Well, it finally feels like summer here. The temperature is heating up after a lovely, cool, breezy June & early July; swimming lessons & baseball practice have begun; the berries are ripe. And my son is either a) exhausted, b) sobbing, c) screaming, d) hungry, e) bored, f) growing like crazy so all of the above. He is also incredibly sweet and snuggly at times, like this morning. This morning at 3:00. Until 4:20.
Seriously, sometimes I think there must be something wrong with the way I'm parenting. Surely other parents don't have to deal with such an argumentative child when telling them to turn off the tvcomputerWii? Surely other children are eager to help around the house and takeouttherecyclingmaketheirbedpickuptheirtoyscleanoutthecatlitter? Surely these children would be thrilled to playa game or go to a movie and not just want to layhereandwatchtv? (Yes, I'm being facetious. I know other parents go through this.) I feel like if I look closely, I can see everything he's learned melting out through his ears.
But oh, when I step back! I can take in how HUGE he is. His legs are SO long. Which makes me laugh, because my husband and I are not known for our supermodel gams. He has our short-ish torso on top of these STILTS. He doesn't have any growing pains, but his KT leg is giving him more fits than usual, getting tired and heavy. I know that it drags him down at times, but I also know he will use it as an excuse if he doesn't want to do something. Going to the grocery store?! "Mom, my leg gets too tired! I can't!" But he can manage to stand in the outfield playing baseball for an hour and a half just fine.
It doesn't help that he has developed a crazy sweet tooth. Not that I let him have all the sugar he wants - I'm no fool. I know that pouring sugar down his throat when he is going through these growth spurts is the equivalent of pouring a tanker of gasoline on a campfire.
Yesterday, I think I saw the worst of it. It started in the usual way: time to get off the Wii. It's a lesson you'd think he'd have learned - he had to go 5 days without Wii, computer and tv because he was disrespectful and not listening when I told him to stop. He'd been on for over an hour, he was turning into a robot. When I gave him 5 minutes to finish his game and told him to come outside with me and read a book, he went sort of nuts. "MOM - there are BEES out there. WASPS!!! I'm NOT going out there". When he made it outside, he cried like crazy. When we came inside, he cried even more - screaming, yelling, SOBBING. I walked away to the dining room, where I tried to gather myself, stacking the mail, trying to breathe. Charley called, and when I tried to tell him what was going on, he said he'd let me go so I could deal with it. I misunderstood - I thought he was giving me the brushoff instead of actually letting me go so I could deal with it. It was my last straw. As I stood there stacking mail, and JH continued to yell at me from his chair in the living room, I said "I quit". As I turned to head downstairs for some peace and quiety, JH turned up the volume, and the sobbing started in earnest. "MOM!!! I LOVE YOU - YOU CAN'T QUIT! YOU'RE THE BEST MOM EVER!"
You know, that shitty parenting sundae just isn't complete until you top it off with a nice, juicy guilt cherry.
But lest you think I'm wallowing, don't worry. I think we're through the worst of it. We actually had a great afternoon after all the sturm and drang. I think maybe he just needed to let it out. He hasn't really cried like that in a long time. And I've noticed since our friend Annie's memorial service, he's been extra clingy, so I think, in addition to all the crazy growing he's doing, he's processing some pretty huge emotions as well. We all are.
Daddy's off today, so JH will get some quality time with him while I go to work this morning. And hopefully, he'll sleep in. So far, so good.
Showing posts with label tantrum. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tantrum. Show all posts
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Monday, May 4, 2009
Tough Kid
Joe-Henry has always been a bit of an old soul. He'll spout poetry at the drop of a hat. Not poetry he's learned (although he loves to read poetry), but stuff just comes out of his mouth that makes his Dad and I drop our jaws and rush to write it down. He used to do that with his music, too. He'd make up songs on the guitar with lyrics that went deep, deep, deep (and not just deep "for a kid"), but lately he refuses to pick up an instrument. Except the piano. I force him to practice. But I don't make him pick it up, because that would just be cruel.
