Remember how I told you about my vow to be a better Dad at night, to encourage Isabella to interact with me during the book-reading and story-telling? I was going to do better; we were going to have an inspiring bonding experience, then Isabella was going to float off to sleep on a cloud of pink cotton candy with a vision her daddy sporting dainty angel wings and a shiny halo flitting through her mind. Yeah. So how did I do? I’ll tell you.

I made Isabella cry.

You’d think after six years I would know just what to say, just what to do for all situations like the one the other evening. But no, I was like the guy on The Price is Right who chose the showcase with the crappy living room furniture set instead of the one with the snappy Chevrolet Malibu. Yes, I chose the action that led to Isabella throwing a fit and crying so hard that it took her an extra thirty minutes to go to bed.

The “Model Dad,” that’s what they call me.

I should have known to be careful. Carrie and I let the kids up from the dinner table to get their wiggles out before bath and bed, and we stayed at the table and talked. It’s rare to get a solid block of uninterrupted time to visit. Of course we didn’t get one that night, what with one or the other child coming back into the kitchen in shifts carefully timed to get us to forget what we were talking about. The result was that we got up from the table late and the whole bedtime timetable was shifted. Mistake one.

Later, Isabella and I were in bed and I was reading her a book. I was trying to go fast so she could get to sleep, but, as many of you can probably relate to, Isabella goes at her own speed. That night, she wanted to turn the pages herself. I said okay but put a shake in it. We can’t have any of this “looking at pictures” nonsense – we’ve got to keep moving! Impatience (my old nemesis): mistake two.

Well, the faster I tried to push her along, the more time she took with each page. I got just a wee bit antsy. Toward the end, I started grabbing the page and moving it when she was too slow, and she started getting agitated. I said, “We need to keep turning the pages, honey. It’s time to go to bed.” She rubbed her eyes, then moved her hand toward the page with the speed of a sprinting starfish. As her hand finally reached the page, it stopped.

I let out a little yelp due to my pent-up anguish. “Just turn the page!” my mind shrieked. “Do it!”

“Honey,” I said, affecting my most patient tone (see, I was trying!). “You need to turn the page, or Daddy’s going to do it.” Her hand, still poised over the page, moved back to her face and she rubbed her eyes. “I’m going to turn the page,” I again warned. She stopped rubbing her eyes and reached again toward the page. Then she stopped. “Isabella, I’m turning the page,” I said. She rubbed her eyes. (Heads up – here comes mistake three.) I turned the page.

She shrieked.

I calmly explained about how warnings work, and she responded by shrieking a bit more through a geyser of tears. I recounted all of the activities that preceded the meltdown so that she could appreciate the inevitability of it all and ponder the ramifications of her actions. Her tears began running out of her eyes into her ears as she lay on her back, not calming down. I began to wonder if she would get too hoarse to continue.

She then said something that I couldn’t really understand at first, then it hit me. She was repeating a compulsive activity, and I had ripped her out of her sequence. She would rub her eyes before turning each page. If I said something or interrupted her, she would have to start over and rub her eyes again before turning the page. By turning the page for her, I had broken the cycle. Now, if I were an OCD expert, I’d know whether this was a good or bad thing. My initial thought is that it was bad, given the resultant tear fountain and anguish and all-around discomfort. But on the other hand, if she had instead decided that she had to do three full turns every time she crossed a street, regardless of whether a car was coming, I think we’d all agree as to the correct action. Right? That’s the same, isn’t it? Can I get an “Amen”?

(crickets chirp)

I finally got her calmed down and we finished the book, said our prayers, then I told her stories. At the end, she lovingly looked at me and asked if she could draw me a picture on her MagnaDoodle (disclaimer: it was a generic knockoff, though it still used magnets and was fully sufficient for doodling). Feeling guilty and knowing that this will be a touching graphical depiction of her love for me, I said “Sure” and brought it to her, turning the light back on.

She starts by drawing a heart. So sweet. Then she draws a big angry X through it. I start to think that something might be amiss. Next she draws a cute girl with a big mound of Ouidad hair piled on top. With a big frown and tears. I try to see where this is going, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this is not going to be the lovefest that I had anticipated. She draws a perfect letter N. Huh? Then an O. Then a T. I can see it coming:

N-O-T L-O-V

Then the pièce de résistance (you need to say that all Frenchy to get the full effect), an exclamation mark.

I feel proud that she’s expressing herself, right?

W-R-O-N-G-!