Thursday – Mommy's Little Hellion
Feb. 26th, 2009 02:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
"If this continues, we may have to ask you to stop bringing him here."
I stopped breathing when the director of my son's daycare said this to me.
"We're willing to work with you. What do you recommend we do?"
"I...," I began, hoping one of those light bulbs that you see in cartoons would appear over my head and a brilliant idea would tumble out of my mouth into the phone receiver. There was a long, awkward silence before I finished with a feeble, "...don't know. He's not like this at home. I don't have any problems like this when he's with me. Give me a chance to look into getting him a therapist. I'll discuss this with my husband and see what we can come up with. I'm so, so sorry."
"Other parents are complaining and threatening to pull their children out," Meridith, the director at the center, said apologetically. "I can't let that happen."
I told her I understood.
After the phone call, I slipped off the women's restroom to have a good cry.
She'd told me that as soon as my son stepped out on the playground yesterday, he attacked a child holding a toy he wanted. Then he bit another child for just standing too close to him. The whole time the center was on the phone with me, I could hear him with them in the front office, screaming. He was in full meltdown mode.
People who work with children day in and day out were asking me how to handle my child. He is like not like anything they've ever seen. I understand their frustration. I understand why they don't like him. As much as I love him, I completely understand why the people who have to work with him despise him.
God, I decided, is playing dice with the Universe. There is no rhyme or reason why a child like mine was given to a parent as clueless as me. And whoever came up with the idea that God never gives you more than you can handle idea was out of their mind. I'd just talked to two women on the phone who were getting their asses kicked by my 4 year old, and they couldn't handle him. The only prayer I could come up with was a simple Help me!, but I wasn't expecting any answer to that besides Sorry, Toots, you're on your own.
Women cry when we are in distress. I've read that it rids the body of toxic stress chemicals and, once the storm has passed, it relaxes and calms us. Yesterday I discovered another evolutionary benefit to crying: while tears drive away men because they are afraid they are about about to be manipulated, they attract other women who will offer sympathy and wisdom. Sometimes, they even attract the right woman: one who might just be the answer to a prayer.
I washed my face, but I knew only time would make the redness and swelling go away. I tried to slip back to my cubicle unnoticed to hide until I looked presentable again.
"Hey, have you started that forth book yet?" It was Whatsherface from down the hall in strategic pricing. I don't know her name, but when I found out she liked the Twilight novels, I lent her the first two Sookie Stackhouse novels by Charlaine Harris. They are pulp fiction, vampire-romance-mystery-comedy-novels with no socially redeeming values, beyond the fact that they are great fun to read. They are chick-lit, but with fangs. They are also very, very addictive. Whatsherface bought the next two novels and had left the 4th one on my desk a few days before. "Oh," she said when she saw my face, "Is something wrong?"
I smiled, which had to look kind of macabre on my tear-stained face. "No, just having a nervous breakdown." Then the whole story tumbled out of me.
"Girl," she said, nodding sympathetically, "I've been there." She told me her ten year old had the same kind of problems when he was small. "Do you want to know what worked with my son?"
Did I ever. I was at wit's end.
She gave me an outline of what her son's therapist had her do. The short version is that every day when I drop him off, I have to let him know what's expected of him. Today, you will not bite anyone. You will not throw your shoes at anyone. You will do what your teacher asks you to do, and so on. The voice must be firm, and the language must be unambiguous: he must not believe that he has a choice in the matter of whether he will behave or not. His teacher must repeat these same instructions to him when she sees him. I must get feedback from his teachers of what he did right and wrong each day (I made a form with a checklist, to make it easier for them). At the end of the day, I must tell him, I am very disappointed in that you did… but also I'm very proud that you... and list all the things he did that were good.
"My son has an appointment with his therapist next week," she told me, "I'll ask him if he can refer you to someone on your side of town. In the meantime, ask them to give you two weeks with this. I promise; you'll start to see a difference. It sounds too good to be true, but just watch."
I told her I'd give it a try.
"Do you know if your son is GT?" she asked. I gave her a blank look. "Gifted and Talented," she clarified, "That turned out to be what my son's problem is. His intellect is more developed than other kids his age, but emotionally he was lagging behind. What you're describing is very typical of GT kids."
I told her I have no idea. It would nice to hear that he is. On the other hand, I can't escape the nagging fear that he's just a bad kid. Except not at home, or at his grandparents' house.
"Just at school," she said, nodding. "My son was the same way."
Last night, I handed the daycare center what I'd written up and was asking them to do, along with a stack of forms for my son's teachers to report back to me how he behaved. I'll talk to the director herself this evening and set up an appointment for my husband and me to meet with her. There are other issues I need to discuss with her, such as which forms of discipline work with my son and which don't (so far, they've only figured out the latter).
This morning, I sat my son on the hood of my car and made him look me in the eye.
"Today," I began, "You will not bite anyone. Do you understand?"
"Uh huh," he said. I went through the list of what I expected of him.
"I expect you to have a good day today. I love you. Can I have a hug?"
"Okay." He hugged me. "I love you." There were no tears when I dropped him off inside the building. For once, he was calm and quite.
The daycare hasn't called me today. So far.
We'll try this for two weeks, and we'll see. If it works it means I owe the lady-down-the-hall-who-likes-vampire-novels, big time. I really should learn what her name is.
