This morning, as I snoozed after a pre-dawn visit to the bathroom, I had a dream about my son. He growled in my face and in my dream, I slapped him.
When he came into my bedroom an hour later, my remorse chilled me. I climbed out of bed and helped him turn on the TV for his morning ritual of watching Blue’s Clues before the sun comes up. Then I climbed back into the bed and left my door open and listened to the sounds of him rustling around.
He turns four in a week and a half. When we visit his pediatrician, I’ll be armed with a notebook full of questions.
What does she think about his screaming and tantrums?
What does she think about the way he can’t walk by something soft without touching it, can’t see a flower without rubbing the petals between his fingers, can’t calm down without massaging a soft toy.
What does she think about the arbitrary routines he creates and must stick by, or his emotional explosions over tiny, imagined offenses.
A drop of water on his sleeve at school as he washes his hands before class. “That’s IT, I CAN’T GO TO SCHOOL NOW,” he screams, his voice shrill and strained.
I’ve never had a four-year-old before. I don’t know what is normal, but I know that when we’re out with a bunch of kids his age, he is the different one, and I know that different is what we should be but I don’t know how to speak to him anymore, how to help him, how to guide him, how to soothe him.
Almost two years ago we were told to look for symptoms of obsessive-compulsive behaviors in reference to his stereotypic movement disorder. To pay attention when he’s a bit older. Now he’s a bit older and all the more puzzling. We’ve been seeing “squeezing” again this month, more than we’ve seen in the past few months. He pushes boundaries—that’s to be expected—but shows no remorse when he hurts his friends, his brother, us.
I slapped him in a dream this morning.
I also fought an alien on a space station and swam with manatees with no tails and went on a sailboat with my dead grandfather. So I’m not taking it too seriously but I know that he’s stressing me out, that my patience is wearing thin when I need to be so very patient.
When we try to get him dressed, he jumps and hops and screams in our faces because it’s funny to him. Maybe he just needs to focus. I say, “Look where your foot is going, see? It’s going on your pants.” And his daddy says, “Here’s your space shirt, now let’s put on your helmet.”
When we take him for his four-year-old appointment I hope his pediatrician sees some of what we see, and even if what she sees is a typical four-year-old I hope she can help us help him through these rough days. She’s recommended occupational therapy in the past, and I think it’s time to take that step.
“I’m having a bad day today, Mama. I’m doing lots of no-no’s,” he tells me solemnly.
I struggle to say any of this out loud, to my husband to my mom, to write these words—this proof that this is how I feel right now. I feel like I have to stop, backspace, apologize, take it back.
You’re perfect. You’re perfect. Here are the ways I love you, we’ll count them forever and ever.
(My breath catches—) But.
It’s my job to learn how to help you when you need help. We’re grownups and you’re a little boy. You need our hugs and you need our rules.
It isn’t hard being your mom, little boy. It’s just hard when you’re sad and angry, when you lose your words and scream, when I can’t put my arms around you and fix you with a kiss. But we’ll figure this out, because you’re my best little friend, and a Jedi, and a dancing-naked-boy and a goofball and my babybird.
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