been here. But what if it wasn't. Was Wednesday the last time I saw it? Is she going to lose this love so soon after our dear pet? I'm having trouble letting go of clinging to the idea of Gigi like a scared child myself.

And in the clinging, there's the knowledge that I must let go. And I come back to those words "let go and let God." I always took them to mean "let go of control and let God take charge," but I've realized they mean a whole host of things "let go of hurt and let God heal" or "let go of isolation and let God in" or "let go of fear and let God soothe." Right now I'm thinking, "Let go of pain and guilt and sadness over my inability to keep Janie safe from all life's losses and let God take care of her."

A few months ago, my daughter Janie brought her favorite stuffed animal over to a neighbor's house to play. I meant to remember to make sure she brought Gigi home, but in the confusion of saying goodbye and putting on shoes and making sure her brother didn't dash out the door prematurely, I forgot. We tromped home without her, and I rushed out the door not long after for a night out with some girlfriends, leaving the kids with my husband Mark.

I arrived home later that night, delighted after a wonderful dinner out, to find Mark looking frazzled. The kids had only just fallen asleep, and Janie had cried nearly the entire time because they couldn't find Gigi. They had tried the neighbor, but no one answered, so Mark had stayed in her room with her until she cried herself to sleep. He worried that she'd wake in the night and not be able to get back to sleep. So, I tried the neighbor again, waking her this time, and retrieved Gigi, whom I placed in bed next to Janie to ensure she'd sleep through the night.

Last week, Janie brought Gigi to the same friend's house to play. With the trauma of that last visit still fresh in all our minds, I was certain that this time we'd all remember to see Gigi safely home when it was time to go. Yet we all forgot again. I went off to yoga class and Mark was just about to get the kids ready for bed when our neighbor knocked on the door, Gigi in hand. And Mark was furious. I had done it again! I had set him up once again for a horrific bedtime and set Janie up once again for tears and despair.

But then he realized that nothing bad had happened this time. Bedtime hadn't started. No one missed Gigi yet. The neighbor found Gigi and cheerfully dropped her off during her evening walk. No one was upset. No one was inconvenienced. Mark was angry and resentful about what could have happened but didn't. And as he started to tell me the story, I was anxious and guilty about problems I hadn't caused. In the past, those emotions would have fed into some kind of crazy acting out cycle. Mark would have used sex to make the fear and discomfort go away, and I would have put off my own needs to do whatever it took to make him feel better. But for today, when we can see it, we're able to let go of what hasn't happened yet.

When Austen was a baby, a friend of my husband's gave him a stuffed camel, which she brought for him all the way from Israel. However, Austen never showed much interest in toys without wheels or numbers. The sole exception was a stuffed rabbit my friend Kelly sent him for his first Easter, which he dragged around everywhere by its ears. The rabbit played "Easter Parade" when you pressed its belly, and Austen would crawl with it, each movement of his left hand marked by a soft thud followed by the electronic tinkle of music. Somehow that rabbit set a standard for music, and all songs since have been met with screaming; Austen hasn't liked music since the batteries (that were the soul of his first love) died.

Austen ignored the camel. But it had come from far away, carried over the wide sea just for him, so I put it up in a place of honor on a shelf next to his crib. When Mark and I opened the door to his room, the camel was one of the first objects to greet our eyes each day: sitting on that shelf, gathering dust and watching over our son as he slept curled next to his rabbit.

When Austen was two, Mark admitted that he had had sex with the woman who had so kindly given our baby boy the stuffed camel that sat by his crib nearly all his life. And suddenly my son's room felt poisoned and oppressive: tainted by the presence of that toy. As angry as I was at Mark for anything, I was perhaps most furious at him for letting the blood money of his addiction touch the life of his infant son. But Mark didn't need the sharp prod of my anger to hurt him. Each day, when he entered that room, he had seen the camel there, a reminder of his shame, and he'd been washed in self-loathing that would make him feel physically sick. He tried to avoid looking at it. He tried to think of how to get rid of it, but he couldn't think of how to manage it without arousing suspicion. And he thought it best, at the time, that Austen and I never know what had happened. He would keep this secret, because surely, now, finally, (he said to himself) he'd be able to stop, and this would really, truly (this time he meant it) never happen again. Until at last, something inside him shattered, and he had to admit he needed help.

I took the camel out of Austen's room, and intended to get rid of it. But I couldn't bear to give it to charity, to throw that shadow of betrayal over some other innocent life. And throwing it in the trash seemed too casual an action for a symbol of such hurt. So one night, after we put Austen to bed, Mark and I put the camel in our old charcoal barbecue grill, doused it in lighter fluid and set it on fire. It flared up; flames licked the night air, as it curled and dissolved into a plume of black smoke. Mark and I put our arms around each other and watched it burn, and I felt cleaner and closer to him than I had since I'd learned of his addiction.

We scrubbed the grill and sold it at a yard sale: every bit of the camel gone from our lives. But the simple emptiness and lack were not enough. Like a symbol for our marriage, from the ashes of that shame and pain, I wanted something new and beautiful to arise. So we went to a toy store, and picked out a stuffed bunny (since Austen was partial to them) and took it to a women and children's shelter along with some old clothes and baby gear, hoping some other child would love dragging this new toy around by the ears.

Image credit: Photo by Jane Costa Lima on Flickr

Gigi's always there.
Stuffed companion at the park,
at home and at school.

Gigi's always there.
When my girl's nose is runny,
Gigi's a tissue.

Gigi's always there.
When my girl's hands are dirty,
Gigi's a towel.

Gigi's always there.
When my girl's feeling sleepy
Gigi's a pillow.

Time for Gigi's bath!
She clings, passionate and firm,
blind to love's own grime.

Mama is stealthy:
Gigi's in the wash, leaving
An empty backpack.

Baby girl is out.
And shouldn't notice until
she's back home again.

Gently tumbling dry.
We will sneak back soft and warm.
Gigi's always there.

This post is part of A Mommy Story's Haiku Friday

But my daughter's absolute favorite thing about Gigi is Gigi's tail. She doesn't hold Gigi by any other part and that tail is threadbare and ragged from being rubbed. A few weeks ago, my daughter finally wore a hole in Gigi's tail. It was the middle of the night and Mark managed to soothe her back to sleep, but first thing in the morning, she called to me: "Mama, Gigi's tail is broken!" I sewed it up in a few seconds, and for a week, she talked about nothing else: "Mama, I was sad when Gigi's tail broke, and I cried, but then you fixed it. Thank you, Mama. You fixed Gigi's tail and that made me happy. Thank you so much, Mama!"

Now, I'm thinking I need to stop spending so much time doing the laundry and the dishes. I need to stop spending time picking up the toys and making dinner and earning money for odds and ends. Those things take forever, they're never really done and they're always taken for granted. But 15 seconds focused on the most important thing in my daughter's life gave her a week of joy and relief and earned me a week of praise and gratitude. Three-year-olds have an uncanny knack for reminding us what's really important.