Category Archives: frustration

History Averted

Posted on April 28, 2010 | 7 Comments

It was a near miss.

We nearly pulled Michael out of his in-home preschool completely yesterday.

There were countless reasons: alleged complaints from parents about their kids being hurt by Michael, notes that come home describing Michael’s apparent inability to sit still or stay focused, reports of Michael being overwhelmed by the noise of the music program, Michael’s own grumblings about not wanting to go each morning.

And then there was the great peanut incident of last Friday. Michael came home wearing different clothes, and he told me that he wasn’t supposed to have peanuts so they changed him. That evening I found a bag of peanuts in his lunch box, which made no sense at all. I asked one of the teachers the following Monday what had happened, and she said they were concerned that Michael had brought peanuts to school, when there is a very clear no-peanut policy (one of the students has a severe allergy to peanuts). I explained that we don’t pack peanuts; either they were given to him or he snuck them by us somehow.

And then there was the conference that Michael’s mommy was brought in to Monday afternoon, when she’d gone to pick Michael up after having a very stressful and heartbreaking day at work. She left feeling that maybe Michael wasn’t fitting in, again.

To us, this seemed identical to the situation we’d encountered when Michael was two. It was something we never wanted to face again.

My wife and I talked about it Monday evening, and decided by Tuesday afternoon that Michael would not be going there any longer. She and I would take turns staying home with him for the forseeable future. To spare him, to spare us, to spare everyone.

When my wife arrived to collect Michael and his belongings, Ms S (the owner/operator/principal) went above and beyond to explain the back story to each situation.

It turns out that there was only one parent complaining, and that situation is well understood to be a spurious clash between Michael and one other student only. She said that Michael has made tremendous progress in his ability to sit still and to stay focused. While he is overwhelmed by the sound and activity level of the music class, it is something they understand and cope with, and hope to find a resolution for.

The bottom line is that they very much want Michael to stay.

My wife and I were very relieved to know this, and were encouraged enough to change our course and keep Michael going there until summer, and after that it’s off to public kindergarten.

In the mean time his mom and I will be working to find methods for helping Michael improve his ability to consistently make better choices, to control his temper and to improve his focus.

And of course, we have Sister L to keep in mind, since his behavior patterns so far have followed hers almost to the letter. She made huge improvements as she grew, and we know he will too.

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Posted in frustration, life, parenting

Trouble. With a capital “M”

Posted on February 26, 2010 | 10 Comments

Upon picking up Michael from Ms S’s yesterday, I was for the third time this month presented with The Book.

I do not like being presented with The Book.

It is unpleasant. It is distasteful. It is wearying.

I lightly skimmed the words in the book, wincing at reading the narration of Michael’s unprovoked aggression toward his classmates. It was more than I could bear to read just then.

According to the book, and Ms S who was standing right in front of me relaying a more thorough account of the day’s meanness, Michael had found a piece of sharp plastic and brandished it against several classmates, scratching a few of them maliciously. When asked why, he gave no reason nor did he express remorse.

Later he was witnessed throwing a toy at another boy, claiming that the boy was “the new kid,” implying that he was establishing his dominance as an upper classman.

He was also overheard telling a little girl that she’s a loser, making her cry.

Reading that just made my heart sink.

If there’s anything I cannot stand, it’s a bully. And evidently that’s what I have here. Michael is exhibiting the behavior of bully and coward.

It scares me to think how this could progress, if it were to continue into his teen years. It scares me to think what sort of adult he could turn in to.

At home last evening, instead of getting choice time or after-dinner treats, he and I had a discussion.

I explained to him that what he’s doing is not only wrong, it’s hurtful and mean, and I won’t tolerate it. I told him I would not let him veer off course. He said he wants his friends to like him, and I told him that the best way to make that happen is to be a good friend to them. Being kind, giving, loving, generous, compassionate and sympathetic are the keys to winning friends.

Honestly, I’m at a loss to explain his behavior: where he learned it, what provokes it, why he continues it.

And I’m at an utter loss as to how to address it.

I just hope and pray that God gives me some insight, and that we can get him back on the right track.

