Stubborn Chances
My 13-year-old is stubborn. I am reminded of this as he begrudgingly drags the garbage bag around the house emptying trashcans, the large white Glad plastic bag busting at the seams, in order to instill fear in his mother of it exploding all over the carpet. In an effort to relinquish control and ease my burden, I can no longer watch the stubborn parade of trash.
His antics began when he was merely a toddler, age two. Pregnant for the third time and literally busting at the seams myself, I desperately needed his cooperation in order to pick up his sister on time from pre-school. "No!" he shouted, running as fast as his little legs could propel himself up to his bedroom, slamming the door before his weary mother could catch him.
Fuming mad, knowing the time was ticking towards the preschool pickup tardy bell and I would face repercussions, the least of which would be judgment and lecture, I struggled to mount the stairs after him. Needless to say, I was additionally tardy to his bedroom, which I found locked tight.
Damnit! I thought to myself, rushing to find a chair I could quickly carry given my enormously large mid-section and disproportional T-Rex arms. Cursing in my head, I mounted the rickety chair to retrieve the door key sitting atop the ledge of the doorframe. In hindsight, this was hardly the discreet CIA surreptitious entry I had been trained for before children consumed my life. Clumsily descending, I burst through the door grabbing my smug son who appeared pleased with himself safe inside.
To this day I vividly recall the sheer anger and inability to react with physicality, much as my parents did when I was a child. A belt, a ping-pong paddle, a yardstick, my father's punishment was physical relief from his anger, my mother a complicit observer. Grounding my brother and I to our rooms became more acceptable to them in our teenage years, as we fortunately gained size and ability to retaliate. This time I refused to meet anger with violence, though I'll admit the thought crossed my mind, as I hoped not to recreate painful memories with my own children.
Shocked by my entrance, my two-year-old became stiff as a board, refusing to walk or be lifted. Despite increasing infuriation, I managed to collect myself, scooping his reluctant body into my arms. Standing up with the grace of a hippopotamus, I lumbered downstairs to the garage.
You'd think my two-year-old son would've succumbed to defeat! Nope, this stubborn boy continued to flail his body, kicking and screaming like a wild animal caught in a trap as I one-armed his body into the 5-point harness car seat, securing him with my free arm.
"Such a bummer! Just wait until we get home buddy," I cautioned. "Don't worry about it, but you have a consequence coming," I blurted out every Love and Logic phrase that came to mind as I delinquently sped off to rescue my daughter, surely scared by now in the principal's office.
Luckily, time in the car afforded me the opportunity to regain composure...serenity, as music enveloped my conscience, drowning out the wails from the backseat. Time and car seat separation also allowed for reasoning my anger management solution.
Sheer joy overcame me as I returned home, eager to hear about my daughter's morning. Buckling my obstinate son in his kitchen table booster seat, I proceeded to show my contrastingly sweet daughter how to turn her brother's door handle around so his bedroom could not be locked from the inside. I saw no alternative to my kids always managing to outmaneuver their childproof plastic door handle covers. Knowing my son was safe in the center of the kitchen, away from us and unable to reach anything to kick over, I relished the opportunity to take as much time as needed for him to calm down.
When the coast was clear and I deemed it safe to enter the kitchen, we couldn't help but laugh at what we found. Scooting his chair backwards in anger, he spat all over, creating a wet mess of my kitchen floor. In hindsight, I was glad he had not rocked himself over! To this day, my son, daughter and I still joke about the incident, and although he may be spitting mad, he hasn't locked himself in his room with properly affixed door handles since.
Just yesterday, my 13-year-old son refused to practice his trombone prior to a chair placement challenge in band, a stubborn effort assert control over his practice time, triggering us both. In a less than stellar parenting moment, he correctly surmised that his lack of practicing bothered me, when in reality it was ultimately his choice to succeed or fail, the natural consequence being the outcome of his band test.
"Hey Mr. Stubborn, wait up!" I called out, catching up to him on his walk to middle school, despite our mutual frustration and his attempts to avoid me. "Is my stubbornness good mom?" he inquired. "Ask your father!" I joked, continuing "Sure, if you channel it in a positive way to achieve your goals!" I said, hoping it was the correct answer.
Lately I am reminded there is a fine line between nagging and relinquishing unnecessary control daily. Parenting teenagers is a less physical, enhanced mental challenge! Knowing I often screw up, I am grateful to have many second chances and thankful to laugh at the recollection of stories and memories with all my children. My son, it turns out, will have to endure another band test if he aims to regain his first chair seat, and honestly, I'm pleased to observe how he choses to tackle the challenge of his own volition, given a second chance.
