Gaming Control
I don't know what's worse, fist pounding thumps on the dinner table that make flickering candles jump while my heart skips a beat, or the stubborn silence he punishes me with for days, my heart aching for a word of peace or flicker of hope in my child's smirk. Numbness forcing back tears reminds me I have become that parent. "I hate you, you are the worst mom ever…" Slam! An exclamation point door slam on the challenging life I created when I became a mother four times over. Now Coronavirus lock-down. I'm left questioning my every move as a parent, a gaming battle of screen-time vs. stubborn silence. My 7th grade son is desperate for control that gaming rewards him.
The shouts of ear piercing anger mixed with cuss words. I hardly recognized my soon to be thirteen-year-old son in the deep voice declaring, "You control f*&%ing everything." Throwing his Ipad at me amidst his blood curdling screams and F-bomb, the consequence of my not adding 30 minutes of screen time we were too busy for on Sunday to his allotted 30 minutes on Monday.
I admit I was scared. One never forgets corporal punishment. My inner-child equating ear piercing rage with danger, I impulsively brace myself in fear of those who tower above my five-foot-two inch frame. At five-foot-seven, I was quite certain he could wallop me. Luckily he stormed upstairs, our dogs instinctively fleeing the scene, surrounding me as another door slammed shut.
I lie awake at night questioning motives for his silent punishment that lingers for days. Parenting boundaries are not for the faint of heart.
Two days of uncomfortable silence and I grabbed a 'Peace Pencil' after school, forcing us to relive what was taught in Montessori Kindergarten. I let my son talk first. We took away his screen time. He was pissed. The verbal contract for 30 minutes a day had been broken regardless of how late we arrived home Sunday night.
As I peeled back layers of the onion, he mentioned school rumors about his parents because he didn't own a smartphone. The 'Wait 'Til 8th' smartphone campaign seemed no longer relevant. I learned 'his mom's so strict she even has cameras in their basement'! A warm feeling of embarrassment consumed me.
Forced to swallow my pride, I replaced it with curiosity. This wasn't about me. Social media had become the key to peer connection. Times had changed since my daughter purchased her first phone four years ago. He was almost thirteen and connecting with friends was no longer a play date for mom to arrange. I understood. I promised we'd reconsider our smartphone timeframe and smiled, "Make a joke out of it," I suggested, peace pencil in hand. "Of course your mom has hidden cameras, she worked in the CIA." He smirked. I hoped it was enough.
I forked over his Ipad the next morning, figuring two days consequence for disrespectful behavior was time served. That was the last day before Coronavirus altered our lives forever. The last jam-packed day of school, homework and baseball practice 'til dark.
Rising from dinner that night to chauffeur my 15-year-old son to guitar lessons, I was caught off-guard by fever pitch frenzy. "You promised me my Ipad today," he screamed, his 30 minutes of time already expired. Fists shaking the table, the lit candles levitated mid-air while fear choked me silent. I grabbed the Ipad to quickly comply.
Slam. Slam. The pounding reverberated in my head like an alcoholic's ultimatum, pierced by blood-curdling screams of "unfair and you promised me an hour and a half while you were at guitar." My nine-year-old son ran upstairs to grab his book, shooting me a cautious glance stating, "I'm coming with you!" I sensed fear in his eyes too.
"Bummer! I don't respond when you shout," I replied. Testosterone rage ensued and he flailed himself on the floor crying before jumping up again. "You're scaring me," I said as I grabbed my purse, scurrying my other sons to the car. "Yeah right," he screamed furious. "I'd lose my device forever if I touched you!" he shouted as he chased me out the door. "You are the worst mother ever. I hate you!"
I found him playing Xbox at 8:30pm when we returned home from guitar. A dense fog of tension consumed the basement. "Please turn it off by 9pm; it's your night to wash dishes," I said before heading upstairs to greet my husband, home after a week-long work trip I'd give anything to take.
I heard his dad helping him as I sat alone in bed, struggling to read a New York Times best seller over the clashing of pans and running water in the kitchen below. Parenting anxiety left me short of breath, replaying the evening's events in my head. Maybe his father could reason, I thought before my Pollyanna was logic cut short by a loud wailing of despair from his bedroom; painful sobbing and his barking cough pierced my heart. No mother wants her child to suffer.
I took a chance crawling into his bed, my cheek on his back. I felt the rise and fall of his chest, asthma wheezing with each thundering sob that shook the mattress. I held him gently as he tried to move closer to the wall. I remembered when he was hospitalized, 9-months-old. He turned blue at home from RSV and I slept with his tiny body next to mine, listening for his labored breath. I trusted my instinct again not to let go of my teenage boy, whispering, "I'm sorry you are sad. I love you." There was silence. Fears of gaming addiction hypnotized me to sleep.
Two weeks later our world has been shut down by Covid-19. Prisoners in our own homes with children on endless 'Spring Break'! The new Google Pixel 4 my son purchased on Ebay sits abandoned in a box. Yesterday we took a family hike and he refused to come; in fact, we couldn't make him.
The smart phone contract on the fridge we agreed to as a family was broken his first night. He said he was not feeling well and headed to bed; I sensed gaming was his ulterior motive. Sneaking the phone upstairs, he covertly battled in Brawl Stars while the rest of the family watched a movie in the basement. "You're an idiot. I hate you!" he shouted, surrendering the device while battling me for more screen time providing isolation and virtual control at best. Is gaming like gambling? I imagine homeschool in April will be the least of my worries!
