It seems that every time I think Charlie has pushed me to the brink of sanity, usually within 24 hours of that moment, the kid does something to make me reconsider my 'Free to Good Home' posting on Craig's List. It's no surprise that our family, including his grandmothers, have taken to calling him Jekyll and Hyde, his attitude swings are that drastic.
Monday night, it's 4 pm, t-minus 4 hours till bedtime. Charlie has lost all privileges for the evening and I'm not sure what else I can take away from this kid short of his life, since his treatment of his brother is bordering on criminal. Brian arrives on the scene to see Charlie dragging his brother around the house by the blanket he has stuffed into his mouth. Gregory is not old enough to realize that he can simply open his mouth and let go. I'm making dinner and yelling from the kitchen, "Leave him alone. Why don't you drag your doll around the house instead of Gregory. I'm telling you for the last time, do not hurt your brother. Do you want to lose TV for tomorrow night, too?"
Charlie decides to take Gregory on another lap. On the way, he swings by the kitchen to rub my face in his defiance. He stops, looks at me, then at Brian and says, "Daddy, you know what I haven't seen in a while?" What, Charlie? "You and Mommy giving each other a hug." Do you like it when we hug? "Yes, it makes me feel happy." We proceed to hug each other, then grab him and make a Charlie sandwich with him in the middle.
As quickly as it appeared, the cheesy family moment is gone. Charlie says, 'Thanks, stope it'. Pushing his brother into the wall, he runs from the room, hysterically laughing. Who was that masked man? I think he needs his Prozac prescription refilled.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Owie, Owie, Owie
It's hard not to compare your kids to one another. Charlie and Gregory walked at exactly the same age, 13 1/2 months. They both started sleeping through the night at roughly 5 1/2 months, which felt like 5 1/2 years. They both gave up the bottle at 12 months, though with Gregory, you would have thought I was stripping him of a vital organ. That boy loved his 'baba' and still stares longingly at little babies sucking away on theirs.
Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'
Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.
This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.
The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'
I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."
Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'
Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.
This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.
The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'
I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."
Monday, February 2, 2009
Forget You, Mariah
For once I am not going to write/complain about my kids. The subject today is me; me and my ongoing journey of self discovery.
At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?
Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.
Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.
In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.
Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.
It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.
Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.
At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.
It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?
Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.
As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?
At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?
Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.
Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.
In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.
Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.
It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.
Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.
At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.
It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?
Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.
As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
'Hey, Big Boy' Bed
Charlie has been sleeping on the floor for the past month, really since we got home from Christmas at my Mom's. Yes, he has a bed. It's a toddler bed that still uses his old crib mattress, and it is not comfortable at all. It does not surprise me that the carpeting on the floor gives him more cushion.
We finally decided to splurge and bought him a big boy mattress. The toddler bed converts into a full bed, which is cool, but kind of weird. I was a twin mattress girl until after college and this whole thing feels odd, almost dirty, like I'm pushing my own son toward, well, sex. I know, I know, he's only 3 1/2, and it's just a mattress. But why else does one need a bed larger than a twin unless A) you're a large person, or B) you share, or hope to share, that bed with someone.
We were awaiting the delivery of the bed and Brian decided to take Charlie on a sheet purchasing expedition; mistake #1. He took him to Ross Dress for Less, which is kind of like a ghetto Marshall's or TJ Maxx; mistake #2. It's the place you go for candles, picture frames, maybe underwear (if they still have the tags), or socks, but sheets? And not just any sheets, Charlie wanted pink or purple sheets, his favorite colors.
Upon their return, Charlie proudly showed me his purple satin sheets, as well as his pink satin ones with Playboy bunnies on them. Brian smirked, 'Charlie wanted them, he picked them out all by himself.' Wow, cool. I tried to mask my distaste for Charlie's benefit but I just couldn't do it.
Honey, you couldn't have redirected him to the cozy flannel sheets, or told him that these were the wrong size? 'But they were on sale', was his response. My husband has never bought something because it was on sale in his life. I'm not sure why he chose Ross Dress for Less as the place to alter his shopping habits.
