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Archives from 2002-2006

Dylan spent at least half the day throwing one tantrum after another, the earsplitting tearless kind that are driven by pure anger and frustration at not being allowed to engage in a variety of undesirable behaviors such as, for instance, attempting to shatter the television screen with a metal spatula.

I joke a lot about how he eats dog hair when he’s mad, but he really and truly does this and it’s seriously demented. I mean, I have never heard of a kid lashing out in that way. I even googled it, and sadly, the only result was my own website.

That’s not his only retaliatory response towards hearing the word NO, of course. There’s also biting furniture, pulling up his shirt and biting the fabric, walking over to my bookshelf and pulling out books, reaching to pull things off the kitchen counter, throwing toys across the room, pushing buttons on the DVR, and spitting.

But the thing where he sits and plucks fuzz and dirt and pet hair off the carpet and jams it in his mouth? Drives me out of my goddamned mind. Which, of course, is the point, as far as he’s concerned. The entire time, he’s staring directly at us, so it’s perfectly clear to all involved parties just what’s going on here: this isn’t simply an idle taste-test of carpet filth, no sir. This is a RADICAL ACT.

Sometimes it’s kind of funny, you know. The pint-sized fury, the beetled brow, the fact that he’s so deliberate in his revenge. But other times I just feel dragged straight to the end of my rope by the screaming and the chaos and the obnoxiousness of it all. More than once today I lost my patience and shouted at him to STOP IT, goddamn it. Stop the crying, the spitting, the throwing, the fucking dog hair, just STOP IT.

Shouting in rage at the little boy I’d take a bullet for. Yeah, that’s a good feeling.

After today I realize that I’ve got to head off the behavior when it’s getting out of hand, because this thing where I follow him around getting more and more pissed off by the things he’s doing for the express purpose of pissing me off is . . . well, for god’s sake. I’m 35 years old. He’s not even two. Someone’s got to be the grownup, right?

If it were Riley who were acting out, I’d send him to his room in a heartbeat. When I’ve tried this with Dylan, though, he just stands in his crib screaming at the top of his lungs. But it’s true that sometimes it’s more that mom is the one who needs a time out. Next time, he’s going in his crib and I’m going outside for a nice long count of ten. Maybe two hundred.

The moments of scary, angry yelling are the ugliest I’ve ever known. The brief helpless feeling of catharsis, followed swiftly by shame and regret.

I’m so sorry, little guy. Sometimes I really suck at being the grownup.

I work outside of the home, and usually I find this to be a good balance. It’s not perfect, mind you—the long commute times and hectic evenings make for some long, arduous days—but in general, it works out nicely for all of us. The boys love their school, I feel I’m a better parent for the opportunity to periodically shift my focus to career-related duties, and I never feel as though we’re getting short-changed on spending time together (the upside of kids who go to bed late and wake up early, I guess).

We deal with the logistical complications as best we can, with me taking point on getting the boys ready in the mornings, JB managing dropoffs and pickups, and both of us stepping up to give the other flexibility to hit the gym or whatever it is we need to do during the week. It sometimes seems like a system of wildly spinning plates, but I imagine most families feel that way regardless of their working situations. Life with kids is hectic, no matter what.

The thing that never fails to send it all crashing down around my ears, though, is sickness. Both kids were sick last week, and Riley had some sort of dear-LORD-let-us-never-mention-it-again stomach bug this week. Plus, daycare was closed on Monday for an inservice day. Between these events and various colds and fevers over the last few months, I’ve pretty much run through all of my sick time at my office. Every day I’m gone, I get further behind and more out of the loop on ongoing projects. I suspect that every time I have to send another email saying I’m staying home with my sick kid, I become more known as that coworker who’s always staying home with their sick kid.

I’m lucky in that I have a very flexible, understanding workplace, and no one’s ever taken me aside and finger-wagged me for my absences. But it’s hard, you know? It’s hard to worry about my job when I’m already worried about my child. It’s hard to have the tense discussion with JB about whose turn it is to stay home. It’s hard not to feel like I’m letting everyone down.

And then there’s the sort of sick kid, when you have to decide whether or not they’re well enough to go to school. What a shitty choice that is, made worse by the fact that you’re undeniably influenced by how often you’ve been home to date. Maybe you’ll be at home with a cheery, miraculously-recovered child who’s overjoyed to get a solid day’s worth of Curious George, maybe you’ll kiss them goodbye and get the Daycare Call of Doom later in the afternoon.

I got the Call of Doom last week after Riley had seemed perfectly fine in the morning then woke up from his afternoon nap screaming about a headache and eventually barfing. I broke every traffic law in existence getting to him, but it still took over half an hour, and when I saw his sad pale face I could have crumpled under the guilt. My boy had been sick and crying and we weren’t there to take care of him. This is wrong. This is wrong.

Of course, once he got home he was totally fine. And I know kids get sick at school sometimes and live to tell the tale. (Hell, I still remember Scott Pendleton’s pukefest in Spanish class in 8th grade, and how once he finished horking in the classroom sink, he turned to the rest of us and grinned to show he still had his gum.) Parents can’t be everywhere at all times.

Still, it sucks. I mean, caring for sick kids sucks no matter what—I tend to immediately get overwhelmed with anxiety and concern, and depending on how much laundry is involved, shameful amounts of self-pity—but it particularly sucks to feel like I am failing on all fronts. Like no matter what I do, it’s not good enough.

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