The huswife's guide to

She wouldn't stop taking off her diaper but refused to potty train.

To my daughter,

Although you are only six now, and you feel so grown up, you are still so so small and so so young. There is so much about yourself, about me, about the world in general that you have yet to learn. So much of it is going to break you heart and bring you to tears but one day you will realize that your natural determination and stubbornness will pull you through.

You were the child I waited my whole life to have. Granted, I only waited seventeen years to bring you home, you were wanted, oh so wanted, and brought into more love then you could possibly imagine. Your entrance was dramatic and you refused to breastfeed but I didn't care, I was so happy. We bonded. It was love at first sight.

People told me babies were a lot of work and you were remarkably easy. Sure, you didn't always sleep, sure some days I held you non stop, but you were happy, you were healthy, and you were perfect. It was for that reason you were only 22 months when your brother was born.

You were always a bit of a handful. You used to run away from mommy and me dance class from the first day to the last. You loved it. You wanted to go. You just didn't want to listen. People said it was normal, that it would come.

Then you were three and more challenging. I was in a constant state of exhaustion and have a complete memory gap of that entire year. I can't remember anything from when your brother was a baby. I can't remember what kind of child you were at three. I regret this daily.

Then you were four and you were the most smart, beautiful, and awful four year old I've ever met. I remember there was a car accident and you hoped everyone was OK. I remember you could write your name and count and knew the whole alphabet. I remember you throwing things at me while driving because you didn't want to come home from the beach.

And as you became the world's most challenging four year old I became the world's worst mother to you. For that I am sorry. I am sorry for the times I slapped you, even when you spit in my face. I am sorry for crying to you at one in the morning asking you why you couldn't be normal. I'm sorry for the yelling, the spankings, locking you in your room, and not taking you anywhere because I was afraid I couldn't handle you. I made so much of your life worse. I fought with your dad over discipline. I was depressed. I was pregnant with your baby sister. I couldn't play with you. I couldn't help you.

I didn't cry when I dropped you off at the first day of school. I was too scared to cry. I was worried you wouldn't handle it, that you'd meltdown, and you did. It took you a month to get the hang of school. Then you were perfect. You were never in trouble, and still aren't. I cannot believe it still, but I am more proud of you then I could ever express in words.

Life with you now is so much more manageable. You are so much more cooperative. Other people may look at you and think you are misbehaving but to me these are good days. We can enjoy things now. We have fun.

Now I fear that one day your friends, which you have so many of, no longer forgive your explosive behavior and you fight. I fear that people won't love you as much as I do and break your heart. I fear that one day you'll be a teenager and more trouble still. I worry that I wont be there to protect you, to talk you down, to tell you everything is OK.

When I look back on your childhood I won't think about the three hours of screaming it took to get you to bed each night when you were three, I won't be reminiscing about all the things you destroyed, all the walls you coloured on, all the food crushed into the carpet, or even the way you thought it was funny to spit whatever you were drinking onto the floor. I will remember the nights you fell asleep to me singing, insisted on helping me with whatever I was doing, and always helped your brother when he needed you.

One day you're going to need that spirit, hang on to it.