Yesterday, we had a few errands to run. First stop was The Barber, because a) I needed a second opinion to find out if he just had crazy bad dandruff, or a fantastic colony of headlice, and b) he needed a cut anyway. On the way there, he BEGGED me for a mohawk. "PLEASE, Mom! I want to look tough! Your rules are stupid!" I told him to chillax, because until we found out if his head were home to the largest infestation of bugs since the dawn of time, his hair was going to stay longish. Luckily, the barber we had gave us the good news that he had cradle cap, and just needed some oil on his scalp, so a hair cut followed. He decided that throwing a big tantrum in front of all the hot ladies at The Barbers (this place deserves an entire post of it's own) was a bad idea, so he said nothing about a mohawk, and instead came out looking like the Joe-Henry I know and love. I realize that the time will come when I have no say about whether or not he gets a mohawk, or dyes his hair, or pierces and gauges every loose flap of flesh on his body, but until then.... Many parents will say that they let their kids do whatever they want to their hair, that it's a battle not worth fighting. I may change my mind at some point, but I don't think he's ready yet for the awesome responsibility of a shitty haircut.
Later, we were at Fred Meyer, buying a few groceries and I was looking around for some pants for him because he's growing so fast his ankles are sticking out of his jeans so far that they could technically be capris. But while we were looking, he spotted some t-shirts with graffiti on them that came with, gulp, skateboards. Not full size skateboards, but big enough to do some damage. He begged, he pleaded, he threw a full size fit: "MOM! I WANT THAT! WHY WON'T YOU LET ME? YOUR RULES - AAAAAGH! I WANT TO BE A TOUGH KID!! TOUGH KIDS HAVE MOHAWKS AND RIDE SKATEBOARDS!" It was one of those tantrums that you realize that no matter what you say, it just needs to run it's course. The time to talk about how special he is? And how throwing a fit is the perfect way to lose privileges? That time is later. Now is the time to ignore him and let him exhaust himself. Which is great for two reasons: 1) it's the right thing to do, and 2) I could pretend he's someone else's kid. I stayed in the area, just to make sure no one would make off with him, because doesn't everyone want an ranting, flailing eight year old? A moment later, he brought the t-shirt with the skateboard to our cart. He had managed to get it down, although I'm not sure how - the display was almost too tall for me to reach. He threw it dramatically in the cart, and I calmly took it out and put it back. He had just about exhausted himself at this point, and he started to cry. In part, because in getting the t-shirt down, the skateboard had bonked him pretty hard on the head, but mostly because he wanted some control over his life.
Two things I've learned from yesterday: Never, ever take him to do errands without feeding him first. Big mistake. The second thing is much harder and more complex. My boy is really struggling with who he is. So much of his syndrome is benign. He is so much better off than others who have it. He's able to walk, he's mostly pain-free. But his feet are really large, he's self-conscious about his birthmark and his fingers, he can't run as fast as other kids in the class, although he tries so, so hard. More than being bothered by his syndrome, though is the fact that he's just incredibly smart and sort of beyond the other kids in his class. I don't say this as a competitive, doting mom. I don't. It's just a fact. He's a really deep well of complexity and he's beyond most of the kids in his class in that regard. And while I know that's a great thing, he can't see it that way. He just wants to be a tough, running, cussing kid who laughs in the face of danger. Or at least at Mom's rules.
I get it, because I wanted to be that way too. For most of my life, I wanted to be someone else. Someone sexier, smarter, taller, faster. Don't we all? But with age comes some kind of acceptance, and at this point in my life I really like who I am. The only thing I'd change is this:
I'd like to be better at helping my kid see what I see in him. Last night at bedtime, he apologized for throwing a tantrum, and when he was going to sleep, as we were talking and our heads were close on the pillow, he said this: "Mom, your sweet face is the home for all my kisses."
Tell me how to make him see the treasure in his good, sweet, brave heart.
