It's not me, it's my monster. Sorry.
I haven’t journaled in awhile; writing anything when the Kinglet is near is extremely difficult, and while he’s in summer camp I guard those hours like Gollum guards his precious. Journalling? Naval-gazing! No time. My novel is so close to being finished… and yet still so far away. Progress is being made, and yet it is sooooo slooooow.
Still - I sacrificed two of my ten camp days for other projects; one to critique a story for Written Remains (my critique group) and one to go over the proof for “The Seven”, my retelling of The Seven Ravens tale, which will appear very, very soon in Twisted Fairy Tales: Volume Two - an anthology created by my dear friend isabellerose23 , and also featuring work by my beloved richlayers
Not like I’m plugging, or anything.
Anyway, it looks like I may be giving up another camp day - the last camp day - to blog. It builds up, you know. This backlog of experience, frustration. If I don’t talk about it… no. If I don’t write about it, I think it festers. Better to chronicle it. Better to understand it.
There were a couple of weeks… I forget when, maybe I dreamed them… when the Kinglet seemed to have become a completely new child. His oppositional behavior all but disappeared; what was left was a mild temper that dissipated quickly, no different than any other five-year-old. And without the intrusion of the ODD - the anger monster, and his ilk - all the wonderful traits that are in my boy were shining through. He was helpful, affectionate, patient, clever… an absolute joy.
I thought, ah, this is working. The schedule, the consistency, the play therapy. I allowed myself to believe we’d gotten over the hump, that maturity was starting to kick in…
…but things changed again. It’s hard to say exactly how or why, it’s a blur. Our daily schedule started to slip… we had family visiting, then a trip to the beach, then more family visiting, typical summer exceptions to the rules. I think I loosened the reigns a bit, assuming he could handle it: maybe we spent too long in our pajamas one morning… maybe I let him spend extra time on the computer, because he was having fun…
suddenly I was having to put him in time-out again, for little things that should never have blown up that way. It was his stubbornness that landed him there, like no power on earth could make him put on his sneakers or brush his teeth or admit that the sky was blue, not yellow. And there was a difference in the way he faced off to me. Sassiness is the best way to describe it: an open defiance, like he was challenging me to knock him down. Like a teenager with a child’s arsenal of responses: raspberries, taunting, thumping sneakers on the legs of the chair.
I was appalled (am appalled - it’s not like this has stopped). I hate how the same boy who climbs into my lap with cuddles and kisses one minute can be so nasty the next. Wouldn’t you rather be friends? I ask him. Is this fun for you? Is it worth it?
It was my anger monster, he tells me sometimes. Not contritely, no. Dismissively, like it’s and excuse. My anger monster is too strong. What’s a boy to do?
So camp started. He made it through most of the first week happily - he shows off the projects that he brings home, he enjoys the toys and the playground and the special activities they do, and his snacks. One day he made a city out of blocks, encompassing an entire table. It had buildings and towers and racetracks for cars, and a grandstand full of little people to watch the cars go by. He was so proud of it, he sat by it and wouldn’t budge until pick-up time so that I could come in and see it. My little engineer.
And then the next day, he assaulted another child. And I mean assaulted. Tackled to the ground, over one of the little people. The teachers pointed out that he had twelve, and the other little boy only wanted one. He apologized, and let him have the toy, but when the teacher turned her back he tackled him again. He had to be hauled away, kicking and punching. He told the teachers “You can’t tell me what to do. I don’t have to listen to you. I will poke you. I will get you.”
Every day since has been a new rendition of the same bad news. Just like the last six months of preschool - every single day, another example of his unwillingness or his inability to acclimate. One day, standing in line, he used his lunch bag to bop the other children in the head. Another day he spit on his teacher. On the day of the zoo visit, he missed seeing the animals. He said he didn’t want to. He spent the afternoon in the principal’s office instead.
He has had his weapons taken away again - which he had earned back after doing so well at summer camp in June. He’s had his Nintendo privileges stripped again, too, which is a shame because it’s the thing he looks forward to most; his end-of-the-day rewards for doing what he’s supposed to. Last month, he would buzz happily through his chores, knowing that pay-off was coming, but when what he’s supposed to do is be good at school, it’s apparently not enough to carry him through.
