Two days before Christmas, my oldest broke his personal record for consecutive dickhead moves in a single 2 hour period and incurred a wrath unlike any other he had seen before. We were on the way back from a morning at my parents' house a mere 40 minutes away. A constant deluge of Ark-like proportions was raining down on us like it had been for 3 days in a row, so instead of taking the back roads (that I'd noticed were frighteningly close to washing out on the drive there), I took the main roads. Faster and safer in bad weather, but unfamiliar to my 4.5-year-old son, to whom 'different' might as well be the same as 'wrong'--or so he let me know the whole way home. "Why are we going this way?!?" Because mommy doesn't want the paramedics to fish our lifeless bodies from a run-off pond. "This way takes too long!!!" It's the interstate. Nothing is faster than this. I'm taking it because I really don't want to waste time with the scenic route and accidentally drown three-fourths of my family. "I don't LIKE this way, Mommy! Turn around!!! NOW!!!" Since he didn't care to accept my explanation (which was not nearly as dark in delivery as just recounted), I stopped responding, hoping he'd get tired and forget he was trying to be an asshole. But instead, he started kicking the back of my seat and yelling until my eyes nearly crossed from the sonic boom of his anger bouncing off the narrow interior of my Civic. I appealed to his budding sense of empathy saying, "You're using very mean words with mommy. You're going to make me cry". To which he responded, "Cry, Mommy! Cry! I want you to CRY!!!"
I was livid, but knew I'd be getting nowhere with him for the remainder of the ride--plus, the weather really was terrible, and my knuckles were practically splitting from the force of my grip on the steering wheel. So I tried my best to tune him out as he continued to rage against the Mommy Machine in as ugly a fashion as he knew how. As we pulled into the driveway, I reminded him and his brother that it was approaching 2:00, the hour of their mandatory quiet time, and that we would be heading directly upstairs from the car. No shows or games. No additional post-lunch snacks. Just up the steps and to their rooms. As you might've guessed, the oldest openly refused. "We're NOT having quiet time," he declared. I ignored him and continued the process of exiting the car. "I'm not getting out!!!" he insisted. I ignored him while unbuckling him and his brother from their car seats, and kept right on ignoring him until he realized I wasn't responding. Contrary to his verbal protest, he did get out, but only so that he could get in my face and repeat himself --"I'm not having quiet time!!!" --as I unpacked the trunk. When I still ignored him, he stomped on my foot and considered kicking me, stopping short of actually connecting with my shin. "Get. Inside." I told him as calmly as I could. "Now."
When he refused again, I tore past him and into the house to deposit my bags so that I could physically redirect him and his 2.5 year old brother, who was now thinking this was a game. While I could trust the oldest one to stay out of the street--that was not so much the case with the younger one, and I wasn't about to let him get caught up in this act of defiance. When I made my move toward them, the oldest told the youngest, "RUN!" And they did. "Oh hell no" was oozing out of my pours like hot angry lava, as I promised myself I would not chase my kids through the front yard like a pair of headless chickens. For one thing, I knew I couldn't catch both of them at once and did not want to look like a monkey taking liberties with a football in the process. For another, I just refused. I will wipe your ass and scrub your poop from the carpet but I will not chase you.
So, at a loss for anything else to do, I went inside and closed the front door behind me. Despite this moment of protest, my kids were generally not runners--and they're still at an age where they're attached to me by an invisible tether that buoys them back like a boomerang when they look up and realize I'm more than 20 feet away. I hoped that by disappearing, the younger one at least would snap out of it and come running...
Nope.
I paced around, fuming, trying to patiently wait for my older son to make the right choice. But then I heard a car rumble down the street and bounce over the speed bump in front of the house and thought, To hell with this, charging out of the house and scooping up the younger one before he saw me coming. When I went back for the older one--who was in this instance, the culprit, the instigator--I took him down like a defensive tackle, then proceeded to spank him in the yard, up the front steps, and into the foyer. Both boys were then banished to their rooms for the remainder of the afternoon until Ray got home, as much for their own well-being as anything else. Shortly after Ray arrived, I left the house for the next half hour to buy a last minute Christmas present--but really, just to breathe the fresh air of sane, rational adults. And to stop crying, for f-sake.
