sueeeus

I remember being four.  Summer.  West Orion Drive.  A dark cool basement.  Daddy longlegs on the screen door at night.  Walking barefoot, carefully, through the thistles in the grass.  The sound of my mother whistling from behind a door — peekaboo.  My dad, reading a newspaper, sitting in a brown recliner.  Being asked if I want to go to school.  Preschool.  A blue plastic sleeping mat.  I don’t want to take a nap.  I’m not tired and I don’t understand why everybody has to take a nap.  I lie there and don’t sleep.  Small stools painted like ladybugs.  I’m wearing red tights and I wet myself.  Crying.  Ashamed.  Scolded by the teacher.  A metal bathroom stall.  Sobbing.  Trying to take care of things.  I only remember that one day of preschool.  I wonder if I kept going?  Or do I only remember the first traumatic day?

I wonder what my son will remember about being four.  Will he only remember an exasperated mother, yelling at him every day?  Don’t hit your brother.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Why did you hit your brother?  “Because I like to.” Why did you do that?  “Because.” Why did you do this?  “Because.” Be careful.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Pay attention.  [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Try not to spill.  [Deer in the headlights gaze; invariably spills.] Hurry, get a towel.  [Covers ears with hands and cowers.]  Why didn’t you hold on to it?  [Deer in the headlights gaze.] Eat your dinner.  “I done wike it.” Go to the bathroom.  “I don’t want to.” Wash your hands.  “I don’t want to.” Don’t throw things.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Why are you whining?    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Please stop whining.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Stop whining NOW.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Close the gate.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Pick that up.  “It’s too hard for me.” I TOLD YOU NOT TO HIT YOUR BROTHER.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Time out.  “I done wanna go to time out.” Time for bed.  “I done wanna go to bed.” Do you want a spanking?  “I pwomise I won’t do it never never again.” Time to get up.  “I’m ti-wed.  I done wanna get up.” Get dressed.  “I done wanna get up.” Hurry up.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  Where are your shoes?  “I unno.” That’s not a toy.    [Deer in the headlights gaze.]  What did you just do?  “Nuffing”

I long to be laughing and giggling and hugging him, showering him with love and kindness, but I find myself frazzled and frayed, cross and at the end of my rope.  I give him options.  I tell him the reward — do this and you’ll get that.   The power of now is too much for him, though.  He almost always forgoes the reward, so that he can continue in the now.  How I want to give him the reward.  How I want him to learn to make good choices.  But it’s too much for him.  I can see him struggle and give in to the power of now.

In his eyes, he must wonder why I am so nice to the baby and why I am so mean to him.  And that breaks my heart.  I want  him to grow up happy and secure, knowing that he is wanted and treasured.  Only after a long, trying day, does he finally yield, rest his head on my shoulder, and fall asleep in my arms.

And sometimes, I hold him close, and let the tears roll down.