spilt milk

When Henry was a baby, I was constantly exhausted. Every feeding took over an hour; Henry was a slow eater and had to be burped often. He spat up, every single time, all over me and the chair and the floor. After I fed him, I had to pump, which took another 45 minutes. Because he was premature, we had strict instructions to feed him every three hours to be sure he was eating enough; later, when his reflux was diagnosed, we had orders to continue feeding him every three hours to be sure his stomach wasn't too full. After his feedings he would cry and cry and cry, probably from the reflux. I remember nights when I fell asleep giving him his bottle or pumping. I remember other nights when I sobbed along with him because I didn't know what else I could do for him and I was so fucking tired that I couldn't even think straight.

I feel that way again today.

It's hard for me to explain what is going on at my house. Henry has been having colossal meltdowns over the smallest things, and because I am the one who intervenes when he starts to fall apart, he is lashing out at me. I'm not comfortable talking in detail about this, because it's really not about Henry, it's really about me; Henry is six and he's struggling to find his way in the world and for the most part he's doing a damn good job. But it's my responsibility to help him, and it is incredibly difficult sometimes. Like today.

The bottom line is this: there are behaviors that are not acceptable at our house, under any circumstances. We don't tolerate what my friend Christa calls "ugly words," for example. We are also not fans of any sort of extreme physical behavior--kicking, throwing toys, falling to the floor. Because Henry has pragmatic language difficulties, he will fall back on these behaviors when he is overwhelmed. He will, to put it bluntly, have a tantrum. But unlike a toddler, who lacks the verbal skills to do much more than just cry or thrash around, Henry pulls out the ugly words when he is frustrated.

I spend a lot of time helping Henry find strategies for articulating his feelings, strategies other than kicking and screaming and announcing that I am his "mortal enemy." We practice saying, "I am frustrated right now because . . . " or "I am angry because . . ." We practice starting our sentences with I instead of saying, "Charlie isn't playing right!" or "You just don't like me any more!" We talk about how our choices--the choice to use ugly words or have a screaming meltdown--affect the people around us. I'm trying to get Henry to understand that his friends will take his assertions that "You don't like me and I don't want to be your friend any more!" seriously. I'm trying to get him to understand that when he falls apart in a public place, we will leave.

He's not really getting it.

Today we had plans to meet Wade for lunch at a little sandwich place we like. Charlie was excited about eating pizza with Daddy; I was looking forward to being out of the house and visiting with my husband.

We never made it to lunch; we stopped at the bookstore to play on the way and Henry fell apart. I sat him in a chair and tried to talk to him, but he continued screaming. I told him what his options were: he could go back to the children's section and apologize to Charlie for throwing a train at him, and then he could sit and look at books or read with me, and then we could go to lunch with Daddy, or he could continue screaming and we would go home. He reluctantly agreed to apologize, but once we were back in children's section he fell apart again. I packed everyone up and we came home; I called Wade and cancelled lunch. I tried not to cry.

This afternoon--after we had played in our rooms and played a pirate board game and spilled milk (again) all over the kitchen floor that my housekeeper had JUST mopped--we met Leslie and her boys at another bookstore. When she called, I warned her: we may have to leave. We'll see how it goes.

We lasted half an hour and then Henry asked to go to the bathroom, alone, and I said no, I would walk back with him. And he screamed and stamped his foot. And then after the bathroom, I asked him to do or not do something, and he screamed and threw himself on the floor. As we were leaving, Charlie started to cry. "I want to STAY!" he sobbed. "So do I," I told him. "So do I."

I wanted to have lunch with my husband today; I wanted to have a nice salad and some fruity tea and some adult conversation. I wanted to visit with Leslie this afternoon in the air conditioned bookstore, which is cooler than my house. I wanted to help Charlie pick out a book or stuffed friend to get with his birthday gift cards. I wanted to go swimming or go out for coffee or do . . . something. Anything. I wanted my children to be polite and pleasant. I wanted us to have fun and be happy.

I did not want to spend the day hearing about how mean I am. I feel like I did when Henry was a tiny baby, when I knew I was doing all the right things and nothing was working. I was a good parent today; I was calm and peaceful and kind. I did not get angry; I did not yell. I did not say anything I would later regret. I was very specific about what I expected from the boys; I was very specific about what the unacceptable behavior was and what the consequences would be. I got down on my knees and looked Henry in the eye; I hugged Charlie and explained that he wasn't in trouble and that we would find time this weekend to get his book and maybe go to lunch. I told both boys, repeatedly, how much I love them. I praised them when they played nicely and used nice words and took turns. I helped Henry practice saying, "I am frustrated because . . . . " I said it myself a few times.

I spent most of the day wanting to lock myself in the bathroom and cry.

It is entirely possible that Henry's behavior is a side effect of the medication we're trying out; it is entirely possible that it is the result of his not sleeping well (which is possibly a side effect of the medication). It is entirely possible that it is the heat. It is entirely possible that it is something else altogether.

It is entirely possible that I am expecting too much of him. Or that I am expecting too much of myself. Or both.

I don't think I can do this job any more. I don't think I am qualified. I am tired and bored and frustrated. I feel like I did when Henry was a baby--like I am completely failing, despite my best efforts. I just keep moving forward and repeating myself and breathing deeply, because I don't know what else to do.