He's not ready to talk but I've got the peace pencil ready requiring family connection over Verizon. His silence is an attempt to gain 'Brawl Stars-like' control. My son, my third child, has always been sandwiched in the middle. As parents, I figure we've been moved to the next level of difficulty, battling Coronavirus sequestering and screen time parenting. I've earned resilience and I'm optimistic we're all in this together. Level up!
***********************
I admit I was scared. One never forgets corporal punishment. My inner-child equating ear piercing rage with danger, I impulsively brace myself in fear of those who tower above my five-foot-two inch frame. At five-foot-seven, I was quite certain he could wallop me. Luckily he stormed upstairs, our dogs instinctively fleeing the scene, surrounding me as another door slammed shut.
I lie awake at night questioning motives for his silent punishment that lingers for days. Parenting boundaries are not for the faint of heart.
Two days of uncomfortable silence and I grabbed a 'Peace Pencil' after school, forcing us to relive what was taught in Montessori Kindergarten. I let my son talk first. We took away his screen time. He was pissed. The verbal contract for 30 minutes a day had been broken regardless of how late we arrived home Sunday night.
As I peeled back layers of the onion, he mentioned school rumors about his parents because he didn't own a smartphone. The 'Wait 'Til 8th' smartphone campaign seemed no longer relevant. I learned 'his mom's so strict she even has cameras in their basement'! A warm feeling of embarrassment consumed me.
Forced to swallow my pride, I replaced it with curiosity. This wasn't about me. Social media had become the key to peer connection. Times had changed since my daughter purchased her first phone four years ago. He was almost thirteen and connecting with friends was no longer a play date for mom to arrange. I understood. I promised we'd reconsider our smartphone timeframe and smiled, "Make a joke out of it," I suggested, peace pencil in hand. "Of course your mom has hidden cameras, she worked in the CIA." He smirked. I hoped it was enough.
I forked over his Ipad the next morning, figuring two days consequence for disrespectful behavior was time served. That was the last day before Coronavirus altered our lives forever. The last jam-packed day of school, homework and baseball practice 'til dark.
Rising from dinner that night to chauffeur my 15-year-old son to guitar lessons, I was caught off-guard by fever pitch frenzy. "You promised me my Ipad today," he screamed, his 30 minutes of time already expired. Fists shaking the table, the lit candles levitated mid-air while fear choked me silent. I grabbed the Ipad to quickly comply.
Slam. Slam. The pounding reverberated in my head like an alcoholic's ultimatum, pierced by blood-curdling screams of "unfair and you promised me an hour and a half while you were at guitar." My nine-year-old son ran upstairs to grab his book, shooting me a cautious glance stating, "I'm coming with you!" I sensed fear in his eyes too.
"Bummer! I don't respond when you shout," I replied. Testosterone rage ensued and he flailed himself on the floor crying before jumping up again. "You're scaring me," I said as I grabbed my purse, scurrying my other sons to the car. "Yeah right," he screamed furious. "I'd lose my device forever if I touched you!" he shouted as he chased me out the door. "You are the worst mother ever. I hate you!"
I found him playing Xbox at 8:30pm when we returned home from guitar. A dense fog of tension consumed the basement. "Please turn it off by 9pm; it's your night to wash dishes," I said before heading upstairs to greet my husband, home after a week-long work trip I'd give anything to take.
I heard his dad helping him as I sat alone in bed, struggling to read a New York Times best seller over the clashing of pans and running water in the kitchen below. Parenting anxiety left me short of breath, replaying the evening's events in my head. Maybe his father could reason, I thought before my Pollyanna was logic cut short by a loud wailing of despair from his bedroom; painful sobbing and his barking cough pierced my heart. No mother wants her child to suffer.
I took a chance crawling into his bed, my cheek on his back. I felt the rise and fall of his chest, asthma wheezing with each thundering sob that shook the mattress. I held him gently as he tried to move closer to the wall. I remembered when he was hospitalized, 9-months-old. He turned blue at home from RSV and I slept with his tiny body next to mine, listening for his labored breath. I trusted my instinct again not to let go of my teenage boy, whispering, "I'm sorry you are sad. I love you." There was silence. Fears of gaming addiction hypnotized me to sleep.
***************************
The smart phone contract on the fridge we agreed to as a family was broken his first night. He said he was not feeling well and headed to bed; I sensed gaming was his ulterior motive. Sneaking the phone upstairs, he covertly battled in Brawl Stars while the rest of the family watched a movie in the basement. "You're an idiot. I hate you!" he shouted, surrendering the device while battling me for more screen time providing isolation and virtual control at best. Is gaming like gambling? I imagine homeschool in April will be the least of my worries!
He's not ready to talk but I've got the peace pencil ready requiring family connection over Verizon. His silence is an attempt to gain 'Brawl Stars-like' control. My son, my third child, has always been sandwiched in the middle. As parents, I figure we've been moved to the next level of difficulty, battling Coronavirus sequestering and screen time parenting. I've earned resilience and I'm optimistic we're all in this together. Level up!
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