Yesterday, we had a few errands to run. First stop was The Barber, because a) I needed a second opinion to find out if he just had crazy bad dandruff, or a fantastic colony of headlice, and b) he needed a cut anyway. On the way there, he BEGGED me for a mohawk. "PLEASE, Mom! I want to look tough! Your rules are stupid!" I told him to chillax, because until we found out if his head were home to the largest infestation of bugs since the dawn of time, his hair was going to stay longish. Luckily, the barber we had gave us the good news that he had cradle cap, and just needed some oil on his scalp, so a hair cut followed. He decided that throwing a big tantrum in front of all the hot ladies at The Barbers (this place deserves an entire post of it's own) was a bad idea, so he said nothing about a mohawk, and instead came out looking like the Joe-Henry I know and love. I realize that the time will come when I have no say about whether or not he gets a mohawk, or dyes his hair, or pierces and gauges every loose flap of flesh on his body, but until then.... Many parents will say that they let their kids do whatever they want to their hair, that it's a battle not worth fighting. I may change my mind at some point, but I don't think he's ready yet for the awesome responsibility of a shitty haircut.
Later, we were at Fred Meyer, buying a few groceries and I was looking around for some pants for him because he's growing so fast his ankles are sticking out of his jeans so far that they could technically be capris. But while we were looking, he spotted some t-shirts with graffiti on them that came with, gulp, skateboards. Not full size skateboards, but big enough to do some damage. He begged, he pleaded, he threw a full size fit: "MOM! I WANT THAT! WHY WON'T YOU LET ME? YOUR RULES - AAAAAGH! I WANT TO BE A TOUGH KID!! TOUGH KIDS HAVE MOHAWKS AND RIDE SKATEBOARDS!" It was one of those tantrums that you realize that no matter what you say, it just needs to run it's course. The time to talk about how special he is? And how throwing a fit is the perfect way to lose privileges? That time is later. Now is the time to ignore him and let him exhaust himself. Which is great for two reasons: 1) it's the right thing to do, and 2) I could pretend he's someone else's kid. I stayed in the area, just to make sure no one would make off with him, because doesn't everyone want an ranting, flailing eight year old? A moment later, he brought the t-shirt with the skateboard to our cart. He had managed to get it down, although I'm not sure how - the display was almost too tall for me to reach. He threw it dramatically in the cart, and I calmly took it out and put it back. He had just about exhausted himself at this point, and he started to cry. In part, because in getting the t-shirt down, the skateboard had bonked him pretty hard on the head, but mostly because he wanted some control over his life.
Two things I've learned from yesterday: Never, ever take him to do errands without feeding him first. Big mistake. The second thing is much harder and more complex. My boy is really struggling with who he is. So much of his syndrome is benign. He is so much better off than others who have it. He's able to walk, he's mostly pain-free. But his feet are really large, he's self-conscious about his birthmark and his fingers, he can't run as fast as other kids in the class, although he tries so, so hard. More than being bothered by his syndrome, though is the fact that he's just incredibly smart and sort of beyond the other kids in his class. I don't say this as a competitive, doting mom. I don't. It's just a fact. He's a really deep well of complexity and he's beyond most of the kids in his class in that regard. And while I know that's a great thing, he can't see it that way. He just wants to be a tough, running, cussing kid who laughs in the face of danger. Or at least at Mom's rules.
I get it, because I wanted to be that way too. For most of my life, I wanted to be someone else. Someone sexier, smarter, taller, faster. Don't we all? But with age comes some kind of acceptance, and at this point in my life I really like who I am. The only thing I'd change is this:
I'd like to be better at helping my kid see what I see in him. Last night at bedtime, he apologized for throwing a tantrum, and when he was going to sleep, as we were talking and our heads were close on the pillow, he said this: "Mom, your sweet face is the home for all my kisses."
Tell me how to make him see the treasure in his good, sweet, brave heart.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
The Halloween Check List
Halloween went as expected yesterday:
Excitement - check
fun costume - check
trick or treating with best friend - check
tons of candy - check
HUGE MELTDOWN - check, check, check.
If you think that's from the candy, you'd be mistaken. One piece only, it was just exhaustion and too much excitement.
And starting the morning winning an award for being one of the most respectful first graders at an assembly, and he has a healthy sense of irony.
And being almost seven.
I've told him that seven year olds DO NOT HAVE TANTRUMS.
So he's getting it out of his system while he can.
Of course he hasn't put it together that I'm forty something and still have tantrums...
Shhhhh! Don't tell on me.
