I’ve been humming the song “Let’s Get Physical” this week to myself every instance that Sean swings his hand back and delivers a welting blow to my face. His theme song. It’s getting a little old, but I can’t think of any better way to squash my knee-jerk frustration and fury, and manage the consequences with a level-head. There’s nothing like singing Olivia Newton-John to make the situation seem that much more absurd and silly.
I know this is just a phase. It’s a behavior that’s filling a gap in his communication tools until he’s verbally and emotionally more mature. It’s the only way that he’s figured out how to express extreme frustration and disappointment to me. And it’s only me (Pat very rarely), and no one else that he hits. I expect that’s because no one else says NO to him with the frequency I do.
I really have done a lot of thinking and reading about how to manage it. I’ve tried talking, time outs, showing how sad and hurt I am, being dispassionate, disengaging, using my MOMMY voice. I even carried a drum around with me for a week so that I could pull it out at a second’s notice and tell him to hit his drum, not Mommy. I talk about how wonderful it is when he uses his gentle hands and gives me sweet spontaneous hugs. I am trying. Really. And it’s not that I’m confusing the kid. I’m working on scientific principle here and trying an idea for a few weeks before determining it’s not working (this has been going on for months). Taking a page from my brother’s book: consistency is the key.
The only thing that used to work is to redirect and diffuse. I know exactly the situations that cause him to hit. I see them coming from a mile away. But he’s a bright and determined kid. Redirection really has stopped working. And because there’s a build up to the situation where I’ve asked him to stop doing something, he’s usually on to me before I can redirect. He knows that I’m trying to dupe him. He’s just too smart for that anymore. And he knows what he wants, Mommy be damned.
He actually hit me hard enough to cause my nose to bleed today while we were at the playground. He was trying to scale a tall metal ladder, but kept throwing fits because I was holding onto his waist to spot him. I gave him several chances to do something else or to get used to me holding him. I used my happy, encouraging voice to help him up the ladder again. But he kept throwing fits and almost falling from the top, so I picked him up and off the ladder. The reaction was instantaneous – he was anticipating it and got me smack in the nose. I dropped him to the ground (after going down on one knee). I caught a woman standing up from her park bench in alarm out of the corner of my eye. I wiped my nose and scooped him up calmly and put him in his stroller. Once he was restrained I got eye to eye with him (out of kicking range) and said how much he had hurt me and that he needed a time out to think about how sad it makes me when he hits. I know he was frustrated and sad, but hitting is unacceptable. I turned him towards the fence and walked behind him.
She handed me a tissue as she approached – a very nice smile on her face. More sympathetic than judgmental, thank goodness. We joked about the terrible twos and how nice it would be to get to an age when logic and discussion can be used. She was complementary of Sean and my “sense of humor” – I assume she was referring to my sighs of exasperation and the deep counted breaths that I was taking. I didn’t feel embarrassed – just sad. Sad and tired of this.
I’m tired of being the bad guy. I’m tired of being used, abused and bruised. Poor Patrick will get home and need a hug and my only response is “Don’t touch me.” I don’t care if it’s a hug, a hand shake or a kiss. My body has become a punching bag. My personal space has dissolved into a wriggling mass of toddler knees and elbows as Sean plays “climb all over Mommy” all day long. How did 50’s housewives manage in their perfect day dresses?
A little more reading, a new tactic to try. I’m going to focus on being as compassionate and loving as I can, while portraying the ‘no hitting rule’ as a moral imperative, not a Mommy mandate. “I’m so sorry you’re sad and frustrated. Isn’t it upsetting? It’s okay to be mad. But the rule says we cannot hit. There’s nothing I can do to change that. I know that makes you angry…” You get the idea. It’s going to be a stretch. Because, to be honest with you, all I want to do is scream right back at him. ‘Cause, man, that kid’s got a wicked left hook. What’s your knee-jerk reaction to being smacked? Fear, anger, retribution? When my eyes are watering and my nose is running, the last thing I want to do is smile.
I think I should be looking into boxing scholarships…
