After this weekend’s epic meltdown courtesy of M, I’m quite confident we are failing miserably at parenting. This kid has been B-A-D. Like Justin Beiber kind of bad. Complete disregard for anyone but himself. And to be quite frank, I have absolutely no idea what to do with him. I called my mom and even she didn’t know what to do with him and she deals with children whose parent’s were addicted to illegal substances when they were gestating. I’m writing this out so that I won’t grow up and sugar coat how horrible he was as a three-year old. So I don’t forget this feeling about being a parent of small children. The feeling of powerlessness and fear that you’re raising someone who will land their little out of control selves on the evening news. I think I’ve forgotten some of C’s antics already.
Or mentally blocked them. Like I did with the labor.
It started Thursday when I asked him to please stop reciting the “This is Bob. Bob says hi. Here is Bob when a car comes by. Splat.” at the dinner table. I mean, that was totally a ridiculous request, right? So OF COURSE he doesn’t stop because this little word play to just too stinkin’ funny to stop. D removes him from the table and goes to put him in timeout. And then M proceeds to freak the freak out. Like behavior disorder freak out. Hitting, punching, spitting, kicking, screaming, biting, crying, head-butting and my personal favorite, kicking the crap out of his bedroom door. I’m so waiting for the day he drops his little size 9 straight through our 1970’s faux wood doors. We’ve got maybe a week max.
After an HOUR of this, with D and me trading shifts, he finally calms down enough to serve his 5 minute timeout. We try to move past the insanity that was Thursday evening. On Saturday, the two heathens managed to escape the day nap-free. And then we decided to all go to a movie. Isn’t that nice? Nice-y nice, doing fun family things together. Except we didn’t get home until 10pm. And Frick and Frack didn’t have naps. M didn’t even wake up when we carried him from the car to his bed. He did wake up at 4am when he soaked his whole bed. I got him cleaned up and settled into our bed (again-this bed sharing is an on-going issue).
On Sunday, I thought we should get ourselves together and make it to church one Sunday in June. This was our last chance. M seemed fine when left for church. After we got there, got settled and made our mid-service bathroom trip, he decided he needed held the entire service. Okay, whatever. I can hold 30 pounds for an hour. I love it. Free workout. Until that 30 pound weight decides he needs another bathroom break and then throws a mini-fit when you tell him no and attempts to pull up your dress in middle of church because he’s not getting his way. And then takes a few little swings at your legs while giving you the hate stare. Thankfully, the service ended and he forgot what he was mad about.
We get home and eat lunch. M has a yogurt. Then decides he needs another yogurt. I tell him no. The meltdown initiates. I tell him he’s going to sit in the timeout corner. The meltdown accelerates. I take him to his room. The meltdown reaches full lift off. For an hour, I battle this kid to sit in his bed. I took away all of his toys. I placed him back in his bed 8,000 times without making eye contact or speaking to him. I racked my brain for every Nanny 911 tactic I had ever seen. He goes through his arsenal of physical abuse tactics and I work really hard to maintain my composure. Thinking the whole time that if another grown person treated me the way he just had, they would probably be in the hospital. But when he reached for my hair, yanked it for all it was worth and wouldn’t let go, I lost it. I left him in his room, grabbed my keys and phone and walked outside. I was shaking and ready to cry. How in the heck did we get to THIS point? Over a freaking yogurt tube?
I called D and I called my mom. I discovered our driveway isn’t nearly as long as I need it to be. I breathed a lot. I wished that I smoked because I think a cigarette would have helped me more than it would have hurt at that point. I waited and breathed some more. Eventually I went back in. I wish I could say the fit stopped then, but once M realized he was still not getting a yogurt or to go to his dad’s softball game, he lost it again. But not as bad this time.
Once he sort of settled, I got him a glass of milk and some applesauce. He asked sweetly if he could watch his shows and sleep in the living room. I didn’t scream “SERIOUSLY YOU LITTLE HEATHEN! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN FOR THE LAST HOUR OF OUR LIVES? DO YOU EVEN KNOW YOUR MOTHER?” Wasn’t that good of me? I’m putting that on my Mother of the Year application, along with ‘haven’t screamed obscenities at my children.’
I finally got him down for a nap in my bed (bed-sharing problem again). I then texted D to see if he could bring me home an M&M McFlurry because I earned every last M&M while he was playing softball. M still wasn’t himself when he woke up, unless this is his new self and then I need to get a family counselor.
He wasn’t quite himself this morning either. That probably has something to do with the fact that he didn’t fall asleep until after 10pm and then had to be moved back to his own bed 3 times throughout the night. I also found a pen and ink drawing he made of D on his wall at some point last night. I’m raging about the destruction, but equally impressed with how his drawing has improved.
I’m starting to wonder if he’s sick because, like a wild animal, he generally shows no signs of illness other than extreme aggression. I expect when I call the pediatrician they will tell me he has rabies. It’s the only diagnosis that makes sense at this point.