Here's one of my dirty little parenting secrets. One of many. I hate to mete out punishments to my kids, especially ones that punish me too. (Maybe another dirty secret is that I use the word "punishment." I think enlightened folk are supposed to call it "discipline," but I digress.) Here's the scene. Last Tuesday night, I had all three kids in Ben and Paul's room reading bedtime stories. Mark was at parish council that night, and my patience tank had only fumes left in it. Gus has been experimenting with slapping. Sitting in bed, Gus reached over and slapped Ben's face. Without even thinking about it, Ben slapped him back, giggling. Thinking that Ben had made an impulsive, bad decision, I admonished him and explained that it's important for Gus to understand that slapping is not OK or funny.
By this point, I was annoyed but ready to let it go. Then Paul started to laugh hysterically. "Stop," I warned, "or you will lose TV tomorrow." The laughing continued. "OK, you've lost TV," I said. Here's what I'm thinking: Crap, I'm going to pay for that. During Gus's nap tomorrow, the quality of my quiet time will take a nosedive. "Yes," I say, not prepared to completely punish myself, "you've lost one TV show." More hysterical laughing. "OK, you've lost all TV." Then Paul reaches over and slaps Gus. It's all just hilarious to him. By now I'm furious. "OK, you've lost TV and treats for tomorrow." And scene.
The next day, of course Paul asked for treats and his TV time. Yes, the quality of my precious quiet time was diminished with Paul's whimpering pleas for me to lift the ban, but in the end it wasn't as bad as I'd envisioned. I just hope that next time he decides to be naughty, he will remember this and choose to stop. For his sake. And especially mine, and that's the ugly truth.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Perseverance
Usually, I like to wrap things up in a nice, sunny way. Even when I write my blogs, I typically tack on some kind of and-everything-worked-out-in-the-end finale. I guess this optimism is a bit of a survival mechanism. It's helpful to me to view my life through these retrospective rose-colored glasses.
And then there are those times that defy even the sunniest of optimism. Paul had been on hiatus from preschool for the past two months. During those months, he would ask me sporadically whether it was time to start school yet. I would tell him, no, it would be a while yet, and he would be utterly blissful.
Finally, the time for him to return to Tiny Tots had arrived. I had anticipated that it would take him some time to readjust. But when the day was upon us, it soon became clear that this would be no minor regression. At bedtime the night before, he already was doing some serious fretting. The morning he was to start, he awoke in tears. He followed me around, literally, the entire time leading up to our departure, pleading with me to let him stay home. Giant tears flowed from his big eyes. When I finally dropped him off, it was as bad as it could be. He didn't just cry, he clung to me, desperate, hysterical. I peeled him off, gave a quick hug and kiss goodbye, and beat a hasty retreat. Ten in the morning and already I felt emotionally spent. "How was it?" I asked when I picked him up. "Fun," he said.
But did I believe that the next drop-off would be any easier? Not by a long shot. True to my prediction, this morning, his second day of Tiny Tots, was no easier than the first. More tears, more begging me to grant him a reprieve. Tired of his antics, my reactions to him swung between anger and sympathy. I was doing some begging of my own: "Paul, stop this, please!" If anything, today's drop-off was worse than the first. He threw his arms around my waist and howled. A full-out tantrum. There I stood trying to stay on balance while holding Gus, feeling completely humiliated that my son was terrifying the other kids and taking one teacher's complete attention while 19 other children played. This was very bad indeed. Again, I said goodbye and pried Paul off me, making quickly for the door and avoiding eye contact with the other parents.
So here I sit with no cheery ending to apply to this story. Will it get easier? Probably somewhat. If it's like last session, Paul never will completely warm to it. Sometimes the only answer is to muddle through.
And then there are those times that defy even the sunniest of optimism. Paul had been on hiatus from preschool for the past two months. During those months, he would ask me sporadically whether it was time to start school yet. I would tell him, no, it would be a while yet, and he would be utterly blissful.
Finally, the time for him to return to Tiny Tots had arrived. I had anticipated that it would take him some time to readjust. But when the day was upon us, it soon became clear that this would be no minor regression. At bedtime the night before, he already was doing some serious fretting. The morning he was to start, he awoke in tears. He followed me around, literally, the entire time leading up to our departure, pleading with me to let him stay home. Giant tears flowed from his big eyes. When I finally dropped him off, it was as bad as it could be. He didn't just cry, he clung to me, desperate, hysterical. I peeled him off, gave a quick hug and kiss goodbye, and beat a hasty retreat. Ten in the morning and already I felt emotionally spent. "How was it?" I asked when I picked him up. "Fun," he said.
But did I believe that the next drop-off would be any easier? Not by a long shot. True to my prediction, this morning, his second day of Tiny Tots, was no easier than the first. More tears, more begging me to grant him a reprieve. Tired of his antics, my reactions to him swung between anger and sympathy. I was doing some begging of my own: "Paul, stop this, please!" If anything, today's drop-off was worse than the first. He threw his arms around my waist and howled. A full-out tantrum. There I stood trying to stay on balance while holding Gus, feeling completely humiliated that my son was terrifying the other kids and taking one teacher's complete attention while 19 other children played. This was very bad indeed. Again, I said goodbye and pried Paul off me, making quickly for the door and avoiding eye contact with the other parents.
So here I sit with no cheery ending to apply to this story. Will it get easier? Probably somewhat. If it's like last session, Paul never will completely warm to it. Sometimes the only answer is to muddle through.
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