My Emily

One evening a few weeks ago, my almost 8 year old, Emily, was having a night. The scream, pout, tantrum kind of night. Drama was high, and I was doing my best to remain calm and avoid an explosion of anger or a fit of giggles. I'm about 50/50 when it comes to kid fights. I can never predict if I'll react in yelling or laughing.

Anyway, this particular incident dealt with toothbrushing. I have come to believe that brushing one's teeth - at least at elementary age - must be akin to chewing shiny metal thumbtacks. Hearing my children protest, one may conclude that I torture them frequently with the help of Crest and Oral-B. This night was no different. Emily was NOT going to brush her teeth no matter what I suggested. Typically, she puts the paste on her brush, clicks two minutes into the timer, and off she goes. But not that night. 

Her protests grew, her voice reaching higher and higher octaves as her eyes bulged and her face sizzled. She slammed her bedroom door. She threw her nightly reading folder across her room. Then, a first.

"I'm running away!"

Suppressing my lava-like laughter, I asked her where she would run. To Ensley's, her buddy across the street, she said. I reminded her that Ensley and family weren't home. She tore down the stairs to the front door anyway. I remained at the top of the stairs, observing.

Emily didn't turn around to see if I was watching. Instead, she opened the door so I could hear the beep of the door alarm and think she was leaving. Then she closed it. But she never stepped outside! She stood, gripping the doorknob, waiting for me to chase after her. I leaned against the hallway wall, still watching her from upstairs, holding my breath as my shoulders shook with chuckles.

Of course, seconds later, she turned to find me watching her and exploded again! From the final step, she shouted, "I'll make you a deal! I'll either brush my teeth for only one minute, or I'll run away!"

Negotiations continued and slowly tipped my way as I got her upstairs once again and into her bathroom. But then the screams - this time with jumping and banging fists - were back. Rather than even speak, I slipped my phone from my pocket and filmed my blonde firecracker. The result? Emily bolted from the bathroom, down the stairs again, tears streaming down her face. "I'm really running away this time!" she screeched. I followed her to the first floor to see her throw open the door and stop on the threshold. She hesitated, again, and finally slammed the door and stomped back upstairs. 

...

Later, as she was snuggled up in her pink sleeping bag on her floor (another story for another day), I whispered, "I'm glad you are spending the night at our house after all. I hope you spend every night here."

"But when I grow up and get married, I'll move out, right?" she asked.

"You better!"