At work the other day I witnessed the meltdown of a child, about three or four years of age. Her mother was mortified, but I shrugged and gave her a, been there/done that smile. I mean, it’s pretty much the law of the having children jungle. There are things you want and have to get done, so you take your kid(s) out. Then you are punished.
Very much.
Every one of my off spring threw a public tantrum. Once. After that we just stayed home. It wasn’t that I was afraid of what people would think of me. My give-a-shit-meter has always run on low. It was simply my lack of pain tolerance that kept us confined to a controllable space.
Especially with Matthew. Born fourth into our household, he was different than the other children.
Brandon was first and surrounded by awestruck adults who catered to his every need and desire. He didn’t know what it was to want, so what could he possibly throw a fit over? Kimberly was louder than her older brother and, as a result, he catered to her every whim. Her father and I just picked up the slack and/or the tab as needed. It was pretty much the same when Loran came along. Brandon did what Loran said and Kimmy found out very young that her little sister could kick her ass, so she took part in the, let’s give baby whatever she asks for, thing as well.
By the time Matthew showed up, Brandon was eight and a half, Kimberly five, and Loran a little over three. Matty was their toy right up until the age of two, when he turned into a pint sized Hulk Hogan, best described as hell on the wheels of a four by four all wrapped up in the cutest, sweetest, cuddliest little blonde haired, clothes hating boy God ever created.
Matthew wore me out daily, just trying to keep him out of trouble/danger. He’d give Brandon a whirl when the latter arrived home from school and move on to the girls as soon as Brandon had had enough. There were audible groans when I told Kimmy and Loran they had to keep an eye on the blonde bomber while I cooked dinner. They usually hauled him out to the back yard and added water to the small hole he’d dug that I couldn’t keep him out of long enough to fill up with dirt and get grass to grow over.
All was usually quiet for, oh, thirty seconds before I realized it shouldn’t be. By the time I ran out of the kitchen to locate the parolee and his almost useless jailers, Matthew and whatever stitch of material I’d managed to keep on his body on a given day would be covered in Texas mud.
His sisters grinned and shrugged.
“What’re you gonna do Mom,” Kimmy said to me one time. “He loves the dirt. Relax and let him enjoy it.”
Matthew never understood the concept of, ‘time out.’ I’m pretty sure he tried. He would go sit in his room in his, ‘Little Tykes,’ chair and look sad. He hated like hell to get in trouble, so I knew the pathetic face was genuine. After six or eight seconds, he’d come running out of his room with a huge grin, a hug and a, “Mommy I’m back!” What could I do?
I started putting myself in time out.
Considering the time it took to stop Matthew from whatever brand of mayhem in which he was engaged, explain why he was in trouble, get him into his room and sitting in the chair, avoid eye contact because if I saw the golf ball size tears there I’d cry too, back out of the room slowly with my hand up in the classic, ‘stay,’ signal used by dog trainers, take a deep breath and pray he’d – nope – he was already out of the room with his arms and legs wrapped around me, professing love and, inviting me to, “let’s go play Mommy,” it was just easier, when he’d ground my last grain of patience down to nothing, to set one of his chairs in the hall, go in the bathroom, lock the door and count to twenty.
For some reason, he got that. He understood that if Mommy had to separate herself from him, there was really something wrong and he had to sit in the chair and wait.
Not that he waited long. Twenty seconds was the farthest I ever got before Matthew was glued to the door, pounding on it and yelling, “Time out over Mommy? You comin’ out?”
Yeah, like I’d willingly take that dog and pony show out in public.
I did have to get out occasionally, however. We had to eat, so there was the bi-weekly grocery marathon. If Matthew had gone through a couple of relatively calm days; i.e. no tearing the wall paper off the wall and replacing it with marker art, no grabbing one of his sisters by her hair till he could get his arm around her neck and pull her down to the floor for hugs and/or wrestling, no taking a whiz on the floor underneath the bottom bunk of his bed – I’d be lulled into a sense of security that strains the imagination regarding the depths of parental gullibility. What can I say? The kid had a great poker face.
