July 1, 2011 ~ Day 203 Over the River and Thru the Woods

At the moment my older son shoved my younger son and inadvertently smashed two wine glasses on the shelf at the thrift store, glass shards exploding every which way, I knew that things had gotten out of hand.

I didn't know though at that moment, somewhere around 2:00pm, how much worse our day would get before bedtime.

Right now I am typing this in a glazed over state, just cogent enough to find words to roughly approximate my sense of defeat.

My husband, equally exhausted and defeated, has retreated for the night to bed with a sour stomach.

I remember telling him at some point tonight that I wished more than anything we could just leave all of the stress behind and go smother our sorrows with Chinese food and cheesecake. He laughed appreciatively. Neither of us were joking.

I'm not really sure why today turned out as it did. You never really know, as a parent, which days are going to be beautiful and precious - and which days are going to humble you.

There are so many variables at play in the emotions and daily experiences of a single human child. We've discovered the hard way that when you mix the unique needs, experiences and sensitivities of three disparate children, it is almost impossible to predict how the wave will break.

Will our children love each other today? Will we come upon them giggling furtively together as they hatch a plan to build a fort or steal snacks from the kitchen?

Will our children hate each other today? Will we come upon them biting, scratching and screaming at each other ~ or worse, with one of them attacking the other as he cowers and sobs?

Some days are so beautiful as a parent, I feel that my heart could explode from the sheer joy of spending time in the company of such dear little people. Tonight my daughter handed her father a pretzel. "Thank you, honey," he smiled.

"You wellocom Dada, I LUyooo," she beamed from ear to ear.

That was one of the joyful times.

Other parenting moments crush me down from the memory of the mother I once thought I would be to the reality of the flawed and often failing mother that I am.

This afternoon, after offering to pay for the glasses and then leaving the thrift store, I took my brood home. As we drove toward our neighborhood, I remembered that I needed to stop by a local swimming school to sign my kiddos up for lessons, since the first swim program this Summer didn't work out.

"This will just take a minute," I said, as I herded the three of them toward the front desk of the swim school.

But of course, it didn't take just a minute. Signing three kids up for swimming lessons requires filling out three separate forms, all of which have the exact same information with the exception of the student's name.

"Do you really need our home address three times?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Oh, okay."

As I raced through the forms, and whipped out my credit card, I could tell that tensions were rising between my boys. Their banter had gotten louder; their laughter and shrieking more strident. They were hanging upside down off of a metal hand railing.

"I'm so sorry about that," I apologized to the woman registering us.

"It's okay, we're used to it."

At last, I'd signed off on the final dotted line and worked out their schedule. It seemed as though we'd be on our way relatively unscathed. "Thanks for your time and help," I said to the woman and went to hoist my daughter into my arms to carry her back to the car...

...when I turned the corner of the counter to find my elder son punching my younger son forcefully onto the ground.

Punching. Not a shove, or a light love tap. A solid hit to the cheekbone strong enough to knock a sturdy 36 lb boy to the ground. Where he hit his head on the cement floor. Hard.

There isn't any way to sugar coat it.
That's just what happened.

By the time I could say either son's name, the damage had been done. My younger son lay on the ground dizzy, with one very pink cheek and tears streaming out of his eyes.

"Please wait for me out front," I almost whispered to the elder son.

"Oh wow, does your little boy need ice for his head?" The front desk woman asked.

"No thank you. I appreciate it though."

And that was that. It took over a minute for my younger son to stand up. Ten minutes for me to drive us home. Much longer to figure out what the heck to do about it.

At first I tried hard to frame the situation from the perspective of our play therapist. "Maybe he was hungry," I reasoned with myself. "He could have been tired or overstimulated."

"It was still violent behavior!" came back the reply from my inner Mother Bear. "Violence is unacceptable!"

"I need to take responsibility for my own participation in our dynamic," I asserted. "I should have paid better attention to their cues. I should have seen that coming."

"How can you simultaneously anticipate violent misbehavior AND look for the best in your children?" said the Mother Bear. "If you're looking for the best in the people you love, you're going to assume that they are capable of being loving, peaceful and controlling their anger."

