Stubborn
Sam has been visiting this past week, and with Thanksgiving on top, it was a weekend of light blogging. It’s amazing how much he’s developed in the past two months, and a long two months it’s been: although I didn’t blog about it at the time, sometime in October, I had a really bad meltdown.
As regular readers know, because my ex doesn’t drive, she has largely depended on her parents to get Sam down here to me. And surprise surprise, her parents, who don’t like me, can only manage to do this every other month: go figure. On the other hand, I worked in restaurants for years (check the sidebar article Scabby’s Rest for some of that slice of life), and I know that as a restaurant manager, my ex has scheduling problems getting him down here more frequently. So I tolerate it for the time being even though I don’t like it.
The two-and-a-half month period since his last visit (two weeks at the end of August and Labor Day Weekend) is more than twice as long as usual. Because of money and holiday issues, we agreed that this year I could have Sam for one week for Thanksgiving and two weeks in December, including Christmas. The catch was that I would have to skip October to allow her to save up time and money. I would get him on November 16th.
The wait was harder than I expected. Way harder.
I spoke to Sam as much as always on the phone during September and October, but as any parent of a young child knows, it’s no substitute for face-to-face time, especially when your kid is too young to understand the whole concept of “talking on the telephone”. It wasn’t enough, and I missed him so much it was like poison ivy scabs that itch and itch, but you can’t stop scratching until you get these bleeding little sores up and down your calves, and even then you can’t bear the burn. By the middle of October, when I was on my own, I was always at a low simmer. When I rode my bicycle to work, I held imaginary arguments with my ex under my breath, sometimes erupting loudly with “You fucking BITCH, I fucking hate what you’ve fucking done to me”, before burying it all for the next eight hours at work. I don’t mean to suggest I was losing my mind: I was just really angry, and I was fully conscious of my emotional state even as I acted out. This continues today by the way: I must look like a crazy person riding my bike, yelling at an invisible opponent. On the phone one night, I made some needlessly snide remarks, and my ex told me that if I had something to say to her, I should call after Sam went to bed, and she’d be happy to have it out with me.
The meltdown itself came on a rainy October night: When I rode out to my friends Wendy’s place for dinner with her and Rick, it wasn’t yet raining, and it looked like the storm might actually never arrive. It wouldn’t be the first time the weatherman was wrong. The minute I walked in the door the sky burst open, and the storm that would last the next eight hours began to soak the yard. But who cared? Wendy made lamb and we drank some good red wine while watching Olbermann. Around 10:00, I had to call my ex to discuss the particulars of Sam’s visit, and as I rode out into the rain, the conversation veered into things I wanted to say to her.
I suppose I’m lucky. It could have turned into a really huge fight. But as I went on, things went off the rails, and the words began pouring out of my mouth like the rain from the clouds, which was beginning to get heavier. “I don’t think you really understand,” I began. “I don’t think you understand what it’s like to be in my shoes.
“Look, I know it’s hard for you, and that you have him 24/7 and it’s exhausting. I try to understand that it’s hard for you too, but when you give him to me, that’s all I get of him. A measly week or so every other month. How would you like it if the tables were turned?” By this time, I began to get a lump in my throat, and my eyes welled up, as I steered the bike with one hand through the rain. My words were streaming together in between gulps of air.
“And then you have the nerve, the nerve to say that he visits every month, because a couple of days from a two-week visit scheduled at the end of the month flow to the next, when you know that’s not what a monthly visit is.
“You’ve made all the decisions so far, and I haven’t gotten anything, and you act like I should be grateful for my every other month and not to complain to you, but you’re the reason things are as they are! This is all the result of your decisions!
“And you know how much I love him, you know how much it kills me because I tell you over and over. And you say I’m a potential kidnapper, because I get depressed when he leaves? You hold the reins to the whole fucking thing and I’m just fucking scared that anything I say is going to make you mad at me and you’re going to take him away forever and then what the fuck am I going to do?”
By this time the rain was literally pouring out of the sky like water from a pail, thunder and lightning were crashing, and a fucking car drove by and splashed me with dirty puddle water. I was soaked to the skin as I blubbered helplessly by the side of the road on the 59th Street Bridge. “I don’t know what to do… I don’t… I.. Look, I gotta go. I can’t deal with this shit right now. I can’t even talk.” I hung up the phone and barreled into the night, a soaking pathetic wretch.
Honestly, all this needs to be complete is some steel guitars and a fiddle. It’s that fucking pathetic.
Since then, I will add, we’ve had serious discussions about how custody arrangements are going to have to change, and things do seem to be a little less fraught with stress; however, the former is a subject for future posts, and the latter is the kind of rash speculation I’m not willing to tempt.