Meanwhile, we’ve reached the second stage of PCIT. It’s no longer just play-therapy, us spouting off bizarre-sounding verbiage that’s supposed to make him feel loved and special. Now it’s “parent-directed interaction”, with a whole routine of discipline for disobedience. I believe I mentioned this before - it has to do with direct-commands: if you tell a child in no uncertain terms to do something, and he doesn’t comply, you have to follow with steps x,y, and z until he does comply, no matter how long it takes. It changes how we interact at home, because you have to be careful not to give a direct-command unless you have time to follow through. If you’re running out the door for school, you cannot say “Put on your shoes,” because if he doesn’t do it you might well be still sitting in your kitchen counting down time-outs until school is over.
So we have launched into the training, and it is exhausting. I have spent hours, already, listening to my child spit and howl and hurl insults, telling me he hates me and wants to get rid of me. I have stood with my hand on a doorknob while he kicks on the other side, thinking of Mommy Dearest but telling myself this is supposed to be good for him in the long run. I spent forty minutes sitting in my car one afternoon with my child wailing, heart-broken and angry because I won’t roll up the windows and kicking the back of my seat. It was ninety-nine degrees outside. He wouldn’t take a breath. He wouldn’t back down, but neither would I. I was waiting for someone to call the police, thinking I was abusing him.
I called my own cell phone in the middle of it, and left myself a voicemail of his tirade. I wish I could play it for you, but I’m not that tech savvy.
This morning, he refused to get ready for school. We had a lovely time together minutes before, snuggling and talking. He knows it’s his last day, and he’s looking forward to the pizza party. But when I asked him to turn off the television (asked, mind you, not told, because there’s no time for a direct-command) he said no. When I turned it off myself, he turned it back on. When I turned it off again, he hit me. Twice. I took him by the arms and held him down on the kitchen chair. We don’t hit, I said. He grinned.
I asked him to put on his shoes. He ran away. I followed him, hauled him onto the sofa, and put them on for him, holding his legs with my arms so he couldn’t kick me. What the hell else can I do? There’s no time for time-out. He has to go to school. I can’t spank him - it only makes him more likely to be violent.
I took him by the arm and led him to the front door. “When you act like this, I don’t like you,” I told him. “It makes me not want to be nice to you. It makes me not want to hug and kiss you. It makes me not want to give you presents and do nice things with you. It makes me not want to play with you. It hurts me.”
This is the truth, and it feels like the only weapon left in my arsenal. Shame. But it feels like a failure, too, because punishment is supposed to be self-contained. The purpose of a time-out, which I cannot right now enforce, is to immediately address and correct a behavior. After it is corrected, we are supposed to go right back to a loving, rewarding relationship. Withholding affection is double-punishment.
I feel helpless.
“It’s not me,” he answered. “It’s my anger monster.”
“You let your anger monster do it,” I replied. “Now get outside.” Shit. A direct-command.
“I won’t.”
So now I’ve failed. I’m not backing that one up with the process. I’m not letting him miss school, that's exactly what he wants.
I hauled him outside and shut the door behind him.
“I won’t go outside,” he repeated, as if he knows these are fighting words, and he’s waiting for the battle. Shit shit shit.
“Well you are outside, aren’t you. You know why? Because I’m bigger than you.” Why did I say that? Now I’ve just reinforced that this is a physical thing. I have pictures in my head of my son at sixteen, six-foot-five and all muscle, and as mean as this, as mean as his uncle. Who’s bigger now, Mom?
(For the record, this is now my worst fear.)
I took him to the car. He stood astride his carseat while I took the mail to the mailbox. When I returned, I had to lift him bodily into the seat and strap him in.
We drove to school in silence, except for once when he said, “I’m so excited that this is my last day of summer camp ever.”
“Well I hope you have fun,” I answered.
I don’t feel like reminding him that real school starts in thirty-one days.
But, believe me, it's all that is on my mind.