If my shameless attempt to a get a few extra clicks beyond my regular readers (you know I love you) worked and you are expecting a bit of erotica, sorry – this is a classic horror story of the spinning head and split pea soup variety. OK, so I’m not quite as bad as Linda Blair, but I do act possessed far too much for my liking. Enough that sometimes I scream at my kids so loudly, I hurt my own ears and feel like my head is exploding. Far worse though than the burgeoning headache and sore throat that follow my losing it, is the shame, not to mention shame’s cousin – guilt.
The other day my fourth grader, J, was just dawdling – dawdling and causing my blood pressure to spike. When I told him he needed to hurry it up, he responded, “Why are you so mad? It’s just school, it’s not like you’re going to get arrested if I’m late!”
The reason for my anger - his teacher asked me to get him to school early, but despite my best efforts, I can’t get him there more than two minutes before the door closes. And, when he gets there just in the nick of time, his younger brother (whose teacher also wants him there early) gets there just in the nick of time, as well. So, when J started playing with the dog, instead of getting his shoes on and then decided to put away a Wii game laying on the floor, my blood was boiling. I thought, Really? The moment we need to leave for school, he decides to clean up – not the gazillion times he was asked to before… and the demon voice reared its ugly head. “GET YOUR JACKET ON NOOOOWWWW!!!”
J looked at me with such shock and sadness, it killed me. “That just proves that you don’t love me,” he said quietly. “You would be happier if I lived on the street. I just know it.” Now, of course I know he was playing me, but I do think he was upset and hurt. I am always dumfounded when my kids say, “Why did you yell at me? You could have just asked,” after I’ve asked nicely for something a dozen times to no avail. I have to scream, because I am not heard when I speak softly. Even simply yelling doesn’t do the trick – only a true scream gets their attention. But, that doesn’t mean that it’s not psychologically damaging – to both of us.
On the ride to school after my tirade I watched J in the rearview mirror staring out the window. I swallowed – my throat was sore from screaming so loudly – and asked if he was ok. He didn’t answer. When he got out, he gave me a kiss, but still looked haunted. There was a line of cars in front dropping off and a few cars pulling up behind me. The boys weren’t late, but they weren’t early either. Did any of the other parents feel as stressed as I did? I wondered. Or were they just happy to get their kids there before the door was locked. Was my making J feel so bad worth it? Did he truly believe that I would be happier without him?
I knew that J would be seeing the school social worker that day (he sees her to help ease his anxiety), and as I pulled out of the parking lot, I panicked that he would tell her that I screamed at him and that he didn’t think I loved him. When I shared this with my husband, Jeff, he looked at me like I had three heads. “Do you really think she would worry about you? You are always concerned about J. You always talk to her – you always care. Don’t you think she sees parents that truly don’t care? Who truly don’t act like they love their children? It’s completely ridiculous for you to worry.”
Intellectually, I knew it was ridiculous, but still I saw the hurt in his eyes and felt like the worst parent in the world. The week before when I admitted to the social worker, an amazingly calm woman, that I sometimes used J’s participation in the gifted program as a bargaining chip to get him to do his homework, she counseled me to never do that and to simply tell him that I am proud of him. My screaming, if he reported it, cast me in an even worse light. What parent of a child with anxiety would make them feel as crappy as I made my bundle of nerves feel? Didn’t I realize that the dawdling was because he was anxious to go to school and therefore was putting it off? I hung my jacket and scarf on a hook, then sat down on the landing and pulled off one boot, then the other. I felt weary and beaten down. I hung my head as the tears just spilled over and rolled down my cheeks, leaving tiny wet blossoms on the knees of my jeans.
I couldn’t figure out why that morning had gotten to me. I yell at my kids on a pretty regular basis. It’s a terrible habit and I hate it, but I hope that they understand that I only do it because, as I mentioned, I am often not heard. But, that morning I literally felt so furious that the scream was almost menacing. Jeff doesn’t yell at the kids often, but when he does, they sit up and listen. His voice is, of course, much louder and deeper than mine and since he doesn’t do it as often, it’s not just white noise to them – they take notice. Perhaps that was the difference for J – usually my yelling goes in one ear and out the other, because the boys are immune to it. It holds no weight. But, this time I screamed with every inch of my being and that shocked J. It worked, of course – he put on his jacket and we left, but at what price?
I actually didn’t get to see J until almost 9:00 that night – I had a doctor’s appointment before he got home from school. When I returned Jeff had already dropped J off at a play date. Jeff picked him and his friend up before dinner and they headed directly to a birthday party. By the time J returned at bedtime, he was tired out from rounds of Play Station at his buddy’s house and an evening of laser tag. He hadn’t eaten dinner at the party, because he never does and between his exhaustion and hunger, he was cranky, but he did not mention the morning at all. I decided not to bring it up, even though I desperately wanted to know if he got over it and how quickly. Was he upset until recess or did the sadness evaporate by the time he sat down at his desk? I suppose it really didn’t matter. There was not a damn thing I could do to change that morning, except say, “Sorry,” which I already had. What’s done is done. A cliché, yes, but still it made me feel better.
We had a whole weekend to not rush – ok, not true, we had to rush to basketball on Saturday and Hebrew school on Sunday. Both times were agonizingly stressful, but I didn’t scream. I also didn’t scream today when the clock was ticking and shoes and jackets weren’t on. Of course, we got to school at 9:18 – three minutes after the door closed. But, when I walked the boys into school to sign them in, the woman at the front desk waved me away with, “They’re fine. They can just go to their classes.” I could only hope that their teachers were fine with it too. I suppose my children’s perpetual last minuteness and lateness are poetic justice – payback, if you will. Yes, that’s right – I was late far more often than I was early as a kid. (Full disclosure – as an adult, I’m still late far more often than I am early, but that’s a whole other blog.) So, for all those missed buses in the 70s and 80s, for all those mad dashes into school, I guess there’s only one thing to say, “Sorry, Mom! Now I know how you felt.”
Posted by: |