I
had envisioned this Monday morning going differently than it did,
though I have no good reason to have done so. Every Monday morning is
a bit challenging in our home, and I suspect that the vast majority
of the human population feels the same way. There are alarm clocks
beeping before the sun is even up, lunch bags to unearth from the
bottom recesses of our backpacks for refilling, and shoes to drudge
up from the closets or from under the couch. Or maybe your shoes are
out on the porch. Or in the yard. It seems that the shoe bucket that
I purchased to hold them never seems to actually contain my
children's shoes. But that is another story.
On
a typical school morning, while the kids are having their breakfast,
I pack their lunches while listening to my three lovely children
discuss life, love and the logistics for the day. They talk of which
library book they are going to look for at school, or what game they
might play on the playground, and with whom. Brooklynn might blush
while speaking of Charlie, and Blake will have a bit of a glow around
him because he is wearing his guitar shirt. Tristan is already
planning what he wants to do after school, planting the elephant ear
in the garden is on the top of his list. Occasionally they will
bicker over a particular cereal box that they all want to read with
their breakfast. A cereal box is equivalent to their morning paper.
They do not want to share. All in all, however, our mornings are
fairly pleasant.
Coming
off of a very busy weekend where bedtimes were late and sunshine and
fun were plentiful, the three of them are not well rested and
therefore unusually ornery today. Tristan is mad because he had plans
of scavenging favorite toys from the attic for redistribution into
his room – to be done before
school. I nixed that idea, in favor of actually getting to school on
time.
Blake
is mad because I asked him to finish his bowl of Cheerios. He was a
little overzealous with his serving size, something that happens so
often that I now charge him fifty cents each time he dumps a bowl of
cereal down the drain. His piggy bank is getting short on quarters.
Brooklynn is mad because one of the boys looked at her wrong. Wrong
meaning: too long, not long enough, with a condescending air maybe,
or with a I-can't-believe-what-a-dork-you-are feeling to it. She is
mad, and the neighbors can hear her informing us of the situation.
So
today I am less Martha Stewart Mom and more Bomb Squad Guy. If I
cannot defuse the situation before we leave for school, inevitably
the five minute drive to school will result in detonation, with our
various body parts and fragile limbic systems
in shambles. So I'm breathing. Slowly and deeply.
Now...I've
been reading up on this. I found a dusty old book on my shelves,
recommended to me years ago by a close friend, entitled How To
Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk. At the
time she suggested it to me, my twins were five and generally in love
with each other. They adored their baby sister and thought the sun
rose and set with me, their mother. Sibling rivalry was primarily
limited to things like fussing over who got the biggest muffin, the
cookie with the most chocolate chips, or which lucky boy got to be
the first in the bathtub.
When I
paged through the book back then, I was generally horrified by the
way in which some of the children were talking to their parents. I
could not believe the manner in which the children fought with each
other and the abject disrespectful behavior depicted within its
pages. I thought, “Finally, a parenting book that I do not need. My
children are lovely, I do not even know what sibling rivalry is.”
So I shelved the book, and there it stayed for over three years.
Today
my twins are eight, my daughter is six (going on twelve), and today I
need the book. In fact, I could have used it yesterday. And if I'm
going to survive my mid-thirties without a prescription for an
anxiety drug, I need the book tomorrow as well.
So I am
going to put the authors Adele Faber's and Elaine Mazlish's
methods to the test. Another deep breath, and here we go.
“You
are mad, Brooklynn.” I say with a calm, reassuring voice. I am
giving legitimacy to her emotions.
“Yes!”
she scowls, complete with fists clenched and chin tucked low.
“Hmm...
“, I reply.
This is
when she is supposed to relax. This is the moment when she is
theoretically supposed to be appreciative that I hear her distress
and that I accept it as a valid emotion. It is okay to be mad, and I
accept her feelings on the matter. This is not what happens, however.
Brooklynn
decides, instead, to swing her little blue and yellow flowery lunch
bag in a helicopter propeller motion, unintentionally slamming the
bag into Blake's shoulder. The bomb timer is blinking red now and
beeping louder than ever.
“Wait
Blake, calm down. You are mad. You don't know why she hit you,”
reasons their now freakishly panicked mother.
“Yeah!
I didn't do anything!”
replies Blake with a look of shock and outright rage.
