Tag Archives: anger management

Wookie shavy pet-y

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“What do you get a Wookie for Christmas when he already has a comb?”

My 6:50 a.m. musical extravaganza. Noah is singing at full volume. I guess it’s so he can hear himself over the tumult of his peeing.

I’m in bed, behind my closed door and the combined noises still fill the room like an absurd symphony. I fight back the urge to open the door and shush him. I don’t want to start the day with him that way.

Last night at bedtime it turned into me shouting and him going dumb and sullen.

I totally mishandled a perfectly reasonable position. How often that seems to happen. I’m doing the right thing but I say it the wrong way. And one wrong word leads to another and finally I’m angry and incompetent.

Damn!

It was past eight thirty and I had already insisted several times that he get to bed. I kept myself busy with dishes and things to avoid confrontation. When I left the kitchen, I found him standing at the mirror, holding a boomerang and posing like some outback icon.

“Noah, did you brush your teeth?”

“Uh, no.”

“Clean out your nose with the spray?”

“No…”

“Feed your fish?”

Now he just shakes his head. I look him over. He’s still fully dressed, not in pajamas, except for one sock missing.

“Noah…”

The whole thing is so ridiculous, I should just laugh and tell him to move it and move on myself.

“…geez, Noah, get moving.”

He cleans his teeth with his boomerang. Finds it supremely boring. I take the bait and turn into a cartoon. Steam comes out of my ears, my eyes bulge, my tongue rolls in and out of my face.

Noah keeps picking his teeth.

“@$?&$!(@*&@+??%$3&…..”

…is my totally appropriate response.

Noah just stares and still doesn’t move.

“You do this almost every night, Noah. You wait until I blow up and then we end the night angry at each other. Not cool.”

“There was a spider in my room.”

It ends badly.

He’s sent to bed with a set of punishments, loss of computer time and other restraints on his pleasure. He falls sleep feeling like shit. I twist internally, feeling guilty and insulted and incompetent.

So this morning….

The alarm goes off.

“Noah…..” I call him from my bed.

He steps out of the bathroom.

“Hi dad.”

“Jump into bed with me, I feel like a hug.”

He charges in, wraps himself up in my comforter. I snuggle up to him.

“What was that you were singing?”

“What do you get a Wookie for Christmas when he already has a comb?”

“Yeah, that.”

“It’s one of the uh, Christmas songs we’re practicing for the show, yeah, you know the show we do every Christmas at school? Yeah.”

“Funny song.”

“Yeah….”

He starts singing.

“…He doesn’t need a tie clip, he doesn’t need shaving foam….”

“Damn! I was about to say, give him shaving cream.”

“Nope.”

Noah stretches and smiles. Light up my morning. I grab him for a last snuggle.

“Ouch dad, you squeezed where I have my wound.”

He bruised up his arm during the weekend.

“Look, it still shows.”

He points to a scab and a few bruises on his forearm.

“When I like showed my friends at school, they were all like this ‘oh wow, that must hurt, oh poor you’. Yeah, they were like all ‘pet-y‘.”

“You mean they pet you like a dog?”

“Exactly.”

I look at him. He’s pleased. Why not?

I pet his head.

“Poor doggie.”

He suddenly licks my hand.

“Oh you little…”

I jump him. He yelps. We get lost in tickles and giggles.

Monster management

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“What are you doing up, dad?”

He squints at me through barely open eyes. His whole body is striated with long, slashing red welts, transfer marks from his deep abandon to his sheets and pillow. He looks like he’s been marked up by a butcher. Here is the tenderloin, there is the filet-mignon…

“We need to get to your day camp an hour earlier, remember?”

He’s horrified.

‘What for?”

It is six in the morning, so I know about liquefied brains.

“Noah,  you’re going to the Super Splash Aqua Club today.”

He nods. “Oh, and it’s called Aqua Splash not, not, well whatever you said.” He disappears into the bathroom.

He can’t remember why he’s up, but he certainly remembers to correct me. What is it with kids. They invariably turn into the most supercilious, punctilious reproachful monsters. Surfing on the wave of their parents’ tsunami efforts to raise them, they just gratuitously treat them like flotsam. And then they go, “whaaa, what did I say, what did I do?” when you point it out to them.

I hear a  healthy stream of pee strike the toilet. Perhaps an empty bladder will free his better instincts. Of course, I don’t hear him feeding the cat. Though it’s his job, I say nothing.

I hope to get through the morning without dissonance.

He shuffles into the room and drops onto the futon. Before he even lands his hand is groping for the TV remote. Brainless but media coordinated. He sinks into the cushions, the TV snaps on with a roar and Noah expels irritable exhaustion.

