Keeping Things Real

Sometimes I feel like a blog is just one big Christmas Card. It seems that all the information I ever put on here has to do with all of the fun, exciting, or sweet things we've been doing. This isn't necessarily on purpose--I don't usually take pictures of us in the middle of a huge tantrum or think to document the days my house is a complete disaster. (Maybe that is because it is more of an event when every room is clean, since usually there is at least one messy area at any given time.)

So today, I'm going to do something a little different. I'm going to tell you about a conversation (ie, fit) that Everett and I exchanged last night. He is getting older and talks (or yells) back more frequently, and too often I find myself reacting badly.

SCENE 1: The Family Room

I had just taken Ashley upstairs and put her to bed. Then went William. Between teeth brushing, pajamas, diaper changes, and scriptures, I think I had gone up and down the stairs ten separate times in the last few minutes. No big deal, right? Wrong. Today, for some reason it was really driving me nuts.

I approached Everett, who was moping and leaning over the center cushion of our hand-me-down couch, and informed him for the fifth time that it was "bedtime NOW, Buster".

"Moooooommmyyyyyy! I want you to carry me like a baaaabbbyyyyy." His voice was so heavy with whine, I could have collected the drippings and filled a five-gallon bucket.

I surveyed the messy living room. There were little blankets and stuffed animals everywhere that I also had to bring upstairs.

"Everett! I cannot carry you upstairs like a baby right now. You need to get up there by yourself. Now MARCH."

"I DON'T WANT TO MARCH! I WANT YOU TO CARRY ME LIKE A BABY!"

"I don't care what you want! I have too many other things to carry. I do not have room for you in my hands right now."

"I AM NOT GOING TO GO UPSTAIRS!"

I took a breath, hoping it would dissipate my already too-high frustration level. No such luck. The dam broke with a roaring crack.

"EVERETT! YOU need to get UPstairs RIGHT NOW."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!"

He glared at me and fingered his favorite-stuffed-animal-of-the-moment, the cougar. I took two bounding steps and whisked it from his hands. He didn't move. I threw it as hard as I could up the stairs, as though Everett, by some canine instinct, would dash over to fetch it and continue on to his room.

He didn't. The cougar, having crashed against a stair, was now laying helplessly still within Everett's overheated eyesight. It was an insult he could not ignore.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" Everett collapsed on his knees beside the couch and buried his face in his hands as he began to sob.

I realized I was not getting anywhere, and I further realized that I needed a time-out, so I gathered what toys and blankets I could and carried them upstairs. Everett's lamenting howls echoed up the stair corridor behind me.

I tossed the toys and blankets by the foot of Everett's bed. So much for putting them away. I took a few breaths and while I went back downstairs, I debated: should I stick to what I first said or should I go easy on him since the initial impatience was mine? By the time my foot touched the living room floor, I had decided.

"Everett," I said, my voice not as steady as I would have liked, "I can carry you like a baby now. Are you ready to go to bed?"

He nodded tearfully and rested his head against my shoulder as I went--once again--up the stairs to his room.

SCENE TWO: Everett's Bedroom

Everett laid down on his pillow with little protestation. I covered him with his favorite blanket and his light blue sheet, and cringed inwardly as I heard the request I knew he would make.

"I want you to sing Baby Jesus please, Mommy."

My heart was still racing from my earlier outburst. If there was ever a time I was not in the mood to sing a sweet little song, this would be it.

"Everett," I said impatiently, "I cannot sing you that song right now. You did not come to bed when I asked you to." (As much as I try to be consistent with encouraging obedience, the truth was, I just did not want to do it. Springing this punishment on Everett with no warning was purely selfish.)

Then I walked stormily out of the room as Everett, once again, began wailing. I sighed and stepped into the bathroom. As I leaned over the sink and thought about how unfair I was being, I decided that since I was the adult, I was the one who needed to grow up first. I filled a cup with water and brought it to him.

"Here, Everett. Drink this and then I will sing you your song."

He downed the water, wiped away his tears, and cuddled with me as I stroked his face and sang the familiar lyrics. When I was finished, he almost smiled peacefully. He turned over and settled into bed, and I didn't hear from him for the rest of the night.

I try to be good about making my apologies and not being too hard on myself, and I try to react more often with kindness than impatience, but it is, of course, a learning process. As much as I disallow back-talk and want the kids to understand it will not get them what they're after, this situation would never have happened if I had exercised just a smidgen of extra patience. Everett responds strongly to tone of voice, and the tone I had was not at all pleasant. When I have overreacted, I try to end up being a little more lenient.

But, it is nice to know that even after nights like this, Everett still bounds happily into my room the following morning. Hopefully I give him more good to remember than bad.