Violet has a Spring dance recital this morning. She is wearing her slightly baggy pink leotard, her Winter pink tights. Her tu-tu is laying next to her ballet slippers by the door ready to go. Her hair is a mess, it needs to get tied up somehow and between now and when we leave out the door she will probably need 2-3 snacks and have a meltdown.
I have been wanting to tell you about her lately but just haven't had the time.
We started a reward chart that hangs on the frig and spells out the things that Violet helps with around the house. Some not so important things like "put the dishes in the sink" combined with more important things like "cleans her room" and "listens". When she gets enough "x's" and stars then she gets a reward. At first we felt as if we had created a monster. She was a whirlwind of activity around the house. Every piece of dirty clothes she thought was worthy of an X, which meant by the end of the night we were reward bankrupt. So we negotiated and set some rules, ironed out the kinks if you will. Now a week or so into this she isn't as gung ho as she was at the beginning. But it works, mostly, like magic. It seems like kids are just yearning for us adults to give them a reason. Go ahead, just tell me why it is so important to pick up my dirty clothes. It seems to work like magic if you just say, after you do that thing, then you get this smoothie popsicle. The one you would of gotten anyway but not it just feels all warm and fuzzy for everyone involved. Yesterday when we were leaving the house for soccer I asked her to go to the bathroom and without a hesitation she said, "okay mom, I will try" which is a phrase about as orgasmic as chocolate ice cream.
So yeah, we did soccer. Just a little four session thing in a neighborhood gym. Violet has been asking and asking for so long to play soccer like her cousins. So we finally get her enrolled in this little class and the day comes and I say to her, guess what violet, today we are going to soccer. And it is as if I opened the gates of hell as this horrific yell/cry/scream thing comes out of a seemingly innocent little mouth. She doesn't want to go until she is seven. That day, the one when we are supposed to start soccer, not so much. But we strap on her tennis shoes anyway and drag her to the gym. She walks in like a zombie, tear jags and the whole bit. She sits, cowers and cries in my lap the entire class. Because I am the meanest parent ever to make her go to this soccer thing before she is 7. And that is what gets me. Damned if you do and damned if you don't. Because here I was thinking I was a terrible parent that I hadn't gotten her enrolled in some soccer class. Then when I go and make the parent honor roll my child decides I suck for making her kick some lousy black and white balls around a gym. But this story ends well. Yesterday was our last soccer class and Violet was one of the first kids out on the floor. When asked, her hand shoots up the fastest in the class. She kicks those balls around like she never once hesitated. And the best thing, the jackpot of parenting if you will, is watching her face light up when she is running around playing.
