So This Noise-Phobe Gives Birth to a Screamer ...

I hate loud noises. I mean freakishly OCD hate loud noises. I also happen to be the maternal recipient of a screamer. My middle son, who is almost four, is a screamer supreme, and he's screaming loud enough for the neighbors to wonder if I'm hurting him.

Zilch patience is my M.O. when it comes to his screamfests, which is probably why I've received this loud life-lesson gift that I'm now forced to unwrap and learn to accept with grace.

As I type my scream machine is currently spastically flipping like a fish out of water, thrashing naked in his bed, howling like a wild banshee in an overdrive tantrum fit.

"So why the Hell are you blogging instead of soothing him right now?" you might ask.

Before you're tempted to assume that I'm a big, mean, neglectful mama for ignoring my audio nightmare babe at this moment, let me explain how he boiled over in the first place and how I ended up steaming and throwing my hands up in deafening defeat.

For far too many precious nighttime minutes (his high-pitched wails are keeping my other two children awake well past bedtime going on 20 minutes now), I've attempted to comfort my son, tried in vain to unearth the source of his flaming upset.

As it turns out, he wants me to dress him for bed.

Damn. You'd think a bigger beef than that would have set him off, something more dramatic to justify such dramatic behavior. Well, I'm not maternally wet behind the ears enough to buy that not wanting to slap Spiderman pajamas on, a skill my son has long mastered, is the sole culprit behind his holy felonious freak-out. Throw in a major case of the over-tireds that I'll explain later ... and here we are on scaling a slippery scream-slope ...

So, he demands full blast that I dress him. He pulls the same "negative attention" games when asked day in and day out to strap himself into his car seat. He took a swipe at me when I refused to dress him and missed. Before refusing, I offered to help a bit instead (holding his shirt open for him, etc.) but he wouldn't be baited.

"Fine. Sleep naked. Birthday suit yourself," I said, giving up.

I resolved to not pander to his fit. I even threatened him with a spanking, which is so NOT how I want to parent. EVER. Sometimes parent-child situations escalate with such intensity. I'm sure you moms of challenging, fitful three-year-old kids know exactly what I'm talking about, even though no one ever really talks about it. Desperate for a solution. Desperate for his fit to stop, as if he were a colicky newborn ... These are the only ways I can think of to describe the feelings that persist when he's in the throws of an extended limbs-akimbo tantrum.

Thursday nights never flow smooth and easy for our family, as if any really do. Thursdays are one of the two days a week my moody little mister goes to preschool for a short four-hour stretch. By the time bedtime rolls around, he's overcooked from an active day at school and agitated by a severe lack of nap. He ends up burned out on being able to cope with just about anything, even simple tasks like eating dinner, bathing and dressing himself for bed. Clearly, we need a better schedule (arrive at school earlier and pick him up early enough to squeeze in a nap that won't further sabotage bedtime ... hmmm ... I wonder if that would suit us better ... ).

Tonight was particularly challenging for him because we zipped from his school to pick his brother up from kindergarten. From there, we whisked north to my sister-in-law's well put-together Easter egg hunt/egg decorating party. Poor little guy. Our day's fast-paced adventures proved too much for him and he melted into million little smeary pieces, just like the random chunk of Lindt chocolate favor-bag bunny that landed up in my bra and left a smudge-trail all over my chest.

Believe me, I tried "dialogue-ing" to allay his upset. I did the best I could for as long as I could. But I exhausted the mirroring. I blew the reflective listening. I screwed up all my "I" statements. I'm through. He'll just have to cry it out this time, experts who disagree with my last-ditch approach be damned.

I think it would be good for my screaming one and myself if I commit to examine, grasp and improve my red-hot reactions to his recurrent screaming fits. I'm not sure if I truly want to take on such a task now that I think of it. Delving deeply into such inevitably uncomfortable ground isn't exactly how I want to spend my free time ... but here goes, at least a tiny bit.

Descriptive words (for his fits, my reactions to his fits and his counter-reaction to my reactions):
Inferno
Irrational
Pushed
Sensory overload
Overwhelming

Feelings:
Angry in reaction to his anger
Sad that I can't better handle my own child's intensity at times
Disappointed that I can't better apply non-punitive interventions/limit-setting
Rejected when my many attempts to calm him fail

Okay, that's enough. Too much.

I think I've reached the point where I am no longer able to have compassion for him when he throws tantrums. My once-reassuring reactions have lapsed into callous, abrupt and threatening snips. Why does bedtime have to be such an ongoing struggle? Why must my youngest two literally tag-team-scream beg for me nightly? Don't they know that I'm not worth all that fuss anyway?

Why can't we go back to when their daddy put them to bed one night, then me the next? We used to be interchangeable when it came to our long-established bath, books and bed routine. Why must they cling so hard to me at night, even after they haven't seen their daddy all day?

Because I'm their mother, that's why. As much as I unconditionally love them, they love me unconditionally back, even when I mother them like a fed-up jerk.

Blogging/writing/journaling calms me down better than yoga and meditation. Now if I only knew how to calm my fickle screamer.