"But he's only five!"

Mother Bear lost that round. "What kind of a human being do I hope to raise..." I asked myself. "I want to raise a man who knows his own triggers and can take good care of himself physically and emotionally so that he can be independent and happy."

With that in mind, I chose to take the route of instruction rather than punishment. I spoke seriously to my son about the grave nature of what he had done, and let him know that his father and I would be discussing an appropriate consequence... but still made him a sandwich. Then when he had finished eating, I sent him (yes, a five year old) to nap.

"You're going to feel so much better once you've had a little rest, buddy," I assured him. "In the future, we're going to try to stay more aware of whether you're hungry, tired, have a lot of energy to get out, or aren't feeling that great. The more we know what triggers you to feel aggressive, the better we'll both be at figuring out the problem before it gets out of hand."

He slept, deeply, for two hours.

My husband came home from work. I shared with him the events of our day, and he listened supportively. He was also upset, but controlled in his emotion when speaking to our son.

"Your Mommy is trying to figure out WHY you did that to your brother," he said to our son. "But I want you to know that hitting is never okay, for any reason."

"Okay," our son sniffled.

"Tonight you get the chance to really take care of your brother and make him feel better," we added. "You can help make his dinner, get him a drink if he is thirsty, pick out his pajamas and read him a story before bedtime."

(All of this, a strategy we had learned from our play therapist.)

* * * * * * *

Fast forward. 7pm. Our sons were outside, watering a sunflower plant. They had eaten dinner. They were well rested. They'd been playing nicely. Suddenly we heard sounds of discord and squabble.

"Oh no," I sighed.

"I'll get this one," my husband assured me and headed out to see what the commotion was all about. Suddenly I heard my husband yelling too (a total rarity).

"Stop that!!! LEAVE YOUR BROTHER ALONE!!! I said STOP!"

Racing out I found, yet again, our younger son clutching his face and trying to get off of the ground.

"What happened?" I asked breathlessly.

"Our son is in big trouble with me. He hit his brother. Again."

* * * * * * * *

You never know exactly what your breaking point is going to be as a parent until it actually happens. One million lousy things can happen and somehow you muddle through without sweating too hard. Then something happens that may have happened before - maybe even a lot of other times - but somehow this is the time that busts you wide open.

For whatever reason, this was my busted open moment.

"Get your things," I said calmly to our elder son. "You're not staying here tonight."

"WHAT????" he asked. "Where am I going?"

"Violence is not tolerated in this house," I said. "We love you very much, but tonight you cannot be near your brother any more. You are going to your grandmother's house, and straight to bed."

"I agree," affirmed my husband. "Your Mommy is right and you need to learn that you can't treat your siblings this way."

He sobbed. "I don't want to go. I am going to miss my family."

"We will miss you too, but for tonight, I think we all need some space from each other."

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I will call your grandmother first thing in the morning. If she tells me that you have been kind and well mannered, we will come to get you right away."

"Okay." He quieted down and sat deep in thought along the drive, yawning occasionally. We did not speak much.

As we approached my mother's house, I finally spoke. "Being part of a family is about treating each other with respect and kindness. You do not have to love your brother or sister. You don't even have to like them, although of course we hope that you will. (Your brother and sister definitely love you.)

However, you *do* need to treat your brother and sister with respect and gentle behavior. They look up to you and learn from watching you. We expect you to be nice to them and show them in a positive way what it means to be a family."

"I know," he nodded.

* * * * * * *

Tucked into bed in clean pajamas with a sippy cup of water, I left my son in a safe and loving environment this evening. He fell to sleep with his grandmother just steps away down the hall, and since she's an incredibly warm and kind grandmother, I'm okay with that.

Still, note the key words there: I left my son.

This is a difficult thing for any mother to do, under all circumstances.
Turns out, it's even harder to do when the circumstances are unhappy.

I know that my child is safe, loved and warm at this moment. I know that he is sleeping peacefully amid fluffy down comforters and checked on by the precious woman who raised and nurtured me over the past 35 years. I know she will call me in a heartbeat if he needs us for any reason.

