Tuesday, November 9, 2010


They have this law in Nebraska, where you can take any child up to age 18 and just drop them off at a hospital or fire station and just drive away, no questions asked.  I nearly took advantage of this law today, but I wouldn't have been able to stand the Little Man for that long of a drive.

There are days, like today, where I feel that I wasn't cut out for this.  I'm inhumane, a monster, for the way I feel and the mean things I say in my head to this defenseless (HA!), innocent (HA! HA!) 4-year-old child.  How a simple thing like "Please change your shirt, Little Man" can turn into a 3-1/2 hour ordeal that has him screaming, biting, pinching, scratching, punching, spitting and, yes, throwing shoes at my head while driving.  "Please change your shirt" was uttered, by me, the supposed adult, at 7:50 this morning.  LM was due at school at 9.  He didn't make it.  He was still shirtless and shoeless by the time I carried him like a sack of potatoes to the car (he refused to walk there and did that whole "I'm 4 and will FLING myself to the floor and scream instead of using my legs and walking, and you will want to throw me out of a window for it!"  I didn't defenestrate him.  I picked him up over my shoulder half-naked and put him in the car of my own accord, his shirt and shoes and jacket that I had been begging him to put on for the last hour, thrown in with him.  He complained that he was cold.  YA THINK?! 

LM's time out schedule goes like this.  "LM, I need you to sit in the chair and be quiet for 4 minutes."  He'll then stare at you or fling himself to the ground or say "No!", so we start counting.  Five minutes, 6 minutes, 7 minutes, until he gets in the chair.  When he's quiet, his time starts.  If he is quiet for 3 minutes and then screams, his time starts over, etc.  He is in full control of how long he gets to sit in the time out chair.  I got up to 10 minutes this morning and told him if I had to count any more minutes, he wasn't going to school.  He made me count up, so he didn't go to school.  Unfortunately, it was his turn with the snack bag, so I had to drive the 45 minutes to drop it off anyway, or the rest of the class wouldn't have snacks.  He screamed and punched windows and spit all of the way there.  Dudes...he was COLD.  Apparently not cold enough to get dressed.  We arrived in the YMCA car rider line with still a half-naked Little Man.  As we are pulling up, he puts his shirt and shoes and socks on in record time.....seriously, 10 seconds for all 5 items was all he needed.  After two hours of screaming "I CAN'T!!!!!!" at me all morning.  He assumed that since he'd done what I asked him to do, that I would now allow him to go to school.

He assumed wrong.

We dropped off the snack bag, and LM had to tell his teacher he was grounded and not allowed at school today.  I then pulled into the parking lot to plan the rest of my day (routine.shattered.)  I had stuff to do.  LM was screaming and punching things again.  I told him he was on my time now, not his.  I had stuff to do, and instead of playing with is friends at school, he'd be doing my stuff.  He was not happy.  He took his shoes off and threw one at my head.  I removed his blankie from his possession.  I planned my route on my phone, while he screamed that he wanted to go home NOW!  Instead, we went to the glasses shop, where he went in in his socks.  Complaining about freezing feet.  I then had to go to the library.  On the way there, LM hit me in the face with a sock.  I told him when we got home, he had lost all toy privileges.  He spit in my face.  I pulled into Marsh, and walked him, barefoot, past tons of "you are a monster" glares from the perfect parents, while he purchased a baby spoon and a bottle of white vinegar, his punishment for spitting.  I then fed him a teaspoon of vinegar in public.  Oh, the GLARES, dudes....the glares.  I do what I can to entertain the public, you know.

He didn't spit again.

We went to the library.  He was again barefoot.  I wasn't about to hand back to him his projectiles.  He coulda killed us both throwing crap at me while driving.

On my way to my mom's, I smelled gasoline, and then fire.  My car was on fire!  My first thought "Get Little Man out.  NOW!  I am about to die, but get him OUT!"

My car wasn't on fire, someone else's was, nearby, though I never saw whose.  It was, however, a relief to know that, no matter how angry I am at this tiny person, no matter what, I would die for him.  Flat out.  I'm not a monster.  I'm a mother.

4 You Said What?:

maedomogalik said...

Oh Karen, God bless you! It will get better. This age is just so tough. Stick to your guns girlfriend. Even when you feel like your the worst parent ever, you're not.

The Stay-at-Home Chef said...

big time thumbs-up! You almost made me cry at the end. I have those days, too. :)

kathryn said...

loved this! I applaud your efforts. Somehow you manage to make coherent sense out of a day like this enough to explain it with humor to us. That is truly awesome.

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