Aurora, only eighteen months, is in what my sister-in-law refers to as the dumping stage. She has, for the fourth time in the last hour, emptied a drawer in our kitchen. As utensils, hot pads and one random cup are spread across our kitchen floor, I release a deep breath. Baerett, her three year old brother, screaming for one single episode of Mighty Pups, demands for the tv to be turned on in the other room. Attempting to not saturate our children with too much screen time, I have the internal debate on my next move.
Our afternoon is half over, and after reading, The Little Blue Truck, for likely the fifth time that day, even after hiding the beloved story in the back of the book shelf, I inwardly recognized the need to begin winding down our adventures as the three amigos, and begin preparing for when I pick up the two older kids, and my husband returns from work.
In efforts of establishing some daily time for myself, I often push cooking dinner, or even prepping for the meal until an hour or so before we’ll actually eat. I know that our afternoons would potentially be less stressful, if only I’d use the quiet ninety minutes to complete chores, rather than do whatever activity I deem as ‘me time’ that day. Yet my inner peace rationalizes against that choice.
If I don’t sit down during nap time to take care of myself, to make time for my creative outlets or just to simply stare at a wall, then when? This realization, time and time again, allows me to justify my actions, disqualifying and objecting thoughts that guilt me into the kitchen.
As 4:00 approached, and left, I decided to begin cooking. A few days a week, having given up on the battle of having our children eat what we eat, I began cooking- not one, but two meals. One that my husband and I enjoy, and another that I, without doubt or debate, know our children will eat. In a perfect world, I’d love for our kids to eat just as the nutritional guidelines suggest. However, in reality- more often, after they try the cooked zucchini boat that I prepared, they’ll ask for something different. Accepting defeat, accessing what battles I am going to fight that day, I use the hamburger from our “adult” meal and pair it with a beloved box of macaroni and cheese. Not fine dining, but at least the meat isn’t processed.
Navigating over the random spatulas and tupper wear on the floor, still fighting the urge to use technology as a way to make my life easier, I begin juggling boiling water, and broiled zucchini with kinetic sand and a safari puzzle. Aurora, now on the table, as in sitting on the top of our dining room table, through screeching tones demands the use of the puzzle Baerett is currently working on. As I begin to calmly approach them, my phone dings, and with a quick glance I notice an email from our five year old’s teacher.
After a difficult morning with our son, I sighed, bracing myself for whatever words may be embedded within the message.
I got the younger children settled, checked on dinner and opened the email. My heart clinched and before I got through the message, tears filled my eyes. My heart ached in the repeating realization that once again, I do not know how to support our son. Another hard day, another day where he struggled, another day where he got a consequence, another day where without understanding he was treated differently than the other kids.
Just last week, at the suggestion of my husband, we had a video conference with his kindergarten teacher. Through increased efforts he is involved in a friendship group with the school counselor, has a check in-goal sheet that he works towards daily, and has been meeting with an independent behavioral therapist for over a year. We have high expectations and a lot of love in our home. Yet, for reasons outside of what we assume is linked with his mental health, we are unable to support him in a way where he can make positive choices for himself. Reasons, most likely due to chemical imbalances, genetics- differences that he has difficulty regulating.
Bent over, hands on my hips, gasping for air, I let it all out. Every emotion, every tear, every part of me that attempts to hold it together during so many other difficult moments- I just let it go.
Anger, inadequacy, fear and frustration took over, and without even understanding the need for release, I stood in our kitchen having a complete meltdown. Surrounded by tears, kitchen utensils and two other small children a few yards away- I accepted each of the raw emotions I was experiencing.
How do I support our son? How do I give him the tools, resources and love so he feels and behaves in a way that I know he truly desires to?
How do I provide him with the means to feel and be successful?
How do I ensure that he gets the time, attention and reinforcement that he needs, while still having the energy needed for our other three children?
How do I give myself, my husband and our marriage the adequate time needed to remain healthy and strong?
