The purple hat

The first weekend of February was a challenge. Friday night, I took Lilah to the Rembrandt and the Face of Jesus exhibit. She likes the DIA so I expected a good night. What I didn’t expect was an over-crowded, over-sold, over-rated exhibit. We were corralled like cattle into tightly packed sections cordoned off from one another. Lilah immediately rejected the cramped quarters. I had Rob hold our spot in line while she and I walked around the room. There was a large mosaic she enjoyed, and some paintings of kids. I was relieved when we were finally allowed into the exhibit itself. We’d exhausted all entertainment options outside.

The first volunteer we encountered was a lovely British woman who pointed out areas of special interest to little ones. We walked portrait to sketch, observing what we learned to be the same Jewish man Rembrandt had used as a model for most of his portrayals of Jesus. After about 7 of the same man’s faces, Lilah sighed and looked at me. “Is this Jesus again? Is this Jesus happy or sad? No, he’s taking a walk. That one’s having some dinner. He’s talking.” Most people did not appreciate her commentary. She put a hand on a thick glass box enclosing yet another Jesus and a volunteer (who’d been watching from the side for 10 minutes, seemingly itching to come say something) approached us.

            “She can’t touch that. Don’t let her touch it.” I gave him a hateful look. This 20-something was clearly too big for his britches. Let him try to control a toddler in a tightly cramped exhibit full of brightly colored, priceless art she can’t touch. He could take that blazer and smug attitude and walk the other way. I swore if he said another word to me, I’d let her lick the art.

We left the exhibit pretty quickly. Rembrandt is great and all, but most of the pieces were sketches, and a portion not even done by him, but his “school”, or “admirers”. Well, I’m a Rembrandt admirer but you don’t see my paint-by-numbers endeavors on display at the DIA.

Sunday afternoon, I was so excited. By some amazing stroke of good fortune, Lilah and I had been invited to see Cirque du Soleil’s “Quidam” at the Joe in a private suite. I dressed her adorably and braided her (now low-back length) blonde hair into a pretty crown. I packed her a backpack full of nutritious snacks since we’d be there until after dinnertime. Nicola picked us up, and her friends all admired what a sweet little girl she was. I was feeling like mother of the year.

Fast-forward an hour into the future when I was contemplating shaking Lilah until her teeth rattled. About 20 minutes into the show, she became uncontrollable. She started with just wanting to run around the suite and escalated to wanting the sugary candy snacks the other children had and refusing to sit still to the point she spilled her water on me twice with her antics. She’d look at me and emit an inhuman screech and laugh as my face darkened into a scowl. After a certain point in the performance, she got all panicky out of nowhere and slapped me across the face. She licked my cheek afterward for good measure, just in case I didn’t want to beat her before. Then she did that move kids do where they turn into jellyfish and are impossible to carry. I hauled her out of the arena to a lobby with a chair for a time out. She responded by wiggling happily in the chair and chattering. Finally she sobered and said she was sorry for hitting.

We talked about it after the time out. She told me that she was scared and wanted to go home. I felt terrible. The behavior started up when a character had come on stage wearing an overcoat and a purple top hat. The hat was suspended on wires or something, because the figure was completely headless. After that, Lilah wouldn’t watch for more than ten minutes at a time. Every time the frequent loud thunder and lighting sounded and the purple hat guy reappeared, she did her best to get another time out. She just did whatever she suspected would get her removed fastest. Diabolical or genius?

The whole way home, everyone praised Lilah for how wonderful she’d behaved. I was in disbelief. In my opinion, she’d been terrible. I took her to her father, handed her to him, and she and I both ended up in tears. Three cups of wine later, I was very introspective.

I might be the worst mother. All weekend long I selfishly took my child to things I was excited about and expected her to behave like an adult. She’s smart and social, but not even 3 years old. While she enjoys creepy movies like Coraline, live-action creepiness is a whole different ball game and genuinely disturbed her. How could I have expected miracles from a little girl? She had been pushed to her limit and let me know in the only ways she knew how. I made up my mind to spend the week doing age-appropriate fun things with her. Since then we’ve been doing crafts and making Valentines. Thursday we’re going swimming at the Warren Community Center. I’m trying to make it up to her and let her be a loud, crazy kid a little bit more. I just can’t shake this sad, guilty feeling that I’m messing her up. I keep flashing back to that moment of fierce anger at the little creature I’d made who was acting up and laughing at me. The one I wanted to slap and had to grit my teeth to suppress the urge. I loathe myself for that moment. I’m not sure what I need to do to get over it. No amount of wine or craft projects is soothing my anger, now turned from my daughter to myself. I feel like a monster and I can’t shake it.