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Posted in frustration, michael, parenting, stress

Words

Posted on February 17, 2010 | 6 Comments

It was errand time, and Michael and I were finishing out our trip at the grocery store. He’d been his usual animated self throughout our visit, chirping about this and that and asking a million questions. Finally at the checkout, I set the cart against the end of the counter like I always do, so the checker can put the bags in the cart and so Michael can’t reach the coin return, spray bottle or turntable switch that are unfortunately located right around there in the checkout counter.

As my last few items are being rung up, suddenly I hear Michael start to whimper softly: “It’s for me!”

I turned slightly to see what the matter was. He’s staring at the back wall, behind me. He repeated the phrase again, twice, each time with more urgency but just as softly: “It’s for me! It’s for meeeeeeee!”

His expression then contorted into one of utter despair, and he buried his face in his hands and wept.

“What?” I asked. “What’s for you? What is the matter?”

I tried to get him to talk to me. I looked back to see whatever it was that had his attention, and beheld nothing unusual: the back wall, a couple of store clerks, some books, a few empty carts. Nothing of any interest.

Michael continued to bawl.

“What is it? Michael, please use your words! Tell me what’s wrong!”

He would not respond to me at all.

Then, from behind, I hear the phrase. “…boy must have dropped it,” and turned around just in time to see one of those clerks hand Michael his small pink rubber ball, one that he had brought with him from home.

He clutched the ball tightly with both hands, and wiped his eyes with his sleeves.

“Why didn’t you tell me you dropped it? I would have gotten it for you,” I told him.

He remained wordless, sniffing back a few residual tears.

On the way out to the car, we talked about what happened, and how it could have been better.

“Michael, I didn’t know you dropped the ball. Do you understand? I was looking in a different direction, and didn’t see the ball drop. And the people that work at the store, they didn’t know the ball was yours at first. That’s why I asked you to use words, so you could explain what happened. Daddy can help if you explain what happened.”

What made sense to me was Michael’s point of view. I recall having this same sort of ego-centric viewpoint of the world when I was his age; the belief that everyone sees, hears and knows everything that I see, hear and know. His experience is the only real experience, and everyone shares it.

So it follows that if he dropped the ball, everyone should know that he did, and know that it’s his. He probably thought I was being mean by not caring that he dropped his ball, and that the store clerks were being mean for wanting to keep it because they picked it up and didn’t bring it back right away.

It’s just the stage he’s at right now, one that will be passed through on his way to the next stage, which will bring its own challenges. As he grows, learns and experiences, his model of the world expands and changes, and his behavior will adjust to accommodate it.

My job as a parent is to do my best to recognize those stages and to be right beside him to guide him on his way to the next one.

We practiced what he would do the next time something like that happens: he’ll use his words, he’ll tell me what happened. And, he says, it would be a better idea to just leave the ball at home so he doesn’t lose it.

I think he’ll be okay.

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Posted in frustration, michael, parenting

Grub Grousing

Posted on February 12, 2010 | 8 Comments

The part of each weekday morning that I dislike the most is, without question, assembling Michael’s lunch. I’ve mentioned this before.

Yesterday’s episode went like this:

Daddy: “Michael, what do you want for lunch?”

Michael: (no response whatsoever)

Daddy: “Sometime today, please.”

Mommy: “How about fish fingers?”

Michael: “Yeah, fish fingers. That sounds good.”

Daddy: “How many?”

Michael: “Five. Five is good.”

Daddy: “Five fish fingers it is.”

So I cooked them a bit to crisp them up, then sealed them in a travel container and packed them up next to another container filled with ketchup, and some cheez-its and grapes.

I figured he’d have a nice little lunch there, and I had successfully survived another morning of getting him ready for school.

Imagine my delight this morning when I went to find his lunchbox (I never know where it’s going to be left from one day to the next) and discovered all five fish fingers intact. Daddy was not pleased.

Daddy: “Michael! I’m not very happy with you! You didn’t eat those fish fingers at all!”

Michael: (no response whatsoever)

I did note that the cheez-its and grapes were gone. Well, he enjoyed that part. And most of the ketchup was gone too. So… he dipped the grapes and cheez-its in ketchup?

