![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
After all I've written of late about the troubles my 4 year old gives him teachers, you may wonder how I can live with such a child and stay sane. Easy: I don't. The child I live with is very sweet, endearing, and funny. I've never even met the kid he turns into when I drop him off at daycare.
When he was a toddler he has one or two of those normal toddler-style meltdowns that all parents dread, but I honestly can't remember the last time I had to deal with one myself. In the last two years, I've only heard one once that wasn't over the phone with his school, and it stopped as soon as I walked over to him. This tantrum, though, had a positive impact on the lives of several teenager who witnessed it: it crushed any romantic ideas that they may have had about parenting, and may have turned them off of the idea of sex (which is still the #1 cause of babies in the world today) all together.
The tantrum happened a few months ago, around the time the news broke that the authorities in Florida had finally closed the case of poor Adam Walsh, the 6-year-old boy who disappeared in a department store in 1981 and was later found murdered. I was in a Target department store that day when I noticed that my own son was not standing next to me, and the story of the Walsh boy immediately popped into my head. As I scanned the isles in my vicinity, I heard a blood-curdling scream from across the store.
Ah, I thought, that would be my son.
The scream was coming from a stationary location, so I knew no murdering fiend was leaving the store with my baby. It was a cry of rage, but not panic or pain. I quickly followed it. Then, suddenly it stopped, and so did I. It seems my little guy ran out of breath.
"Are you looking for your son?" a woman asked. "He's that way." She pointed toward women's lingerie, and I pointed my shopping cart in that direction.
As I turned the corner, I saw my son spread eagle on the floor, digging his fingers into the carpet to prevent anyone from picking him up. He was surrounded by 5 teenaged Target associates in khaki pants and red shirts. The teens all had the facial expressions and body stances you sometimes see on animal control officers as they try to wrangle, say, a rabid dog or perhaps an alligator that has wondered into suburbia. The difference was that animal control officers carry those poles with the loop on them for catching the dangerous animal and holding it at a distance, whereas these young adults were facing the prospect of catching my feral child with their bare hands. They looked like they did not expect to come out of the scuffle with all their limbs intact.
As my son sucked in a breath for a second round of screaming, I said his name. In a flash, he was off the floor and leaping into my arms.
"Mommy!" he scolded me, "You left me! Don't ever leave me!"
"I didn't leave you," I pointed out to him, "You wondered off. I was looking for you. I promise I wouldn't ever leave you on purpose."
I tried to loosen the grip of his arms around me so I could breathe a little easier, but he continued to cling to me with all his strength.
"He seems to recognize her," one of the teenagers, a girl, said, "I think it's okay to let her take him."
The other teens nodded and let go of the breaths they'd all been holding.
I smiled apologetically at them. "Sorry about this. I lost track of him."
"It's okay," said the girl, who still looked kind of pale and stressed, but also very, very relieved, "It happens."
As I turned to walk away with my son still stuck to me like a barnacle. I heard another one of the girls say softly to her peers, "I am so not ready for kids!"
"No kidding," one of the boys said, while other young voices chimed in with agreement.
"Nuh-uh."
"No way."
"I'm never having kids."
"Me, neither."
I like to think that this encounter with my son will have a positive impact on these young people. Perhaps one of the girls will stick to her resolve that she is not ready for sexual activity yet more than she would have otherwise. Or one of the boys, when a drunken sorority girl whispers into his ear, "Sorry, no glove, no love," will recall the red face of my screaming son and agree with her that it's just not worth the risk.
The best we can hope for in this world is to make a positive impact in the lives of those around us. My son is already doing his part.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
After all I've written of late about the troubles my 4 year old gives him teachers, you may wonder how I can live with such a child and stay sane. Easy: I don't. The child I live with is very sweet, endearing, and funny. I've never even met the kid he turns into when I drop him off at daycare.
When he was a toddler he has one or two of those normal toddler-style meltdowns that all parents dread, but I honestly can't remember the last time I had to deal with one myself. In the last two years, I've only heard one once that wasn't over the phone with his school, and it stopped as soon as I walked over to him. This tantrum, though, had a positive impact on the lives of several teenager who witnessed it: it crushed any romantic ideas that they may have had about parenting, and may have turned them off of the idea of sex (which is still the #1 cause of babies in the world today) all together.
The tantrum happened a few months ago, around the time the news broke that the authorities in Florida had finally closed the case of poor Adam Walsh, the 6-year-old boy who disappeared in a department store in 1981 and was later found murdered. I was in a Target department store that day when I noticed that my own son was not standing next to me, and the story of the Walsh boy immediately popped into my head. As I scanned the isles in my vicinity, I heard a blood-curdling scream from across the store.
Ah, I thought, that would be my son.
The scream was coming from a stationary location, so I knew no murdering fiend was leaving the store with my baby. It was a cry of rage, but not panic or pain. I quickly followed it. Then, suddenly it stopped, and so did I. It seems my little guy ran out of breath.
"Are you looking for your son?" a woman asked. "He's that way." She pointed toward women's lingerie, and I pointed my shopping cart in that direction.
As I turned the corner, I saw my son spread eagle on the floor, digging his fingers into the carpet to prevent anyone from picking him up. He was surrounded by 5 teenaged Target associates in khaki pants and red shirts. The teens all had the facial expressions and body stances you sometimes see on animal control officers as they try to wrangle, say, a rabid dog or perhaps an alligator that has wondered into suburbia. The difference was that animal control officers carry those poles with the loop on them for catching the dangerous animal and holding it at a distance, whereas these young adults were facing the prospect of catching my feral child with their bare hands. They looked like they did not expect to come out of the scuffle with all their limbs intact.
As my son sucked in a breath for a second round of screaming, I said his name. In a flash, he was off the floor and leaping into my arms.
"Mommy!" he scolded me, "You left me! Don't ever leave me!"
"I didn't leave you," I pointed out to him, "You wondered off. I was looking for you. I promise I wouldn't ever leave you on purpose."
I tried to loosen the grip of his arms around me so I could breathe a little easier, but he continued to cling to me with all his strength.
"He seems to recognize her," one of the teenagers, a girl, said, "I think it's okay to let her take him."
The other teens nodded and let go of the breaths they'd all been holding.
I smiled apologetically at them. "Sorry about this. I lost track of him."
"It's okay," said the girl, who still looked kind of pale and stressed, but also very, very relieved, "It happens."
As I turned to walk away with my son still stuck to me like a barnacle. I heard another one of the girls say softly to her peers, "I am so not ready for kids!"
"No kidding," one of the boys said, while other young voices chimed in with agreement.
"Nuh-uh."
"No way."
"I'm never having kids."
"Me, neither."
I like to think that this encounter with my son will have a positive impact on these young people. Perhaps one of the girls will stick to her resolve that she is not ready for sexual activity yet more than she would have otherwise. Or one of the boys, when a drunken sorority girl whispers into his ear, "Sorry, no glove, no love," will recall the red face of my screaming son and agree with her that it's just not worth the risk.
The best we can hope for in this world is to make a positive impact in the lives of those around us. My son is already doing his part.