Thirteen months ago, on Thanksgiving day 2019, our family’s first winter holiday as a family of six, we joined my extended family at my aunt’s house for a traditional turkey dinner. Recognizing that my aunt, while a gracious host, had no small children and a house full of beautiful breakables, I was apprehensive to attend. Understanding that our small children would reach boredom quickly, I planned ahead.
We would show up just as the meal was to be served, then work through the large bag of games and toys I packed ahead of time. This should buy enough time for fellowship, pie and for our daughter, being only five months old, to be passed around for all who wanted baby snuggles.
As many holidays do, the meal, along with a few guests were running behind. I immediately handed out coloring pages, markers and encouraged a few of the older children to play a game of Uno. Sitting at the table, using my best efforts to entertain the kids, I quickly acknowledged frustration from our four-year-old.
Not being invited to play in the game, Ace immediately began showing signs of intense irritation.
You see, Ace idolizes Maverick, our oldest son, and whatever Maverick is doing, Ace wants to join in immediately. Monitoring the game table, I promptly responded to the beginning of Ace’s explosion. I knew Ace was about to tip the table over, and so, without thinking, I scooped him up and carried him to our van. As in picked him up, kicking and screaming, rushed out the front door, across the lawn and to our vehicle.
Ace’s screams intensified, and my grip was struggling to keep up. While I cannot recall exactly what Ace was yelling, I remember feeling completely helpless, acknowledging that I had a very powerful four year old in my arms, and not a clue what my next move was. I knew I was losing stamina, terrified both that people were watching and that I had no idea how to help Ace. I didn’t know where to go from here.
I don’t remember when Jim arrived by my side, however, I quickly realized that I did not have the van keys, nor could I open the door without dropping Ace, or receiving some help. Jim looked at me with wide eyes, and without words, I knew he was asking me what I wanted him to do, how he could help.
I was short and snappy when I asked him to unlock the side door, followed by a direct request for him to leave. I had no idea how I was going to handle the situation, but I knew that someone had to tend to the other kids, and well, answer the questions from our family.
Feeling completely broken, and incredibly embarrassed, unable to hold back my tears, I wrestled Ace and myself into the car. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, to see me so lost.
Ace and I spent over forty minutes in the van together that day. While the behavior and events during that time is forever engraved in my brain, it is fairly difficult for me to go there.
While in the van, Ace yelled, called me names, screamed, and he hit. He hit the van seats, the doors, and then me. Something, some large emotion or frustration, had taken over our son. Thrashing himself all over the vehicle, throwing anything he could get his small, but incredibly mighty hands on.
In a quick glance, I saw his eyes focus in on the beaded necklace that hung from my rearview mirror, the one Maverick, had made for my thirty-third birthday. Frantically, I began unwrapping the thread, desperately trying to get to the gift before Ace did. Through screams and blows to my back, I continued, through fogged tear-filled eyes, fighting against my own shaking hands, and got the necklace down.
When Ace wasn’t looking, afraid I may lose this precious gift, or let Maverick down, I shoved the necklace into the glove box, where it stayed for nearly eight months. It took me eight months to have the mental strength to hold that necklace again. Eight months before I was able to hang it back up without the harsh reality of this one hour overtaking my memory.
Outside of grabbing that necklace, I never responded to Ace’s behavior. Through tears and without words, I gave him the space and permission to experience his emotions. Not being at home, I was scared for him to leave our car. I was scared that he’d run away, not look for traffic, scared that he may find a way to really hurt himself.
During the few times he grabbed the door handle, I wrapped my arms around him. With deep breaths and my best effort, I safely, yet securely placed Ace in a mandt one-person hold. A hold I had previously used while working the residential treatment floor of a youth mental health facility during our time in San Francisco. Never did I imagine that I would one day use this training to keep my own child safe.
During a hold, which from an onlooker would appear as a firm hug, I just held Ace. I allowed the tears to continue down my face, never yelling, and never asking him to stop. I just held our son.
