While You Fight Me, I Will Fight For You

There were so many beautiful moments today. You climbed into my lap while watching your new favorite movie on TV. You leaned back into me, something somewhat new for you. You laid your head against my shoulder as you sucked your thumb and rubbed your hair between your fingers. You giggled at the movie, looking back at me to see if I was laughing too.

You shared your snack with me, walking over to me and placing your precious fruit snack into the palm of my hand. "Really? This is for me?" "Yes, Mama. Eat it!"

I listened through the baby monitor as you and your brother played upstairs in your room, something truly new and exciting. Later I learned that the two of you had built a little city on the floor of your room, out of train tracks and buildings. There was even a large dinosaur in the middle of your city, standing watch over your playtime. I could hear your brother orderingyou around  leading you through setting up your city. I smiled, as I do so many times with you these days.

You sat in your chair at dinner and ate. One quarter of a sloppy joe and one french fry. A slice of peach stolen out of your daddy's fruit salad. There was no food thrown on the floor. No screaming. No need for me to remove you from the table. No spilled drinks or purposeful spitting at me.

A nice day. Still full of pull up changes and screaming "no!" when I try to bring you to the potty. Still full of "use your gentle hands" and "please look at me". Still loud and crazy and full of boyish energy. Still full of cars flying across the kitchen floor, screaming over not being allowed to play with your big brother's stuffed baby hamster, still full of dirt and grass stains and the normal little boy fun and messiness. Still full of hyper activity. But a nice day. A good day.

Good days or not so good days, bedtime is still a mystery. So often, nearly daily, really, you break my heart. You break my heart almost every night. It is especially painful after a good day. It is so hard not to wallow in the pain of your disinterest. It is difficult to remember the good over the not so good. You climb into your bed and roll away from me, refusing to show me your beautiful eyes. You demand books but you refuse to sit still or listen as I read. You chatter over me or simply wander away. If it is a particularly bad moment you scream and spit at me as I lie next to you on your bed, trying to figure out what the trigger is, trying to figure out what is happening here. I pull you towards me and hold you against my body. You scream at me, telling me I am hurting you. I am barely holding you. This is not pain, little one. This is a hug. This is love. And it doesn't hurt. It helps, if you will only let it. You escape my grip and roll away from me. I duck as you wing your books, toys, and shoes at my head. If it is in your bed, you throw it at me. I catch each item and toss it behind me into your large toy basket, which makes you even angrier. I wait until your missiles are gone and you have nothing to throw. I pull you towards me again. You scream and spit and kick at me. Sometimes I can feel you relaxing in my arms until your head falls onto the pillow, and we can start the bedtime process all over again. We can talk about your day and look through a book. Sometimes we can get to that place where you allow me to cover you up with your favorite blanket and sometimes, if I am really lucky, you repeat it back when I say "I love you."

Sometimes I walk away while you are screaming, calling back to you that I love you and that I will always be here for you. Sometimes I go into the office, which shares a wall with your bed. I sit in my desk chair, tears in my eyes, absent mindedly surfing the net while I listen to you thrash about in your bed, screaming at me. Screaming for me. I walk back into your room. You have reloaded, and so now you throw a pillow or another shoe at me. I walk out. I hear you screaming my name. In and out. In and out. Anger, mixed with sadness, creeps into my body. Sometimes this passes and you are calm when I walk out that final time. Sometimes I tag your daddy in and go hang with my super loving six year old. Sometimes I walk away and go find the wine.

Later, when I have finished that wine, or when I have kissed your older brother goodnight, or when I have cried to my sweet husband for the hundredth time, I sneak back into your room and sit on your bed. I cover you up and rub your back and whisper into your sleeping ear. Later, I can remember the great moments throughout the day, and I can tell myself that this was just a moment. It was not a definition of our lives together, you and me. It was just a moment. Yes, there are many moments like this. Too many moments like this, right now. But it was just a blink of an eye. And we will do our dance again tomorrow. Because what I whispered into your sleeping ear is true. "I am your mommy. I love you, and I always will. I will help you lose this anger and confusion, your "angry insides", as we call it. I will fight for you, my son, every day. While you fight me, I will fight for you."

How was your day?

Every day I ask the same questions. "How was your day, Mishka?" You lean back on me, warming my body with your fleece footie pajamas. Tonight you are playing with a bright orange lock you found on the floor of your older brother's room, where we are hanging out, in his big cozy recliner chair. Your brother was given this little lock by a friend at school. These kindergartners have big hearts and they are always sharing their treasures. I have no idea what items of his, or of mine, my super six year old has given away to his classmates. You concentrate on the lock, your tongue sticking out, trying to find the right combination that will make it magically lock into place. "Did you have a good day?" I try again. You ignore me and work the lock between your fingers. I place my hand on your head and turn it towards me, trying to to get a look at your beautiful brown eyes. You pull away, eyes locked on your hands. "Did you eat soup for lunch today, Mishka?" I know you did. We check the lunch menu every morning, you and I, and so I know that beef soup and peaches were on your plate today. Silence. Your tongue pops in and out of your mouth as you finally give up on the lock and toss it aside. I seize my chance before your mind is otherwise occupied. "Did you have a good time with Daddy tonight?" You spent the evening at church, hanging out with Daddy while your brother participated in the mid week childrens' program. Again, silence.

"OK, you don't want to talk about your day? Let's talk about something else. What would you like to talk about?" You think about this for a minute before answering with, "The bug on your bear." Ah. I retell you the story of a few weeks back when all four of us were in the master bedroom and your older brother and I noticed a scary looking bug sitting on my teddy bear. I remind you of how Daddy took a tissue and captured the bug, showing us that it wasn't a scary beetle like we thought but instead a harmless moth. "Bugs go in tummy?", you ask. I explain that bugs don't go into our tummies. You look scared. I assure you that bugs can be friendly. "Ladybugs scary?", you ask. "No, honey, ladybugs are sweet and come to visit every so often before flying away." I sing you the "Ladybug Ladybug" song. Only one verse, before you make that noise that only you can make, the noise that means "stop , something bad is coming". I stop.

I wonder how your day went. Your teacher told Daddy that you had a good day, considering your preschool program was closed today. You did well most of the day, only having a hard time at the end of the day. But I wonder what you are thinking. Most of the time you refuse to talk about your days, preferring instead to rehash an old story. You love to talk about the past, my Mishka.

This morning in the car you were singing to yourself the names of two of your friends from daycare. Over and over you sang these two names. "Are those your friends?" "Yes momma", you tell me. "What are the names of your friends from preschool?" "No friends at preschool, momma." I worry. I know that you have only been going to this preschool for about a month and I know that maybe some of the other children in your class aren't able to play like you do. But I also know that you don't like this new school. Are you learning to make friends? Will you be able to maintain friendships as you get older? Will you let others into your quiet world?

You climb off of me and start spinning around in a circle on your brother's rug. I sense you are on overload from our short conversation and I pick you up and carry you into your room, standing you up in your crib. I see you have managed to steal your brother's baby stuffed hamster and I watch as you tuck it gently under your blanket. You then take it out, bring it to your face and scream at it, then point your finger at it, saying "NO!" loudly. You then hug it and tuck it back in, next to you. Is this what love looks like to you, little guy?

Maybe tomorrow you will tell me how you day went. Maybe tomorrow you will allow me, for just a few moments, to live in the present with you. But if not, we can talk about whatever you want, little Mishka. Whatever you want.