Recently, my 20-month-old daughter made it clear that she was no longer interested in being strapped into her car seat. After many enjoyable car rides, she suddenly decided she had enough. I would lift her into the seat, but as soon as I reached for the buckles, she would wriggle away, flashing a mischievous grin before bursting into giggles.
Her pediatrician had previously informed me that this was a normal developmental phase. She suggested that if I needed to secure her, I should gently push on her hips—an area where I wouldn’t cause any harm. Taking a deep breath, I turned her around and held her in place with one hand while attempting to fasten the straps with the other.
In an instant, my daughter’s demeanor shifted from defiant to fearful. She pushed against me with all her might, scratching and biting as if her very life depended on it. Deep, choking sobs erupted from her as I finally managed to tighten the belt. By the end of it, she was inconsolable.
I was perplexed. How many times had I buckled her in before? A thousand? Didn’t she realize, at some level, that there was nothing to fear and that getting in her car seat was an essential step for her safety? I hoped it was just a one-off incident, but when I tried to buckle her in again, she clung to me and refused to let go. The more I insisted she sit down, the more she resisted, eventually leading to a full-on meltdown at the mere sight of the car.
One afternoon, after picking her up from preschool, I opened the back door and set her down. Immediately, she scrambled to stand up in the seat. I braced myself for yet another struggle—it was a long week, I was tired, traffic was getting worse, and all I wanted was to be home. But I realized I couldn’t fight her anymore.
My partner and I often joke about how physically expressive our daughter is; while we immerse ourselves in books and discussions, she engages with the world through movement and touch. She cherishes her body and all it can do, and I was inadvertently taking that away from her.
So, I took a deep breath (while eagerly anticipating removing my mask) and waited. My daughter eyed me suspiciously, ready to resist, but I simply stood beside her. After about 10 minutes, she finally turned around and sat down on her own.
In my journey to understand parenting, I have committed to prioritizing my daughter’s ownership over her body above all else, except for her immediate safety. It’s a challenging lesson to instill, especially when I’m racing against the clock to get to work or when the weather is frustrating, or when someone is waiting impatiently for me to close the car door.
This is a lesson I hope she will carry with her as she grows—when faced with pressure from a partner, a doctor, or anyone who has a problem with her identity or choices.
Now, when we get in the car, she still sometimes resists sitting down. I’ve learned to allow extra time for our journeys, using those minutes to catch up on social media, sip some water, or just take a moment for myself. I offer her a toy or a snack as an incentive to sit down, and more often than not, we’re ready to hit the road in under five minutes—well worth the effort for her to understand that her body is her own.
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In summary, navigating the balance between encouraging bodily autonomy and ensuring safety can be a challenging aspect of parenting. Each struggle offers an opportunity for growth—both for the child and the parent.