You probably didn't know this about me, but I am a woman of words. I'm very persnickety about words, and like to have just the right words for any thought I'm trying to communicate. Struggling to find the words to express myself is a painful experience.
That also leads me to be extraordinarily sensitive to the words of others . . . too much so, I confess. Words of praise elate me; words of mockery or derision can bring me despair.
So it is that tonight has been a rough one on my psyche.
My kids are 2 and 4. While they have pretty advanced vocabularies for their respective ages, it is understandable that they are in the very early stages of word-craft. Or are they? I am beginning to think that my son, at least, has already mastered the trick of verbal manipulation.
Yesterday and today were long days. My kids spent yesterday morning with my mom and finished their day with "Daddy day" while I went out to a meeting. Today we left the house early to spend the day at my sister's so she could work on a wedding. (She's the florist of my "Guilty Pleasure" Fleur de Fleurs in the sidebar. Check her out. She's incredible!)
By the ride home, my daughter was sacked out and my son should have been. I swung through the bank drive-through and we got one lollipop. (It's hard to see my daughter when she's sleeping back there!) I told my son he could have it after supper and his sister could have a couple chocolate chips.
He did not like waiting. He threw his sippy cup at me and hit me in the shoulder (while I was driving). I told him he had lost his lollipop. And here began the verbal assault.
"You don't love me!"
"Yes, I do. I love you all the time, even when you get in trouble."
"I hate you!"
"That's okay, I still love you."
"You're stupid!" (He knows this is an off-limits word in our home.)
I told him I wouldn't respond until he stopped insulting me.
As we sat down to supper, he got angry that I gave him a half piece of pizza to start with instead of a whole one. The fact that I assured him he could have the second half after he finished the first was insufficient. Finally I decided that the real problem was fatigue, and the only solution for fatigue was sleep. So I brought him into the bedroom.
"I won't wear my pajamas!"
"I'll put them on for you."
"I WON'T wear them!!"
"Okay," as I put him in bed wearing his pull-up and placed his pj's on his dresser beside his bed. "If you change your mind, they're right here."
I got his sister into bed, read their Bible story, prayed, skipped a song (because I suddenly lost my voice two nights ago . . . could it be a stress reaction???), and kissed them saying, "I love you."
"I want a bedtime story," my son says.
"I just read you your Bible story."
"I want a bedtime story!"
I don't know about you, but even when I know that someone is behaving a trifle irrationally and I can pinpoint some pretty legitimate reasons for said behavior, there comes a point when I am done placating. This was my point.
"No more stories tonight. I love you. Good-night."
I sat down to write this blog, and through the monitor I heard, "You don't take care of me! You don't love me!"
Then my daughter: "My dolly has dog hair on her! Give me my baby; I need my sister!" (Her "baby," "dolly," and "sister" are one and the same.)
Then my son, "I'm thirsty!"
(I did not miss the irony of a child asking for something from someone he just claimed "doesn't take care of him." I don't see anyone else around here getting up with him in the morning, serving him three meals a day, reading stories, giving snuggle time, solving problems from lost toys to skinned knees, changing the water for his fish, kissing him goodnight, waking in the middle of the night to put him in the shower and change his sheets after an accident . . . but what do I know?)
I put Baby Livvy in the crib. I gave my son a drink. I said good-night. Again.
I sat down at the computer feeling as if I'd been physically bludgeoned.
I know this is motherhood. If you want the spontaneous hugs and "I love you, Mommy's" and "Thank you for giving us cookies!", well, you have to take the temper tantrums and the outbursts and the like. And I am pretty sure that 13 years from now, I'll look back on these days, sepia-colored and nostalgia-filled, and long to be back in them.
But tonight, all I can say is as much as I really do love them . . . I'm awfully glad it's bedtime!
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