Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 230

Dear George, 

Sometimes at the end of the day I laugh when Papa says, “George had a great day today, huh?” And then I remind him of all the moments that were anything but great. Remember when I had to take him upstairs for a twenty-minute break and he screamed and spit on the floor for eighteen minutes? Remember when he wouldn’t get out of the pool and then kept throwing toys in the shallow end after we told him not to? Remember when he bit you? 

Then Sam will laugh and say, “Oh yea, I forgot about that. Yea, that wasn’t great.” 

But when I reflect on all those days, all of your not-so-great moments are also my not-so-great moments. I yelled at you. I was too forceful getting your clothes on. I rushed you when there was plenty of time. I was looking at my phone. I said no simply because I wanted to be the one in charge. I didn’t say sorry. 

Many mornings it’s hard to get out the door for school. I continuously glance at the clock and go through the checklist in my head of what still needs to happen. More often than not, all that’s left to do is get you dressed and apply sunscreen. That’s it. Two little things. But you refuse. 

On one such morning, after I’d pleaded and explained and reasoned and bargained and you still wouldn’t budge, I took things away. That’s been our go-to recently when you won’t cooperate. I might say, “If you don’t get dressed, no pool today.” Other things we’ve threatened to take away include the TV, water table, bedtime together with Layla, and the cushions, which are blue cushions that you turn into forts and crash pads and water slides and whatever your little imaginations desire. On a few occasions I took away books and immediately regretted it. How can I take away books if I want you to love reading? 

But this week we’d already taken away so many things. Two days earlier I took away the pool for the rest of the week. Days before that Papa took away TV for the week. Now as I glanced at the clock and it read 7:50am I didn’t know what to do. I announced that I was going to take away the cushions, but Layla spoke up. “I want to play with the cushions!” 

Layla had gotten dressed as soon as I asked her to. She’d been playing independently, lining up her vegetables on the top of a tower of cushions, and periodically brought me a plate of food to eat, only satisfied after I took a pretend bite, then went back to her toys. 

It’s in these moments when I feel so out of control, so powerless, that I lash out. Why couldn’t you just get dressed? Why did every morning have to be so hard? 

I reminded you that we’d already taken the pool away for the week, but if you didn’t get dressed you wouldn’t be allowed in the pool this weekend either. You didn’t flinch. The threat seemed to have no impact. I stood up and stomped to the bedroom, where Sam was taking a shower. 

I unleashed on him. Let him know that I was about to take the pool away for the weekend. The problem was I didn’t want to take the pool away. The pool is something fun we can all do together, an activity that stimulates and exhausts and we love seeing you get more comfortable in the water each time—you hold your breath, and dive for toys, and tread water, and cup your hands and attempt swimming. But I didn’t know what else to do. And when it gets to that point all I want to do is scream. I yelled at Sam that he needed to get out of the shower and help me. Then I slammed the bedroom door and paced in my room for a few beats. Sam was calm, as is usually the case when one of us loses it. He told me to take the pool away but do it without anger. 

Obviously, that was the plan. That’s always the plan. 

I stormed out of the bedroom and picked you up and forcefully took off your pajamas and put your outfit on. Sam came out then and you called for him. He tagged me out, picked you up and hugged you. Good cop bad cop, I guess. Then Sam tried to soothe you, explain, bargain, but again, nothing worked, so he forced the sunscreen on you. You screamed and kicked and ran away. 

I tagged back in and carried you shoeless out to the minivan. You screamed the whole way that you wanted your backpack. I forced you into the car seat and this time you fought me. I was exhausted by the end of it. I’m sure you were, too. 

I went back into the house to get your backpack and socks and shoes. When I came back out Papa was getting Layla in her car seat and you had stopped screaming. I asked if you wanted your socks and you nodded. You let me put them on you. Then I asked if you wanted your shoes. You sniffled and nodded again. 

I put my hand on your head. “Are you okay?” I said. You nodded. “Okay,” I said. “I love you.” You opened your arms for a hug. I said goodbye to you and Layla and slid the door shut. Papa rolled down his window and smiled. I apologized for taking it out on him. He said it was okay. 

After school, we were in the library and I pulled your baby book out. We flipped through pages together and in many of them you were crying. Layla pointed at the pictures and said, “Why is George crying?”

You turned to both of us, your palms facing up, and explained, quite simply, “That’s just how babies talk.” 

It was as if your entire infancy and even early toddler years were explained. It felt like you were saying, for all those months when you cried, and then later when you couldn’t talk, before we’d begun speech therapy and things felt so hard, “I wasn’t sad, Mama. I was just talking to you.” 

A bit later, Layla was crying and screaming about something, and Papa and I were trying to figure out what she needed. Something about the jump rope. 

You turned and ran to the other room. She screamed when you ran away, perhaps afraid that you were going to keep it from her, but you ran back with it in your hand, arm extended, and said, “Here, Layla.” 

She screamed in your face and pushed you. When we told her not to push she collapsed on the floor and screamed some more. 

You watched her, quietly, then looked at us. “I was just trying to give it to her.” 

She went on like this for a while. You tried to help multiple times, but she screamed at you each time and you eventually walked away. 

You’ve been staying up late recently. Papa or I put you to bed at 7:30pm but as soon as we leave you jump out of bed and turn on your light and play in your room by yourself. Sometimes I hear the bedroom door open and then can hear toy trains bang into each other or little pieces of paper rustle around. Eventually, because it’s late and I’m going to bed, I stand at the bottom of the stairs and look up at you. 

One night you sat on the landing and looked down at me with sleepy eyes and smiled. “Hi,” you whispered. 

I walked up the stairs to meet you. “Can you tuck me in?” you asked. 

We walked into your room together. Nothing was where it should be. There were books in your bed and stuffed animals on the shelf. Your pillowcase was stuffed with little trains. I quickly cleared a track from the door to your bed and collected all your stuffed animals because I knew if I didn’t you’d be calling me after I went back downstairs. 

You laid down and I tucked four stuffed animals into your arms and laid the rest on your chest. Then I put the construction vehicle blanket over top of all you, then Echo, your Moon Pal, on top of that. 

You looked up at me and said, “You’re nice, Mama.” 

“I’m nice?” I said, doubting I was. 

“Yea, you and Papa are so nice,” you confirmed. “I like you.” 

I put both hands on your cheeks and kissed your forehead. “I like you and I love you.”  

Happy fourth birthday, George. You are so big and so tall and so strong and I love watching you grow up. 

Love,

Mama