Not Just By Court Order

Lately I haven't been the parent I want to be.

I'm impatient.

I nitpick.

I criticise.

I yell.

I threaten but don't follow through.

I swat.

I'm not even close to the mother I envisioned I'd be. I want better for my children. I don't want them to grow up in fear of me.

Last night in an effort to better understand my parental frustrations and limitations I headed for the neighborhood Borders bookstore. I bought a stack of books that nearly obscured my view of the buzz-headed female cashier who rang me up. The two books at the top of my paperback tower were The Anger Diet by Brenda Shoshanna, Ph.D. and the newly revised edition of Raising Your Spirited Child: A Guide for Parents Whose Child is More Intense, Sensitive, Perceptive, Persistent and Energetic by Mary Sheedy Kurcinka.

Today I signed up for a class at the local Exchange Club called Breakthrough Parenting, which focuses on handling tantrums, getting at the source of parent and child anger/conflict. The lady who answered the phone asked me to bring my court order. When I responded, "I'm self-appointed," she seemed confused.

"Wait ... You want to voluntarily take this class?" she asked.

"Of course. I'm the kind of person who when I see myself slipping, I search for ways to improve. I want to be the best mother to my children that I can be."

"Good for you."

She seemed shocked, just like my neighbor when I told her I wanted to brush up on my parenting skills in the wake of Cheeks' rash of thrice daily temper tantrums (throwing and breaking stuff, kicking, hitting, spitting ... horrid shit all around).

While I know it's not healthy to model perfection for my children, I know modeling healthy ways to deal with and get to the roots of anger will benefit our whole family. When I see something wrong in myself, then see it negatively affecting and manifesting in my children, I seek to remedy it. Hopefully my children will see me growing and changing for the better and their anger will subside as a result.

I'd like to write more (and more eloquently) but Pigtails just woke up crying from a nap. She has a double ear infection. Cheeks has a single. The Lawyer, along with both of his sibs, has bronchitis accompanied by a nasty wet cough.

Crazed cat update - Our new cat mama seems to have chilled a bit. No more unprovoked attacks on Pigtails or any of the children. She's still skittish but nurturing her brood just fine.

YOUR TURN
How do you deal with anger in the heat of the moment in front of the kids or otherwise?

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.

Words: No Returns Allowed, Not Even With a Receipt

"I can't wait until I'm an adult, so I can get away from you!"

Tonight, in a vein popping rage, this was what my six-year-old son screamed at me, inches from my face.

He was in "time-out." I could have used a time-out too.

Sadly, an hour after his blowup he cried himself to sleep, wishing he could eat his words. Even after I told him I'll love him no matter what he ever says. No matter how hurtful, intentional or otherwise. He'll still be my son and I'll be his mother.

"Our love is bigger than words, especially ones spoken in the heat of anger," I assured him. He wasn't going for it and must have said sorry a dozen times.

The power of anger is immeasurable, I told him. Anger makes us say the most hurtful things at times. Things we wish we could take back but never really can.

"So you'll never forget that mean stuff I said?" he asked, wiping his tear streaked cheeks with his wrist.

"Of course, I will," I said with my forehead gently pressed to his forehead. "I already did. Don't ask me what you said because I already forgot."

We talked about ways to cool off before blowing up and speaking spitefully. Calming down and thinking our emotions out is something neither of us excel at. Our combined weaknesses could really hurt our relationship if we're not careful.

He's lucky I know better than to take such spiteful words personally from a young child. Don't get me wrong, though. In the first five to ten seconds following his angry words, I didn't handle it well at all, not even like an adult, really -- I wheeled his rolling Spiderman backpack in his direction and said, "Be my guest."

He didn't get the joke. Then again, I wasn't joking all that much. I was incensed. Perhaps I did take it a bit personally. Flawed humans.

In the end, I felt as terribly rotten as he said he did about saying it in the first place.

What a night. Thank goodness for long, meaningful mother-son talks and extended hugs.

Here's something I read (ew - in my bathroom) last night about teaching children to interpret others' behavior in order to be better prepared for kindergarten and the school years ahead: " ... If the child has learned something about moods and human frailty, if he's been taught to interpret certain types of behavior, he's not apt to be so upset by such experiences ... In addition to reading the behavior of others, a child needs to learn how to interpret his own behavior."

ABCs, 123s and mood and behavior interpretation? Obviously I missed the last part of class.

Like I always say to my husband, we are doing the best we can as parents, but we're still human. We're still flawed and mistakes will be made.

And as I always tell my children, mistakes are not to be feared. Mistakes made in anger are normal. Feelings are normal. Even the ones that feel scary when they unfold. Mistakes are merely opportunities to learn.