Little Imp

Since her early infancy, I have known Yvette was a little imp. Usually, an adorable little imp. Sometimes a hateful little imp. But always an imp.

There are those who have reprimanded me when I referred to her that way. And that's fine. They just didn't know yet. I saw it early because I spent the most time with her. As the months have passed, it has become readily apparent to one and all.

I have developed a careful, precarious system of dealing with her. It involves many safety procedures and controlled key phrases, and lots and lots of orange juice. There are numerous sure fire ways to send her to Tantrum Planet, and only a few reliable methods to bring her back. There are a lot of great things about her that help: she always comes when she is called, she likes the idea of dong the right thing, she loves her family, and takes genuine joy from a lot of little things that I can use as incentive.

Until recently, I was the only one who could handle her when she melted down. She is getting better, though, at identifying her behavior for herself and making intentional changes: "I'm a good girl, Mommy, I'm not screaming." "This makes you happy, right, Mommy?" I've tried to control my reactions to her behavior, and never call her bad, just the things she did: "Drawing on your sister's doll with permanent marker is bad, Yvette."


She is conditioned by weeks and weeks and weeks of repetition to respond -even in mid-tantrum - to such phrases as "Use your words, Yvette, so I can help you." or "Use your manners, Yvy." or "I need to do it for you, remember what happened last time?" At that point, if I can make eye contact, she will usually break through the fog of rage and say something I can build on, and working together we make it through the moment. She uses the same sing-song-y "I've been brainwashed" tone of voice every time: "Sahwee, Mommy." "Please I have a juice?" "Please help me a this?"


Well, she cut her hair. Again. This is what? The fifth time, I think. I've been able fix a few on my own with my meager skills, but this time we had to go to the salon to make the best of her handiwork. She sat very somberly in the chair, watching the beautician work in the mirror.

Before we left the house, I told her, "Yvette, I am very sad that you cut your hair. You know it's not OK to cut your hair, and I am disappointed."
"Sahwee, Mommy" (in that precise sing-song-y voice as always).
" 'Sorry' doesn't fix your hair, Yvy."
"No (here she brightened up), but it makes it blue!"


Her hair was adorable in ponytails, and she loved getting it done and putting in every hair fobbie we own. Now it is gone. Chopped. Butched. Too short for anything but a clip on her bangs.

For the record, the Pixie cut really is cute. It actually looks very good on her, it flatters her face shape and fits her active life style and all that. But I am not about to tell her that. The first Sunday after the haircut, this conversation happened with a lot of people:

"What happened to Yvy's hair?"
"Well, she started it, and we had to have it finished professionally...we are not telling her that it is c-u-t-e. The official statement is that we are very sad and we miss her hair."
"Oh. (turning to Yvy) Yvy, I'm sorry about your hair. I miss your ponytails."

Then, as we were getting ready to leave, a past home teacher came up to Yvy, who was in Mark's arms:

Brother Cluff: "Yvette, I don't care what your Momma says, I think your hair is CUTE."
Me: "Brother Cluff, you're fired."

So here is my Yvette, sporting her Pixie cut. Hmmmm. A Pixie. Isn't that kind of like an imp?