Spanking is not a proud moment, but it's an option that Ray and I have agreed to keep in our back pockets. The parenting book 1-2-3 Magic cautions that spanking has nothing to do with "the child's own good" and everything to do with parent's satisfaction in breaking the power struggle with that ultimate assertion of dominance. If spanking worked any better than some other strategy, I'd happily use it all the time. But all it's really taught me is that my aim is terrible. And that "spanking" could turn into "beating" pretty quick. At least, for me. I'm sure there are some calm, collected, level-headed spankers out there, interrupting their Namaste pose just long enough to curtly swat their kid's behind in a way that says both "I love you" and "I'm in charge". Me, not so much. At this point, I've never beaten my kids (so get off the phone with Social Service, already). But I'm really not interested in testing myself.
And it's weird. I never considered myself a particularly angry person. But something about kids' behavior can really shake your screws loose. One second, you're happily assembling peanut butter sandwiches and the next, you're tearing through the house like Hulk, stomping and growling and ripping things apart. Because I now know this about myself, I've decided that me spanking is in no one's best interest.
Because I'm apparently a little psycho myself, my kid's intermittently terrible behavior often makes me wonder if I should look forward to rationalizing the exploits of a life-long sociopath. Raising kids often inspires awe and gratitude for the innocence and purity of heart that undoubtedly exist in our untainted little angels... but it can also present compelling evidence of how inherent that pull to the darker side of human nature is. Kids are adorable. But they're also jealous, selfish, vindictive, and manipulative. They lie, steal, cheat, covet the belongings of others--and may not yet understand what it is to kill, but any mom of sons will tell you that everything becomes a weapon--a sword, gun, or missile--long before they've ever been sufficiently immersed in in violent video games or movies to be emulating anything that isn't imprinted on the inner fiber of their being. My kids aren't even 5 yet and they already must devote significant amounts of time to beating each other's asses each day. We, their parents, do not own guns--and yet our kids have been building them out of Duplo blocks and bent twigs for so long we finally said f^&! it and let Santa splurge on a pair of Nerf rifles they will no doubt render each other blind with.
About a month after spanking him in the yard, my oldest son cobbled together perhaps his strongest counter to my suspicion that he is sometimes inhabited by Satan. We began the day with a stellar report from his preschool teacher at the mid-year conference, during which she extolled a laundry list of his virtues including things we rarely see at home: listening, following multi-step directions, problem-solving, peer conflict resolution, empathy. We were ecstatic, of course--but a little incredulous, because this was the same child who often requires basic commands on a continuous loop to dress himself, who falls apart when he has to deal with inside-out socks, endlessly taunts his brother, throws colossal fits when his loses at Chutes and Ladders, and need I remind you, told me to go ahead and cry when I attempted to appeal to his emotions. After rave reviews at school, the same son had a friend over for the afternoon--and proceeded to demonstrate all of those positive things his teacher had noted. He included his little brother. He let his friend win at Memory. He verbally negotiated in situations where he and the friend did not agree. And he listened to me when I kindly asked him not to do something. Granted, I had told him that his behavior during this play-date would weigh heavily on how often he could expect to have friends over in the future. But based on his collective body of work prior to this point, the smart money would not have been anywhere NEAR him following through.
So, I got to thinking. Maybe I'm the monster.
When my son is home with me, where it's safe and familiar and the love is unconditional, he may be acting on the impulses of that little psycho who lives in all of us--but he's probably also trying on for size all the bad habits of his peers--and his parents. When my child behaves wretchedly for no apparent reason at all, I'd like to blame the human condition--but I cannot ignore that I've contributed at least half of his DNA and have been more omnipresent in his life than any entity other than God. I'm selfish, impatient, vain, passive-aggressive, and no longer jealous only because I'm too lazy to sustain the level of energy it requires. I've seen my screaming and gritted teeth, my rough snatching and bossy comebacks reflected in how my oldest often treats his brother and me--while I'm thinking, oh God. That's how I sound. That's how I look.
