No, you're being a brat
[I’m currently on week five of being stuck at home in a leg cast, and it’s overwhelming, and I keep half writing a newsletter and then deciding it’s the worst thing I’ve ever written. It’s trash, and I’m trash, and I should just stop and probably also go and take a vow of silence in a convent or something? Seriously I’ve got half a dozen half-written essays that are probably not as bad as I think they are but I have no reasonable judgement right now. But I love this little newsletter, and I love you all for being here and don’t want to neglect it. So to tide us over, here’s something I wrote in 2018, and I’ll do my best to write something new and come back properly next week! Thank you for being here.]
1.
My son is eight years old and one of his teachers called him a brat. He didn't know what it meant - I don't use words like that - but the tone was enough to deflate him. He asks me what it means and I want to lie so that he doesn't get the full impact of her inappropriate label, but my default is honesty, so I give him a brief definition, with the addendum that it wasn't OK for her to say that.
2.
Sometimes he has accused me of hitting him, when I have merely brushed past him. If he is grumpy he takes it out on me, with words. He tells me it's illegal to hit a child, and I say, “I know, and I'd never hit you even if it was legal, it’s still wrong.” He says it at a populated street corner while we are waiting for the green figure to permit us to cross, and I hiss at him in fear. “What if someone hears you, and they call the police, and they take you away from me?” Then I moderate myself. “I mean, if you are ever afraid, then you say it loud. Just don't joke about it, ok?” He is quiet.
3.
I want him to just get dressed pick up his breakfast bowl stop complaining get off the tablet if you want water you know where the tap is I am not your servant just get dressed I know I'm no fun it's because the boring stuff tires me out god I’m tired cool that your dad is fun coolcoolcoolcool just get dressed no I'm not buying you game tokens stop asking maybe if you were a bit more helpful I wouldn't be this grumpy just get dressed for fuck's sake sorry excuse my language if I have to tell you one more time I'm confiscating the tablet for a day why do I have to make threats just to make you get dressed stop being a brat.
Shit. There it is. Brat. I'm too far gone to take it back like I know I should. I’m irascible and he’s defiant and I know I'm not supposed to do it like this, don’t usually do it like this, but it's a gone-wrong day.
There are occasional days that just go wrong, and I am lost. Days where my patience and my vocabulary fail me and I revert to the criticism and control I was raised with and try so hard to stay away from. Days when I am grumpy and I take it out on him, with words. I call him a brat and I’m so wound up the only moderation I can muster when I see the hurt in his tense, quivery lips is, “no, you're not a brat, but you're being a brat.” I have never used that word before he came home asking about it, but I am empty and I say the thing that will most upset him, because my brain has convinced itself that will somehow make him behave how I want. That belittling him will give me control. It’s precisely the opposite of the kind of parent I want to be.
I am not a jerk but I am being a jerk.
4.
“I'm sorry,” I say the next day when he comes home from his Dad’s. “I am so sorry. It was unacceptable for me to talk to you the way I did. I hurt your feelings, didn't I?”
He slowly nods his head.
I say, “No matter how grumpy I am, I shouldn't ever talk to you like that. I love you so much, you are my favourite person in the whole world.”
“I didn't want to tell Dad,” he says.
“Why not?”
“I didn't want the police to take me away from you.”
“Oh, my darling. You were sad all by yourself at Dad's house?” The slow nod, the not meeting my eyes. The heart splinters (mine).
“You never have to be alone with your feelings,” I tell him, and this becomes paramount. “If you feel sad or scared you can always talk to me or Dad. Even if I got into trouble, I can deal with that. That is not for you to worry about. Even if the police came, I would fight for you, but no one would take you away from me for something like that anyway. You can tell Dad if I make you sad. You never have to be alone.”
We are already snuggled up but he reaches out a hand to tug me closer, then he leans away, then pulls me closer again, and makes affectionate, contented noises.
5.
I carry him to bed although he is too heavy now (or perhaps it is that I have insufficient strength). He arranges my body around his. “Put your legs down more,” he says, then plants his feet on mine. “I want your big squishy tummy. I'm just moving this pillow, you don't move.”
He settles his head on my arm, and sighs.
“Now I am one hundred percent comfortable,” he says, and he falls asleep in stillness.