The purple sheets I could live with, but the pink bunnies were down right offensive. Brian thinks I'm crazy and this whole thing amuses him. Not only do I think it's a sexist double standard; these sheets never would have been purchased if Charlie were a girl. But it's impractical as well; I doubt it's going to be Brian running into the kid's room at 3 am when he slides out of his bed and cracks his head on the floor.
My hesitation about buying Charlie a larger bed may be a bit unfounded, but now we've gone and introduced sexy boudoir accessories into his repertoire. What kind of parents are we? We might as well move to Nevada and open up a brothel.
Okay, so I'm a touch dramatic. I really worried for no reason, the sheets are already off after 1 night. Turns out satin sheets do not properly cover little boys who wiggle (in a non sexual way) in their sleep. As I said to Brian, at least he and the kids guarantee me material to write about. That would be the silver, or satin, lining.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Et tu, Brute?
Gregory started to walk about 2 weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't really progressed past taking a few tentative steps toward me or the coffee table. Usually it's when he wants something, a toy or his sippy cup. He'll either take a few steps then fall to the ground to crawl the rest of the way, or he just stands there with his arms out stretched, whining, crying, and pointing at the object he desires.
I don't mind that he's not walking yet. If I knew what was good for me, I'd strap him to the floor on all fours and never let him stand on 2 legs...ever. Once I have 2 kids walking, things will get way more hectic than they already are. Though Charlie will be happy to have someone who will actually play a real game of chase with him. And think of all the money I'll save not having to use an entire bottle of OxyClean each week to get the grass and mud stains out of the knees of his pants.
Last night, Brian happened upon Gregory hanging out in the living room playing quietly alone. He stood in the shadows observing this sweet moment. You can imagine his surprise when Gregory stood up and walked clear across the room over to the blocks. We're talking at least 5 feet, unassisted, no wobbling. We've started calling him Billy Ray Valentine. Those of you who are fans of Trading Places will appreciate the reference. The rest of you, shame, shame for not seeing one of Eddie Murphy's finest films.
My youngest child is manipulating me, playing upon my sympathies. Yes, I do want him to stay a baby for a little while longer, but not if he's going to lie about it. Charlie didn't start consciously manipulating me until he was well into his terrible two's. With an extra year under his belt and learning straight from the master, I can't even imagine the new heights Gregory will soar to. I'm scared for the future; 2 children walking, 2 children manipulating. Does anyone know of a local Enablers Anonymous chapter?
I don't mind that he's not walking yet. If I knew what was good for me, I'd strap him to the floor on all fours and never let him stand on 2 legs...ever. Once I have 2 kids walking, things will get way more hectic than they already are. Though Charlie will be happy to have someone who will actually play a real game of chase with him. And think of all the money I'll save not having to use an entire bottle of OxyClean each week to get the grass and mud stains out of the knees of his pants.
Last night, Brian happened upon Gregory hanging out in the living room playing quietly alone. He stood in the shadows observing this sweet moment. You can imagine his surprise when Gregory stood up and walked clear across the room over to the blocks. We're talking at least 5 feet, unassisted, no wobbling. We've started calling him Billy Ray Valentine. Those of you who are fans of Trading Places will appreciate the reference. The rest of you, shame, shame for not seeing one of Eddie Murphy's finest films.
My youngest child is manipulating me, playing upon my sympathies. Yes, I do want him to stay a baby for a little while longer, but not if he's going to lie about it. Charlie didn't start consciously manipulating me until he was well into his terrible two's. With an extra year under his belt and learning straight from the master, I can't even imagine the new heights Gregory will soar to. I'm scared for the future; 2 children walking, 2 children manipulating. Does anyone know of a local Enablers Anonymous chapter?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Enforcer
As much as Charlie likes to ignore the rules of our household, when he's out in public, he adheres to a surprisingly strict moral code. Like most people, he has a couple of things that really get his goat; 1) littering and 2) not wearing a bike helmet.