Excitement - check
fun costume - check
trick or treating with best friend - check
tons of candy - check
HUGE MELTDOWN - check, check, check.
If you think that's from the candy, you'd be mistaken. One piece only, it was just exhaustion and too much excitement.
And starting the morning winning an award for being one of the most respectful first graders at an assembly, and he has a healthy sense of irony.
And being almost seven.
I've told him that seven year olds DO NOT HAVE TANTRUMS.
So he's getting it out of his system while he can.
Of course he hasn't put it together that I'm forty something and still have tantrums...
Shhhhh! Don't tell on me.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
ouch
I was sorely tested yesterday. And by "sorely", I mean, I have the bruises to prove it. I kept Joe-Henry home from school yesterday because he was really crabby when he woke up. He'd been coughing a lot in the night, and he was complaining of a pain in his back. So I let him sleep in, and took him to the doctor, even though I knew that he was more than likely, just worn out.
His lungs were clear, and the doctor determined that he was probably sore from climbing the rock wall. By this time, the pain in his back had migrated to his front, and even last night he complained of pain that woke him up.
Let me just say, that I have come a long way in six years. I've gone from taking him to the doctor for everything to, well, not as much. And since we've moved here, we've only gone four times, which for a hypochondriac like me, is practically cured. Granted, in the beginning, I had all kinds of excellent reasons to visit the doctor once a month or more - his kt, which is one of the most mysterious syndromes around, coupled with a bout of rsv that landed him in the hospital at two months old, followed by hypospadius repair surgery at 10 months old, as well as a diagnosis of "benign external hydrocephalus" - a link I won't include because I can't research it even six years later without hyperventilating, but in layman's terms, a big head just like his Dad. Needless to say, all these freak medical issues left me with a panic meter that was constantly in the red zone.
But yesterday, I was worried about the breathing and coughing, as well as the fact that his pain moved from his back to his chest, and he talked about his heart hurting. So I needed to make sure. I even knew, in the back of my head, that he was probably just fine. And he got a clean bill of health.
All this meant he spent a whole day with just me. He was still crabby and tired, and I don't know if all that rock climbing left him with a drop/raise in testosterone, but he was, and I say this with all love and devotion, a MONSTER.
A FIRE-BREATHING, FOOTSTOMPING, TOY THROWING, MOMMY'S ASS-KICKING MONSTER.
I am so patient, up to a point. I put up with it, with the usual consequences, etc., until I just can't anymore. We didn't disintegrate to the level of previous battles, but it was close. When I was sitting on the couch, he'd sit on the end, then stand up and land, with all his bony angles on my soft parts. I told him to stop. He kept at it. He got punished. He'd try a different angle. By the time I got him in the bath, I was hanging on by a well-worn thread. He kept pushing it doing all the things that make me crazy - not listening and being, basically, a little shit. As he sat in the tub, dissing his mama, I muttered under my breath as I left the room "Ohhhhhh, I'd really like to leave right now."
Can you guess what happened? Can you? Because it went as you probably predicted, but even though I know my son's every nuanced mood, I wasn't prepared for it. How is that possible? I don't know, but sometimes the behavior of those we know and love most can still take us completely by surprise.
All he heard was "leave right now", and he let out a howl so deep, so frightened, so tragic I came running back to reassure him that I wasn't going anywhere. "MOM! You're our QUEEN! You can't leave us - we love you so much!" I lifted him soaking and sobbing from the tub and wrapped him in a towel. I shushed, I comforted, I held, but...
I didn't apologize.
If that makes me a shitty parent, so be it. But he has to learn that mommy is a person like everyone else. I know that mom's get the worst of it because a) we're usually around the most, and b) they trust us with those feelings, I know, I know, I know. But man, it wears me out.
We did manage to get to the other side of it, after one last big cry about how much he misses his friends in LA, and our old house. That broke my heart into a thousand tiny pieces. I asked him if he knew what day it was. Because exactly one year before, we pulled up to the little yellow rental house, with the beautiful lilacs in the yard, where Charley was jumping up and down with joy to see us. We talked about all the good things we'd miss if we left here, now: school, friends, Uncle Jim and Judy, Aunt Jan, Uncle Dan, his cousins, our house, our yard, the Discovery Museum. And he got it, he did.
