The Tilt

It was just supposed to be a fun snack run

We weren’t in a time crunch, but it had taken seven minutes from the last time I said, “It’s time to get shoes on, go potty, and be ready by the front door,” for the fourteenth time. I know this because I’ve been using the timer on my watch to motivate my four-year-old to move at a pace faster than that of a snail who’s stepped on a moving walkway going the wrong way.

I had spent the last few weeks in a constant state of negotiation with my preschooler—my mantras of “Can we please have better listening ears?”, “Can you repeat back to me what you just heard me say?”, “Raise your hand if you HEAR me—does anyone even HEAR me?!”—on repeat.

In these same weeks, I was in the final chapters of When Did I Get Like This by Amy Wilson. Amy shares an old child development chart she found. It’s illustrated as a spiral and explains the constant state of equilibrium and disequilibrium children go through. The chart shows how kids’ behavior tilts every six months in and out of these states. Amy imagines her three children hosting a private meeting to determine who will be next to descend into disequilibrium.

In our house, Caroline had been taking the cake in the tilt toward the left and after digesting the chart, I began to wonder if she was stuck there permanently. She had been coming home from school with trinkets that were not hers, hidden in her shorts pockets, only to announce, “Ms. Annie didn’t even notice!” She excelled at doing exactly the opposite of what was asked and rolled on the floor each night in protest of brushing her teeth. Meanwhile, little Kate played sweetly with her babies, wrapping them up, patting their backs, and singing an off-beat “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” as she swayed back and forth.

I imagine their sibling strategy meeting took place after we finally got out the door and into their car seats, while I ran back inside to grab my wallet.

Caroline: “So, I’ve been at this for a few weeks now, Kate. You game to give it a go?”

Kate: “Otay. Shore.”

I imagine the conversation was quick and easy between them because the moment I got back in the van, Kate began her whine at a steady and consistent beat, repeating over and over:

“Me no like this song, Mommy!”

“Me want Arter Pakast!” her way of telling me she wants the Arthur Podcast instead.

Caroline sat compliant in her seat and shrugged her shoulders when I glanced back at her, as if to say, “Don’t ask me why she’s acting all crazy.”

Kate’s disequilibrium continued as we walked into the grocery store and I attempted to seat her in the front of the cart. Her face was stern and stoic, her legs locked in place, refusing to bend. I tried all the tricks, distraction tactics, snack offerings, nothing worked. Kate wanted to walk. I noticed side-eye stares from single shoppers, which I immediately interpreted as direct attacks on my gentle parenting style. I asked her to hold my hand, she refused. I tried to force her legs to bend. This kid was not going to budge.

So off we went, a two-year-old, a four-year-old, and an anxious mother, pushing a cart through the narrow aisles of an overpriced organic grocery store, waving off little hands from touching every glass bottle of $14.99 orange juice.

I let them each pick a snack. Caroline walked carefully, evaluating everything at eye level to choose the best option, while I followed behind Kate, readjusting every box she had nudged out of place on the neatly lined shelves a teen clerk had probably an entire shift straightening.

Caroline stood steadfast by the cart while I continuously begged Kate to sit in the red seat. “Look Kate, it’s red! It has a buckle! How fun!” It was no use. She had entered the full tilt of disequilibrium, just like the chart said. I’d have another five months of waiting it out, letting the two-and-a-half-year-old just be. When she began grabbing lavender bath bombs and rolling them down the aisle, I picked up her squirming body and balanced her on my growing belly while trying to push a cart full of organic granola and $11 protein bars around a tight corner to the register.

I let her hold a Larabar, which distracted her long enough to finally sit in the damn red seat and allow me to check out with two hands. Caroline helped load the conveyor belt while I rushed to get out before Kate changed her mind.

I tapped my card and turned to leave.

“Excuse me!” the clerk yelled from the checkout across the aisle. “Don’t forget that little purple shoe!” She pointed to Kate’s lone Croc on the floor…a full 20 feet from where we stood.

The clerk saw my confusion.

“She has quite the arm!”

___

Shoutout to

Charlie Bleecker

for the

Amy Wilson

book rec!