Morning Negotiations With a Very Tiny Lawyer
Children are stubborn. Noah simply treats that as a competitive sport.
I have shared before that each child comes with their own instruction manual, except it is written in invisible ink. Taking away technology worked beautifully for our oldest. The younger two treated that consequence like a mild suggestion. One child feared extra chores. Another mourned a stuffed animal sitting in time out like it had committed a crime.
Noah? Noah takes every strategy and raises it to an Olympic level. 💪
Yesterday morning was a masterpiece.
Noah was showered, dressed, and ready. A rare and beautiful sight. I gave my usual time warnings because transitions are his nemesis.
“Ten minutes, Noah. Time to get the bus.”
“Okay.”
“Five minutes.”
“Okay.”
Time to leave.
“Noah, grab your bookbag.”
“No.”
Ah. Here we go.
“We need to get on the bus. Miss Lisa is waiting.” 🚌
“No.” Followed by a well-aimed spit for emphasis.
I pivot to bargaining.
“Do you want to sit in the front seat?”
“Yes.”
Progress.
“Great, let us go.”
“No.”
Of course.
I try concern.
“Are you okay? Does something hurt?”
Blank stare. Oscar-worthy.
I bring out the big guns.
“Do you want a donut tomorrow?” 🍩🍩
“Yes.” Immediate response. Miraculous recovery.
“Perfect, let us go.”
Nothing.
Reverse psychology enters the chat.
“Ziva, since Noah is not getting a donut, do you want his?”
Ziva, fully committed to the role: “Yes. Glazed with strawberry frosting.”
I consider ordering one for myself.
Noah growls. We have emotion, just not cooperation.
After twenty minutes, the bus is waiting, Ziva has an appointment, and my sanity has left the building.
We attempt a two-person extraction. He removes his shoes, throws them, and sits back down like a protestor refusing to leave the premises.
I call for reinforcements. Pop Shane, from work.
“Listen to Mom or you will be in time out after school.”
Blank stare. Pop Shane has been defeated.
Then Noah requests Granddaddy.
“Do you want to go see Granddaddy?”
“Yes.”
A breakthrough. Possibly dishonest, but at this point I am surviving, not thriving.
We get in the car. No shoes. Socks only. We start up the driveway. The bus appears. Noah is offended by this plot twist but does put his shoes back on.
Five more minutes of negotiations and suddenly… he is fine. Off to school. Has a great day. Lives his best life.
Meanwhile, I am ready to cry, nap, or both. But there are other children, a job, and Ozzy waiting like he pays the bills.
These moments are less frequent now, but they still make a surprise appearance. I use every tool in the toolbox. Sometimes the toolbox just laughs at me.
We are working on helping Noah communicate his feelings. It is a slow process. Everything with Noah is a slow process.
I tell him we should have named him Moses. The Israelites would still be in the desert.
I love him deeply. He also makes me want to scream into a pillow.
Tell me I am not alone. What has worked for you? Prayers are always appreciated.
And if you have survived mornings like this, please tell me your secrets. Send me an email, [email protected], or share your stories, tips, and survival tactics on Facebook using the link below.
Misery loves company, and I am currently accepting all advice, prayers, and strong coffee recommendations.
