Friday, October 9, 2009
If You Fight It, It Takes Longer
My little one HATES having her diaper changed. At first it's a game. She runs over to me and motions with a flapping hand towards her diaper region that she is in need of a refresher. Sometimes she even grabs my hand and leads me away from whatever I'm doing. She knows she is not happy sitting in poo. (Who would be?) We'll get all the way into her room and then she gets this twinkle in her eye and runs the other direction, laughing wildly as the chase begins. This is the game. Sometimes, I have time to play and I'll let her run away a few times before she "lets" me catch her. Other times, a diaper change is just one more thing on the list of tasks keeping me from getting out the door and I'll grab her wriggling little self and put her (gently of course, with all the love in my heart) on the changing table so we can clear the air and remove the offending garment.
This is when the real fun begins. The writhing, leg kicking, arm scrapping, twisting, bumping, head banging movement that begins as soon as this mini person approaches the table is something that, once I've completed my task, I could describe as having survived. She HATES it. She hates her tiny body hanging out of warm fleece. She hates the cold wet wipes. She hates having to leave whatever she was doing. She hates missing out on the action in the rest of the house. She hates it and though she may not have words to express it, her actions speak louder than words. So she struggles and I pin her down with one arm while removing clothing with the other. She kicks and I lean back so her foot does not connect with my face. She flips over and I flip her back. She screeches like an alien having its toenails removed with a spoon, and I yell back things like,
"If you fight, this will take longer!" and,
"If you didn't struggle, we could be finished by now!"
Good advice, but this doesn't make her feel any better in the heat of the moment. So we battle on. Her thumping eventually subsides long enough for me to unclothe, unstrap, wipe, replace and fasten, re-dress and place her little body, fists still swinging, back on the floor so it can speedily depart the scene. Eventually she'll learn that if she would just be still, the whole thing would be easier and that by fighting, she prolongs the very thing she hates the most. But we're all guilty of that sometimes. Whatever that thing is that we hate to do. If we didn't struggle, we could be finished by now.
This is where Motherhood leads you sometimes. Seeing wisdom in the poop.