Previously, mothering Hindy had been about survival. Although I had forced myself to stay calm when dealing with her, inside I had been in a state of war. I must get this child to behave! I need to have a life!
I t was three o’clock on Friday afternoon. Countdown: two hours to Shabbos. From the hallway I heard the telltale roar of a pot boiling over on the stove.
“Mordechai!” I called to my husband. “Can you lower the soup? I’m holding the door to the baby’s room!”
The baby’s room was my daughter Hindy’s time-out spot. Not wanting her to have negative associations with her bedroom and having no shortage of opportunities to send her for a time-out I had opted to use the baby’s room — which doubled as our storage room — as Hindy’s official time-out zone.
Inside the room Hindy was howling at the top of her lungs and throwing her body against the door. I didn’t want to lock the door so I stood there and held it closed with all my might as she fought to turn the doorknob. Finally thankfully she left go. For the next few minutes I heard some muffled sounds. I leaned against the door limply exhausted from the effort of containing Hindy.
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