Hmmm.

Today he got slices of ham, grapes, pretzels and carrots. I put protein in his lunchbox, but I cannot force him to eat it. I can’t pack peanut butter, even though he loves that, because of the nut allergy there at his school. I can’t pack cheese, because he loathes it. Even when it’s being eaten by someone else, clear across the room. And I can’t just pack a baggie full of Cocoa Puffs because I’m sure someone would eventually report me to DCFS or something.

I can’t wait until next year, and the thought of public school hot lunch saving me from this task. Packing cash for lunch is easy.

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Posted in food, frustration, michael, morning

The Book

Posted on February 1, 2010 | 9 Comments

Michael’s currently enrolled in a private, in-home kindergarten. We decided against sending him to public school this year, and the decision was not made lightly.

We felt he wasn’t ready for public school yet. More accurately, it could be said that public school isn’t ready for Michael yet.

But whichever way you slice it, we’re looking for some signs that his maturity level is at the right point for the rigors of a public education system. Thus far, we haven’t seen them. His teachers assured us before this school year began that they’d have him prepared to enter first grade when the year was up. His mom and I aren’t so sure about that. But we figure if he doesn’t get into first grade next year, we may put him in public kindergarten.

To be fair, he has matured quite a bit. His use of words has greatly improved, he has a lot more control over his behavior, and he is quite a bit more focused than he was last year.

But we’re still not there yet.

Case in point: today, when I picked him up, I saw that placed in Michael’s cubby was “the book.”

In his school, all the kids that have exhibited chronic behavior issues have a little black notebook with their name on it, in which the teachers can write down notes about behavior problems that occurred during the day. The parents can read about these problems that evening, and work with the teachers to problem solve. This way they have one place for all of the teachers to communicate with the parents and each other regarding a particular child, rather than calling the parents at home or at work.

And by “all the kids” I mean the one kid who has behavior issues. And by “the parents” I mean my wife and me.

Because there is only one book, and it’s got Michael’s name on it.

His chapters have included such favorites as hiding in the play structure and refusing to come in for lunch, swiping things from other kids while they’re playing with them, hiding in the bathroom and not coming out when called, climbing on the back of the couch after being repeatedly told that this is not okay, hiding in the book reading clubhouse and refusing to line up for the next activity, etc.

In today’s chapter, I learned how Michael scratched another little kid because he wanted to see the book she had. And he brained still another with a toy because she called him a “bad boy.” He failed to see the irony in his action when I pointed it out.

But on the positive note, the last paragraph on the page said that they’d given him some better techniques to use when frustrated, and that he employed them during what would have been a third incident.

So, there’s that. And I should be proud of that, I think.

I reminded him that despite his success in the end, the bad behavior still warranted loss of TV privileges for the evening. He understood this. When we got home, we discussed Michael’s behavior issues with his mom, and she reinforced his need to make better choices when he’s frustrated or angry.

So naturally it follows that when I left briefly to go retrieve dinner, that I came home and was asked this question by my wife: “Did you tell Michael it was okay for him to watch TV tonight?”

“No. He knows he lost his privilege,” I said.

“You lied to me, Michael,” his mom said to him.

“So that means you lose tomorrow’s TV privilege too,” I added. His mom nodded her head in agreement.

After a brief pause, Michael looked down and said “I’m sorry I lied.”

I believe he is.

I just hope maybe he’s sorry enough to remember to make better choices for the rest of the school year.

I’d be happy to know there won’t be any more chapters in that book.

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Posted in frustration, inscrutable, michael, parenting

Spare a Quarter?

Posted on January 25, 2010 | 13 Comments

I really need to buy myself a sense of humor.

The fact that my wife laughed at my irritation this morning is a clue upon which I ought to ruminate at length.

You see, I was in a rush to get out the door. This is my normal operating mode on any given weekday.

I knew Michael was up, as I practically tripped over him as he lay there on the stairs, enrobed in every blanket he owns, like a giant, pulsating parasite drawing nutrients out of the carpeting.

