How To Show Your Toddler Who's Boss

We were late for a birthday party, but that was nothing new. Working, renovating and taking care of the kids had me on the ropes. I was trying to do it all and semi-succeeding, but I was never on time.

The party was a good thirty minutes away at a bakery. A bunch of five year olds, their parents and any tag-a-long siblings were going to make a dozen of their very own, custom created cookies. It was going to be a messy endeavor and the outfit my daughter was wearing was definitely not appropriate.

Brand new and black.

When I asked her to change, she was fine with the idea. Ever agreeable, she pulled out a little pink dress that we were both happy with and I said, Great. Let’s go.

No.

That sound came from my very opinionated and fashion conscious three year old. She was perfectly behaved and agreeable in all other areas, but terribly stubborn when it came to clothes. I knew I was in for trouble.

When I found out I was having another girl, I was thrilled. I'm a total girl mom. I love make up and hair and clothes and couldn’t wait to dress those babies up in pink and frills. Shopping for outfits was a favorite pastime and dressing my first was always an uneventful pleasure.

And while I was a frugal shopper, I was ok with the occasional splurge because I knew that I'd be getting my money’s worth with two kids to cycle them through. It was a great plan until number two was old enough to speak.

No was her first word and she used it often.

I remember pulling out a gorgeous outfit for her first day at preschool. I had all of my eldest’s clothes neatly packed away and was so excited that she was out of diapers and could start wearing some of the trendy stuff. She was two and a half.


I presented her with a pleated plaid mini skirt, a crisp white blouse, black vest and cute, black boots. Funky, fun and one of her older sister’s favorites. I had been waiting for this day for a long time and I was so excited to show her the goods.

No. Ugh. I hated that word.

No, what? I asked.

No. I hate that.

Ok, what do you hate? Which piece?

All of it.

All of it??

I was stunned. She loved fashion. She was always playing dress up, always wearing her sister's clothes around the house. What gives. Now it was my turn.

No. These are beautiful clothes and you are going to wear them. We kept them for you and they are very special.

No. They aren’t and they aren’t my style.

This was an unexpected development and certainly not part of my grand fashion plan.

What style?? You’re not even three. You don’t have a style.

I do and I hate them.

Well, that was the end of that and the beginning of a whole new fun stage called guess what I want to wear today…oh yeah, we don’t own that.

And every morning it was the same thing.

Get dressed, I have to go to work. I taught at the same nursery school she attended.

I want to wear that dress.

What dress?

The one the girl on Disney Channel wore yesterday.

We don’t own that dress. Pick something in your closet.

No.

That word, again.


I want that dress.

This went on virtually every morning. Every. Morning. There was no making her happy. She would request these elaborate outfits we did not own and insist that was all she was wearing to school that day. And the crazy thing about it was that if we did have it, she wouldn’t have wanted to wear it.

So, when she said no that afternoon of the birthday party, I knew we were in trouble.

No what? We gotta go.

I want another outfit now, too. I don’t like mine anymore.

Tough luck, we’re leaving.

No.

Well, while I was arguing with my toddler, my five year old decided she needed her Barbie with her at the party and went outside on the covered porch to get her doll. Of course, she got distracted, as five years old do, and started playing on the swing set.

I watched it all unfold from the window in the bedroom I was trapped in, arguing with a toddler, once again, about clothes we didn’t own, but that she saw someone wearing in a baking episode of That’s So Raven.


I knew we had to go, so I told my fashionista to pick something and went outside to grab the other one. I had literally just stepped onto the porch when I heard the door slam behind me.

My head whipped around to see my little one on the porch with me, grinning. I knew it wasn’t good.

You see the porch door locks automatically. It’s got one of those opens from the inside regardless of the lock position handles. However, if you were outside the door only opened if the lock was in the proper unlock position. The girls knew this and I knew the little one knew this and when I saw her face, I knew.

Is that door locked?

Yup.

I checked and yup, it most certainly was. You have got to be kidding me.

Apparently, Little Miss had had enough of the outfit negotiations and decided to play instead. She thought it was hysterical. She laughed and laughed. I did not see the humor in the situation.

The birthday party was starting in about ten minutes. Far away. And I was locked out of my house, with two kids but no spare key.

I wanted to cry and ring her little neck at the same time.

Now, I could’ve just thrown my hands up, but my five year old was so good and patient and she wanted to see her friends. This wasn't her fault and I didn’t want her to be left out. Plus, she had been looking forward to baking all week.

So I did what any mom on a mission would do. I went to the garage, grabbed a hammer, wrapped it in a rag and slammed it through a pane in my pretty french, dutch door. There was glass everywhere, but I carefully reached in an unlocked the door.

I told the kids to stay put while I ran into the house, locked the door and the storm door behind me and came out another door to grab them.

We got the gift, got in the car and got to the party about forty five minutes late.

I was that mom.

My five year old had a great time. She was covered in flour from head to toe. She laughed with her friends, ate treats and got the neatest apron and baker’s hat as party favors. Years later she would wear it with my mom when they made cookies on Christmas Eve.

My three year old sat with me. In the car. No friends. No treats. No party. That was her punishment for being a pain in the tail. She missed the baking and the fun and had to stay buckled in her carseat in the parking lot, listening to NPR.

That’ll teach her to mess with me and she’ll be learning a valuable lesson, I thought.


On the way home, my confection covered party girl giggled and spilled all the sugary preschool cookie making details. I was sure that my toddler was sorry now.

So I asked her.

Do you understand why you missed the party?

Yup.

And...

And I don’t care, my outfit was bad so I’m glad I didn’t go in and no one saw it.

… and I don’t like those cookies anyway.

Great.

Turns out the lesson learned was mine.

Never argue with a stubborn toddler when you’re late to a birthday party.

You will always lose.

Do you have any toddler tales?