Gutsy. Oh, Gutsy... He's so sweet, you know. He's like a breath of fresh air sometimes. He can take four chairs and a slightly adapted pantry (for a control panel) and turn it into a train ride. He'll make room for Spawnling in the front beside him (the "coachman") call me, the Station Master, up on a walkie talkie (AKA a canned corn) at "the station" (AKA the sink where I'm elbow deep in greasy dish water) and take off to the next stop with his passengers (AKA three dumbfounded stuffed animals).
Sweet as pie. It's times like that when I wonder if all the other, "bad" behaviour is just in my head. Maybe I make it up, or at the very least over exaggerate it. When I'm stressed out about burning the fries at lunch time I make a mountain out of a molehill. That must be the problem. I mean, look at him. He's smiling, sharing with his baby brother, telling me how every button on his imaginary steam engine works... How did I get so lucky?
"Half an hour until bedtime, Gutsy," I gently inform him with a big smile on my face.
My five-year-old whips his head around with his eyes wide. "WHAT?!"
"Bed time in 30 minutes. So you can play for 10 more, then we'll read stories and..."
"WHAT?!!?!?!?! NO!! I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BED! I'M NOT GOING!" he hollers.
This is the start of an unavoidable tantrum. At least, that's how it seems. If we give him any warning at all that bedtime is coming, he freaks out. If we give him no warning, he freaks out even more. Stories? Forget it. He'll scream for 45 minutes instead of getting stories. Bath before bed to calm him down? He'll enjoy the bath, then scream again when it's time for bed. Cuddling? Hard to cuddle a flailing, screaming little gremlin.
Consequences? Obviously. Consistency? Consistency's my middle name: The Consistency Maven. See?
It doesn't just stop at screaming. That would be too easy. We also get called names. Lately the names are 'Jerk', 'Big Jerk', 'Stupid idiot' and 'Big jerk stupid idiot'. We can thank an older brother and Sponge-Bob for those. He hates us, too. Hates us a lot. Especially me. And everything inevitably is my fault. All roads lead to The Maven. The Consistency Maven.
He also hits. Punches, kicks, pushes... Do we punch, kick or push him? Nope. Do I want to sometimes? Oh, you bet. But I don't. In fact, the only thing we ever do is pick him up to to put him somewhere quiet before he hurts somebody (usually one of us). It takes incredible restraint, you know. I think I deserve a reward for that. Like maybe a nanny to do it for me.
We've tried yelling back (there was no "trying" involved, really. It's called "losing my cool" and it was quite easy to do). We've tried not yelling, which is slightly better and makes me feel like a less horrible mom. We take special things away. We give time-outs. We have a reward system. Dude, we have everything. We've done it all. I've poured through parenting books and parenting sites and polled friends and relatives.
Nothing.
Works.
I've tried gentle discipline and not-so-gentle discpline. Time-ins instead of time-outs. Trying to defuse the situation with humour (this does work on rare occasions, but it involves me using the words "fart" or "butt" quite often)... This child has run us down to empty. After a several weeks of this we're both pretty worn out. At night we stare at computer screens and yawn. We barely talk because that takes too much energy.
This isn't exactly new behaviour for dear Gutsy, but it has recently escalated to a whole new level. Geekster and I have visited and revisited our parenting and just can't seem to figure out what we're doing wrong. And believe me, I would love to be doing something wrong; that would mean I could fix it.
I think the worst part is that I'm a stay-at-home-mom. Parenting is my full-time job. If I had a boss who was critiquing my work, I would probably be fired on the basis of Gutsy's Exorcist-like behaviour (minus the projectile vomiting, thank goodness). I would have found a pink slip on top of my coffee pot.
He just gets completely overwhelmed sometimes and he can't seem to control himself. Other than that he's a happy, hilarious, agreeable child. Is this a case of middle gremlin syndrome? Is he going to total my car and get three girls pregnant before he's finished high school?
I'm slightly terrified.
Thank goodness for my husband. I would have imploded if it wasn't for him. He came up to me the other day and said "I had to reboot my stupid laptop. My stupid JERK LAPTOP! It's such an IDIOT! I hate it! I don't want it to be my laptop ANYMORE!"
It's ironic that Geekster defuses my mood with humour. He doesn't even have to use "fart" or "butt".