The Tornado Strategy

My daughter, in the first grade, was a dreamy, unpredictable child, and it came out in quirky ways. 

Nothing I could really point to and say, “See! What an awful kid!” Still, she could be considerably annoying and was always easily distracted. It was a full-time job trying to keep her on track and I already had a full-time job.

This was a child who raised her hand to ask the teacher (regarding her behavior), “How am I doing so far?” She earned all As on her report card and a B in effort. 

I am mortified to tell you that one morning, after asking her six times to put on her shoes (and in my own defense, we were late for school), I actually threw her shoes at her.

My husband, later, cringed and asked, “Where did you hit her?” Well, on her feet, but I feel I would have been justified going higher.

Needless to say, I tried other strategies with her besides throwing Pokemon footware. I tried to understand her lack of focus. I made sure she got enough sleep, that she wasn’t overwhelmed, that she could express her feelings.

When none of that worked, I hid her Barbies and glared at her.

But she still carried on, living on Sara Planet and seeing the world through Sara-skewed glasses.

Almost pushed to the edge, I finally had no choice but to resort to the “tornado” strategy.

One evening, at dinner, I announced that I would be going to Kansas City the following month, for work—just for a few days. 

That same evening, as Sara lounged in her bath, her stubby toes hooked on the rim, her hair a sudsy cloud, she announced that she had done very well in school that day, got 100% on her spelling test, but there was just the small matter of the coloring book (never a good sign when she tacked something like that on at the end).

Apparently she had a coloring book in her desk and had spent the day lifting the desk lid and coloring, off and on, all day. Her teacher was not amused.

I was a little speechless. But before I could completely fall apart, as I longed to, she suddenly bolted upright in the water and screeched, “Mom! Isn’t Kansas where they have tornadoes??”

And so my intricate and devious “tornado” plan began to take shape. Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. Dared I say it? Was I that conniving? How far would I go to try to make her behave??

“Um, they do have tornadoes in Kansas.” I approached the tub. The fact that Kansas City is not in Kansas never really came into it.

I watched, intrigued, as her little face turned a reddish-purple color and her brown eyes filled with plump tears. She gripped the sides of the tub and appealed to me, I’m convinced, with as much anguish as a seven year old could muster.

“Tell them you can’t go, Mom! Tell them you quit!”

Well, my brain was just tick, tick, ticking away. I felt some guilt, of course, but then remembered the countless mornings I had to duck in and out of the first grade classroom because I was frankly too embarrassed to talk to the teacher. 

“Uh, well, I can’t quit, Honey. I have to go.”

The wailing and sobbing continued. My next thought was, Wow—she would really prefer I not die. That’s encouraging.

But enough of that sentimental gibberish! The tornado strategy was not for the feint of heart.

“Now, now, don’t cry. Chances are I won’t be sucked up by a tornado—though I guess it’s possible.”

She wailed louder as I struggled to subdue the smug chuckle that threatened to bubble over and ruin my brilliant plan.

“No, really. I’ll keep an eye out for tornadoes. I will probably be fine.”

“But, Mom! By the time you see it, it will be too late!” More wailing.

I arranged my features into a mask of careful concentration. I even added a “hmmmmm” for good measure.

“You might be right. I’m not going until next month, though, in March. You might want to be on your… very best behavior… just in case something happens to me?”

There—I said it. The words hung in the air like overripe fruit—dangling, dangling.

A final tear slipped down her rounded cheek as she gnawed absently at the corner of a thumbnail.

“Wait a minute, Mom. I just remembered. They don’t have tornadoes in the spring. They have them in the summer!”

I caught my breath, incredulous. What? Those darned National Geographic videos, anyway! What seven year old would know or care when tornado season starts in the Midwest?

“Well…”

She flopped back into the water, jubilant, drops flying everywhere. “You’re going in the spring—you’ll be safe!”

I leaned over the tub, my voice rising. “Sara, I’m pretty sure they start up in the spring—you know, to gain momentum.”

Her tinkling voice rang out, bouncing off the bathroom walls, taunting me. “I don’t think so, Mom!”

And so my Tornado Plan died a quiet death. I know what you’re thinking—what kind of mother tries to get her child to behave by telling her she could be sucked up by a tornado?

In my own defense, one thing led to another, and before I knew it (and as I have amply illustrated) it all made perfect sense. 

Or maybe there were days when I wanted to be sucked up by a tornado.