a true story about daily transitions
The Car Seat Battle Ends Today
We're already late, and the second we reach the car she goes stiff as a plank in my arms.
the realization
I stopped trying to win the buckle and gave her something else to do with all that fight. The second her eyes went hunting for something red, her back unlocked on its own.
It's the same fight every single time. We get to the car, I reach for the door, and her whole body turns to concrete. Arched back, legs straight out, that furious little face. "NO!" And I've got the diaper bag on one shoulder and my keys in my teeth and somewhere a clock ticking.
have you ever felt this way too?
So I did what I always do. I pushed. I tried to fold her into the seat and force the buckle while she screamed, and I heard my own voice climbing up into a yell. The harder I pressed, the stiffer she got. We were both sweating in a parked car in the driveway. Nobody was going anywhere.
I don't even know what made me stop. I just ran out of push. So I crouched down so we were eye to eye and, kind of out of nowhere, I said, "Ooh, I spy something red." She blinked at me. Her eyes actually darted around, looking for it. And while she was busy hunting, I slid her in and the buckle clicked before she remembered to be mad.
She spotted the red stop sign. Then a red car. She was pointing and I was clicking her chest strap and neither of us was fighting anymore. I sat back on my heels in the driveway, a little stunned, and just watched her look for the next one.
what I found myself saying
"Instead of "we have to GO," I got down and said — ooh, I spy something red."
""You really don't want to sit down. I know." Then: can you find me something red?"
"I quit explaining and just whispered — show me where the red is."