At the park he'll walk up and hand me a sticky wrapper, "Here, Mommy, someone littered. They are so bad. They are not respectful at all!" Brian's big on respect and respecting one's elders. He tries to drive that message home every time Charlie calls him a yucky poo poo head or laughs when he's trying to dole out a punishment. Seems it's working but in ways he never expected. Respect for the park, yes; respect for Daddy, no. I think we could be bearing witness to the rise of the next leader of the Earth Liberation Front.
He notices trash everywhere, which is a sad statement; the highway, the parking lot of the grocery store, on walks through our neighborhood. The problem is he wants to clean it all up. I don't want to discourage this kind of behavior, but I'm usually the go between for Charlie and the garbage can. I'm quite accommodating, though I draw the line at chewed gum and old socks.
I understand where he gets the cleanliness from. His dad is part OCD, I pick up trash on hikes, and tend to complain about litter. But the bike helmet thing is a mystery. He's like a Jewish mother traffic cop. When we drive in the car and he sees someone sans helmet, he literally roles down his window and screams at them. Usually something like, "Hey, lady, where's your helmet? Go home and get your helmet." or "Hey, man, you're going to fall and crack your head open and bleed." Of course this generally startles the person so much so that they almost do fall and crack their head open. Those window locks do come in handy.
It makes me laugh because I hear myself and Brian in each utterance. You become keenly aware of how your every action and word can effect your kid. Kind of scary really. I don't dwell too much on it. I just rest easy knowing that our parks are cleaner and the streets are a little safer when the Enforcer is around.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Face of Evil
I believe the devil has left Georgia and is currently residing in my eldest son. His behavior on all levels, especially toward his brother, has escalated to astronomic proportions; hitting, biting, back talking, complete defiance, and general shit-headed-ness. He fails to show an ounce of remorse for his actions, or any sign of caring about the consequences. Wrap all this up into a 3 day weekend and you can imagine the mix of rage, terror and frustration Brian and I are experiencing. Not unlike an animal snared in a trap from which they can't escape. Though at this point, being locked up in cage sounds pretty good to us.
Brian woke up with the boys Saturday and things were off to a rough start. Charlie decided everything that Gregory picked up was 'his' and would rip it out of his hands. Gregory of course wailed. Taking things away from Gregory was like Charlie's gateway drug, similar to pot. He quickly moved on to hitting his brother whenever he came near one of his toys; we'll call that his cocaine phase. And finally he advanced to the big leagues, crystal meth, or biting his brother. No matter what Brian took away or how loud he yelled, Charlie continued along his path of aggression, smiling the whole way.
I was trying to ignore the piercing screams (from both father and child) by pulling the covers over my head. When that didn't work, I jumped in the shower in an attempt to completely block out the noise. Unfortunately, Charlie's room shares a wall with our bathroom. It was like having a cell next to the torture room at Abu Ghraib.
I padded into the living room where Gregory was playing alone, Brian was sitting in a chair silent, either crying or sweating, and Charlie was half laughing, whimpering in his room. What happened?
Apparently, after breakfast, Brian felt nature's call. He decided things were calm enough that he could take 2 minutes (or 15) to visit the bathroom. As Brian was leaving the room, he quickly glanced back to see Charlie punch/shove his brother in the back, then quickly move around to the front as Gregory was falling, then push him in the chest, sending him backwards. Remember those blow up punching bags from when you were a kid, the ones with the sand in the bottom so they could never fall over, they just kind of smacked the ground then bounced back up. Brian said Gregory looked like that. Which is what lead to their little tete-a-tete in Charlie's bedroom and my early wake up call.
No one was happy and this was the beginning of a long weekend. It went down hill from there. We yelled over and over again, we ignored, we punished, we took away everything Charlie held near and dear to his heart - Caillou, blocks, books, dessert, etc. and yet he continued on his rampage of terror against his brother and us. I sat on my knees, staring into his big brown eyes searching for some softness, some semblance of the adoring little boy he was just last week. But this monster actually seemed to be enjoying the attention as he came back time and time again, doling out more pain.
