I've traversed the bumpy waters of guiding three children through sleep difficulties and now relish being able to get a full night's sleep. Yet yesterday I thought I just might prefer to go back in time and parent 11-week-old Ben for a while. At least he smiled then.
After suffering upper back pain for a few months, I finally made an appointment with a physical therapist a few weeks ago. As I sat on the table, she told me to slump my back like a teenager would. I know all about that, I thought. I see it every day.
Slump-shouldered and sullen seems to be Ben's default state most of the time these days. I try to understand and be sympathetic. It's odd how I can remember feeling the same way when I was his age, yet it's still so hard for me to honor those feelings.
Ben is no longer the boy who chirps excitedly about topics that interest him. Consider this interaction he had with my brother, Mike, the other day. Mike teaches seventh grade social studies, and Ben is going into seventh grade.
Mike: Ben, have you read Chasing Lincoln's Killer yet? (Mike had given Ben this book for Christmas and was trying to glean whether his seventh-graders might like it.)
Ben: Yeah.
Mike: What'd you think?
Ben: Good.
Sorry, Mike. If you were hoping for more insight, that's all your going to get. Though I know Ben has the most amazing brain residing in his skull, one that regularly devours several books at an astonishing pace, I expect he will speak to adults exclusively in monosyllables for the next several years. And don't go looking for eye contact, either.
It's hard to lose the boy who used to actually want to spend time with me. It causes me no small amount of pain, but I know if is natural for kids Ben ages, this seeking of autonomy from parents. His peers are the center of his world now. He reserves his smiles and his levity for them, and I get precious little.
My interactions with Ben seem to take on an unintentionally negative note. Yesterday Ben and Paul were in my room listening to a Harry Potter audiobook. Gus was bored and wanted his brothers' attention. He kept going in and bothering them.
I went into the room to referee and found Ben lying on my bed, the comforter rumpled and the throw pillows discarded on the floor. No one would accuse me of being a neat freak, but I like a nicely made bed. It's just one of those little things that helps me hold onto my sanity.
Using a stern voice that I was sure would be misinterpreted as yelling, I asked Ben to please get off my bed and sit on the floor instead. (Earlier I'd come upon Paul listening to the book while pacing circles on the bed, so I was pretty annoyed already.)
Ben followed me into the kitchen and served up a steaming pile of hyperbole. "Gus is on your bed now, and you're not punishing him horribly!"
I had given no punishment except that of him having to listen to my (admittedly) annoying voice. By this point, though, I'd had it with the boys' fighting, and I told Ben to go chill in his room for a while.
Shortly later, I decided we all needed to get out of the house. We headed to Memorial Park. I softened and apologized to the boys for being crabby. I had grabbed my iPod and scrolled for music Ben might like. I settled on The Avett Brothers' "Kick Drum Heart." Ben surreptitiously glanced at the device, noting the artist and song, tapped his fingers on his knee but said nothing. It occurred to me that this might be as good as it gets right now: small moments of connection.
The boys ran and played tag for a while before Ben grew bored. He wandered over to where I was watching Paul and Gus play in the sand. "Do you feel like I'm criticizing you all the time?" I asked.
"Yeah, pretty much," he murmured.
This is what I'd feared. I don't want it to be this way. I want positive interactions with Ben. More than anything I want him to know that he can talk to me, that I'm there for him unconditionally, that I'm a safe and loving place. I want to be the sane person helping shepherd him through this insane time of life. In short, I need to start speaking and acting with intention. It's going to be a long several years (and I've got two more boys coming to this place!), but I want to do better.
On the way home from the park, I selected a song from my younger days, Everclear's "Santa Monica."
"I'll walk right out into a brand new day/Insane and rising in my own weird way/I don't want to be the bad guy/I don't want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore/I just want to feel some sunshine ..."
Today's a brand new day. I know it's somewhere between hard and impossible for Ben to change the way he copes right now. Luckily, I know I'm capable.
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