"You may have won THIS round, Mommy . . ."

This is Meriel. She is in a timeout.
See those green boots on her feet? They were the subject of this morning's bout. A showdown between her stubbornness and mine. Of late, Meriel has chosen the daily walk to school to be the setting for much of our contests. I don't know, something about the ordeal puts her in a combative mood.

We began happily enough. She had a smile on her face while running out the door and down the sidewalk. Keller even let her run ahead of him without complaint (that scenario is often a source of contention). But when she got to the end of the street, she plopped herself down on the sidewalk and pulled off her boots. Both of her socks had slipped down her feet and become wadded up in the toes of her boots. She fixed them, hopped back up, and took off again, only to stop a little further down the road, plop down, and take her boots off again to fix her socks. After doing this yet again at the crosswalk, I decided I'd had enough and proposed what I thought was a reasonable solution. Give me the socks and just wear the boots.

She didn't like it.

Now when we are out walking, and she decides she doesn't like something, the emotion apparently creates a toxin in her head which moves to the section of her brain that oversees large motor skills, particularly the ability to move her legs. This toxin immediately shuts down that area, effectively paralyzing her legs, causing her to collapse on the ground. It then makes a lightning-fast jump to the area that oversees tear production and loud, wailing noisemaking and switches them on. Not only is this physical handicap irritating to me because I want to get home, but since we are on the sidewalk during busy commute times, I just know that all of the people in the many cars that pass by are observing this medical condition, misdiagnosing it as a show of rebellion, and laughing their heads off at me. Heaven help them if I actually catch them doing it.

In the past, when she's collapsed, I would stop and wait for her to hopefully get bored, get over it, and start moving again, but she has absolutely no sense of the passage of time. She's got all the time in the world! So I have abandoned that tactic, and now I immediately hoist her up by her upper arm and hold it in such a way as to make it uncomfortable if she doesn't keep pace with me.

So anyway, she refuses to wear her boots without her socks, which I have just confiscated. She plops down on the sidewalk kicks her boots away, and starts wailing. It's time to face off. Methinks, in the background, I hear the Mortal Kombat song, her theme song, floating on the breeze. Only, since it's Meriel, and she's still just a tiny terror, it's actually a music box version of it. I pick up the boots and stare her down as I start singing my own song: "These Boots are Made for Walkin'!" I then grab her arm, lift her up, dangle the boots in front of her face and ask if she wants them. She furrows her prominent brow, looks up at me in spitting defiance and screams, "NO!" Okay then. Round One is over.

Round Two begins as I start propelling her forward by the arm, barefooted, back to the crosswalk while she flails and screams. It's 8:15 in the morning. I hope that the frigid touch of rough cement on her feet will force her to see reason. Say "uncle," little demon! But the adrenalin rush of a toddler tantrum has made her strong, very strong. She feels nothing but the surge of hot resentment from my refusal to bow to her whims. She still won't wear the boots. End of Round Two.

Round Three. I turn the stroller duty over to Keller, and allow enough mercy to seep through to pick Meriel up and carry her wailing across the street (I think I've told you before that I'm not a monster). But as soon as we reach the other side, I dispassionately dump her back onto the cement and continue to drag her barefoot down the sidewalk. A police car drives by. He must have a toddler too because he keeps moving. We continue down the road--me with a blank look on my face, asking periodically "Do you want the boots? Do you want the boots? Do you want the boots?"--her, with weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, periodically yelling "No!"

It was like this the entire walk home until . . .

Right in front of our house, she suddenly does an about-face and sobs, "Mommy, my feet are co-o-old! Mommy, I want my boo-oo-oots!" I roll my eyes, pull them out of the stroller and give them to her. She puts them on and calmly walks the few remaining feet to the front door. Once inside, she immediately kicks them off again and starts to take off to play. "Oh no, Missy! After that embarrassing display, you have a timeout! Go to your room!" End of Round Three. And the winner is Mommy,
'CAUSE I SAID SO!