“Not a good place to be, sport,” I said, stepping over the multi-hued mass and continuing on my way. I heard him bump down each tread on his way to the landing. He crawled over to the chair in front of the computer to watch the screensaver as I prepared a simple breakfast for his mom and myself. She was on her way out as well, having an early doctor’s appointment.

“I’m going back upstairs, Michael,” I said, but he remained at the computer.

My wife and I dined in our room while watching the news.

“Is Michael up?” she asked me.

“Yes. He wanted to hang around downstairs and look at the computer. He’s probably shutting it down or something,” I said.

We finished our breakfast and I took the breakfast tray downstairs, passing Michael as he came up.

“I need to get you dressed, little man. Then you can have breakfast so we can get you to school,” I told him. He did not say a word.

In the kitchen, as I took the dishes off the tray, I heard the bedroom door shut.

This is not a good sign. When Michael gets into our bedroom, he thinks he can set himself up to watch his favorite channel, Sprout, without restriction of any kind. He knows the rule on weekdays is that he has to be dressed and fed and completely ready to go to school before he can even look at the TV.

I went upstairs to investigate, and our bedroom door was locked. I heard Michael moving just on the other side of the door, followed by his quick retreating footsteps.

“Michael! You unlock this door!” I tried the knob a few times for emphasis.

“I’m watching Sprout, daddy!” he said, gleefully. He needed only add “neener, neener, neener” to complete his taunt.

Seething, I went to fetch the door lock pin from its secret hiding place (in Michael’s room – shhh, don’t tell him), and after trying it, remembered that the door lock to mommy & daddy’s bedroom doesn’t use that kind of lock. I’d need to go all the way to the garage to get the jeweler’s screwdrivers to open it.

I shouted again through the door: “Michael! Open this door!”

This time he answered, and unlocked it. I think he knew he wouldn’t ultimately win this battle.

I immediately turned off the TV.

“Get downstairs now, mister. No TV for you at all this morning,” I said.

From the bathroom I heard my wife say “I told you you’d get in trouble, Michael.”

She’d been in there the whole time.

It was only later when I explained that Michael had locked the door that she laughed.

I’m glad she found it humorous.

I’d hate to think my irritation was for no good purpose.

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Posted in frustration, morning, stress

You Did What, Exactly?

Posted on December 24, 2009 | 5 Comments

I’m sitting on the couch, trying to pretend I’m not awake yet.

Michael suddenly runs to the bathroom to grab a wet wipe, and quickly returns and starts scrubbing down his little plastic slide.

“Don’t worry, daddy. I’ll get the germs off.”

“What?”

“It’s on the slide, right there,” he points to a black smudge at the end of the slide.

“What is that?”

“It’s okay, daddy. I’m cleaning it off,” he says brightly.

“But what is it?”

“Well…. it’s black stuff from the ink.”

“Ink?”

“Yes, ink. From the paint.”

“What paint?”

“Well…. it’s from the floor.”

“What ink? What paint? Where?” Now I am alarmed, and can already see I’ve got a delightful morning in store.

“Uh… well, it was… I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. Tell me what happened,” I say, getting up to address him and follow him to the origin of the issue.

“Uh, it was paint from the pen,” he said, walking toward the table.

“What pen?”

“It was here,” he says, pointing at the floor by the closet.

“I don’t see a pen. Where is the paint?”

“I don’t remember.”

“When did you do this?”

“Well, I was drawing on the slide, and I cleaned it off.”

“I know that part. Where is this pen? What paint did you use?”

“It was this,” he says, and picks up a colored pencil from the table.

“You drew on the slide with this?”

He nods, sheepishly.

“Is this okay to do?”

He shakes his head.

“Drawing is to be done on paper, with your mommy or daddy watching. Understand?”

He nods again.

“Okay. Don’t draw on stuff again!”

If I allowed myself to do so, I could imagine all sorts of other things that he might have drawn on this morning during the 30 minutes he was out of his room while his mom and I were frantically trying to wrap presents in privacy. And I could probably also imagine what he really might have gotten into that would have left a dark smudge, and why he would have assumed it had germs.

I could do that… but I won’t.

This is one of those situations where you avert your eyes and walk away whistling.

