DadaMama

Hell is a Playdate That Ends in Disaster

And so here we are again, back at square one--with absolutely no idea how we got here. I don't know whether to scream or tear out my hair or crawl under a rock and hide.

Yesterday I took the kids to a friend's house to play. We have been to this house, to see these friends, hundreds of times. These are some of our favorite people. That, however, did not stop Gus from throwing wood chips in the face of the other child and telling her that he would "cut her Daddy's neck off." If you knew this little girl, you would be as horrified as I am, as she is one of the sweetest, mildest children walking the planet and would never dream of talking to someone the way my son spoke to her. I don't believe I've ever heard this little girl raise her voice.

As you may imagine, the playdate ended right there. Not without the usual fanfare of course, in which Gus scratched and kicked and threatened had to be restrained. When I let him up, he absolutely refused to apologize, so I put him in the car, apologized a thousand times to his friend and her mother, and then loaded up Will. I made it clear to Gus that when things go south in this manner, we will ALWAYS LEAVE. Immediately.

I admonished Gus, and explained to him that what he'd done was mean, and hateful, and that I was not happy. I asked him why he hurt his friend, and he mumbled something about her telling him a tree had been cut down. To which I say, WTF?!

But the fun hadn't really begun, not yet. As I was driving the boys home, Gus decided that because I ended his playgroup, his time would be best spent picking a fight with his brother. Which resulted in a shouting match, and then Will, crying. I looked back to see why he was crying, and Gus was slapping him, hard, over and over. Up until this point, I had been deadly calm, and had handled the outburst with remarkable (especially for me) patience. But when I saw Gus attacking his brother, his brother who could not get away because, hello, strapped into a carseat in the backseat of a Prius--I lost it.

I was driving and there was nowhere to stop. All I could think to do was to reach behind me and pinch Gus's leg. I pinched him HARD, without really even meaning to. He stopped smacking Will, but he also came unglued. But Mama Bear, once aroused, is apparently ruthless. I laid into my son as I have never done before. I shouted. I yelled. I raised my voice to a pitch it has rarely heard. "DO NOT EVER TOUCH YOUR BROTHER LIKE THAT AGAIN. EVER."

Then it was quiet. Will was staring out the window, tears drying on his cheeks. He held a MatchBox car in one hand and said nothing. Finally, a small voice from the backseat said, tearfully, "Mommy, I don't like it when you pinch me."

"I don't like it, either, Gus. But you were hurting your brother and you wouldn't stop. I asked you to stop."

"Mommy, can you talk in your normal voice?"

Here is the part in the story where I come unglued, quietly. It's hard to drive while you're crying. It's hard to think that maybe all the baby steps you've made forward with this little boy in the last few weeks mean almost nothing, because here you are again. I hate it when I lose my temper, but this time I don't feel as bad. If it wasn't normal, at least my reaction was understandable.

Why is Gus such an antagonist? Where does he get these violent ideas? Is this intentional or out of his control? Why are there so many shades of crazy? Because this is crazy. Despite my having pinched Gus, that is far from the usual way these things get handled.

Dashing Husband and I have gone out of our way to be compassionate, and kind, and to model the behavior we want to see from our children. We don't run a violent, tempestuous household. No one drinks, or hits, or calls names. We spend time every night with the boys, playing the games they want to play, listening to their stories, helping them with their projects, reading them books. Over the last couple of weeks, we've even cut WAAAY back on their already minimal screen time.

The only thing I can think of is that I'm pregnant and not as patient as I have been in the past, but I've been working hard on that. I've been trying hard to focus on the positives in my son, and to spend as much quality time with him as possible. But it's not enough.

I have combed Gus's school and questioned his teachers, looking for answers. I am finding nothing. Will exhibits none of these behaviors, except for the more diluted version he presents us when he mimics Gus. What has gone wrong here?

Our appointment is in thirteen days. Until then, we will not be attending any playgroups or after school activities. The leash is getting very short. We toyed briefly with the idea of canceling the appointment, because things have been looking up over the last few days. But you know what? I am now fully aware that I no longer know what the hell I'm doing. 

Perspective

Yesterday I mined the archives of this blog for answers. Has my son always been this way? What I found surprised me, and echoed as a resounding YES.

At the age of 12 months, we fought about naptime. Every day. The boy would stand in his crib and scream and bang on the walls and the side of his crib. I chalked this up to the usual giving up of the extra nap and wrote it off as normal.

