Arrgh

You can chalk up this week's frequent postings to the fact that I'm cranking out another dissertation chapter. While leaving my desk would feel like cheating, taking a break to blog allows me the illusion that I'm still writing away. Dissertating requires a cry of fatigue and frustration every now and then.

This morning's frustration was compounded by Edith's recalcitrance about Picture Day. Last spring she was a sunshiny babe, happy to wave goodbye to mama at daycare in the morning...until Picture Day. Sure that she could count on Edith to smile and coo at the photographer, Edith's teacher instead found herself shouldering a sobbing infant who refused to be parted from an adult.

This year Edith said goodbye to me readily enough, but getting her ready to go in the first place was another matter. We had set aside last night for trying on three or four possible dresses, most of which were hand-me-downs that she hadn't yet had a chance to wear. Edith was having none of it. As I approached her with a dress, she would shout "no no no" hysterically and burst into tears. Anything I slipped over her head she tore back off.

"Fine, what do you want to wear for Picture Day?" I asked with some exasperation. "The cozy purple dress?" No! "This pretty white dress?" No! "Oooh, this one with flowers?" No! "What, then? You have to wear something."

"Ballerinas!" she choked out between sobs. "Ballerinas! Want ballerinas!"

To wit, the outgrown pink pajamas with cartoon drawings of ballerinas all over them. Defeated, I put them on her for the time being, hoping she would be in a better mood later.

Nothing doing. Usually a fan of bathtime, after dinner Edith refused a bath with another teary outburst.

"But honey, you haven't had a bath in three days and you have peanut butter in your hair. You have to have a bath tonight."

"Bed! Edif go bed!" she cried. Tom intervened on her behalf, suggesting that any child asking to go to bed should be granted her request. I figured we could squeeze in a bath in the morning.

But aroused from drowsy nursing on a bleak gray morning, water leaking from the bathroom ceiling as the rained poured down outside, Edith didn't like the break with morning routine at all. Though I got her into the tub, I couldn't persuade her to sit down, and washing the peanut butter out of her hair brought angry wails.

After that, the question of getting dressed was no easier than it had been the night before. Though I narrowed it down to a particular dress by eyeballing them all on the hanger, she fought the one I chose tooth and nail, resuming the cry for ballerinas. Then once I had the outfit on her and--thanks to continuous singing of favorite songs--had her calm, I discovered the bow on the front had come undone and couldn't be fixed without needle and thread. Which was beyond my capabilites at the moment.

Off with the dress and on with another. Then Edith wanted to wear the sneakers she had received from her cousin in the mail the night before, rather than dress shoes. Finally we stuck the sneakers and the ballerinas in a bag to take to school and told her she could wear them after pictures.

Of course a morning bath meant a wet head, but the blow dryer was out of the question. Again Tom intervened on Edith's behalf, agreeing with her that the blow dryer was scary and arguing that her hair dries fast.

At 9:00 on the nose I finally dropped off a solemn-faced kid in a slightly rumpled dress with damp stringy hair. I noticed that a disproportionate number of parents seemed to be arriving late. Bumping into the mother of one of Edith's classmates, I learned that she had spent twenty minutes wrestling her child into his jacket then attempting to add a tie before giving up in despair. Another classmate was sobbing and clinging to his mother. A third had come in wearing playclothes, and his mother was frantically trying to get him into a sweater and slacks. The teachers already looked harried.

All I can figure is that we adults must telegraph our anxiety about Picture Day. And the kids refuse to play along. We'll see what transpired when we pick up Edith this afternoon, in her pajamas and sneakers...