Still, our house seems too quiet at this moment and my heart hurts.

Is this what we have come to? Keeping the peace through enforced separation?

Our son is safe at grandma's house tonight but our family unit feels a little lost in the woods without him. We've always told our kids that 'home' is anywhere that the five of us are together. How can this truly be home, with one of our crucial members banished?

We need to find our way back over this winding river...
We need to find our way Home.

February 28, 2011 ~ Day 81 Brother vs. Brother

I am at my wit's end, which I suppose literally means that I no longer have any witty remarks to make about the ferocious sibling rivalry between my sons. It is getting arduous - physically arduous for my younger son, and mentally arduous for my husband and I as we try to mediate and protect.

I'll be completely honest here and say that I really do not understand what is going on with our eldest kid right now. Maybe an enlightened reader with siblings - or a parent with multiple kids older than ours - will come across this post someday and share their views, which I would welcome. I was the youngest of five much older siblings and spent most of my childhood as an only child. I do not understand sibling rivalry first hand, and I was completely blindsided by its force nearly four years ago when our second boy entered the world.

My husband and I have done everything we've ever heard of to try to mitigate the feelings of displacement that our eldest might have after gaining a baby brother. His little brother came into our lives bearing gifts: literally. Before his birth we made the suggested run to Target to purchase a very cool toy (in this case, an awesome musical guitar that played the Michael Jackson hit "1-2-3" and other fun sounds) which our newborn baby "gave" to his big brother at the moment they first met. Big brother loved the guitar and appeared not to mind the baby, for a while.

We had been advised about the importance of sticking with routine and making sure to pay maximal attention to the oldest child during the transition period. "Your second child will never know the difference, having always had a sibling to share with and never knowing it any other way. The oldest child will feel every change and every moment of sharing his/her parents' attention acutely," we'd read, so we paid special attention to our eldest after the new kid hit the block.

We are equal in all things with them. We give them individual attention, take them on private "dates" with mommy and daddy. We buy them the same toys, matching shirts, etc. all in the hope of making sure they don't feel that we prize one above the other. We make a big deal about each of their individual successes, but always sure to simultaneously express great pride in the accomplishments of the other child as well.

I think it was when we'd moved to our condo three years ago, and the baby brother was just starting to crawl, that things began to go haywire. As soon as he could actually get into his big brother's toys - rather than just gazing at them from afar, the crud really hit the fan.

Suddenly my husband and I had a violent dynamo on our hands... biting, hitting, kicking, even trying to choke the baby. It got so bad we had not one but two conferences with his preschool teacher to ask for advice and to make sure that he wasn't demonstrating these behaviors at school. Nope, as it turned out - not at all. In fact, she was shocked. "I adore him," she said. "We have a special bond. He is an angel. I have never seen him be mean even once. If anything, he is very shy at school."

Despite her assurances, the misery at home persisted. It got to the point where the only thing that actually mitigated his behavior was the quiet promise from us (his parents) that if he didn't shape up and treat his brother better, we would tell his teacher how terribly he was acting at home. "No!!!!!!!" he would scream. "Not Miss Lauren!!!!!"* As it turned out, he felt the same way about his grandmother, their good opinion held a lot of influence with him. Somehow he wanted both of them to think that he was incapable of meanness, which also perplexed me. Why were we, his parents, allowed to see the 'worst' but he could control the behavior in all other venues?

Three years later, it has never really let up.

I know it goes without saying that we love both of our sons, differently but with equal strength. They are very different children with very different personalities, so it would be impossible to hold carbon copy feelings for them. Losing either one would destroy us, without any question. Which is perhaps why it tortures me to witness the violence and meanness the elder brother consistently showers upon the little one, even now.

When he thinks I am not looking, he puts his hands around his brother's neck and tries to choke him. He grabs hunks of his hair and pulls it hard. He makes mean scary faces right in his little brother's face and growls. He punches him in the back and stomach. He knocks him off his bike. He steals his favorite toys and hides them. He backs him into corners menacingly.