I am
supposed to give another, “hmm...” however, hmm'ing seems
inappropriate here somehow. Hmm'ing uses up what little bit of
precious time I have left before the bomb blows and I suspect it
might sound like I'm placing judgment by minimizing the assault with
what is essentially a hum. So, trying to think for myself what the
next step should be, the instructions in the book getting fuzzier by
the moment, I completely blow it.
“Brooklynn,
what did you do that for?!?” comes flying out of my mouth.
Que
the bomb exploding.
-------
Short fuses.
I
have one, my son Blake definitely has one. I suspect my daughter is
simply experiencing a late period of temper tantrums. She was
perfectly delightful when she was two-years-old, so maybe she is just
making up for lost time and trying her temper out on a temporary
basis. I can only hope.
When
Blake is having an unusually hard day and is especially fiery, he has
been known to follow up a punch at this brother with a loud
pronouncement, “I'm sorry, Tristan!
You know I have anger
issues!” Though I have explained countless times that his “anger
issues” are not an excuse for getting physical, he sincerely feels
out of control at times and can gain perspective by examining his
actions with the left side of his brain.
I
reflect on my own fiery reactions frequently enough, and find some
solace in recognizing and owning my own weaknesses. Acknowledging a
weakness is the first step in overcoming it, after all. I do not
throw punches, but I have been known to throw things
when I am mad. A kitchen spatula, a book, a pillow. There is a small,
perfectly round hole in the drywall of our dining room, from a time
when I threw a pencil so hard that it hit the wall like a dart and
stuck there. I left the hole there to remind me to keep my cool next
time. I know others who swear like a sailor when they get mad, and
still others who bottle it all up and lose it on their unsuspecting
husbands.
------
My
father came and spent a couple of months with us recently, to
celebrate his retirement and his new ability to spend more time with
family. For so many reasons, it was a wonderful visit. One reason in
particular, however, was his perspective on the dynamics of our
five-person family unit. Yes, we have sibling rivalry now. Yes,
Brooklynn has a melt down at least three nights out of the week,
usually at the dinner table. Yes, Brandon has been known to shake the
walls with his vocal demand, “Go to your room, Brooke!” Yes, I
have been known to scream at my boys while in our mini-van simply
because I could not take the loud bickering coming from the backseat
any longer.
Later,
sitting with my father on the porch or at the kitchen table,
reflecting on my feelings of defeat and shame at our behavior, he set
my mind easy. Clearly he was not the most proud of me in these
moments, but he was accepting of me all the same. He said it was
normal. He said that if there was never any drama, we would be
abnormal. He said that I have taught my children to have a strong
voice, to think for themselves, and to stand up for what they believe
in. It will serve them well later in life, but will in all likelihood
mean a few fist fights between my boys and tears from my daughter now
and then.
My
father reassured me that my boys are like any other boys. A quick,
short scuffle, and the argument is over. This is how boys fix things,
he explained. Since the beginning of time, apparently. I was not
raised with brothers so the physical nature in which they will
sometimes fight is something I do not have any experience with. He
had three brothers
growing up, and can assure me that everything about my two boys is
normal. That is not to say that I need to condone this behavior on a
daily basis, but I do need to realize that they have too little
estrogen coursing in their blood to expect them to sit down and talk
out their differences each time.
He
said that he can remember growing up and hearing my grandmother
yelling, saying she had had enough and was going to leave if things
did not change. My grandmother is going to be ninety years old next
year and she is the sweetest, toughest old broad you will ever meet.
Her heart is made of gold, but her core is made of steel. She's a
lover and a fighter. So am I.
------
There
are moments when I dream fondly of a quieter household. One with less
drama and strife. When my little ones leave home for college, I will
have that and will probably find life to be too quiet. Too easy. I
will miss their loud boisterous ways, their idle chatter at the
kitchen table, and Blake's cereal money. Our lives are not defined by
a few angry moments. We have far more daily interactions that are
positive, lovely and sweet, than those mentioned above. Times when we
are united as a family, unconditionally loving and ecstatically
pleased with each other. They will remember those. I will remember
those.
When
I pick them up today after school, they will not remember having been
mad. Of if they do, they will not remember why. They have already
picked themselves up, turned course, and moved on. As I must. I will
gather the things we need to plant the elephant ear bulb today, set
out Blake's guitar, and open up the attic to retrieve a few old toys.
A new box of markers set out for Brooklynn, and she will be all
smiles. We'll spend a wonderful afternoon together, enjoying each
others company. And tomorrow morning, inevitably, we will realize
that somehow, inexplicably, we have lost our shoes again.
