Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Sticks and stones....
That jingle we were taught in elementary school? Well, whoever wrote the line "But words can never hurt me" wasn't a mother.
I was taking Max to gymnastics this morning, and frankly, he wasn't excited about going. He would have preferred to stay home and play with Araceli's daughter, Karen, but there was time for that after gymnastics.
Our routine on the way to gymnastics is to run by the recycling center in West U, which is my forum for explaining to Max why we try not to waste things and why it's important to reuse what we can. After the bottles and boxes and cans had been sorted, Max had it in his mind that he was going to drive the car. Where this particular idea originated, I don't exactly know. But as you've heard recently, Max's imagination is blossoming, and he was tired from having risen at 6:00 this morning, and he was grumpy at being pulled away from Karen. And so the tantrum began.
Initially, his wailing took the innocuous form of "Mommy, I want to drive the car!" about a dozen times. (It's pretty clear to me, altough he couldn't express it, that he wanted to be the driver of far more than the Suburban.) And then it veered in a decidedly ugly direction: "I DON'T LOVE YOU, MOMMY."
Books tell you this will happen. Friends tell you this will happen. But the visceral pain of hearing those words from Max's mouth--like being elbowed in the solar plexus--caught me quite off guard. Now that the inital body blow has subsided and my rational brain is working again, I think that next time I will be able to stay composed enough to say, "Max, you seem angry with me." And there WILL be a next time. Count on it.
Fortunately, that is not the end of the story. By the time we got to gymnastics, Max was ready to participate. Today was the beginning of the summer session, so there were new classmates to meet. His former coach, Eric, whom Max enjoys immensely, was back. In a remarkable improvement from last semester, Max was so cooperative that he earned stamps on his hands, feet and belly. (I privately wonder about how Coach Eric's presence may have contributed to Max's success today.)
Now comes the good part. As we go home from an event, one of our rituals is to discuss the question, "What was your favorite part?" I told Max that my favorite part of gymnastics was seeing Coach Eric again. And when I asked Max the same question, he said, "My favorite part was the new girl." I asked Max what her name was and he hesitated and then said, "Her name is Girl." And then he piped up with this: "Mommy, I need to go to the library first and get a book about girls. I want to find out the girl's name in the book about girls at the library." I think about the years that lie ahead of us when Max and I will both wish that it could be so simple--if only he could go to the library to get a book about girls.
P.S. It's now 5:30, and Max has just announced, "I love you, mommy." Everything is right with the world again.
I was taking Max to gymnastics this morning, and frankly, he wasn't excited about going. He would have preferred to stay home and play with Araceli's daughter, Karen, but there was time for that after gymnastics.
Our routine on the way to gymnastics is to run by the recycling center in West U, which is my forum for explaining to Max why we try not to waste things and why it's important to reuse what we can. After the bottles and boxes and cans had been sorted, Max had it in his mind that he was going to drive the car. Where this particular idea originated, I don't exactly know. But as you've heard recently, Max's imagination is blossoming, and he was tired from having risen at 6:00 this morning, and he was grumpy at being pulled away from Karen. And so the tantrum began.
Initially, his wailing took the innocuous form of "Mommy, I want to drive the car!" about a dozen times. (It's pretty clear to me, altough he couldn't express it, that he wanted to be the driver of far more than the Suburban.) And then it veered in a decidedly ugly direction: "I DON'T LOVE YOU, MOMMY."
Books tell you this will happen. Friends tell you this will happen. But the visceral pain of hearing those words from Max's mouth--like being elbowed in the solar plexus--caught me quite off guard. Now that the inital body blow has subsided and my rational brain is working again, I think that next time I will be able to stay composed enough to say, "Max, you seem angry with me." And there WILL be a next time. Count on it.
Fortunately, that is not the end of the story. By the time we got to gymnastics, Max was ready to participate. Today was the beginning of the summer session, so there were new classmates to meet. His former coach, Eric, whom Max enjoys immensely, was back. In a remarkable improvement from last semester, Max was so cooperative that he earned stamps on his hands, feet and belly. (I privately wonder about how Coach Eric's presence may have contributed to Max's success today.)
Now comes the good part. As we go home from an event, one of our rituals is to discuss the question, "What was your favorite part?" I told Max that my favorite part of gymnastics was seeing Coach Eric again. And when I asked Max the same question, he said, "My favorite part was the new girl." I asked Max what her name was and he hesitated and then said, "Her name is Girl." And then he piped up with this: "Mommy, I need to go to the library first and get a book about girls. I want to find out the girl's name in the book about girls at the library." I think about the years that lie ahead of us when Max and I will both wish that it could be so simple--if only he could go to the library to get a book about girls.
P.S. It's now 5:30, and Max has just announced, "I love you, mommy." Everything is right with the world again.
1 Comments:
OUCH! Do you need a bangese? Or maybe 2 or 3? I don't know exactly where you stick them on for this sort of owie.
Good luck with the rational response the next time it happens.
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