His antics began when he was merely a toddler, age two. Pregnant for the third time and literally busting at the seams myself, I desperately needed his cooperation in order to pick up his sister on time from pre-school. "No!" he shouted, running as fast as his little legs could propel himself up to his bedroom, slamming the door before his weary mother could catch him.
Fuming mad, knowing the time was ticking towards the preschool pickup tardy bell and I would face repercussions, the least of which would be judgment and lecture, I struggled to mount the stairs after him. Needless to say, I was additionally tardy to his bedroom, which I found locked tight.
Damnit! I thought to myself, rushing to find a chair I could quickly carry given my enormously large mid-section and disproportional T-Rex arms. Cursing in my head, I mounted the rickety chair to retrieve the door key sitting atop the ledge of the doorframe. In hindsight, this was hardly the discreet CIA surreptitious entry I had been trained for before children consumed my life. Clumsily descending, I burst through the door grabbing my smug son who appeared pleased with himself safe inside.
To this day I vividly recall the sheer anger and inability to react with physicality, much as my parents did when I was a child. A belt, a ping-pong paddle, a yardstick, my father's punishment was physical relief from his anger, my mother a complicit observer. Grounding my brother and I to our rooms became more acceptable to them in our teenage years, as we fortunately gained size and ability to retaliate. This time I refused to meet anger with violence, though I'll admit the thought crossed my mind, as I hoped not to recreate painful memories with my own children.
Shocked by my entrance, my two-year-old became stiff as a board, refusing to walk or be lifted. Despite increasing infuriation, I managed to collect myself, scooping his reluctant body into my arms. Standing up with the grace of a hippopotamus, I lumbered downstairs to the garage.
You'd think my two-year-old son would've succumbed to defeat! Nope, this stubborn boy continued to flail his body, kicking and screaming like a wild animal caught in a trap as I one-armed his body into the 5-point harness car seat, securing him with my free arm.
"Such a bummer! Just wait until we get home buddy," I cautioned. "Don't worry about it, but you have a consequence coming," I blurted out every Love and Logic phrase that came to mind as I delinquently sped off to rescue my daughter, surely scared by now in the principal's office.
Luckily, time in the car afforded me the opportunity to regain composure...serenity, as music enveloped my conscience, drowning out the wails from the backseat. Time and car seat separation also allowed for reasoning my anger management solution.
Sheer joy overcame me as I returned home, eager to hear about my daughter's morning. Buckling my obstinate son in his kitchen table booster seat, I proceeded to show my contrastingly sweet daughter how to turn her brother's door handle around so his bedroom could not be locked from the inside. I saw no alternative to my kids always managing to outmaneuver their childproof plastic door handle covers. Knowing my son was safe in the center of the kitchen, away from us and unable to reach anything to kick over, I relished the opportunity to take as much time as needed for him to calm down.
When the coast was clear and I deemed it safe to enter the kitchen, we couldn't help but laugh at what we found. Scooting his chair backwards in anger, he spat all over, creating a wet mess of my kitchen floor. In hindsight, I was glad he had not rocked himself over! To this day, my son, daughter and I still joke about the incident, and although he may be spitting mad, he hasn't locked himself in his room with properly affixed door handles since.
Just yesterday, my 13-year-old son refused to practice his trombone prior to a chair placement challenge in band, a stubborn effort assert control over his practice time, triggering us both. In a less than stellar parenting moment, he correctly surmised that his lack of practicing bothered me, when in reality it was ultimately his choice to succeed or fail, the natural consequence being the outcome of his band test.
"Hey Mr. Stubborn, wait up!" I called out, catching up to him on his walk to middle school, despite our mutual frustration and his attempts to avoid me. "Is my stubbornness good mom?" he inquired. "Ask your father!" I joked, continuing "Sure, if you channel it in a positive way to achieve your goals!" I said, hoping it was the correct answer.
Lately I am reminded there is a fine line between nagging and relinquishing unnecessary control daily. Parenting teenagers is a less physical, enhanced mental challenge! Knowing I often screw up, I am grateful to have many second chances and thankful to laugh at the recollection of stories and memories with all my children. My son, it turns out, will have to endure another band test if he aims to regain his first chair seat, and honestly, I'm pleased to observe how he choses to tackle the challenge of his own volition, given a second chance.
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