Time continued to pass, and yet I just kept holding our son. I held him until the screaming stopped, until his body loosened and his breathing normalized. I held him until he asked me to let go.
I knew that this incident would need to be addressed, I knew conversations and next steps would need to happen. I knew that I didn’t know how to proceed, or what was the best way to move forward, both in that day and for his future.
I also knew that if I didn’t handle this delicately, that if I didn’t move forward with intention, that this one event- this one hour could have an intense negative effect on Ace going forward.
Still in the van, together Ace and I discussed his feelings, his frustration for the lack of invitation to the UNO game. We made a reentry plan and I explained the expectations of returning to our family Thanksgiving. The conversation ran only a few minutes, and with a deep breath, and a lot of apprehension, hand in hand Ace and I walked back into my aunt’s house.
My heart raced with anxiety. I was waiting for someone to have commentary, or an opinion on how we handled the situation. I braced myself for what mentally I thought would be an attack on our son.
As we entered Jim immediately stood up. I gave him a head nod, completely mortified for snapping at him, and explained that Ace would like to try again. Quickly Ace found his brothers and the rest of the kids. Walking slowly, he sat down at the kids table, and I gathered him a plate. While we missed eating together as an extended family, there was plenty of food left over.
After delivering his meal, and giving him a kiss on the forehead, I returned to the kitchen to fetch my own lunch. Now recognizing the heaviness in my chest, the intense feeling that everyone was staring right at me, even without any words, overwhelmed me. I rushed into the pantry. Once there, allowing my brain to begin processing the last hour, I nearly collapsed. Breathing became difficult as the tears came rushing back. Ace was okay, yet I couldn’t help but feel as though I failed him, that I was failing him.
Without lack of continued efforts, we seem to be on a continuous teeter-totter regarding how to best support our now five year old son. Often confronted with profound feelings of uncertainty and unknowns, we just keep showing up. We will never stop showing up.
So many of my worries about being a mother revolve around the difficult moments. The ones where, while very intense, are often relatively short. You see, what we forget, not only in these instances, but in the majority of moments, is that while we as humans make difficult or inappropriate decisions, and we somehow give ourselves permission to negate the ninety-four percent good that is happening all around us.
We are too quick to remember the hard, to focus on the behaviors that are loud or in our face. We forget that even with a difficult ten minutes, a moment where a coat was left, minutes when we are feeling rushed, a moment where frustration leaks out and our voice becomes raised. A moment that is just that- a moment.
We forget that only twenty minutes before, as a family we spent the first hour of all six of us being awake eating breakfast, talking kindly to one another and playing a fairly intense, and incredibly fun game of tag. The beautiful time we were all laughing, all enjoying each other. Somehow, an entire hour of great, can be discounted with a few minutes of dissatisfaction.
We forget that the rest of that Thanksgiving was spent eating an extra piece of pie, playing Crazy Toaster and sharing glitter pens while sitting at a table surrounded by giggling cousins where the kids, including Ace, painted and made small felt turkey’s.
We focus on situations out of our control, or allow outside influences to dictate our next steps. We fall back on old ways, or bad parenting, simply because it’s what we experienced as a child or what someone close to us expressed as the way we should be handling things.
We forget that so many of our answers already lay in our hearts. So often we know what to do, we just need to have the courage to take action. We simply need to give ourselves the permission to act on what we internally know is right. We need to follow our intuition, the voice in the back of our head that encourages where you go from there.
Whatever your children, or your daily agenda bring to you today, remember to take time to acknowledge that the difficult minutes, the ones where you feel completely lost in, are only temporary. Allow yourself to experience the emotions, and then trust yourself to know and follow the next steps you feel are right. Dig deep enough to acknowledge that difficult times don’t dictate your day, but rather add growth to your character.
You are not defined by your difficult moments.
You are defined in how you respond to your difficult moments.
Three Princes and a Sweet Pea 