My nose alerts me to what awaits on the other side of the door before my hand ever reaches the knob. Before opening and crossing the threshold, I stop and make a choice. It can be a Manic Monday or Easy like Sunday morning. Taking in a long pause, hold for a beat (or two), and release the breath slowly and audibly. Let's do this.
"Good morning, Princess Stinky. Did you sleep well?" The small talk continues as I prepare for the task ahead. First, I unfold my thick exercise mat and carefully cover it with a blue waterproof chuck. Gathering supplies is next. Wipes, wash, cream, a diaper, pad, and gloves. Oh, don't forget to grab a plastic bag and today's outfit from atop Emily's dresser. Her once-empty floor is now covered with strategically placed items. I work with speed and precision, accompanied by the sound of grinding teeth and the rhythmic banging of my daughter's head on the mat. I take a moment to express my gratitude for the two inches of padding cushioning Emily's head and my aging bottom from the unforgiving wood floors.
Next, I wrangle each leg into Emily's pants by rolling her side-to-side, pulling them up her body inch-by-inch as she resists every pull. She flexes her foot inside the pant leg, and we are at an impasse. She throws in a few gentle kicks at me for good measure, but I overcome the obstacles, and soon her waistband is almost to her belly button. Good enough for now. I stand up, help her to sit up, and now we tackle the top half. I slather her in lotion and deodorant before attempting to put on her blouse.
I take a few more breaths and open the Spotify app on my phone. The sound of upbeat music will be my assistant as I press on. Making sure the tag is in the back, I lasso her bobbling head with the collar of her shirt as I grab her left arm and attempt to put it into the sleeve before she realizes what I am doing. Too late. She makes a fist and has a death grip on the inside of the shirt sleeve. I peel each finger back one by one. Now, the right one. She sways and wiggles countering my every move and action as if her goal is to make it as challenging for me as possible. She is in it to win it.
With her clothes on, mostly, we move on to the most difficult task—the hair! I grab her matching hair ties and two necklace options I selected the night before, and Emily makes her selection. I glide the necklace over her head, and she resists, but with less vigor than the shirt. As the brush makes contact with her beautiful, but knotted, long brown hair, she starts rocking, yelling, and banging her feet on the floor. I am getting FULL Drama Queen action now.
Our neighbors must think I am torturing her, and in Emily's world, I am. "Emily, caring for you and getting you ready is something I do because I love you. I know it is hard for you, but I would love someone to style me and do my hair every day."
Lastly, I clean her face and apply her daily potions and lotions. Her fight continues, and I nearly get lotion in her eye. Grateful to dodge that bullet, I let her know what is next. "Emily, we are going to stand up now. You are going to help me, right?" I take a big breath in (there is a lot of breathing required to get her ready), grab under her arms, and lift her up. She matches my lift by dropping her weight. Her 105# frame dangling from my arms. I drop her bottom to the mat and we try again. Once again, she drops her weight. Her bottom hits the floor. "Emily, enough. We are standing up. Stop fighting me. Let's do it this time."
Now, I am in a full professional weight lifter stance. I walk up behind Emily and visualize the 105# barbel in front of me, and I am determined to lift it. I bend low at the knees, take a big breath in, grab under her arms, lift and move her up and forward simultaneously. She tries to counter my actions but finally decides it is futile and engages her legs and stands. I finish adjusting her clothing. I pull down her shirt, pull up her bottoms, and snap and zip them.
We walk to her waiting wheelchair. She has a death grip on my arms. Her anxiety is palpable, as her warm, clammy hands dig into my arms. She releases one hand to bring her necklace to her mouth and bites down on it. Startling loud sounds continue to emerge from her tiny frame. We finally get to her chair, and I hoist her in and get her situated.
Suddenly, the energy in the room changes. Calmly, Emily grabs her scarf off the coffee table, crosses her legs, turns toward The Wiggles playing on the television, and completely relaxes. Completely unphased by the last twenty-minute ordeal that has me needing another moment to recover and pause. Sitting next to her, I look down at my Apple watch. It appears "Operation Get Emily Dressed" has already scored me with five activity minutes. I smile and am proud of my crocodile-wrangling skills. Wrestling crocodiles all day is no walk in the park.
Now, I am off to grab the socks, leg braces, and shoes from her room. Round two, or maybe three, is about to go down. My heart is full of gratitude that I only manage one crocodile.
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