No More Socks = No More Yelling – Right?

I yelled. I yelled loud. I yelled and my throat feels tight, sore, and sad. Autumn is Ms. Freedom. She gets to do what she wants. She eats what she wants or usually doesn’t want. She plays what she wants. She would wear whatever she wants if she gave a crap (well, she really likes her Cry, Cry, Cry, Johnny Cash t-shirt with the guitar.) She mostly wants to do everything on her own and I indulge this to my greatest ability but when it comes to getting her socks on – she’s just not there and she won’t let me help. It’s painful to watch. I’ve tried asking her to let me open them while she does the rest but NO! This is where we get stuck. Because putting on socks around our house indicates leaving the house. We’re not always in a hurry but it would take hours to leave if I left the sock issue up to her because after a while she gets bored (because she can’t get the damn socks on) and starts playing and the entire episode begins again.

So today, Sunday, she was going to go to Super Supplements with her dad, it’s cold, and she needed socks and shoes on. I guess I could have just given up and let her choose to stay at home since she wouldn’t let me help her but an hour or so of free/me time sounded too pleasant to give up so, I helped and boy did I help. I said, “I’m going to open the sock hole and help you put them on” and this is what I began to do and then she kicked me right in the right boob as hard as she could with the one foot already socked and shoed. I had it. I’ve had it. I can be patient, understanding, and helpful for only so long. I grabbed her under the arms, sat her on the side of the bed and yelled; “you may not kick me, it hurts and I’m just trying to help you put on your sock.” Now, I – kind of – can’t remember how many times I yelled that. She started to cry and then let me put her sock and shoe on and whew.

Now she’s out with her dad and I just called and she’s just fine but I’m not. I need to find a middle ground with my strong-willed, obstinate, opinionated offspring. I want her to try to do everything on her own. I want her to argue. I want her to be strong. But I don’t want to give until I crack. I don’t want to get angry and yell over socks. It’s always the fucking socks too. Okay, I’ve got it, no more socks! I’ll just find some fleeced lined boots. She knows how to put boots on.


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