The Poo finally exhibited her worst behavior in front of her daddy.

Last night we attempted 5 o’clock Mass, and our girl was in top form. Backtalk, loud talking, yelling, singing at the top of her lungs, fake burping (I know, what the hell?), inappropriate dancing, defiance, extreme wiggling … all in front of the other handful of families who risked driving in the freezing rain.

That was, for me, the worst part of The Poo’s display. There was a family behind us in the crying room whose two preschool-age girls were angels. They sat and listened and generally comported themselves in the way I want my own daughter to behave.

I was so embarrassed, feeling their eyes on me. I’m sure it was sympathetic, but you know what it feels like to handle a naughty kid with other parents around. You feel like a failure.

At least, I do.

Finally I took her outside and made her sit on some stairs for a time-out, where she told me off in that little-girl voice of hers.

Her words were loud enough to attract the attention of her father, who stalked out of the crying room loaded up with our coats and bags. He dressed The Poo for the outdoors and told her that her privileges for the evening were being revoked.

“No Culver’s for dinner, and no TV for the rest of the night,” he told her grimly, toting her out to the car like a sack of potatoes as she wailed at the injustice and did her best to wheedle him into changing his mind.

The car ride home was, for me, excruciating. The Poo was hysterical, hiccuping and yelling, by turns telling us off and telling us she loved us. She’d settle down, and then start up again when we reiterated the consequences of her naughty behavior.

As we pulled into the garage, she managed one last, valiant attempt to get her precious TV time back.

“I know! I have an idea!” she said, in between little sobs. “I have an idea to make your mad faces go away! I love you guys!”

Oh, my heart. My tender, sympathetic heart. I almost broke at that one, after the 30 minutes of pathetic crying. I turned my biggest, saddest eyes on my husband, pleading in that silent way that married couples have.

He shook his head briefly, swept The Poo into the house, and sent her to her room for an age-appropriate three-minute time-out for telling me that she was going to “throw me away.”

It was agony. I was certain she would vomit, or pull her bookcase over in her frantic attempt to get out of her room. She shrieked my name over and over while I paced outside her door.

My husband gave me his steely eyes and said this:

“She’s fine. And she needs to understand that we will not tolerate the defiance. She cannot laugh at us, she cannot tell us no.”

I admire this about Mr. Chicken. Because I cave. Every time.

I hate anger. It twists me up inside in ways I can’t explain. I can’t stand it when people are angry at me. And being angry myself is extremely uncomfortable. In fact, my most frequent reaction to my own anger is tears.

Trust me. I’ve had years of therapy for various bouts of depression, and also sought counseling after my father’s death. Yet, I’ve never been able to really get to the bottom of this weakness, this fear of anger. I could have gotten there with my last shrink, Dr. Clark, a very level-headed and extremely kind man who once wrote me a note I still carry in my wallet.

The note reads:

“You have permission.”

But we moved, and now I’m trying to get by with his voice in my head, telling me it’s OK to live my own life the way I see fit.

After The Poo was released from her time-out, she ran into my arms, her small chest heaving with misery. I took her in my bedroom for a cuddle, to help her calm her breathing. I turned her hot, red, tear-stained face to my own and told her I loved her.

“But my love, you may not behave that way,” I said, gently. “There are a lot of rules in this life. Mommy and Daddy are trying to teach you how to follow the rules.”

She nodded, and told me she was sorry. “Mommy, I’ll be a good girl in church. I’ll do good listening. Now can I watch TV?”

Her eyes were hopeful, and in that moment I could have said yes. Instead, I told her no, and promised to read to her instead.

We went downstairs, where she also apologized to her father. He gathered her in his arms and gave her a long, hard hug. A few minutes later she was asleep on his shoulder at 6:30 p.m.

Laying her fully clothed in her crib, I watched her sleep for a minute. Turning to leave the room, I turned back once more, loving her.

My husband is right. She needs to learn the rules, she needs to learn to respect us. It’s time for a crackdown.

My biggest hope is that in doing so, I can also teach her that no matter what, no matter how angry we may seem, that she is always loved.

Because me? I don’t always know that.