Vexing tornado of wrath

Emma had another epic meltdown about pants. Yes, you read that right...I said pants.

She is fanatical about what she wears. The texture, the feel, the length, the exact right balance of tightness and looseness. She has very specific needs when it comes to clothing, mysterious, ever-changing needs that are impossible to completely identify or meet.

I have tried to be accommodating, up to a point. When I was little, I had no choice at all in what I wore. We didn't have much money, and my parents put me in whatever they could afford. I hated a lot of it, and I'm sure I voiced that opinion. But I didn't dare dream of refusing to wear something. I started working when I was 11, and from that moment on I bought my own clothes. I loved the freedom of choosing what I wanted within my own budget, and to a certain extent, I wanted to extend that freedom of choice to my daughters. Emma is her own person with her own preferences, and - to a reasonable degree - I want to respect and foster that.

Also, I am not without sympathy to her clothing dilemma. A lot of her odd clothing requirements are less about preference and more about comfort. She is very sensitive to the feel of the clothes she wears, and I don't want her to be uncomfortable. So I have listened to her laundry list of wishes and tried very hard to buy her things I think she will like. But pleasing Emma is not that straightforward. The main problem she and I have is that she will try things on and declare she likes them, and we take the tags off and keep them, and then they are washed and she puts them on and decides she loathes them and they can never touch her skin ever ever again and we've just wasted precious money and time.

So, after many times of the above scenario and lots of lecturing and angry words about gratitude and wastefulness and personal responsibility, she has lost the privilege of picking out what she wears until she can stand by, and accept the consequences of, her choices. The only clothes currently in her dresser are ones she has already tried on and approved. I'm not forcing her to wear mohair long johns or wool pants suits. (I admit though...the thought has crossed my mind.) Of course, she has since changed her mind about many of these same clothes, deciding she no longer "likes" them, after we were no longer able to return them. And she resents the loss of control, which is fueling her anger. So right now, it kinda goes like this in our house: I choose, she wears, and every single day is a battle.

Today, it was over skinny black pants that I bought her right before Christmas. I do a lot of shopping at the thrift store...not only for the obvious reason of cost, but also because pre-worn clothes are softer and tend to be more appealing for Emma texture-wise. She tried the pants on and said she liked them, but they were too loose in the waist. Santa brought her a belt for Christmas that she loves, so problem solved, right?

The minute she put on the pants, she went ballistic. Sample utterings this morning included: "They are killing me!" "Oh my god, these pants, THESE PANTS!" "The bottoms bunch up and I look like a freak." "They are itchy and awful." "They hurt, they hurt, they hurt!" "WHY are you doing this to me????!"

She whined. She screamed. She walked like a robot, refusing to bend her legs because, apparently, the pants are so awful that they rendered her knees useless. She rolled her eyes, growled, moaned. She said several rude things, which earned her a bedtime right after dinner this evening. All told, it was a temper tantrum. An impressive show of will in a two-year-old. But a nine-year-old? The word ridiculous kept springing to mind.

Mostly, Sophie and I ignored her. (After many years of trial and error, we have learned in these instances that the less attention paid, the better.) The pants stayed on. I drove her to school, kissed her goodbye, and watched her robot-walk her way through the doors. Battle over, for now. And tomorrow? Once more into the breach, my friends.

I'm not proud to admit this, but her behavior drives me around the bend. I know it shouldn't, that I should let her antics roll right off my back, that she wants a reaction. But oh, dear lord, that is so much easier said than done. I worry about her, about how emotional and prone to anger she is. I worry I'm failing as a mom by not helping her figure out a more effective way to deal with her feelings. I worry because she is ME. She is so much like me, it sometimes takes my breath away. And I know that there are aspects to my personality that are hard to live with...for others, and for me. I don't want that for her. I really, really don't.

Emma can be sweet and kind and generous and gentle and a thousand other amazing things. She can also be a vexing tornado of wrath. And all that said, I adore her. All of her, every single aspect that makes her who she is. Because all the many facets of her personality have mixed together, creating this astounding, complex, amazing person...a person that I feel privileged to have in my life, even in her very worst moments. I love her. I just don't always know how to deal with her.