Transparent Tuesdays
Issue 127
You guys,
My son is a fighter.
After months of ear infections and one sickness after the other, we scheduled George for ear tubes. It was a quick 10-minute procedure, but putting your baby under anesthesia is never not scary.
He came out screaming and wanted out of that building. Nothing would settle him. He didn’t want their stupid ice pop or apple juice. He kept pointing to the window and doing a combination of hyperventilating/sobbing.
Later that night, when all was right in the world and George was recovering, we had to administer ear drops in both his ears.
What George hates more than anything is being forced to do something against his will. He will bite, scream, flail, and cry until you give up or find another way.
Thankfully that other way is simply giving him a choice. For example, if I ask George if he wants to put on his shoes he’ll tell me no. Instead, I tell him it’s time to put on his shoes and give him two options of shoes and ask which pair he’d like to wear. Then I ask if he wants Mama or Papa to put on his shoes.
That’s really all it takes. George quickly picks which pair he’d like to wear, and just as quickly announces “Mama” or “Papa” to put on his shoes.
George wants to make decisions. He wants some semblance of autonomy over his little 2-year-old life and I love him for it, even if it means it takes us 40 minutes to get dressed to go outside in the front yard.
But the choice doesn’t always work, like when we tried to administer the ear drops. It didn’t feel like there was much wiggle room. We had to do it. His only option was if Mama or Papa did it, but George didn’t want that shit anywhere near his ears. It didn’t matter that we told him it wouldn’t hurt. It didn’t matter that we told him we’d be quick. It didn’t matter that we played pretend and had Sam put the drops in my ears first.
And so we did what we felt we had to do: we held him down against his will.
When we let him up, George was like a wild dog. He screamed and thrashed and came at both of us, seemingly trying to gauge our eyes out. He threw his books even though “we take care of our books.” He hyperventilated-sobbed. When I looked into his eyes I didn’t need him to say what he was feeling. I saw the look of utter betrayal.
The two people who were supposed to love him the most and protect him from harm pinned him to the ground while he laid there screaming.
Sam and I sat on the floor on opposite sides of George, wanting to comfort him but knowing he didn’t want us to touch him. We told him we were sorry. We told him we understood. We waited.
And waited.
We had to let him come to us. And finally he said to me, “Uppa,” which means he wants to be picked up, and as soon as I did, he nuzzled his head into my neck the way he only does right before bed or when he’s sick. My poor little babe was exhausted.
He stayed in my arms for a minute before he reached for Sam and made the same request. “Uppa.”
Sam held him much longer. George nuzzled into his neck with his eyes wide open while Sam whispered apologies into his ear and explained why we did what we did.
George was okay after that. We read all the books he wanted to read. He picked out his pajamas. He brushed his teeth on his terms, which is to say he sucked on his toothbrush and chewed the bristles. I played Billy Joel’s Vienna and paced around the room with him in my arms, as I do every night, then kissed him goodnight.
News Flash
There’s nothing more embarrassing than arguing with your partner in front of other people.
It’s one thing for your significant other to see your angry, defensive, petulant side. But anyone else in the world?? Kill me.
Sam and I were at the top of the stairs putting up a baby gate when Sam got frustrated and snapped at me. Meanwhile, our nanny was within earshot (!) right downstairs in the kitchen.
I didn’t say another word and walked into my office.
Sam stormed in after me. “What the F is your problem?”
This is when I shut down. I want nothing to do with him. It doesn’t even matter if Sam has a reason to be mad. I’m livid he would talk to me like that — period — but I’m extra-self-righteous-livid that he has the audacity to do it in front of others.
What does that say about me? I care what other people think. Duh. We know this.
What’s worse is that if no one was around, I’d sling it right back with even more anger than him. So in one instance I shut down, turn off, and don’t want to be anywhere near my husband. In the other, I escalate the argument and meet his anger with more anger.
I know the solution is to de-escalate the argument. But even after Sam and I resolved our conflict hours later and I asked Sam what I could’ve done differently, he told me I could have de-escalated the situation. And I told him I didn’t know how.
But that’s not true. I know I just have to be vulnerable.
Gross.
Turns out I’m really good at being vulnerable in my writing but terrible about it in person.
Happy Birthday!
I turned 38 last week.
I can no longer wear really short shorts. It was a long run and I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did, but I finally cleaned out my closet and literally gasped as I tried on booty shorts I wore not too long ago.
Now when I see girls/women in really short shorts (zero judgment btw), all I can think is, “God, that looks so uncomfortable.”
38 is super comfy all the time. Leggings and pockets and butter blends all day.
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Until next week,
Charlie