champion post
It starts with an angry murmur, barely audible over the TV and his tablet.
“Hey.”
Most of the words that follow are unintelligible, but I catch his drift, if not the underlying cause. His grip on the tablet tightens, fingernails digging into its rubber case. His body is tense and yet constantly in motion; I can almost see the waves of anxiety and anger battering him as he fights to stay still.
Sometimes, you can catch it at hey. There are moments where we can find the problem and make it right before it’s just too much for him to contain.
Today is not one of those days.
The tablet sails across the living room, punctuated by another hey. I’m on my feet at this point, coming close but not too close, and he’s already swinging.
He may not recognize every emotion that crosses my face, but he knows what pain looks like. So he targets my face, my sides, the tender skin of my upper arms.
“Ow!” he exclaims each time he lands a blow. When I retreat, he follows me.
Within seconds, we’re grappling on the couch like a bad episode of WWE. I have both of his wrists, trying to avoid his pinches and scratches without gripping too tightly.
He compensates with his powerful legs, driving his heels into my shins as he thrashes and tries to twist free. When I wrap my legs around his, he throws his head backward against my chest, then sinks his teeth into my hand.
Fending off violence from my own child is a surreal experience - one that has broken parts of me I may never repair. It’s like being swallowed up in this cacophony of fear, sadness, adrenaline, and even anger. Even so, I know it is only a dim echo of the emotions overwhelming him in those moments.
And I hate myself for doing it, but I don’t know how else to stop this. I shriek, “OW!” at the top of my lungs, my mouth far too close to his sensitive ears, and I burst into tears.
My husband appears less than a minute later and finds us still tangled up on the couch, both sobbing - Tim from his frustration and the pain of my yell, and me in defeat and self-hatred.
But before I know it, we’re both blowing our noses and slowly getting our heart rates back to normal. Reed has responded with calm compassion, and it’s worked a hundred times better than my panicked self-defense.
I try not to think about the hundreds of times I have led with compassion and only managed to fuel the flames of his meltdowns.
After five months of sheltering in place without school, friends, or even a few hours away with grandparents, my husband has crossed over to a new level of understanding with our children. He can defuse situations that I unwittingly exacerbate. He can get up for the day at 3:30 with a restless child, and still be the world’s best dad by bedtime.
And I can’t even hold down the fort for an hour on the weekend so he can take a nap.
For the first time in my life, I’m failing at something where giving up is not an option, and neither is failure. Everything I used to believe about my strength, my intuition, and my empathy feels like pride and self-delusion.
It’s a terrible feeling to realize that your family unit runs more smoothly when you’re locked away upstairs, working, but there it is.
All I can do is not give up.
therealljidol week 30: champion post for kittenboo
“Hey.”
Most of the words that follow are unintelligible, but I catch his drift, if not the underlying cause. His grip on the tablet tightens, fingernails digging into its rubber case. His body is tense and yet constantly in motion; I can almost see the waves of anxiety and anger battering him as he fights to stay still.
Sometimes, you can catch it at hey. There are moments where we can find the problem and make it right before it’s just too much for him to contain.
Today is not one of those days.
The tablet sails across the living room, punctuated by another hey. I’m on my feet at this point, coming close but not too close, and he’s already swinging.
He may not recognize every emotion that crosses my face, but he knows what pain looks like. So he targets my face, my sides, the tender skin of my upper arms.
“Ow!” he exclaims each time he lands a blow. When I retreat, he follows me.
Within seconds, we’re grappling on the couch like a bad episode of WWE. I have both of his wrists, trying to avoid his pinches and scratches without gripping too tightly.
He compensates with his powerful legs, driving his heels into my shins as he thrashes and tries to twist free. When I wrap my legs around his, he throws his head backward against my chest, then sinks his teeth into my hand.
Fending off violence from my own child is a surreal experience - one that has broken parts of me I may never repair. It’s like being swallowed up in this cacophony of fear, sadness, adrenaline, and even anger. Even so, I know it is only a dim echo of the emotions overwhelming him in those moments.
And I hate myself for doing it, but I don’t know how else to stop this. I shriek, “OW!” at the top of my lungs, my mouth far too close to his sensitive ears, and I burst into tears.
My husband appears less than a minute later and finds us still tangled up on the couch, both sobbing - Tim from his frustration and the pain of my yell, and me in defeat and self-hatred.
But before I know it, we’re both blowing our noses and slowly getting our heart rates back to normal. Reed has responded with calm compassion, and it’s worked a hundred times better than my panicked self-defense.
I try not to think about the hundreds of times I have led with compassion and only managed to fuel the flames of his meltdowns.
After five months of sheltering in place without school, friends, or even a few hours away with grandparents, my husband has crossed over to a new level of understanding with our children. He can defuse situations that I unwittingly exacerbate. He can get up for the day at 3:30 with a restless child, and still be the world’s best dad by bedtime.
And I can’t even hold down the fort for an hour on the weekend so he can take a nap.
For the first time in my life, I’m failing at something where giving up is not an option, and neither is failure. Everything I used to believe about my strength, my intuition, and my empathy feels like pride and self-delusion.
It’s a terrible feeling to realize that your family unit runs more smoothly when you’re locked away upstairs, working, but there it is.
All I can do is not give up.
therealljidol week 30: champion post for kittenboo