An Ode to Bossy Little Girls

As a toddler, I was the boss of you.

My mom has plenty of stories about me as a bossy little girl. One fateful tale depicts how I got someone to play with me. Picture me at three years old, long honey pigtails, precocious and smart, with a devilish glint in my eye. I was pretty cute but most kids are at that age - it's biological, a cherubic hack to make them keep you around. Anyway, I'm playing with the son of my mom's best friend - Brad. He's one day younger than me which means I am the boss of him.

Photo Credit: John Linebarger, Sr.

Brad is also a first born and annoyingly, has his own ideas of what he wants to do. He was playing by himself. I had cornered the treasure trove of the pediatrician's waiting room - life-sized lincoln log blocks. I thought of myself as considerate and I'd set about was building us an abode for the duration. You have to admit they're cool; real cardboard bricks as big as my little toddler head. Barely able to carry one with two hands, I raided the newly abandoned pile left by the last snotty kid. Naturally, I was designing the build.

Photo Credit: Melissa and Doug

Brad was playing matchbox cars. From the opposite corner, I heard the vrrrroom, erkkkk, boom of corvettes driving too fast on carpet. Dumb. Now, don't get me wrong; I liked playing cars but we had those at home. In this pediatrician's office, there were actual blocks big enough to make a house and we had to take advantage of that. Vaguely aware time was limited, I had to make a fort happen pronto. Couldn't he see that too? Apparently not as no amount of persuasion or cajoling had shifted his focus.

Frustration grew inside me like an over-inflating pool floatie. My three year old brain was on a certain, "right" track and I was blind to any other play. Sensing something brewing, my mom and her friend glanced over but continued chatting. I felt the heat of their eyes on my tender skull. The pressure grew too intense and I snapped.

Leaving my new construction unguarded, I walked over to the car area, grabbed Brad around the middle and dragged him over to the half baked fort. If he wasn't going to come over on his own, I'd make him. However, this was the extent of my plan. I figured once he saw how awesome and novel the bricks were, he'd naturally forget those dumb cars and play with me.

Brad was a nice boy and me picking him up kind of stunned him. I have always been really strong. "Pig headed" as my mom would say - so making things happen, especially lifting heavy stuff, is a natural form of working out for me. Thus, my three year old muscles were already in great shape and itching to heave. Brad sort of complied, allowing himself to be dragged like an oversized Raggedy Andy. I'd broken his good-boy, "Indian style" sitting position, and his legs were now splayed out by the blocks. Blinking as if woken from a daze, he just sat there, slumped over and confused. I was irritated his foot had knocked over one of my nascent walls and told him so. I knew how to further cement compliance.

Now that I had him where I wanted him, it was time to be sweet. Get him playing along with me before the adults interfered. Playing quietly was key - especially in public - so I had to quickly get him on board. I disappeared behind a low fort wall, emerging with a big smile and brick for him. I grabbed his hand and pantomimed stacking it on top of the wall. Accepting the brick in slow motion, his eyes began welling up. I sensed a wail was imminent. What a baby.

Conversation paused, the moms perched for action, waiting for the blow up. I had to act quickly so I bit him. Mostly I wanted to distract him from crying but also get his attention. It was pure instinct; time was running out. The tiny toolbox of coping strategies I'd amassed to date was empty and I knew one of us would be called back to the exam room at any minute. As his whole head turned red, I had a sinking feeling I'd made the wrong move.

Oooooowwwwwiiiiieee! The faces of every adult turned our way. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one kid dart to take advantage of the ruckus and steal one of my blocks. The gall of some people. This was now a disaster. Brad's mom lunged for him, scooping him up on her lap. I would have put a hand over his yawling mouth but she just cooed and rocked him. My mother, surely embarrassed at the forthright leadership demonstration from her favorite child, got up and knelt by me. Uh oh.

Southern moms in the 1970's still spanked. However, I can count on one hand how many spankings I actually remember. Chances were low in public but the threat still loomed. At home, there was always the "switch" punishment. You had to go pick a switch and prep it so they could spank you. Barbaric. The idea was to go outside, locate a suitable small tree branch and strip the leaves from it. But this always confused me. I was a daddy's girl and my dad was an electrical engineer. We'd build circuits and solder stuff all the time. He had tons of switches laying around - light switches, transfer switches. How could they spank me with it?

On the grimy office floor, I braced my behind for impact. Instead I got the eyes. When really angry, my mom's eyes bounced side to side in rapid succession. It's hard to describe - picture googly eyes on a shaken babydoll. When she looked at you like that, you were in serious trouble. Hissing in my ear, "How would you like it if I bit YOU?", I couldn't help but doubt her. I mean, it was mom. Then, she bit me! While it didn't hurt exactly, it did shock my little brain off the lincoln logs track and all the tension left my body.

Toddlers everywhere turned their shocked faces towards me. Moms could do that?? Reddened in shame, I allowed her to pull me onto the orange plastic scoop seat next to her. I silently steamed as the group of sticky-faced germ-mobile hoards descended on my precious pile of cardboard logs. Had they no decency?

Careful to avoid contact with the googly eyes, I turned towards my mother and was further shocked. Tears welled in her eyes. What was happening? Was it regret? Horror? Shame? I couldn't be sure. These were the only negative emotions I could identify from my baby feelings wheel. She was the definitive boss of me but triumphing over my will seemed to leave her a little sad. Was there a lesson in this?

---

Fast forward to modern day and my mom finishes retelling the story. Her tone, a heady mix of sentiment, incredulity and awe; she can't believe she bit me. She wonders aloud if it was the right move. I reassure her again that it was, citing the fact that I never did it again. She's placated, for now. I sense she's about to utter a familiar refrain; I wasn't the right kind of mother for you and I tee up my reply, But you were the one I got.

In a midlife role reversal, I boss her around now. We are hardly a spanking family and I can't pick her up or move her with my will. I never really could. I certainly don't bite her; she's bites back! Instead, into the howling wind of her independence, I yodel persuasive arguments for her accept my help . I cajole her with pleas that she did her part and now it's my turn to repay her. She wishes she still took care of me and some days, so do I. Alas, we're at an impasse, a standoff. Two bossy little girls in pigtails, this time with love in our eyes.