Last night, the Hubs met me at work so that Z and I could go to dinner with some friends from church. The evening started off innocently enough, the girls were hyper and cute, excited to see each other in a different element, and my friend and I were actually able to get some real conversation done.
Z and I left there and arrived home just in time to see "Here Comes Santa Claus" on TV. With this Christmas classic playing in the background, I felt festive enough to haul out all of the Christmas paraphenalia, untangle the strands of lights, go through ornaments and make sure that all hooks were intact and that nothing was broken, unravel all of the garland and untie any knots left from last year's hasty cleanup.
I was patient with the "oohing" and "aahing" from the almost 4 year old beside me that had to touch and discuss every last centimeter of "prize" in the Christmas box. I was patient with the not quite 1 year old cat that has never seen a Christmas scene before. I happily smiled as I assembled the tree, sang along with the songs from the movie as we hung the ornaments with care, lifted my 50 pound child unto my shoulders so that she could be the one to place the star atop the tree.
The night was so perfect that I was really starting to believe that I have got this mothering thing under control (finally).
I could not have been more wrong.
At 9:30, I dressed Z in her favorite nightgown. I was told that I was the "bestest mommy ever" because it was washed, dried and hung in her closet (apparently, we all have low expectations). I read two story books and left her room.
At 10:00, the screaming started. Loud, infantile, obtrusive screaming. I was so quietly patient the f-ing Super Nanny would have thrown me a banquet. Every time she would cross the threshold of her door, I would quietly, without eye contact, scoop her up and place her back in her bed. Over and over. For an hour and a half.
She screamed, "I will die in here, all alone" (we have a penchant for the dramatic), "WAH, I want my mommy", "WAAAAAAH, I want my cat", "WAAAAAAAAAAAH, NO ONE LOVES ME". I crocheted and watched the news, waiting for the sound of silence. I stifled my smiles and giggles. I did not yell or even speak. I crocheted and waited.
At 11:15, she moved to just inside of her bedroom door on the floor. As long she stays within her room, I do not fight her because she is in her room. Still screaming, she sat looking out into the hallway.
11:30. Silence. Sudden silence. I smile.
11:31. Blood curdling, earth shattering screams. "I PEED MY BED. I PEED MY BED".
My blood rises. My face goes hot. Anger is dripping off of me.
She is sitting on her bed, fully clothed, saturated with urine. She has peed her bed on purpose, because she thinks that I will not make her sleep there. She got off the floor, walked to her bed, sat on it and purposely peed her bed. WTF? The toilet is less than 4 feet from where she was sitting on the floor.
I walk out of her room and into the bathroom. I place a towel over the wet spot, strip off her clothes and storm out of the room.
She went to bed, naked, on a towel.
Santa will be banned from our house this year. I am taking down the tree tonight.