Big Trouble

Jack got in trouble at school Monday. With an official three copies colored sheet to bring home for us to sign. He's been rough to deal with at best for the past week. Whining, saying, "_____ is boring" and "ah, man" after everything you say to him. I didn't sign up for Swiper from Dora (cringe) as my kid.

It's so hard to know how to punish him. How hard to punish him. How to say what I mean to say and then stop talking like I can talk him out of misbehaving forever if I just ramble on for 5 more minutes about growing up being hard and listen to me and I had to grow up and I love you and please stop acting like an asshole. All this talking makes him crazy I'm sure. He says things like, "Moooommm" and "I know, I know" in a quiet exasperated voice. Isn't he supposed to be thirteen before he rolls his eyes at me and is bored with my advice already?

We grounded him for the first time over the weekend. Took away the Wii because he was being such a pain. Is that being too hard on a six year old? I have these visions of him bone thin in dirty jeans coming to borrow money for drugs because I didn't discipline him enough, or too much. I'm the softie. I want him to be happy, it's hard for me to disappoint him, to make him do what he should. In my mind I know that letting him off easy just makes it harder for him, but my parents were hard on me and I'm not sure how much it helped. So I often let things slide, try not to make too much out of small things. But at this age, they are all small things. And so who am I helping by easing up when I should be harder, tougher, more mom-like, less pleasing.

You probably don't know this but Jack got kicked out of the first school he went to. A small local "montessori" school. Our experience there was not good. They used to send him home (at two and a half) because he couldn't get "control". He was miserable, so were we. It was not the kumbaya experience we were led to believe it was going to be. For us this school is a scar that still gets rubbed from time to time. Jack speaks quite clearly about that time, how he felt, what was happening. I should have stood up for him, taken him out of that school, realized it wasn't working out- for any of us.

Instead we signed up for another year. (what was I thinking?) Luckily, the directress of the school called me one day and told me Jack was not invited back. Not just for the next year, but for the rest of that year too. Over the phone she told me about how some children need therapy- physical therapy, speech therapy, and that Jack probably needed mental help. Over the phone. I didn't know what to say, so I dutifully took down the numbers she offered and numbly agreed. I should have known a professional would never have severed our relationship this way. When I told her I'd come get Jack's things she told me that she'd just leave them on the porch- I could come pick them up after four. (when everyone was going to be gone.) Oh.

I've wanted to punch that woman in her big fat face more times than I can count.

But, I didn't. For a month I felt like the biggest mom-failure in the world. Then I saw how Jack cheered up, started behaving, stopped being so edgy all the time. He still was over the top dramatic at times- but typical. Typical for a three year old. Typical. The weight started to lift. I started feeling okay again. I stopped imagining him shuffled from one mental institution to another while barely able to hold a job, make friends... get along in the world.

Then things like this happen and I'm right back there again: on the phone while two men manhandle our new dishwasher into place. Mouth slack, heart heavy, wanting to explain about how magical Jack is; how funny, and kind. How he comes up out of the blue and takes your hand, or pats your back and says in his raspy little boy voice "I love you, Mom." How you have to be gentle with him, and wait to confront him about things because he's not listening when he knows he's messed up but if you give him ten minutes he'll come apologize and then his eyes well and overflow and he reaches out for a hug. How it's my fault he's so dramatic- me too. I gave him my freckles and my temperamental patience. Me, two.

The worry I carry as a mother, as caretaker of these small souls- in charge of getting them ready for the world can be such a puzzling burden. Just behave. How hard is that? How hard is that? "Life will be so much easier if you just behave!" I want to scream at him, make him write it a thousand times until he gets it. Please stop fucking up on purpose- you know better. You know better.

Then I remember how I never stop messing up- and how sometimes I do it on purpose. How even though I know better, I don't always do better. And I try to be patient with myself, to not make the mistake of saying to myself "bad, bad mom" and "you should've done better" over and over in my head. Because he will always mess up. And I will too. Sometimes I will have the grace to learn my lessons while he's learning his. Because I'm not a bad mom. I know better.