 |
| If you lived here, you'd be Gutsy's mom. Photo credit: http://mistressofthemoonlight.wordpress.com/ |
He moaned and groaned and hesitated. He whined and flopped and complained. I coaxed, encouraged, and enticed with promises of breakfast and hugs. Nothing worked.
After 25 minutes, I left his room, snapping "Get up and get dressed, now. I have to make your lunch." My patience had been properly trampled. "And whatever you do, don't start yelling for me. Just get up, put your clothes on and come and see me for breakfast."
He yelled back "Mommy! Mooommmyyyy!" in the whiniest, loudest most grating voice he could conjure up. Truly, the child has mastered the exact pitch that will push all my buttons at once. But I breathed through it, and walked into the kitchen over his protests. I knew what he wanted: he wanted me to keep coaxing, to keep playing the wake-up game. I refused. Maven don't play that anymore.
I ushered him into the van as he protested - rather loudly, I might add. The neighbours walking by had a front row seat as he blamed me for absolutely everything. Everything was my fault: it's my job to get him out of bed on time to eat breakfast, it's my job to get make sure he's happy, it's my job not to send him to school when he's this upset. "It's all your fault, mommy!"
As we drove the two minutes to school, he told me through tears how he's going to take a whole bunch of stuff from people he hates and use it to buy a mansion (I'm thinking he must hate a lot of people - or at least a decent amount of rich people). And he's going to move in his best friends, and maybe his brothers and his dad, but not me. Oh, no, definitely not his mean ol' mom. He's going to buy me a smaller house and make me live there.
I'm being punished via square footage. Extra points for creativity.
We got to school at exactly eight (which is when it starts), he in tears, me close to it, my blood pressure likely high enough to harness as fuel and light a small city. I let him calm down in the van and eat his granola bar - which he was righteously pissed off about getting for breakfast, as he wanted cereal and I told him there wasn't enough time. We got in as the late slips were about to be given out, and I got him off to class just in time. By the skin of our teeth, with resentment still in his eyes.
So, like, it's been a really lovely day so far.
*~*~*~*
I've come to the point where I've accepted that this is what some of our mornings are going to be like. This is Gutsy, and this is the way he behaves when he's tired or stressed. I can't change his core personality. I can only my best to work with it. If he doesn't feel motivated then he doesn't want to get up, period. Sometimes the promise of meeting a friend at recess is enough, or the fact that the teacher lets him turn on the computers if he gets there early enough, or the dollar we've started dropping into a jar every time he gets out the door on time.
But sometimes none of that is enough, and we're stuck with a child who seemingly has an overactive anger gland.*
The last time he did this, which was about a week ago, I literally picked him up and put him in the van as he screamed at me. It was much worse than this time, and the hurtful things spewing from his mouth were epic. Everything, of course, was my fault. It was like a scene from the exorcist, except his head wasn't spinning around all that much.
When he got home in a cheery mood that afternoon, I said "Gutsy, I think we need to talk about what happened this morning."
He put his school bag on the ground and walked toward me with open arms, saying, "It's okay, Mom. I know you were just trying to get me to school on time." There it was: after a few hours of reflection, he had realized he was wrong. My usually sensible and loving child had used his giant brain and figure things out. A light had gone on. He was a changed person.
He wrapped his arms tightly around me. "I forgive you," he whispered gently.
I took a very deep breath and fell into his hug. Sometimes you just have to let it go.
I look forward to his interpretation of this morning's screamfest. Truly, I do.
*There is no scientific proof of an anger gland, but I'm quite sure one exists. Or, in Gutsy's case, quite possibly two.