Realizations

Lately I have been buried in my work. It’s the nature of this particular field, and something I’m used to.

As such, over the past few weeks I have not been able to attend to some of the more peripheral things in my world, such as the page you are currently reading. Even some of the important things at home have been given short shrift, forcing my wife and myself to arrange our schedules and responsibilities with pinpoint accuracy to ensure our kids’ needs are met, chores and shopping are done, and that the house doesn’t spontaneously burst into flame.

But even in the midst of concerted effort at home and intense focus at work, I’m finding myself having to step back and observe a bigger picture.

The picture of who my son is, what drives him, and where he is headed.

I began this blog in June of 2006 after finding that our then two-year-old son was a firey force to be reckoned with. This blog became my outlet, my catharsis.

Since the beginning I have written about Michael’s emotional expressions, from his uber-tantrum at the beach in Seaside, Oregon when he was two, to last year’s nuclear meltdown at Disneyland. And of course just a couple of weeks ago I wrote about an incident at a local play place, out of which Michael was dragged, kicking and screaming, and hauled off home. His mother kept her composure in the face of it all, as she usually does.

The common theme here is the escalation of the ferocity and the increase in frequency of these outbursts.

Just last Friday, while in the midst of solving some complex and stupefyingly boring technical issue at work, I received a voice mail that I could scarcely understand. It was Michael’s Mommy, and she was in near hysterics. The urgency was unmistakable.

The thing was, she was supposed to be at a pumpkin patch with Michael. It was supposed to be a fun day. It was supposed to be a time for creating those simple, happy memories.

Well, there are definitely memories.

About a week prior, Michael’s new school teacher alerted us to the fact that though the group was planning to go to a pumpkin patch, Michael would need a parent to accompany him. In so many words, it was made known to us that the teachers can’t handle Michael on his own.

Because of my work schedule as of late, I was not the parent to be going with him.

So Friday of last week, Michael’s mommy strapped him into his seat and headed off to meet the group at the pumpkin patch. They were going to the Roloff’s to be exact, which is not terribly far away. There’s a ton to do there, lots to see, lots to interact with, yummy food and plenty of pumpkins.

At one point they boarded a “train” (a truck with a couple of trailers) and headed off to see the Western Town, a set of small buildings that look like a ghost town. But because of long lines and bad timing, the “waiting around” aspect became more than Michael could handle.

Upon boarding the train again, Michael asked to sit in another location. Unfortunately, this was something that his mom simply could not comply with. It was a physical impossibility, given the number of people on the train, the lack of legroom for moving around, and the fact that the train was beginning motion.

But Michael persisted. He wanted to move and sit with the other boys. His mom said no.

And so, he erupted. He vented his fury upon all within striking distance.

His mother did not want him to hurt anyone else, least of all an innocent baby that was just a couple of feet from them. So, she tried to restrain him.

This only made matters worse. He kicked, he bit, he scratched, he pulled her hair, he broke her glasses. And she could do nothing.

A couple of the parents tried to signal the driver to stop and let my wife and our son off, but he called back that they were almost there.

Eventually they pulled up to the stop, and my wife took Michael off the train and straight to the car.

She strapped him in, kicking and screaming, and drove away, battered, bruised, and utterly humiliated.

That’s when I got the call.

I told her I’m on my way home, and I packed up my computer and I left.

I don’t often spank Michael. I don’t believe in random spanking, particularly not on the spur of the moment and out of anger. But for utter defiance and abuse of his mother, I made an exception. When I got home, Michael got a spanking, and he did not like it. I did not raise my voice to him, but I let him know in no uncertain terms that his behavior was unacceptable, and that he hurt his mother. He spent the rest of the afternoon in his room contemplating his behavior.

His mom spent the rest of the weekend having post-traumatic stress episodes (I do not exaggerate here) and thinking over Michael’s past, wondering whether any of several self-inflicted injuries might have led to his current behavior patterns. Was it when he got overheated in the car seat as a baby? Was it when he fell off the play structure and clonked his head? Was it when his sisters dropped him?

No matter what the reason for Michael’s temper, it is a matter of fact. It is part of who he is.

The question is, what to do about it? Is it something he will grow out of? Is it a result of our parenting methods?

It’s hard to say. We do say prayers every night. One thing that I intend to instill in my son is faith in God. I try to keep our prayers simple so they become a habit for him: “God bless mommy, daddy, sisters, friends at school…” but lately I’ve been hearing Jimmy Swaggart’s voice come out of my mouth: “Dear Lord Jesus, drive the devil from this boy!” I sometimes wonder that maybe if I shaved the back of his head, I might find a trio of diabolical digits hiding there.

In all truth, I know he will grow and he will improve. And as time moves on, I will keep you all informed. Maybe we can be of help to some other poor parents out there who face a similar challenge.