Too smart for a three-year-old

I think one of the biggest problems in my relationship with my daughter Izzie is that I keep treating her like a five- or six-year-old, expecting an older child’s level of understanding, emoting and behavioural control. Why? Because she’s too damn smart for a three-year-old.

Take yesterday, for example. She was sitting in the kitchen, drawing with her mummy, granny and sister, when I came in, sat down, and started chatting. After a few minutes, she said, ‘Daddy, you haven’t read much of your book today.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d sit in here with you.’

‘Well, I know you want to read your book, so why don’t you go and read your book? We’ll be okay.’

‘I’m alright.’

‘Daddy. It’s starting to get dark. You should read your book now.’

‘You really want me to read my book?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘See you in a bit.’

‘Okay, daddy, bye bye.’

I got up, walked out of the room, and then heard her say to the others, ‘Ah. Nice and quiet.’

And they all burst out laughing.

I raced back in. ‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Were you trying to get rid of me?’

Izzie gave me an apologetic look and said, ‘You just talk so much, daddy.’

Oh my gosh. Instead of telling me to be quiet or go away or any of the other things you might expect a three-year-old to say, she used subtlety and subterfuge to remove me, playing on my own desires and interests to get what she wanted. I’d like to think it was about sparing my feelings – it’s an improvement on a month ago when she said, ‘Daddy, daddy, stop talking, I’m just not interested’ – but I’m pretty sure she was simply sharpening her manipulative wiles for the future.

Gosh darn.

A couple of days ago, she showed another keen eye for social interaction. I have to admit that, despite writing on this very blog that you shouldn’t shout at kids because they won’t listen to you, I haven’t been following my own advice. Lately, Izzie has been very disobedient, or, to quote the ladies at nursery, ‘not using her listening ears’ – basically completely ignoring the authority figure and doing what she wants. And I have doubled down on the shouting because she’s testing every boundary, and getting on every last nerve of every person she meets.

So the other day she was in the bath, throwing water all over me, and I told her to stop. And I told her to stop. And then I shouted at her to stop or I would get her out of the bath and make her sit on the naughty step.

‘Daddy,’ she snapped. ‘When I’m being naughty, treat me like I’m not being naughty.’

I stopped. ‘Huh? You mean let you do whatever you want?’

‘No, talk to me like you talk to me when I’m not naughty.’

‘You mean, don’t shout?’

‘Yes, daddy. Don’t shout at me when I’m naughty.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t listen when you shout. So I keep being naughty.’

‘Oh. So if I speak in a normal voice, you’ll listen to me when I tell you to stop?’

‘Yes, daddy.’

‘Okay.’ I thought a moment. ‘Let’s make a deal then. From now on, I’ll speak to you in a normal voice when you’re being naughty. But you have to listen when I do, and do what I say.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘We’ll do that. High five.’

So we high-fived on it. And at least one of us is upholding his side of the bargain…

But here is my question. If she’s that freaking smart that she’s a nursery room lawyer and can wind everyone in her life around her little finger at just three years of age, how come I have to check under the bed for dinosaurs every night?

So SAD

I’ve written before about suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Every year I hibernate, stop going out, stop writing, stop reading – just eat and sleep and snap at people over trivialities. And while this year is no different – I keep stuffing my face with chocolate, going to bed two hours earlier than usual and falling out with family members on a weekly basis – I’ve noticed an addition to my symptoms this year:

An overwhelming feeling of sadness.

It’s weird that having something called SAD, I’ve never particularly felt sad with it before. Moody? Sure. Lacking in energy, filled with self-loathing and totally uninterested in anything other than binge-watching old episodes of Arrested Development? Naturally. But sad? No, I’m too depressed to be sad.

For those who don’t suffer from depressive illness, allow me to explain the difference between depression and sadness.

Sadness is an emotion, a feeling, like joy or fear. You can feel it in particular locations in your body, and it provokes a visceral physiological reaction – a sinking chest, a trembling lip, tears. It is transitory and ephemeral, and stimulated as a reaction to something going on in your life – a death, a rejection, a painful memory. It comes in a rush, can be incredibly intense, and then goes away again, without leaving a fingerprint in your soul. That is sadness.

Depression, on the other hand, is a mood – an ongoing, long-lived, debilitating way of life that pushes down on you and pervades your entire body, mind and spirit. It’s not a feeling but a way of feeling. There are no ups and downs, no bursts of colour, just an ever-present gloom. It exists irrespective of what else is happening in your life, and though it is sometimes less pronounced, it never truly leaves you, a shadow that lurks in the recesses of your being and stains all that you’ll ever become. That is depression.

If sadness is a thunderstorm, horrible and exciting, depression is an endless grey sky, without wind, without rain, and without the prospect of ever seeing the sun again.

Which is why it’s odd that this year, this gripping, all-consuming sadness keeps creeping up on me and washing over me, stopping me in my tracks.

Contrary to the philosophy underpinning Cognitive Behavioural Therapy that the ancestor of every feeling is a thought, this feeling only comes when I’m not thinking at all. If I’m doing something that requires even the slightest modicum of brainpower, I’m fine – at least, as fine as I ever get. But every time I stop or do something so routine I don’t even need to think about it, I get hit by a wave of sadness.

It works like this – I’ll be watching the kids play, making sure they’re not killing each other, and all will be well and good. I’ll walk into the kitchen to make myself a coffee, flip on the kettle, and – BOOM! – I’m sad. So sad.

Or I’ll be doing the shopping, or driving the car, or playing with my kids, and the moment I stop, this dreadful sadness slaps me across the face. So I keep active doing word puzzles, watching game shows on TV, completing online quizzes so that I’m constantly thinking. Whenever I stop thinking, that’s when it comes – this feeling that I’m going to burst into tears.

People have suggested my antidepressants have stopped working, that I should go see a doctor. I can’t imagine why that would be the case after fifteen years on them. Besides, I saw a psychiatrist around eight or nine years ago to ask him that very question, and he said that you don’t build up a tolerance to SSRIs, needing to up the dose to receive the same effect. No, he said that depression just happens to be one of those things I have to live with.

And besides, sadness isn’t depression, so why would antidepressants control it?

I just have to wait for the spring again, even as it gets harder year on year. And hope that these thunderstorms will go away and leave me with my overcast sky.