I was livid, but knew I'd be getting nowhere with him for the remainder of the ride--plus, the weather really was terrible, and my knuckles were practically splitting from the force of my grip on the steering wheel. So I tried my best to tune him out as he continued to rage against the Mommy Machine in as ugly a fashion as he knew how. As we pulled into the driveway, I reminded him and his brother that it was approaching 2:00, the hour of their mandatory quiet time, and that we would be heading directly upstairs from the car. No shows or games. No additional post-lunch snacks. Just up the steps and to their rooms. As you might've guessed, the oldest openly refused. "We're NOT having quiet time," he declared. I ignored him and continued the process of exiting the car. "I'm not getting out!!!" he insisted. I ignored him while unbuckling him and his brother from their car seats, and kept right on ignoring him until he realized I wasn't responding. Contrary to his verbal protest, he did get out, but only so that he could get in my face and repeat himself --"I'm not having quiet time!!!" --as I unpacked the trunk. When I still ignored him, he stomped on my foot and considered kicking me, stopping short of actually connecting with my shin. "Get. Inside." I told him as calmly as I could. "Now."
When he refused again, I tore past him and into the house to deposit my bags so that I could physically redirect him and his 2.5 year old brother, who was now thinking this was a game. While I could trust the oldest one to stay out of the street--that was not so much the case with the younger one, and I wasn't about to let him get caught up in this act of defiance. When I made my move toward them, the oldest told the youngest, "RUN!" And they did. "Oh hell no" was oozing out of my pours like hot angry lava, as I promised myself I would not chase my kids through the front yard like a pair of headless chickens. For one thing, I knew I couldn't catch both of them at once and did not want to look like a monkey taking liberties with a football in the process. For another, I just refused. I will wipe your ass and scrub your poop from the carpet but I will not chase you.
So, at a loss for anything else to do, I went inside and closed the front door behind me. Despite this moment of protest, my kids were generally not runners--and they're still at an age where they're attached to me by an invisible tether that buoys them back like a boomerang when they look up and realize I'm more than 20 feet away. I hoped that by disappearing, the younger one at least would snap out of it and come running...
Nope.
I paced around, fuming, trying to patiently wait for my older son to make the right choice. But then I heard a car rumble down the street and bounce over the speed bump in front of the house and thought, To hell with this, charging out of the house and scooping up the younger one before he saw me coming. When I went back for the older one--who was in this instance, the culprit, the instigator--I took him down like a defensive tackle, then proceeded to spank him in the yard, up the front steps, and into the foyer. Both boys were then banished to their rooms for the remainder of the afternoon until Ray got home, as much for their own well-being as anything else. Shortly after Ray arrived, I left the house for the next half hour to buy a last minute Christmas present--but really, just to breathe the fresh air of sane, rational adults. And to stop crying, for f-sake.
Spanking is not a proud moment, but it's an option that Ray and I have agreed to keep in our back pockets. The parenting book 1-2-3 Magic cautions that spanking has nothing to do with "the child's own good" and everything to do with parent's satisfaction in breaking the power struggle with that ultimate assertion of dominance. If spanking worked any better than some other strategy, I'd happily use it all the time. But all it's really taught me is that my aim is terrible. And that "spanking" could turn into "beating" pretty quick. At least, for me. I'm sure there are some calm, collected, level-headed spankers out there, interrupting their Namaste pose just long enough to curtly swat their kid's behind in a way that says both "I love you" and "I'm in charge". Me, not so much. At this point, I've never beaten my kids (so get off the phone with Social Service, already). But I'm really not interested in testing myself.
And it's weird. I never considered myself a particularly angry person. But something about kids' behavior can really shake your screws loose. One second, you're happily assembling peanut butter sandwiches and the next, you're tearing through the house like Hulk, stomping and growling and ripping things apart. Because I now know this about myself, I've decided that me spanking is in no one's best interest.
