When you can get through more than one single day without your kid throwing something at you from across a room, hitting you, kicking you or spitting at you, my guess is that must be bliss as well.
We didn’t think being parents would be easy, but this isn’t exactly the kind of hard we expected. We didn’t expect feeling emotionally and physically under siege on a regular basis. We didn’t expect to pull our kid back out of preschool for a second time—literally within two weeks of sending her back. We couldn’t anticipate that her behavior would even impact a friendship with another family.
It feels like we have “circled the wagons” a million times. It feels like she tears out the pages of every behavior and parenting book and throws them in our faces. We take her to play therapy. We record ourselves playing with her. We try to “connect” with her, and acknowledge her emotions. We try to give her ways to express herself without hurting others.
We lose it—our shit—every single bit of it, because it feels like we are never going to get through this part. We yell. We scream. We grab her. We talk straight into her face. We tell her that she won’t get what she wants when she does these things. We tell her we will only talk to her when she calms down. We tell her that we cannot be in the room with her if she is going to do “hurts.”
We leave. She races after us, begging us not to go, only to start throwing things, hitting, kicking, spitting all over again.
We gathered supplies for a special “calm down” kit, which she loves—so much she decides to throw things so she can use it to “calm down.” I fill out reward charts with blank stars. Three points for a prize. Bonus points for not hitting, kicking, spitting, or fighting all day. We give her plastic coins for doing good stuff during the day. She can trade those for prizes as well.
We take things away. No screens. No markers. No crayons. No toys. We try to sit quietly.
We regroup. We “circle the wagons” again. We yell. I cry. She cries.
She’s bored. She’s lonely. It makes her mad.
“I need a friend,” she tells me. “I want to see Cora.”
“We can’t, you did ‘hurts’ and now she probably won’t play with you.” It feels like being stabbed when I say it. It probably hurts me more than it does her. I hate her sadness. I hate her loneliness.
She tells me, in the best way she knows how that I should have had a brother or sister for her. I think that I can’t imagine how hard that would be. I feel sad for her, but for myself—I am relieved.
I think I can’t protect her from the world, or from herself. I just want to know why. Why is this her? Why does she laugh as she tears everything down?
We “circle the wagons” again and again—just trying to get her on a path that seems walkable, manageable for a four-year-old.
My heart hardens and cracks over and over. I want to tell anyone who doesn’t think she’s amazing to “fuck off.” I love her. I want to give her a fearless life. I want to give her my lost childhood. I want to give her what everyone should have—parents who love, support, and guide.
But she is way off the path, and even I cannot unders. And we yell. And we lose it—our shit—all of it. Because we are so confused, so lost, and at the same time so guided.
We are shreds. Tired. Dazed. Lost. Worn through. Off the path.
It was never going to be easy. But how is it this kind of hard? How is it this lonely?
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