At eighteen months, we had the head-butting. Gus would get angry, back up, and then rush me like a little bull. He wasn't talking as well then, so I thought I understood his frustration. Again, I chalked it up as normal and moved on.

At the tender age of two, Gus pulled out all the stops and began to throw spectacular, raging tantrums. He would slam the door and destroy his bedroom. He would bite and kick and smack and spit. This time I attributed the outbursts to our having recently moved into a new house (big change) and then having a new baby (monumental tectonic shift). For seven months the child made my life a living hell, so I found a counselor for me. Which helped, but only a little. It ended up being a time we just had to live through.

Age two also ushered in The Era of Near-Constant Talking. Endless questions and commentary and requests and refusals were so common that I had to learn to tune the child out while driving, lest I lose my mind. Naptime, bedtime, and time-out all became major struggles.

When Gus was two-and-a-half, I was advised to try holding him in time-out until he decided to stay on his own. That wrestling match lasted forty-five minutes.

He has also always been sensitive. There is one particular incident, from last Christmas, when three-year-old Gus worried that his actions, and his alone, would destroy the entire Christmas play his preschool was putting on. He was hysterical and in tears over this idea. I also recall, now, that we had to stop letting him listen to Flogging Molly, because the energy of that kind of music would leave him crazy, unable to stop running and hitting things. I once had to take him outside at Friday's, because the din of people eating dinner was so loud for him that he could no longer deal.

In the archives, there are many, many mentions of tantrums, and arguments, and battles over things as seemingly insignificant as which pants the kid would wear (I cannot, to this day, talk him into a pair of shorts, or a pair of socks that aren't "just right."). There are many more mentions of things like Gus purposely wetting his pants in time-out, or purposely peeing on the rug instead of in the toilet. There are photos of him climbing the changing table when he should be napping, and drawing on his face and hands and torso with markers. There are also photos of him up to his elbows in yogurt, or spaghetti, or [insert food here].

I found several mentions of Gus, in time-out, unable to control what his arms and legs were doing. He would squirm and wiggle and bang his head on the wall. He would bite his pant legs or kick his feet, anything but sit still.

Any one of these episodes, taken as a single incident, mean nothing. But taken as a whole over the course of this child's existence, they mean much more. I have never known how to deal with my son. I adore him. I think he's amazing, and smart, and often hilariously funny. But I have failed to understand this until just now. The world looks very different to this little boy, and I don't know how to help him.

Last night, he told me that many of the kids at school pick on him, and that they tell him he's "not cool" and call him "twig nose." I instantly felt like a horrible mother for sending him, daily, to a place where he is ostracized and made to feel an outsider. But upon closer inspection of the conversation, and after listening to him recount it again to his father, I don't think the other children actually dislike Gus. I think they say things that kids say, things that would mean nothing to any other person--but they're things that sound like hate to Gus. My boy likes school, but I think the playground politics are doing him in.

And I think, underneath his defiant veneer, there is a very small, very frightened little boy who doesn't know why he behaves this way.

This Evening

It was fine until bedtime.

Gus decided he'd rather not brush his teeth, and had to be physically carried into the bathroom. He then refused to open his mouth. Then, after using the toilet, he slammed the lid down as hard as he could.

In his bedroom, he refused to get into his bed. When I went in to kiss him goodnight, he attached himself to my neck and pleaded with me to never leave. Later, he got out of bed and started banging on the wall. When THAT failed to get any attention, he began slamming his bedroom door. Did I mention that he shares a room with his brother? Who was sleeping at the time?

For this, he got a time out, during which he attempted, once again, to kick and punch his father. I am thinking that Gus will be moving into the spare room soon, with only his mattress to accompany him. Will and Superbaby will have to share.

I am just wondering how soon I can effect this change. Probably not soon enough to stop my mind from going completely.

And That's Saturday

The craziness continues, but it's taken on an "are you serious?" kind of regularity. The outbursts are now happening in front of other people (outside our home) more often. Just this afternoon I carried Gus home from the neighbor's house in order to keep him from kicking/biting/scratching/slapping me. What set him off? I merely asked him to apologize to his little brother for accidentally kicking him in the face. How unreasonable of me. The good (maybe) thing is that I can see him winding up to go off, and am able to mentally prepare myself (slightly).

We have an appointment on December 12, at which I hope we will begin to sort Gus out. I just hope we can survive another month. I am going to start keeping a journal, though, in the hopes that recording events will be helpful. Somehow.

