Read Online The Girl Behind the Door by John Brooks - Free Book Online Page B

remarkable gift for understanding horses.
    I wish I’d had a gift for understanding my own daughter. As infuriating as her behavior was, we had no reference point to determine if this was normal, because we had no other children. Instead we’d allowed our child to manipulate us into giving her whatever she wanted in order to avert her tears. It had to be us. We were incompetent parents.

    We searched for answers or, in their absence, reassurance. Casey’s first pediatrician in Simsbury, Dr. Johnston, took a special interest in her, amazed at how she’d developed so rapidly into a lively, energetic toddler. We discussed Casey’s eating and sleeping habits, how she played with other kids, how she handled transitions, and whether she followed directions. In each case, she was right in the normal range for her age.
    We described the tantrums. Dr. Johnston empathized with us but couldn’t see any signs of trouble. Casey would grow out of it. “Three-year-olds are still trying to get a handle on their emotions and are easily frustrated,” she said, “and Casey was a preemie. They tend to be hypersensitive.” I embraced Dr. Johnston’s prognosis—of course Casey was fine; she’d grow out of this. She was just a strong-willed child. The subject of her abandonment and adoption was never discussed.
    After our move to California, we talked to our neighborhood friend Sharon, a psychologist with a Ph.D. from Berkeley. Casey had been friends with her two kids, Ian and Caroline, since kindergarten. Ian had been adopted at birth before Sharon became pregnant with Caroline.
    When I asked Sharon for her secret to good parenting, she burst out laughing. “You don’t see my kids when they’re at home. That’s when they’re at their worst. Ian can be a nightmare. He has these howling fits when he doesn’t get his way.” But for all the parents who assured us that their little angels were just monsters in disguise, others took a hard line.
    â€œYou shouldn’t spoil her.”
    â€œBe tougher with her. You have to set boundaries and stick to them.”
    â€œYou’ll only encourage her tantrums if you come to her rescue.”
    Of course we’d tried time-outs and had withheld privileges such as playdates, video games, and TV. Simple chores, like making her bed and setting the table, were rewarded with gold stars on the refrigerator and treats, but this was equally unsuccessful. Disciplinary measures that worked so well with most children often pitched Casey into a fit that we feared the whole neighborhood could hear. To keep the ear-piercing decibels down, we’d cave in under the guise of “We’ll give you another chance.” The last thing we needed was a neighbor hearing the commotion from our house and calling Child Protective Services.
    Erika and I tried to talk to her when she was calm, asking her why she got so angry and upset over things, what made her cry, how she felt about herself. But she’d have none of it. She felt like she was under attack, ordering us out of her room so she could be alone.
    Feeling like miserable failures, Erika and I turned on each other. We came from very different parenting models. Erika’s immigrant parents had always been strict and controlling, like their parents, whereas mine were fairly laid-back, like Ward and June Cleaver. Erika accused me of being too easy on Casey while I felt that Erika needed to give her a longer leash. She believed firmly—and rightly so—that we needed a united front in complete alignment against such a willful child, and she was ever watchful for any threat to the alliance.
    While Casey was still in grade school, we talked to more parents, read more parenting books, taped and dissected words of wisdom from Dr. Phil. The consensus was that Casey was just a bit higher strung than the average kid, not that unusual for a girl. If we found her behavior unacceptable