I realize that they are ages 5.5 and 3.5, and that maybe some of this is normal? I keep hoping that he is going to grow out of this phase.

That said, I consistently dread 3:15pm because it is the time when I must pick up my eldest from school and watch as our day disintegrates into a house full of screaming, shrieking, consequences and time-out. The hours between 3:15 and 8:15 are like a drain on my personal energy pool, sucking me so dry that by the time I get my kids to bed I am ready to sit in perfect silence doing nothing but staring into space for an hour, just to regroup.

Tonight my husband sweetly took our kiddos down to visit their grandfather and get hamburgers for dinner, a fun treat. You would think they would return in good spirits, no? Yet from the moment they entered the house my eldest was angry at his brother, knocking him off of the stepstool when it was time to brush teeth and pulling his hair hard in the kitchen when I was pouring bedtime drinks.

My husband said it had been like this all night, and that he had already taken away the privilege of dessert. When reminded of this, our son stormed off into his room screaming and yelling at us "What??!?!!! You poo poos! You little meanies!" and he came back holding a toy fighter airplane that he proceeded to 'shoot' at us.

My husband sent him to time out for cursing at his parents and he dissolved into a high pitched tired against us, then returned and began throwing things at me. This time my husband brought him back to his room and told him it was time for bed.

As I tucked our smaller boy in to bed a few minutes later, we had a heartbreaking conversation.


"Mommy, why is my brother so mean to me?"

"Honey, I'm so sorry that he treats you badly. You are both very special to us and it hurts me to see you fighting."

"I forgive him. I love him, mommy. But..." and he looked at me with brimming eyes, "...my brother does not love me."

"Oh honey, yes he does. I think your brother loves you a lot. He is just sensitive and sometimes can get emotional."

"No mommy," he shook his head. "My brother does NOT love me. He loves my sister, but not me."


What does one say to this? Deep down I really believe that my eldest son loves his little brother, but he sure doesn't show it. Do I tell the little one to keep putting up with physical and mental abuse heaped on him daily because the two of them are family? How do I help my smaller child avoid internalizing the role of victim (any more than he has already done) and also keep my eldest from becoming a terrible bully?

I have asked my friends with boys whether they have these problems, and the painful truth is that I do not have a single friend who has confessed experiencing situations of this magnitude. Granted, we have very few friends with multiple boys. But I think I have at least four close girlfriends who have more than one son and I have never seen a single one of their boys inflicting harm upon his brother. I do not know a single mother whose children have drawn blood from each other while hitting each other in the head, and it has already happened in our family twice.

Before we had our youngest child - a daughter, I wondered so often if it was something in the way I was parenting that caused this intra-familial strife. Yet she has proven to be angelically adorable and our eldest cherished and protected her from the first moment. He treats her like a queen. "We are like peas and carrots," he says. "We stick together." Apparently she does not pose the same challenge to his crown as reigning son; instead, she has become his delighted and adoring minion.

I don't know how to end this post, because it truly seems that there is no end in sight. Even my genial husband, usually unflappable in the face of child angst, has grown weary and frustrated with the constant aggression. "He was at it all afternoon," he sighed tonight, "It needs to stop".

I am left then, feeling like we are parenting in a small boat hurtling through rocky uncharted waters. As I do every night, I am praying for divine guidance or enlightenment... we need a life preserver, or an extra oar. I am praying that tomorrow will be a better day for my sons (and thus, for all of us).



*Name of the party in question changed to protect their privacy.

February 16, 2011 ~ Day 69 Brothers, Overheard

This evening at dinnertime I overheard my sons participating in a conversation that was far more wise and poignant than people generally believe small children are capable of having.

They were seated in our new kitchen with their sister at the small table they love, their three tiny chairs pulled up to its sides.

I've been on my own for most of the week with them, as my poor husband has worked valiantly to wrap up our move from the old house and work two jobs at the same time.

Which is my shorthand for letting you know that I am really exhausted at the end of every day and by the time I get dinner on the table for them I am more than happy to sink into the couch in the next room and rest my eyes while they chat.

