So here it comes. This time, however, it arrives with 311 lbs. behind it and a fight in her that speaks of her late Aunt Jules.
Ella is sporting her will and independence. She's testing her parents. She's being a "stinker".
It's wonderful.
She deliberately disobeyed me while on our walk today. She had veered off the sidewalk in her power wheelchair and I told her to get back on the sidewalk (please). She stopped the machine. I could see her tiny shoulders slump down as she settled herself into the minuscule chair that sits on the enormous machine. She was settling in for a fight with Daddy.
I waited. So did she. So did Henry. Neighborhood kids and a few adults were delighted to watch the spectacle of an almost 45-year old man and his almost 2-year old daughter begin the dance all parents know and "love". The dance that pits will against will. The one that causes blood pressures to rise. The interaction that has each standing their ground in an effort to make the other comply.
I placed my hand on her joystick to coax her to push it forward. Instantly she demanded that "Ella Do It!!"; I pulled back and conceded. She smiled and slowly pulled her little hand away from the joystick; she did a little "Ella Dance" in her victory and sat back into her comfort zone. Battle one was hers for the taking. Daddy must try another offensive.
"Words. Use words." I thought to myself.
"Ella. It's time to go. Let's catch up with Henry." I suggested politely.
"Ella's turn." she responded with authority.
"Yes. Ella's turn." my response was without emotion.
No movement. Nothing. People were probably starting to place bets. The air was warm and the breeze was cool. She noticed the grass and commented on a bag therein. A distraction attempt. I wasn't fooled.
"I'll make it daddy's turn." I threatened. I know she knows I can do this. It's a simple matter of pushing a switch on the back of the wheelchair and the control goes completely to me.
No response from Princess Stinker.
Beep, Beep goes the button that transfers power.
"No! NO!" bellows the child.
Daddy takes control and moves the machine onto the sidewalk and goes for about 10 feet.
"Ella's turn! Ella's turn" she loudly and without embarrassment screams.
I stop. Bets are probably placed again.
"If you want Ella's turn then you must 'go'" I reason with the 2-year old.
"Must go." she repeats. "Ella's turn" she reiterates.
Beep, Beep as I transfer power in an attempt to usher in peace for the remainder of our walk.
She takes the joystick and moves forward to 3 inches. Stops and does the shoulder slinking again. I've gotta hand it to her, she kept her word. Daddy was not specific. She's winning this battle and soon the war. The dance will be led by her if I don't take the lead myself.
Blood pressure is rising. I can feel it. I know I cannot let her see it. My voice deepens and its volume rises.
"Ella Casten. Keep going until Daddy says 'stop'." I command.
"Ella's turn" her sweet little voice rings out with crystal clarity.
"Then go." I invite with a touch of sarcasm.
No response.
Beep. Beep. I have control now. I take the helm and drive for almost a block as she whimpers and cries. She's trying to bring out the big guns. After already having two kids the fake crying has no real effect on me.
"When you stop crying, we'll talk" I tell her matter-of-factly. Almost 10 sidewalk squares later she says, "Ella stop crying. Talk."
I go in front of her. Crouch down so we are eye to eye; place my hand under her chin. I tell her that if she wants to drive, she must go--and stop playing games.
"Stop games." she repeats. I wipe her crocodile tears.
She takes control of the wheelchair and drives non-stop for one-quarter of a block. We are one-quarter away from home.
"Daddy's turn" she delights with her sing-song voice.
I drive her home.
She's got gusto, she's got "drive", she's got the fight in her that she'll need to survive.
