Yesterday was a difficult day.  Liliana tested me at every turn, and over little things, like, “Please pick that up,” which she totally understands.  She tilts her head, leans to the side, and pouts.  I repeat it, and if she doesn’t pick it up, I take her to the Naughty Step.  As I set her down, she screams.  I walk away and round the corner so she can’t see me, and her screams are left hanging–frozen–in the air.  She’s suddenly miraculously quiet.  If it weren’t for the fact that this happens for 3 hours straight, it would be hilarious.

I finally call my sister Worthy who used to be a Montessori teacher.  “Help!” I say.  “When I set her on the step, she pounds her feet on the wood floor and gives me The Look.”  [This attachment kind of discipline is new to me, since my parents did it differently, and I really want to be fair to Liliana, knowing it’s simply her way of trying to find out where her boundaries are.]  Worthy suggests I take away her favorite toy and put her in her room where there’s even more seclusion.  After three times of doing this, Liliana is suddenly a ray of sunshine.  She plays kissy-face and wants me to tickle her.

I don’t want the day to be all about her tantrums, so I take her to the grocery store to pick up a few things–as a preliminary introductory outing.  She’s an absolute angel; she even says “hi” to the older man bagging our groceries.  One of the other baggers comes over and says, “High five,” and she just looks at him.  “She knows this,” I say, because Dan’s already taught her this.  So, I say “High Five” again, and she slaps his hand.  “All right,” he says.  She grins.

I take her to Daube’s, which is a quaint Mom-and-Pop bakery that whips up batches of unbelievably delicious doughnuts, cakes, and breads.  I order us a cake doughnut to share.  A woman comments on Liliana’s jacket, and Liliana gives her that frown that only means she’s studying the woman, not that she’s mad.  I explain this to the woman, and she comes to sit with us, talking about how she doesn’t like watching mothers who never talk to their children–in the supermarket or wherever they are.  When Liliana and I get up to leave, the woman stands up, grabs my tray, and says, “Let me get that for you.”  I say, “You’re so sweet.  Thank you.”  She smiles and says, “I am, aren’t I?”

I would like to say here to all the mothers out there, and to the fathers, too, who are involved in their children’s care, that you should be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.  After all, who understands the effort it takes to raise a kind, loving, well-adjusted child more than dedicated parents?  And isn’t such a child a boon to civilization, maybe even more than a cure for cancer or a discovery of steroids?