But I've jumped ahead. Here is the setup:

All three children had been ravenous, and unfortunately I lagged in getting them fed. I kept saying, "Mommy just needs to unpack ONE more box so the house will be nice when Daddy gets home..." which means that from 5pm until 6pm they were waiting patiently while I continued to get us settled into the new house. At some point I knew I had overextended their limit and began to get busy in the kitchen, but it was too late... the collective meltdown had already commenced.

Each of my kids fall apart in different ways when they are tired or hungry. My baby girl gets very clingy and throws herself on my legs or feet, rubbing her head against me and acting generally overwrought. The younger boy begins to ask the same question over and over again, repeating himself and completely ignoring my answers (E.g. "Can I have milk?" / "You may have some with dinner." / "Can I have milk?" / "I've just told you, at dinnertime." / "Can I have milk?" / etc.etc.etc.

Our eldest son is more sensitive and he tends to get dramatic and emotional when breaking down. "WHAT????!!! DINNER ISN'T READY YET???? ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? OH, COME ON, MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

This evening he went a little too far with me in his tirade about my lack of promptness with the meal and so I quietly told him that he could be excused from the table until he could act in a kinder manner to his mother. He really lost it then, and started to wail and scream ~ stomping around the house yelling, "MY MOMMY IS MEAN AND I AM HUNGRY!!!!"

When dinner was finally on the table I invited him to join his brother and sister. He did so, grumbling all the way. After making sure they had everything they needed (finely cut up chicken, Brussels sprouts, rice, milk... more milk, more chicken, more Brussels sprouts, more rice) I retired to the next room ~ four feet away from their table ~ to rest my aching back and decompress. I was in the middle of stretching my arms over my head and wondering what time my husband would be home this evening when I heard my son say "Mommy".

"What?" I asked.

"NO mommy," said my little son... "We weren't talking to you."

"Oh, sorry."

After a brief pause they renewed their conversation.

"Why are you so mean to mommy?"

"I'm not mean."

"Well you are very fussy sometimes."

"It's just that she isn't paying attention to me."

"Well she isn't going to pay attention to you if you are yelling and screaming." (This is my little one talking! The three year old!)

"I don't know how to get her attention."

"If you want our mommy's attention you need to speak to her in a quiet and calm voice. Then she will listen to you."

"I don't know if that will work."

"She will listen to you if you speak in a quiet voice and say, 'Mommy I would like your attention please'."

"What if she doesn't pay attention?"

"She will. You should also give her a hug and a kiss."

"I don't want to give her a hug and a kiss."

"You should give her a hug and a kiss and ask her in a quiet voice to pay attention to you. Then she will listen."

"OK, I will try."

(Meanwhile I, who have overheard the entire exchange, am waiting to shower my elder son with kindness just for making the effort.)

"Mommy?"

"Yes, honey?"

In a very tiny voice: "Will you please pay attention to me?"

"What a nice question honey. Will you be speaking with kindness to us this evening?"

"Yes."

"I would love to pay attention to you. Why don't you finish your supper and then we can have a nice conversation."

"Okay."

(He vanished back into the kitchen with his brother and sister.)

"SHE SAID YES! SHE SAID SHE WOULD PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!"

"That is great! Did you give her a hug and a kiss?"

"No.... but she still said she would pay attention to me!"

"Good job, brother."

They then returned to the business of inhaling their dinner. I sat on the couch with tears in my eyes marveling at how what seems like a lousy moment can turn into an amazing moment just when one least expects it. I am always surprised and amazed when my sons turn from sworn enemies to best friends, but this took the surprise further. The boys were actually connecting with and learning from each other, with the elder boy actively listening to the advice and perspective of the little one.

So this then is the #60092th reason why I love being a mother more than anything else in the world. Just when you think you've failed and your tantrum throwing children will someday be discussing with their therapists how long you made them wait to eat dinner while you unpacked boxes, they turn around and surprise you by showing maturity and emotional savvy far beyond their years.

I am so proud of you, little guys. You inspire me to be a better mother ~ I promise to get dinner on the table early tomorrow!