I've been struggling lately with my five-year-old son's impulsivity.
When I was pregnant with Jax, his due date was early February. Ooo, an Aquarius, I thought. Except, inexplicably, he was born on Oct. 29 instead, frighteningly premature. My tiny, tiny, Scorpio. I don't now if you're into astrology or not, but the Scorpio is best known for being strong-willed. He sure is, cooed the nurses. He just decided he was ready to be here and that was that! We all laughed (nervously, because for crying out loud, the child was 1 lb. 13 oz and hooked up to a ventilator for a month, but still, you gotta find something, anything, to laugh about in these situations).
I still laugh about his strong will, but I also sometimes cry about it. It's been a rough week.
Let me just say that my son is one of the kindest people I know. He can't stand seeing others upset or hurting. He is incredibly loving and compassionate, generous with his hugs and snuggles and kisses. Generous with his opinions. Generous with words and a helping hand. Plus, he's brilliant. Possibly in an evil genius kind of way... He's also very energetic and gregarious.
High energy + impulsive + talkative + strong-willed = sometimes mama and preschool teachers are exasperated.
Walking into school to pick him up every afternoon has become a major source of stress and anxiety for me. What rules did he break today? What is a teacher going to have to pull me aside to share in that low, gentle voice that signals your child has done something wrong and it can't happen again so work your magic. I feel all out of magic lately.
How do you temper the (mostly positive) energy of a curious, intelligent, happy five-year-old?
So anyway. I've been down about it. I don't want him to spend more time at school being steered away from his negative impulses than having fun and learning. In a few years, he'll be steered toward detention instead of a quiet corner with a favorite stuffed animal.
And then this morning, we got to school a few minutes early. I saw a dad dropping off a little girl. This dad doesn't normally do drop-off; I'm used to seeing the girl's mother instead. I remember the dad from high school. He was super popular, good-looking, and, well, not nice to me. Whatever, high school was a long time ago. Still, I don't know the guy now, so all I have to go on is what he was like then: entitled and obnoxious. His wife is gorgeous, his daughter wears princess dresses and a tiara to school almost every day--basically, this family is the stuff of perfect holiday greeting cards and family portraits.
I, on the other hand, parent alone, have so much cat hair on my leggings you'd think I just came off a shift at the SPCA, and my son is wearing mismatched socks.
Perfect Dad, as I start thinking of him, gets his little girl into school and she's giving him a hard time. My little bundle of impulses is washing his hands at the sink like he's supposed to--using too much soap, talking too much poop talk with his buddies, and getting water on his shirt, but still, he's washing his hands. I can hear Perfect Dad trying to coax his daughter out of her fancy gloves to wash HER hands, but barely, because Jax is loudly proclaiming he loves me and wants me to have a good day.
Jax only ever proclaims things loudly.
We hug and kiss and hug again, and suddenly I'm walking out the door at the same time as Perfect Dad. Jax is calling out more goodbyes and Perfect Dad is trying to tell me something but I can't quite hear him. At the end of the long hallway, he finally speaks up: "Jax is such a good kid."
He is, isn't he?
I look at Perfect Dad full on as we walk out into the sun. He looks tired, heavier, less hair, than I remember. I mean, that makes complete sense, right? High school was...nevermind. And no judgment, because I'm rocking dark circles on the daily, disguising my grays with highlights, and thrice-weekly tabata ain't doing nothin about these hip dips.
I take him in for a second before I say, "So is A." His face darkens a little and he says, "She's completely wild. I don't know what to do anymore!" This sentiment kind of bursts out of him and we both stand there for another minute before I reply, "Oh my god, Jax too. It's their age. It's normal." (Who am I convincing here??)
"Is it?" he nearly cries out. "Because I'm losing my sleep, hair, and sanity over it! She just does whatever the hell she wants! I sure hope it gets better because I can't take this much longer!"
Imagine that. The picture-perfect, fancy family has the same issues as me. Minus the cat hair on the leggings.
I smiled the whole way to work, not because of some vengeful glee that a guy who was mean to me in high school is having a rough spot in what I still imagine is a relatively privileged existence, but because all week, I've been feeling so alone in thinking my kid is the devil on the shoulder of all the other little angels at preschool. That he's trashing the play area and screaming expletives while the other darlings are sitting still to eat their crackers and cheese with nary a crumb to be found.
Universe, you send some strange messengers, but, message received. And thanks.