Because I'm apparently a little psycho myself, my kid's intermittently terrible behavior often makes me wonder if I should look forward to rationalizing the exploits of a life-long sociopath. Raising kids often inspires awe and gratitude for the innocence and purity of heart that undoubtedly exist in our untainted little angels... but it can also present compelling evidence of how inherent that pull to the darker side of human nature is. Kids are adorable. But they're also jealous, selfish, vindictive, and manipulative. They lie, steal, cheat, covet the belongings of others--and may not yet understand what it is to kill, but any mom of sons will tell you that everything becomes a weapon--a sword, gun, or missile--long before they've ever been sufficiently immersed in in violent video games or movies to be emulating anything that isn't imprinted on the inner fiber of their being. My kids aren't even 5 yet and they already must devote significant amounts of time to beating each other's asses each day. We, their parents, do not own guns--and yet our kids have been building them out of Duplo blocks and bent twigs for so long we finally said f^&! it and let Santa splurge on a pair of Nerf rifles they will no doubt render each other blind with.
About a month after spanking him in the yard, my oldest son cobbled together perhaps his strongest counter to my suspicion that he is sometimes inhabited by Satan. We began the day with a stellar report from his preschool teacher at the mid-year conference, during which she extolled a laundry list of his virtues including things we rarely see at home: listening, following multi-step directions, problem-solving, peer conflict resolution, empathy. We were ecstatic, of course--but a little incredulous, because this was the same child who often requires basic commands on a continuous loop to dress himself, who falls apart when he has to deal with inside-out socks, endlessly taunts his brother, throws colossal fits when his loses at Chutes and Ladders, and need I remind you, told me to go ahead and cry when I attempted to appeal to his emotions. After rave reviews at school, the same son had a friend over for the afternoon--and proceeded to demonstrate all of those positive things his teacher had noted. He included his little brother. He let his friend win at Memory. He verbally negotiated in situations where he and the friend did not agree. And he listened to me when I kindly asked him not to do something. Granted, I had told him that his behavior during this play-date would weigh heavily on how often he could expect to have friends over in the future. But based on his collective body of work prior to this point, the smart money would not have been anywhere NEAR him following through.
So, I got to thinking. Maybe I'm the monster.
When my son is home with me, where it's safe and familiar and the love is unconditional, he may be acting on the impulses of that little psycho who lives in all of us--but he's probably also trying on for size all the bad habits of his peers--and his parents. When my child behaves wretchedly for no apparent reason at all, I'd like to blame the human condition--but I cannot ignore that I've contributed at least half of his DNA and have been more omnipresent in his life than any entity other than God. I'm selfish, impatient, vain, passive-aggressive, and no longer jealous only because I'm too lazy to sustain the level of energy it requires. I've seen my screaming and gritted teeth, my rough snatching and bossy comebacks reflected in how my oldest often treats his brother and me--while I'm thinking, oh God. That's how I sound. That's how I look.
With that kind of example, the first gift on my baby registry should have been a giant catapult with which to launch my apples as far from this tree as physics would allow...
In just under 5 years of parenting, I've already authored copious mom-lectures and drafted many a sticker chart to encourage the use of "gentle hands", "gentle words", and the ability to "make good choices" when faced with the opportunity to do the opposite. The irony in those expectations coming from me is just another part of what makes having kids so bittersweet. Children can really bring out the best in us. They get us to be silly and supportive and inspire a level of devotion that even romantic love cannot match. But they also illuminate the most childish corners of our own character, and show us that we're every bit as immature as they are, even though we're old enough to know better.
In just under 5 years of parenting, I've already authored copious mom-lectures and drafted many a sticker chart to encourage the use of "gentle hands", "gentle words", and the ability to "make good choices" when faced with the opportunity to do the opposite. The irony in those expectations coming from me is just another part of what makes having kids so bittersweet. Children can really bring out the best in us. They get us to be silly and supportive and inspire a level of devotion that even romantic love cannot match. But they also illuminate the most childish corners of our own character, and show us that we're every bit as immature as they are, even though we're old enough to know better.
I've made a lot of good choices, too, of course. And I know I'm not alone in these garden-variety failures as a mom. But maybe it's time for my own damn sticker chart. So at the end of a day, when all I see is a column of blank white space where all my gold stars should be--next to qualities like "patience", "understanding", and "consistency"--and my kids' behavior has been no better than what I've put forth for the day... perhaps I'll pause to consider that maybe I'm the monster and that maybe I need to make more "good choices" of my own.
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