Maybe all of this was just a six year old in mourning for the passage of time, of childhood, which knowing my old-soul of a boy, wouldn't really surprise me. But it could just as easily be that he was tired and had icecream for dessert.
Whatever the case, it's over, for now, and hopefully the next time the monster rears his gnarly head, I'll have time to put on shin guards and a helmet.
His lungs were clear, and the doctor determined that he was probably sore from climbing the rock wall. By this time, the pain in his back had migrated to his front, and even last night he complained of pain that woke him up.
Let me just say, that I have come a long way in six years. I've gone from taking him to the doctor for everything to, well, not as much. And since we've moved here, we've only gone four times, which for a hypochondriac like me, is practically cured. Granted, in the beginning, I had all kinds of excellent reasons to visit the doctor once a month or more - his kt, which is one of the most mysterious syndromes around, coupled with a bout of rsv that landed him in the hospital at two months old, followed by hypospadius repair surgery at 10 months old, as well as a diagnosis of "benign external hydrocephalus" - a link I won't include because I can't research it even six years later without hyperventilating, but in layman's terms, a big head just like his Dad. Needless to say, all these freak medical issues left me with a panic meter that was constantly in the red zone.
But yesterday, I was worried about the breathing and coughing, as well as the fact that his pain moved from his back to his chest, and he talked about his heart hurting. So I needed to make sure. I even knew, in the back of my head, that he was probably just fine. And he got a clean bill of health.
All this meant he spent a whole day with just me. He was still crabby and tired, and I don't know if all that rock climbing left him with a drop/raise in testosterone, but he was, and I say this with all love and devotion, a MONSTER.
A FIRE-BREATHING, FOOTSTOMPING, TOY THROWING, MOMMY'S ASS-KICKING MONSTER.
I am so patient, up to a point. I put up with it, with the usual consequences, etc., until I just can't anymore. We didn't disintegrate to the level of previous battles, but it was close. When I was sitting on the couch, he'd sit on the end, then stand up and land, with all his bony angles on my soft parts. I told him to stop. He kept at it. He got punished. He'd try a different angle. By the time I got him in the bath, I was hanging on by a well-worn thread. He kept pushing it doing all the things that make me crazy - not listening and being, basically, a little shit. As he sat in the tub, dissing his mama, I muttered under my breath as I left the room "Ohhhhhh, I'd really like to leave right now."
Can you guess what happened? Can you? Because it went as you probably predicted, but even though I know my son's every nuanced mood, I wasn't prepared for it. How is that possible? I don't know, but sometimes the behavior of those we know and love most can still take us completely by surprise.
All he heard was "leave right now", and he let out a howl so deep, so frightened, so tragic I came running back to reassure him that I wasn't going anywhere. "MOM! You're our QUEEN! You can't leave us - we love you so much!" I lifted him soaking and sobbing from the tub and wrapped him in a towel. I shushed, I comforted, I held, but...
I didn't apologize.
If that makes me a shitty parent, so be it. But he has to learn that mommy is a person like everyone else. I know that mom's get the worst of it because a) we're usually around the most, and b) they trust us with those feelings, I know, I know, I know. But man, it wears me out.
We did manage to get to the other side of it, after one last big cry about how much he misses his friends in LA, and our old house. That broke my heart into a thousand tiny pieces. I asked him if he knew what day it was. Because exactly one year before, we pulled up to the little yellow rental house, with the beautiful lilacs in the yard, where Charley was jumping up and down with joy to see us. We talked about all the good things we'd miss if we left here, now: school, friends, Uncle Jim and Judy, Aunt Jan, Uncle Dan, his cousins, our house, our yard, the Discovery Museum. And he got it, he did.
Maybe all of this was just a six year old in mourning for the passage of time, of childhood, which knowing my old-soul of a boy, wouldn't really surprise me. But it could just as easily be that he was tired and had icecream for dessert.
Whatever the case, it's over, for now, and hopefully the next time the monster rears his gnarly head, I'll have time to put on shin guards and a helmet.