I have taken to breathing deeply and handing the boy off to his father whenever possible, and that seems to be helping. Dashing Husband is able to maintain a remarkable sense of calm, even after the boy has punched him in the face or head-butted him. I do not possess this kind of serenity, but I'm working on it. One day at a time.

In other news, God is playing a cruel joke on me in an entirely different manner. Because I am pregnant, M&Ms now make me vomit. It has happened twice: once on vacation, when I threw up on my shoes at a rest stop in Connecticut, and then again last night when I had to get up and be ill before I could fall asleep. I am not enjoying this new spin on one of my favorite candies. If it happens a third time, shame on me, right?

We had a garage sale today, in order to clean out Superbaby's room. It's now emptier, but not much cleaner. Our next project will be to paint the walls and fix the closet so that it actually holds things. This house has a ridiculous lack of closet space, but we're dealing. I have been collecting tiny clothes and soft blankets and I'm starting to feel like having Superbaby might actually happen. I mean, of course it will happen, it's the inevitable end to the pregnancy trip--but it feels kind of real now. If that makes any sense.

Finding a Direction

Things I Will Do Today:

1. We will not go anywhere after school.

2. I think I will cancel the cable. No TV has got to help in this situation, if only marginally. Maybe I will just put all the TVs by the side of the road.

3. I will call the Child Study Lab at the local university. I think this kind of behavior is a prime candidate for PCIT.

4. I will try to be patient and stay sane. I really don't think my son is out to get me.

I Think I've Reached My Limit

Today was not a good day. I picked the boys up from school and took them to the park, and the trip turned into a rodeo as we were leaving. Gus decided he didn't want to go home yet and pulled out all the stops in order to hold us up.

I actually had to take a branch away from the boy. A big one. He had picked it up for the express purpose of hitting me with it.

I also got kicked in the head, and toys were hurled from the backseat, and several epithets were uttered. "I hate you" has become very popular around here.

As he was getting undressed for his bath, he took off his shoe and aimed it at me. And then his sock.

And then the child calmed down for a while until his father got home and asked him to do something else he didn't like. The tantrum, the shrieking, toy-throwing, door-slamming, out-of-control tantrum, lasted an hour. Dashing Husband almost got hit in the head with a Matchbox car and a plastic Schleich elephant.

The boy, he is persistent. He locks into his awfulness and remains there for as long as possible.

I cracked. I cried, I screamed, I explained to Dashing Husband that if we don't find someone to help us with this I am going to lose it forever. I CANNOT DO THIS ANYMORE. No one will ever be able to convince me that this is normal. 

Another Day, Another Tantrum

Advice anyone? Last night found me physically restraining a child who had been sent to time out and then chose to hurl heavy things at his bedroom door. I am trying to retain my sanity here, but seriously, WTF?! Is this my punishment for having another baby? Does the kid have some kind of serious but as yet undiagnosed behavior problem? Is four this hard for everyone? What do you do with a child who bites, and kicks, and scratches, and throws toys?

Last night Gus threatened to move to Australia if we didn't stop "being mean" to him. I almost offered to pack his freaking suitcase. Socks, clean underwear, $5, and GOOD LUCK TO YOU.

Dashing Husband and I have formulated A Plan, so here's hoping it works. The Rules will be posted, chores will be charted, and time out will happen in a bedroom with a closed door. The only success we've had with Gus lately has been when we completely remove our attention and any opportunities he has to get it. I've also noticed that it's much easier for me to not lose my cool when I don't have to look at the child.

This is akin to living in a combat zone.

Good morning!

Superbaby is kicking me.

That is all.

Another One for Posterity

Me: Your fishy shirt is clean!

Gus: Wow! I like my fishy shirt! Who the hell gave me that shirt?

Motherhood as an Olympic Sport

Who knew that bearing children would present me with so many opportunities to wrestle? It's like this, you see. My therapist suggested that I try holding Gus in time-out if he won't sit. "Hold him," she said, "until he calms down. Then let go immediately."

Which is how I found myself on the floor yesterday, holding a screaming, writhing little boy who was probably also possessed by Satan. I swear, he went all Linda Blair on me.  He'd been throwing toys, another tantrum, yada yada yada. But this time I wrapped my arms and legs around him in a giant, restraining bear hug and told him that he WOULD STOP before I let him go.

Guess how long it lasted. Go ahead, I'll wait.

40 minutes. During which time little Will was also hysterical because why was his brother screaming and would somebody please God just PICK HIM UP? If motherhood was a vacation, I would so totally be getting my money back for yesterday.

The good news? I won. He stopped screaming, and there has been a lot less throwing of toys ever since.