I spoke to one of Charlie's teachers later on Saturday. She offered up the theory that he's still adjusting to life with a younger brother. Now that Gregory is mobile, wanting to do everything his big brother does, getting into all of his stuff, and demanding just as much attention, Charlie's life as our main focus has truly come to an end. Maybe he'll move out?
I guess he's mad and this pattern of aggression (and deafness) is his way of rebelling. So what can you do? You keep on moving. We're attempting to switch up our approach to things by removing ourselves and Gregory from the room when Charlie acts up (the boy hates to be ignored). No TV until night time, and only then if he's been a good listener and kind to his brother. We hope that tomorrow will be better, that Charlie will be better, and that we'll be better.
Of course as I post this entry, Charlie has been the embodiment of all things good and sweet today, like a little angel who listens, behaves, says please and thank you. Or like a sociopath plotting his next move, lulling his victims into a false sense of calm and ease. I think he has us exactly where he wants us.
Brian woke up with the boys Saturday and things were off to a rough start. Charlie decided everything that Gregory picked up was 'his' and would rip it out of his hands. Gregory of course wailed. Taking things away from Gregory was like Charlie's gateway drug, similar to pot. He quickly moved on to hitting his brother whenever he came near one of his toys; we'll call that his cocaine phase. And finally he advanced to the big leagues, crystal meth, or biting his brother. No matter what Brian took away or how loud he yelled, Charlie continued along his path of aggression, smiling the whole way.
I was trying to ignore the piercing screams (from both father and child) by pulling the covers over my head. When that didn't work, I jumped in the shower in an attempt to completely block out the noise. Unfortunately, Charlie's room shares a wall with our bathroom. It was like having a cell next to the torture room at Abu Ghraib.
I padded into the living room where Gregory was playing alone, Brian was sitting in a chair silent, either crying or sweating, and Charlie was half laughing, whimpering in his room. What happened?
Apparently, after breakfast, Brian felt nature's call. He decided things were calm enough that he could take 2 minutes (or 15) to visit the bathroom. As Brian was leaving the room, he quickly glanced back to see Charlie punch/shove his brother in the back, then quickly move around to the front as Gregory was falling, then push him in the chest, sending him backwards. Remember those blow up punching bags from when you were a kid, the ones with the sand in the bottom so they could never fall over, they just kind of smacked the ground then bounced back up. Brian said Gregory looked like that. Which is what lead to their little tete-a-tete in Charlie's bedroom and my early wake up call.
No one was happy and this was the beginning of a long weekend. It went down hill from there. We yelled over and over again, we ignored, we punished, we took away everything Charlie held near and dear to his heart - Caillou, blocks, books, dessert, etc. and yet he continued on his rampage of terror against his brother and us. I sat on my knees, staring into his big brown eyes searching for some softness, some semblance of the adoring little boy he was just last week. But this monster actually seemed to be enjoying the attention as he came back time and time again, doling out more pain.
I spoke to one of Charlie's teachers later on Saturday. She offered up the theory that he's still adjusting to life with a younger brother. Now that Gregory is mobile, wanting to do everything his big brother does, getting into all of his stuff, and demanding just as much attention, Charlie's life as our main focus has truly come to an end. Maybe he'll move out?
I guess he's mad and this pattern of aggression (and deafness) is his way of rebelling. So what can you do? You keep on moving. We're attempting to switch up our approach to things by removing ourselves and Gregory from the room when Charlie acts up (the boy hates to be ignored). No TV until night time, and only then if he's been a good listener and kind to his brother. We hope that tomorrow will be better, that Charlie will be better, and that we'll be better.
Of course as I post this entry, Charlie has been the embodiment of all things good and sweet today, like a little angel who listens, behaves, says please and thank you. Or like a sociopath plotting his next move, lulling his victims into a false sense of calm and ease. I think he has us exactly where he wants us.
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