Friday, March 30, 2007
hit the target
The other day, the perfect bubble blowing day, we, Joe-Henry and I, had a tantrum. It started because I clearly don't love him enough. I refused to make him a garden burger, and forced a turkey sandwich down his gullet instead. If I were a better mother, I would have taken that turkey sandwich, and thrown it right in the trash and made him his garden burger instead of calmly and cruelly refusing to budge on the matter. And then, when he came in the kitchen and hit me, while screaming at me (no words, just a high-pitched banshee scream that had everyone in the neighborhood putting social services on their speed-dial), forced me to take away his tv shows for the day. Well, that did it. He went into full-blown rage, screaming, crying, demanding that I "STOP THIS BAD BEHAVIOR RIGHT NOW".
In retrospect, and in the moment, I was incredibly calm. It was low blood sugar, to be sure, but still, SO not acceptable. He was sent to his room, but refused to stay there, and came marching out past me in the hallway. This is where it took a turn, where time warped, slowed and sped up again, and left us both wondering what happened. I grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt to catch him as he passed, growing really impatient with these shenanigans as he accelerated, and was yanked backward, landing on his back and very lightly bonking his head. I felt horrible, of course, and knelt down, apologizing profusely, telling him it was a mistake, an accident, I was soooo sorry. I was terrified that he was really hurt, even though I didn't pull him hard, I was so very scared. He wept uncontrollably, still raging, then looked me right in the eye and screamed:
"YOU'RE NOT THE RIGHT MOMMY FOR ME!"
I remember a long time ago, a lifetime really, when I was a childless person, I took care of a little girl. She was an only child, and had her parents trained. They were like seals in the circus, balancing balls on their noses, clapping and barking at her every move. Her mom told me once that, when her little girl was in the bath, she was taking too long to get out, and she was hurrying her along, so her little girl said "I don't love you Mommy! I hate you!" She told me she had to leave the room so her daughter wouldn't see her cry. I was so perplexed by her reaction. How could she not see that she was being manipulated? Why on earth was she not taking the upper hand?
I think of that story now, because as well as we know our children, their strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes, quirks and idiosyncracies, they know ours as well. They know where our buttons are, because they put them there. This little girl knew right where to find that big red button, and exactly how to push it.
A while ago, Joe-Henry told me he wanted a new mommy, and I told him that we should write a list of all the things he wanted in this new mommy and give it to his dad so that he could go shopping for one. He once told me he didn't like me, and I told him that I loved him. He danced and jabbed, but had never landed a blow that even remotely hurt. I've always known he was flailing, wanting more control of any given situation. And who knows, maybe I would have reacted that way this time too, if I hadn't been repeatedly, continually screamed at for half and hour, if I hadn't had pms, if I hadn't actually done something that might have harmed him physically if I had jerked that hood a smidgen harder, or if he'd been running instead of stomping.
But instead, he hit his target. As I held him on the floor, and he screamed in my face, I felt like a failure. Like it was true, there was another mother out there who would have handled that better, who wouldn't have hurt him - even accidentally, who would challenge him in ways I couldn't, who would have more patience and more control, who would stay on top of it, who would stimulate him enough to keep him on his toes instead of picking a fight over a garden burger. I buried my face in his neck and wept.
This scared him to death, and he immediately apologized, saying "no mommy! please don't cry, calm down please!" This made me feel even worse, but I pulled myself together, and put on my best mommy face and said, "I'm okay. It's okay. Let's just both take three deep breaths, alright?!" We sat there like that, still on the floor, still wrapped in each other's arms, breathing deeply, feeling the sting of our tears and knowing we were holding onto each other's souls.
I checked his head ("it didn't really hurt, mom, but I was scared"), no bumps, his back was fine, but both of our hearts were pretty bruised. And I think we both know something we might not have known before.
That button, that giant red one right there? That one is never to be pushed. Never, ever again.