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Posted in frustration, inscrutable, morning

The Show Must Go On (and on…)

Posted on December 17, 2009 | 8 Comments

There is little that can compare with the excruciating torture that is attending a civilized function with a bored five year old. Having bamboo shoots run under one’s fingernails is about as close as I could imagine.

Last night sister S sang in her high school choir’s Christmas program, along with I believe seven hundred twelve other choral groups, each of whom sang eight or nine songs that rivaled “Innagoddadavida” in length.

Now, I will say that these choirs are excellent: their efforts and those of their directors and accompanists shines through in their presentation. Obviously they’ve spent many hours rehearsing, and they love what they do. It would have been a true pleasure to sit and listen in peace, had that been an option.

But when you have to drag along a very busy little boy whose attention span is measured in nanoseconds, whose body is very probably composed of springs and explosives and who has not yet grasped the concept of “indoor voice,” focusing on any sort of staged production is pretty much impossible.

And of course, the auditorium was packed to the balconies. And naturally, the only open seats were in the third row, in the very center of the theater. And to top it off, they were recording the show. I estimate the microphones were no farther than eight feet from Michael’s unstoppable mouth.

He had his own seat, which meant he could stand, sit, or kneel on the cushion if he liked. Or move through all three positions and variations thereof as often and as rapidly as possible. Making sure to let the folding seat spring closed noisily with each change: RRRRRR flup.. flup.. flup flup flupflupflupflupppppp.

There was nothing I could do. By my 32,768th emphatic “SHHHHH!”, he was ignoring me altogether. He was sitting on the other side of his mom, which meant I could not hold him still physically. And even if I had, there’s no way I would have been able to politely or legally keep him from vocalizing his displeasure, which he would have done.

He did enjoy one group’s rendition of “Carol of the Bells.” This is his favorite Christmas song at the moment. He can actually play a part of it on our piano at home, which makes me proud. But during last night’s show he insisted upon singing along. I’m sure that will enhance their recording, giving it an added dimension it would not have otherwise had.

And there were a few other songs that he did enjoy; the lively, happy Christmas carols he knows and sings at home. But unfortunately most of the pieces were rather somber and sepulchral, sporting names such as “Lullay thou little child” and “Gaudeamus Hodie.” During a relatively quiet part of the performance, he turned around and asked his mother loudly:

“Is it never going to be done?”

And at the end of the next song, I removed him from the theater.

He spent the rest of the recital running up and down the wheelchair ramp just outside the auditorium, humming “Carol of the Bells” and being a busy little boy. A happy, busy little boy.

And yes, sister S did very well.

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Posted in family, frustration, holiday, memories

Of Nightmares and Zombies

Posted on December 6, 2009 | 7 Comments

Michael had had a pretty bad day yesterday. Not sure who did it, but someone must have put an extra dose of Random in his frosted flakes that morning, because all day he demonstrated just how mischievous he could be.

It was with much glee that bedtime finally rolled around last night, and off he went. I told him I wasn’t happy with him, and that he needed to be much better if he was going to get a visit from Santa. I told him we’d be getting our pictures taken with Santa tomorrow, and that he’d know whether Michael was good or not.

His mom and I were fairly exhausted from the week prior as it was, so we headed to bed early hoping to catch up on some sleep.

So it shouldn’t have surprised me much to hear Michael crying at 1:05 in the morning. I shuffled into his room and asked:

“What?”

“(unintelligible verbiage)”

“You had a bad dream?”

“(more unintelligible verbiage)”

“About what?” I asked.

“There was Santa Claus and it was okay and he was nice and the moon was there and it had a scary face and it was stuck on me… (dissolve into hitched crying again)”

“Santa Claus?”

“No, not Santa Claus,” he said.

“The moon?”

“No, it wasn’t the moon. It was a balloon and it had ears, and it got stuck on me.”

“Well, it’s over now, so let’s settle down and go back to sleep,” I said, stroking his forehead and hoping he’d settle back down.

All seemed well as I headed back to bed.

“At least you didn’t yell,” my wife observed. “That’s your usual M.O.”

“Well, anyone can change,” I said, hoping maybe I was actually making inroads in that department.

Then we heard the crying again.