So with this two month gap in mind, I was really looking forward to seeing Sam. My GOD! The degree to which my son has grown in terms of his mental development and his communication skills is nothing short of remarkable. For one thing, he talks now, which is something he never did before. Babble and a few words was all anyone’s received since day one, but not anymore. Now he speaks in complete sentences, fully able to express himself. And he’s also figured out choice. It’s funny, one of the ways you can get a young child to do what you want is to make your preference the second of two choices. “Do you want the candy or the carrot?” Nine times out of ten, a kid of a certain age will say “carrot” simply because it’s the second choice. Sam’s outgrown that stage.
But most importantly, his new language skills give him new ways to say “No”, and when Sam says “No”, he means it. “I don’t eat chicken.” “I don’t want stories.” “NO.” The kid is as stubborn as he is good-natured, and gets at least the threat of a timeout every day. This isn’t to say he’s a brat: most of the time, Sam is really cooperative, and enjoys helping.
On Tuesday night, Sam was watching one of his Thomas the Tank Engine videos while I made dinner. These dvds offer about 5 episodes of the series, and Sam was in the middle of watching something involving Thomas, Sir Toppham Hatt, and a visiting engine named Stepney when I told him, “After this story, we’re taking a break and eating dinner.” But when I turned off the tube, he looked at me, narrowed his eyes and said, “No. I don’t eat chicken soup. I don’t eat dinner.”
“Oh yeah? You asked for soup, and now you say you won’t eat it? Oh no. We don’t play that game here. Now you go eat your soup, and we can watch Thomas afterwards.”
“No,” he repeated. “I don’t eat soup.”
“Mister… I’m counting to three, and if you don’t go to the table, you’re getting a time out. Do you want that?”
“No. NO SOUP.”
“One…
“Two… you are riding for a fall buddy,” I said as he glared at me from the sofa.
“Three!” And I picked him up, carried him up the stairs, sat him down in his room, and shut the door. Rule of thumb is a minute per year of age, so I gave him about two and a half minutes before I opened the door. He had a big grin on his face.
“Are you ready to come down and eat dinner?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows, turned away from me, and said “NO!” to the wall.
“Fine, have it your way. Enjoy some more time out,” I said, shutting the door again. He began to wail and scream, and I went downstairs loudly to let him know I was serious. I came up a couple of minutes later, and again received a big fat sullen “NO.” for my troubles.
By this time I was beginning to grow more concerned about Sam eating dinner than winning a battle of wills with a two-year old, and unlike our Glorious President Who Rivals Even The Sun Itself In The Sheer Glory Of His Radiant Majesty And Wisdom, I changed my strategy. OK, so what if I’m generally opposed to kids eating dinner in front of the TV? If I meet him halfway, he’ll at least scarf down the soup.
“Sam, I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “We’ll set up your table in front of the tv, and you can watch Thomas while you eat your soup. Would you like that?” He glared at me again.
“No. NO SOUP!” he shouted, and turned back to face the wall.
“Ok, now you’re just being dumb for the sake of being stubborn,” I said. “C’mere.” I stood him up and looked him in the face. “I’m offering you a win-win situation: you get your dinner AND you get to see Thomas. You DO want to watch your Thomas movie, right?”
Sam’s face grew troubled. You could see the gears turning in his head: he really wanted to watch his Thomas video, but he also really didn’t want to bend to my demands. His lip began to tremble and he was struggling for the words.
“C’mon buddy, Thomas is right downstairs, we’ll heat up your soup…” His faced screwed up like he was about to betray his best friend to the Thought Police, and his eyes welled up with tears, as he said in one big sobby gulp, “NO! I don’t LIKE Thomas! I DON’T LIKE THOMAS!”
“What?!? Oh come on now, even I don’t believe that one.” I picked Sam up and started heading down the stairs as he kicked and screamed “No Thomas! No Thomas!” I sat him on the sofa to more howls of anger. “No Thomas! No Thomas!” he yelled as I turned on the TV and pressed start.
“No Thomas! NO THOMAS! NO…,” he shrieked. “No… uh… Oooh… Thomas! That’s Thomas!” he said, beaming and pointing as the little blue train sped along a trestle. I went to the kitchen and stuck the soup in the microwave for a minute, before bringing it to him in the living room. Sam sat at his table and munched his soup, his eyes glued to the set.
I put these two stories together because they illustrate a trait I share with my boy: pigheadedness.
His mom (or rather, his grandparents) really can’t do anything to make me go away: she’s consigned to spend the next 15 years (and probably the rest of her life) dealing with me and my mercurial moods. Like the bluesman says, “I can’t be satisfied.” And Sam is clearly the type of person who wants things his way, and who’s willing to fight tooth and nail to get what he wants (even if Thomas trumps all).
One Response to “Stubborn”
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November 29th, 2006 at 9:06 pm
Wow. I started tearing up because it felt like I was right there with you! You need to write a book or something. There but for the grace of God I managed to have longterm relationships without producing a child that I’d have to share in a possibly acrimonious situation with someone I didn’t want to be connected to for 18 years. At least now it’ll be with the right person, but I do envy you for having such a cute little boy, for what little time you are allowed to be with him at this point. I hope things get better.