In retrospect, and in the moment, I was incredibly calm. It was low blood sugar, to be sure, but still, SO not acceptable. He was sent to his room, but refused to stay there, and came marching out past me in the hallway. This is where it took a turn, where time warped, slowed and sped up again, and left us both wondering what happened. I grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt to catch him as he passed, growing really impatient with these shenanigans as he accelerated, and was yanked backward, landing on his back and very lightly bonking his head. I felt horrible, of course, and knelt down, apologizing profusely, telling him it was a mistake, an accident, I was soooo sorry. I was terrified that he was really hurt, even though I didn't pull him hard, I was so very scared. He wept uncontrollably, still raging, then looked me right in the eye and screamed:
"YOU'RE NOT THE RIGHT MOMMY FOR ME!"
I remember a long time ago, a lifetime really, when I was a childless person, I took care of a little girl. She was an only child, and had her parents trained. They were like seals in the circus, balancing balls on their noses, clapping and barking at her every move. Her mom told me once that, when her little girl was in the bath, she was taking too long to get out, and she was hurrying her along, so her little girl said "I don't love you Mommy! I hate you!" She told me she had to leave the room so her daughter wouldn't see her cry. I was so perplexed by her reaction. How could she not see that she was being manipulated? Why on earth was she not taking the upper hand?
I think of that story now, because as well as we know our children, their strengths and weaknesses, likes and dislikes, quirks and idiosyncracies, they know ours as well. They know where our buttons are, because they put them there. This little girl knew right where to find that big red button, and exactly how to push it.
A while ago, Joe-Henry told me he wanted a new mommy, and I told him that we should write a list of all the things he wanted in this new mommy and give it to his dad so that he could go shopping for one. He once told me he didn't like me, and I told him that I loved him. He danced and jabbed, but had never landed a blow that even remotely hurt. I've always known he was flailing, wanting more control of any given situation. And who knows, maybe I would have reacted that way this time too, if I hadn't been repeatedly, continually screamed at for half and hour, if I hadn't had pms, if I hadn't actually done something that might have harmed him physically if I had jerked that hood a smidgen harder, or if he'd been running instead of stomping.
But instead, he hit his target. As I held him on the floor, and he screamed in my face, I felt like a failure. Like it was true, there was another mother out there who would have handled that better, who wouldn't have hurt him - even accidentally, who would challenge him in ways I couldn't, who would have more patience and more control, who would stay on top of it, who would stimulate him enough to keep him on his toes instead of picking a fight over a garden burger. I buried my face in his neck and wept.
This scared him to death, and he immediately apologized, saying "no mommy! please don't cry, calm down please!" This made me feel even worse, but I pulled myself together, and put on my best mommy face and said, "I'm okay. It's okay. Let's just both take three deep breaths, alright?!" We sat there like that, still on the floor, still wrapped in each other's arms, breathing deeply, feeling the sting of our tears and knowing we were holding onto each other's souls.
I checked his head ("it didn't really hurt, mom, but I was scared"), no bumps, his back was fine, but both of our hearts were pretty bruised. And I think we both know something we might not have known before.
That button, that giant red one right there? That one is never to be pushed. Never, ever again.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
"I want a new mommy!"
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. That is the sound I am making because I just got my child to bed. Do you make that sound too? I'm sure you do. In fact it's the reason I started this blog - because I know that out there, in homes as different from mine as can be, you are there having that moment too. And it helps me to know this. I think that when I first had my son, when he was a baby, and I had older, more experienced moms gently telling me that I would get through the sleepless nights, the confusion, the crazy hormones and leaky breasts, I had to take it on faith. Because I really wasn't sure anyone had ever been through it before. Sure, it must have happened, because there THEY were, survivors all, and there were THEIR children, whether they were a year or twenty older than my own, but still, how could their experience have been as remotely desperate, as unique as mine? Now granted, there was something to this - our first year was fraught with not only the first baby thing, but we had a child with a really rare syndrome and no one could (or can even now) tell us exactly how it does or might affect him. In addition to this, there were other, more common but still no fun health issues (hypospadius and rsv), so there were more than the usual new parent unknowns. It was chaos on top of anarchy on top of poopy diapers. But from about six months to a year, when things calmed down a bit (when I calmed down a bit), and there started to be a rhythm to our life with this squirmy, noisy new roommate or ours, I began to discover what a great source of comfort and wisdom other mothers were. I didn't have to agree with them, but knowing that they were there, and that they were going through a lot of the same things I was, it made the mountain I was climbing seem less rocky and more scenic. Today, if I'm feeling out of whack, or I'm facing a particularly tough parenting challenge, I'm on the phone to my mom friends. It's especially miraculous to have friends with kids the same age, because you can check in to find out if it's just a phase, or if your child is, indeed, going to be a serial killer/wallflower/trapeze artist/brain surgeon/defense attorney.