If it had been just Matthew who acted up during outings, I might have ventured out more, but the truth is, my kids were all practitioners of creative disruption from the get go and that may have resulted from my example. I didn’t actually encourage monkey business, though I thought a lot of it up and possibly articulated it and on more than one occasion, might have provided instructions.
Matthew and I picked Bran, Kimmy and Loran up from school one un-freaking-believably hot and humid Dallas afternoon, in what could have been November or May, as those types of days sort of blended into each other the way purgatory can basically slide into hell. I’d been stuck in the house for days at this point and Mark was out of town the entire week. I knew there would be tears soon if I didn’t get to at least set eyes on someone over four feet tall – Brandon did not count.
On this particular venture out, Matthew’s behavior was nearly flawless. He stayed strapped into the stroller, didn’t pull anything off the clothing racks and kept his pants and pull up on, preventing the creation of a personal potty on the store rugs. In fact, all the kids did pretty well.
We shopped for me, and I actually got to try something on before purchase, which was rare. I had a shopping bag in my closet with a label that read, ‘shit to take back,’ due to the speed with which I normally had to peruse a store’s selection in order to keep my two-year-old from climbing mannequins and swinging on light fixtures. Taking my time was a treat. It delighted me and boosted my confidence in my kids’ ability to use their manners.
We went on through the mall, window shopping. The girls picked out stickers and bracelets in Toys R Us, while Brandon chose a book of magic tricks for him and a whiffle bat and ball set for Matthew – yeah, we’d come to regret that last purchase, but that’s another story.
When all the shopping was done, we got frozen yogurt and watched the ice skaters on the rink two stories below us.
One story directly below where we stood, was the very pretty terrace of an upscale eatery, where about a dozen people were in various stages of dining. Kimmy was unable to see over the railing, so I picked her up and held her where she could look.
“Wouldn’t it be funny…” I am so stupid. “If someone spit over the edge and it landed on one of the tables down there?”
Now, why, I ask you, would a sane, responsible mom, make a statement like that to her child, who was already beginning to show symptoms of what can only be termed a familial propensity toward performing irresponsible, (albeit damned entertaining), antics.
In other words, the kid was just like her mother.
On this particular day, I’d have done much better to keep my mouth shut and make sure Kimberly did the same. No sooner had I spoken the above words, than my sweet little seven-year-old girl leaned over the railing far enough to see her target below, hacked and spit and whooped with delight as it landed in the middle of what appeared to be a taco salad and a glass of sweet tea. Horrified, I pulled her back, set her firmly on her feet and sped away from the food court as fast as I could, hissing instructions to the three oldest.
“Brandon! Hold Kimmy’s hand. Loran, hold onto the stroller! Pretend you do not hear the people yelling below and for Christ’s sake look innocent!”
Yes, I know all about crazy childhood forays into all kinds of public places. I’ve seen and done much as a result of raising five kids. I truly believe there’s not a good excuse for putting up with (sticking around after) inappropriate behavior when you take children out.
When Matthew peed on the floor in the formalwear department at Nordstrom’s, we left fast. When Kimberly spit on people at the mall, we left faster. When Brandon knocked over the display of two liter bottles of Coke products at the grocery store – we stayed as we were kind of trapped by rolling cylinders of soda, though I’d have sprinted given the chance.
Instead, I yelled at Brandon, causing him to feel bad and tear up because it had been an accident, which made me feel like the worst kind of hag, so I teared up and that scared the littler kids and they started to cry. We left the store with free soda and a significant discount on the rest of the stuff we bought because we terrified the manager with all the emotional chaos and he just wanted us the hell out before other customers misinterpreted the situation and prolonged the madness.
My point, and I had one back there somewhere, is simply, kids are kids. Little beings who must be protected and guided with boundaries as they grow. No matter what, crazy will ensue. Kids carry it in their DNA. Crazy can be fun. Brat is not. You have to show the kids the boundary line between the two….
….You know, like I did.
Kimberly has never outgrown crazy. She’s kind of known for it, however she doesn’t spit on random tables anymore. Matthew is still a big, cuddly Mack truck who no longer pees in department stores. I showed them the boundaries when they were little.
You’re welcome.
itsallinadaysinsanity 