If it fails, I guess I'm on my own.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
"If this continues, we may have to ask you to stop bringing him here."
I stopped breathing when the director of my son's daycare said this to me.
"We're willing to work with you. What do you recommend we do?"
"I...," I began, hoping one of those light bulbs that you see in cartoons would appear over my head and a brilliant idea would tumble out of my mouth into the phone receiver. There was a long, awkward silence before I finished with a feeble, "...don't know. He's not like this at home. I don't have any problems like this when he's with me. Give me a chance to look into getting him a therapist. I'll discuss this with my husband and see what we can come up with. I'm so, so sorry."
"Other parents are complaining and threatening to pull their children out," Meridith, the director at the center, said apologetically. "I can't let that happen."
I told her I understood.
After the phone call, I slipped off the women's restroom to have a good cry.
She'd told me that as soon as my son stepped out on the playground yesterday, he attacked a child holding a toy he wanted. Then he bit another child for just standing too close to him. The whole time the center was on the phone with me, I could hear him with them in the front office, screaming. He was in full meltdown mode.
People who work with children day in and day out were asking me how to handle my child. He is like not like anything they've ever seen. I understand their frustration. I understand why they don't like him. As much as I love him, I completely understand why the people who have to work with him despise him.
God, I decided, is playing dice with the Universe. There is no rhyme or reason why a child like mine was given to a parent as clueless as me. And whoever came up with the idea that God never gives you more than you can handle idea was out of their mind. I'd just talked to two women on the phone who were getting their asses kicked by my 4 year old, and they couldn't handle him. The only prayer I could come up with was a simple Help me!, but I wasn't expecting any answer to that besides Sorry, Toots, you're on your own.
Women cry when we are in distress. I've read that it rids the body of toxic stress chemicals and, once the storm has passed, it relaxes and calms us. Yesterday I discovered another evolutionary benefit to crying: while tears drive away men because they are afraid they are about about to be manipulated, they attract other women who will offer sympathy and wisdom. Sometimes, they even attract the right woman: one who might just be the answer to a prayer.
I washed my face, but I knew only time would make the redness and swelling go away. I tried to slip back to my cubicle unnoticed to hide until I looked presentable again.
"Hey, have you started that forth book yet?" It was Whatsherface from down the hall in strategic pricing. I don't know her name, but when I found out she liked the Twilight novels, I lent her the first two Sookie Stackhouse novels by Charlaine Harris. They are pulp fiction, vampire-romance-mystery-comedy-novels with no socially redeeming values, beyond the fact that they are great fun to read. They are chick-lit, but with fangs. They are also very, very addictive. Whatsherface bought the next two novels and had left the 4th one on my desk a few days before. "Oh," she said when she saw my face, "Is something wrong?"
I smiled, which had to look kind of macabre on my tear-stained face. "No, just having a nervous breakdown." Then the whole story tumbled out of me.
"Girl," she said, nodding sympathetically, "I've been there." She told me her ten year old had the same kind of problems when he was small. "Do you want to know what worked with my son?"
Did I ever. I was at wit's end.
She gave me an outline of what her son's therapist had her do. The short version is that every day when I drop him off, I have to let him know what's expected of him. Today, you will not bite anyone. You will not throw your shoes at anyone. You will do what your teacher asks you to do, and so on. The voice must be firm, and the language must be unambiguous: he must not believe that he has a choice in the matter of whether he will behave or not. His teacher must repeat these same instructions to him when she sees him. I must get feedback from his teachers of what he did right and wrong each day (I made a form with a checklist, to make it easier for them). At the end of the day, I must tell him, I am very disappointed in that you did… but also I'm very proud that you... and list all the things he did that were good.
"My son has an appointment with his therapist next week," she told me, "I'll ask him if he can refer you to someone on your side of town. In the meantime, ask them to give you two weeks with this. I promise; you'll start to see a difference. It sounds too good to be true, but just watch."
I told her I'd give it a try.
"Do you know if your son is GT?" she asked. I gave her a blank look. "Gifted and Talented," she clarified, "That turned out to be what my son's problem is. His intellect is more developed than other kids his age, but emotionally he was lagging behind. What you're describing is very typical of GT kids."
I told her I have no idea. It would nice to hear that he is. On the other hand, I can't escape the nagging fear that he's just a bad kid. Except not at home, or at his grandparents' house.
"Just at school," she said, nodding. "My son was the same way."
Last night, I handed the daycare center what I'd written up and was asking them to do, along with a stack of forms for my son's teachers to report back to me how he behaved. I'll talk to the director herself this evening and set up an appointment for my husband and me to meet with her. There are other issues I need to discuss with her, such as which forms of discipline work with my son and which don't (so far, they've only figured out the latter).
This morning, I sat my son on the hood of my car and made him look me in the eye.
"Today," I began, "You will not bite anyone. Do you understand?"
"Uh huh," he said. I went through the list of what I expected of him.
"I expect you to have a good day today. I love you. Can I have a hug?"
"Okay." He hugged me. "I love you." There were no tears when I dropped him off inside the building. For once, he was calm and quite.
The daycare hasn't called me today. So far.
We'll try this for two weeks, and we'll see. If it works it means I owe the lady-down-the-hall-who-likes-vampire-novels, big time. I really should learn what her name is.
If it fails, I guess I'm on my own.