Here's what started my Ahhhhhhhh moment tonight. We had the best day today. I got a lot done, got a big portion of our dump of a basement cleaned out, while my boy played with his new mail truck that he earned by cleaning out two big bags of toys. He spent a good hour explaining to me the different ways that busses open their doors, then went on in great detail about doors on the max train and doors on mail trucks, etc. Sometimes it can make me want to stick a pencil in my ear, but today I cherished it. I loved that he wanted to tell me about it - I had patience for all of it, and enjoyed hearing about it. I tried to see him as I might if he weren't my son, and it weren't my monumental responsibility to feed him, keep him healthy, stimulated and happy, all the while tackling all the other five hundred things that always need to get done in a day. It worked - I was charmed by him, and thought he was terrifically smart and sweet and not at all a nagging interruption for my important grown up things. He played Max Train, calling out all the stops into the microphone we have in our basement, and then made the announcements in "Spanish". I use the quotation marks because sometimes it actually does sound like the Spanish announcements they make on the Max, and sometimes it sounds like a cross between French, Latin and Icelandic. Luckily when he is doing this my back is to him, and he can't see my smile. He hates it when I smile at his playing, because it's not playing to him, it's serious business and there is nothing remotely cute or funny about it.
ANYWAY, tonight we went to an event at his school, then we stopped for a burger on our way home. He asked if he could play with his new mail truck while he ate, and because my husband was working late, and I wanted to sit on the couch and read the paper while I ate, I said sure. But ONLY if he ate. If I had to remind him more than once, I would have to take the truck away until after dinner.
Well, of course it happened, because it always does. So I reminded him once, and warned him that if I had to do it again, I'd take the truck away until he finished. Well, when it actually happened, he couldn't believe that I was going to follow through (even though I always do). He got so angry with me, he told me I was a "buttonhead", which I believe is actually "butthead" but he heard it wrong at school, and I'm not going to correct him. So I looked him straight in the eye and said "Sweetie, I see you're angry, but calling me names just made things worse. Now the truck is mine until tomorrow." This made him furious, and he was doing his best not to cry while he made vicious fun of me for being, in his opinion, the "worst mommy EVER!". And this is what he said next. "I want a new mommy!" In the past, when he's travelled down that road, I've calmly asked him to tell me what he wanted his new mommy to be like, so I could write it down and we could give the list to his daddy. And every time, he would cry and wail "NOOOOOO! I don't want a new mommy! You're my mommy! I love YOU!" I always felt a little wicked doing it, but it seemed to turn things around. But this time, he walked over, made a snatching motion at my heart, and said "I'm taking all this love that daddy gave you and I'm going to give it to him and tell him to give it to my new mommy". Somehow, I managed not to laugh OR cry, both responses burbling just under my calm surface, and said "I don't think Daddy will take this love back. I've used it pretty well, and I think I get to keep it. But if you want, you can stay really mad for a while. I know sometimes that feeling just has to be there." He was running out of steam, but he went for one last flourish. "I'm not your son anymore!" To which I said as honestly and calmly as I could "Oh my love. You are always my son. Even when you don't want to be. You can't shake mama - I'm here forever."
And then, it was over. Poof. Just like that. Like we had been caught in a terrible downpour, but now it's done, and even if the sun wasn't out yet, we could see it shining just behind that cloud.
I was proud of myself for not losing my patience and yelling. That seems to be my default mode lately, and I'm working like crazy to change it. To be a better parent. Not perfect, but just better. Tonight I did it, and it felt really good. But if I hadn't, I'd still be here, having my "Ahhhhhhhhhh" moment. And feeling comforted by you, my fellow parent/warriors. We struggle mightily, sometimes we fail, sometimes we succeed. But through it all, we are always, always parents. Onward.
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