Back into Michael’s room I went.

“Now what?”

“I’m still sad!” he said, crying.

“Michael, there’s nothing to be sad about.” I sat with him and explained what his nightmare was and that everything was okay, that it was all in his mind. We talked for a while, I told him what weird thing I had dreamed about before my sleep was so rudely interrupted, and he seemed mollified by my words. My reasoning was that if I could take his mind off of his own imagination, maybe he’d get a new train of thought going, on more pleasant tracks.

“So, you’ll go back to sleep?”

“Yes,” he said, confidently.

“No more crying?”

“No,” he said, pulling the covers up over his shoulder.

“Okay. Night-night,” I said, and headed back to bed.

Wait five minutes, cue the crying.

Back in I go.

“Michael, you promised!”

“I’m so sad!”

“Okay, off to mommy & daddy’s room, then,” I said, and shooed him out of his bed.

As was to be expected, Michael did not settle down nor sleep in our room, even by the loosest standards. He was as lively and alert as ever.

“I can take him downstairs,” my wife suggested. I just heaved a sigh in acceptance. Maybe I can get some sleep, then relieve her in a while so she can sleep.

I couldn’t sleep. So after twenty minutes or so, I headed downstairs myself.

By this time, it was closing in on 2:30 AM.

His mom had already gotten Sprout tuned in, Michael’s favorite channel when he’s not feeling his best.

He asked for eggs to eat, his mom made him eggs. He asked for sausage… no sausage.

“I can go get some,” I said. “We need milk anyway.” This was true; the gallon and a half we had on Friday had already been absorbed by his sisters, who probably would be happiest if we had a couple of dairy cows in the backyard and a Pasteurization system in the garage.

So at ten to 3 AM, I was off to the store. I was surprised to see so many cars out at that hour. I was also surprised to find that our 24 hour grocery store has a fifteen minute window every night in which clerical work must occur and no register can be open. So I stood in front of the pharmacy end cap, right next to the Ricolas and cotton balls, glaring (cheerily) at the clerk, who seemed to believe that the clock on the wall would reprimand her severely for daring to process my groceries before due time.

Finally made it home with the groceries. I started in cooking sausage right away because I could see that Michael’s mommy was fading fast.

Michael, however, was not.

After he’d finished his sausage and juice, he wanted to play. I tried to explain to him that this was not play time.

I eventually told my wife that she could head up to bed. “But I’d feel guilty,” she said. I tried to show her the practicality of it: if both of us are bleary-eyed the next day, we won’t be much good. But if she’s gotten some sleep under her belt maybe I could catch a nap later. Maybe.

Finally, at 5:00, Michael wrapped himself up tightly in his blankets, the sure sign that he’s feeling drowsy and ready for bed.

Seizing the opportunity, I carried him up to bed and tucked him in. He snuggled into his blankies and drifted off to sleep.

I finally headed to bed myself, and thought it took me a good forty-five minutes to fall asleep, I finally did.

And then Michael came barging into our room at 8 AM, chipper as a caffeine-soaked Jack Russell Terrier, ready to go and rarin’ for action.

I don’t know what lesson there is to be learned here, other than the fact that Michael is some sort of mutant who doesn’t actually need sleep.

So I ask: can someone be his buddy for the day so his mom and I can get a good nap?

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Posted in frustration, michael, night

Big Help

Posted on November 29, 2009 | 7 Comments

Michael was itching to help me put up Christmas lights today. It’s a big job, and requires use of the much-hallowed ladder, that glorious construct that allows a person of small stature to achieve great heights.

Daddy was up on the ladder, mommy was helping out below.

“I can climb the ladder!” Michael announces, proudly.

“No, daddy is up there right now,” his mom says, reaching out to give me another handful of gutter clips.

“But I’m not scared!”

“Michael, I’m up on the ladder right now. Only one person can be on the ladder at a time,” I begin.

“It’s okay. I can be here,” he says, and starts up.

“Michael, now you’re in the way! How am I supposed to get down?”

“Fall,” he said, without missing a beat.

I’ll keep him in my will, but he’s not getting my ladder.

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Posted in frustration, inscrutable, michael