Tuesday, April 23rd, 2013
“Mama, I scratched myself!” Fia screams, probably about 7 times a day.
“Mama, I fell!!” she yells about 5 times a day.
“Mama, I bumped my (name any and all body parts),” she wails about 4 times a day.
Add it up and my daughter shouldn’t be able to walk, talk or move.
This is my diary of a wimpy girl.
Her eyes well up with tears that never come. She does this grimace that is so fake it is laughable. She limps around for dramatic effect, holding her head, her hand, her elbow or whatever it is that has allegedly been maimed. Is she a wimp?
I finally got so tired of her telling me every single teeny.tiny. little.thing. that my new mantra is this: “Fia, unless there is blood, I don’t want to hear about it.”
I’ve also started to try and do reverse psychology. “Fia, let’s try and be brave!” I say cheerily when she is crumpled on the floor with her numerous painless injuries. “I can’t! I can’t!” she wails. Once again, no tears ever come. If they did, I would pay attention. A mom knows when her kid is honestly hurt, lest you think I’m being callous.
The best is when she finally looks up with the most earnest face you can imagine and says through sniffles, “Mama, you know what would help?” I stare at her, trying to hold back my laugh, knowing what is coming.
“What Fia?” I ask.
“A lollipop. Or a jellybean. Or, (and here she becomes animated) …maybe a yogurt covered pretzel!”
I rarely give into her ploy. Instead I look into her eyes and we both start laughing as I call her out.
“Fia, you aren’t really hurt.”
“Yes I am!!” she says giggling.
It’s a cute scene…if it didn’t happen on the hour, every hour of the day. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little, but you get the idea.
I know she is dramatic…she’s my daughter. But I’m also pretty tough. I want her to be too–though it’s worth noting I did have an irrational fear of tractors when I was 6. I wouldn’t leave the house all summer. Drove my mom crazy. And in 3rd grade I had one of my dad’s friends who was a doctor design an arm cast for me. I wore it to school pretending my arm was broken. Not exactly sure what this says about my parents, by the way…
So how do I best handle this? I know she isn’t deprived of attention. And it’s not like I gush over every injury Emmett inflicts on himself and she is jealous. The boy is a tank. And a tough one at that. He bangs himself up constantly and rarely cries. He has, on average, 3 bloody lips a week. I have children at opposite ends of the pain scale.
I suspect this is just a phase. I know she’s not a hypochondriac at preschool. Just with me and Phil. Do I ride it out or do what I’m doing or what?
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