“Oh my god!”

I smile, rub his back gently, like a mom would (oh yeah, I do that).

“Tired Noah?”

“No.” Despite lying down he succeeds in shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.

I sip my coffee and resist the urge to strangle him. The TV hollers even louder as it switches to commercials. An advertisement for super plush slippers that bark or wink or squeak when you walk.

Slay me!

I throw significant looks at Noah. He knows to mute the bloody commercials. Yet he plays dumb. The TV barks and little girls giggle in rehearsed pleasure at the wonder of plush.

I could tell him, again, but then he would mute in super slow motion to antagonize me. I know it. I could just turn off the damn set and throw Mozart on the sound system. Apparently it makes kids smarter.

But, conflict management, imposing discipline and respect requires more energy than I’ve got. So I get up and head out of the room.

Noah raises up on an elbow.

“Where are you going?”

None of your f….ing business. He sounds like my Mother at her worst.

Can’t hear you. The TV is too f…ing loud. No, I don’t say any of that. I stay on the reservation

“Gotta go make your lunch. We need to be out the door at 7.”

He glances at his watch. Now he’s going to crunch the numbers to probably tell me that I calculated the departure time all wrong. I rush to the kitchen.

Fry a little steak to slap between two slices of bread. Rummage for fruit and veggies in the fridge.

“Dad?”

He starts talking at me from the other room. Loudly, to be heard over the blaring TV,

But I’ve got a strategy. I turn on the water.

“Can’t hear you, Noah. Cooking food for you.”

I’m counting on him being too fat-assed today to get up and come to the kitchen.  Figuratively speaking, given that he has a scrawny butt.

I sizzle, chop, wrap, package, throw in some carrots, cheese sticks, an applesauce squeezable tube and, tadah!, his lunch is ready. And it’s a damn good one…tasty, with all food groups represented.

And my calculation was spot on… fat-ass hasn’t moved, too taken by his slothfulness to even eat the pastry and glass of milk that I left within reach.

“Countdown to take off, Noah. Ten minutes.”

I head to the bathroom to empty what needs to.

“Dad, about the like, time…”

“Sorry, Noah, I’m peeing, I can’t hear you.”

Then I run the water to wash my face, brush my teeth…and to block my son’s long distance assaults.

By the time I re-emerge, he’s up and dressed and, remarkably, he’s finished breakfast.

Even more remarkably he’s silent.

And, most remarkable of all, by far?

I managed the monster on the futon and the monsters in my soul. And none of them ate my day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

slip, slide…

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…and swear

“Fuck you too, Noah.”

I storm out of his bedroom. I’m pissed. I’ve been trying to teach my kid impulse management. And he’s not getting it!

Duh!!!

Yes, yes, all of the cliches are applicable…a chip off the old block, the apple never falls far from the tree, monkey see, monkey do, actions speak louder than words.

Blah blah blah blah blah…. which is probably what Noah hears when I start saying the same things that I say every night.

Time for bed… did you pee?… stop dawdling… get to bed… stop talking….get to bed… stop jumping on your bed…time for bed….Noah, I’m losing patience, Noah, don’t push me…Noah, Noah.

Can’t stand hearing myself.

“What did I do, dad? I wasn’t doing anything.”

He’s in bed. I’m now in the kitchen. The distance is good, avoids further outbursts. I regret swearing at him, but Fuck, enough is enough.

“Precisely, you’ve spent the last fifteen minutes doing none of the things you know you’ve got to do at bed time.”

“You swore at me.”

“I’m sorry, it just came out. I shouldn’t have. But you’ve been saying Fuck You to me through your actions.”

There. I’ve said it again.

I’m a little tired of false moral equivalences. Like American ‘faux-journalists’ fact checking Obama as if he’s as much of a distorter of the truth as Romney. The latter lies so naturally and often that nobody points it out anymore.

Like a kid. They diss you, don’t listen, force you to mind-numbing repetition because you hope they will integrate your patience. It’s a virtual Fuck You Dad on a continuous basis.

As a parent, I’m supposed to take it and react appropriately.

Fuck that! I’m exhausted. It came out. Deal with it, Noah. Perhaps that, too, is part of education. Sometimes, surprisingly, something breaks.

“Noah, you abuse my flexibility. Are there a lot of rules in this house?”

“No…!?!”

“Am I cool, let you do lots of stuff, organize all the time so you can have fun and friends and games?”

“Yeah….!?!”

“Do you want me to be more strict, set up punishments for bad behavior?”

“Really not, dad.”

“So stop giving me the virtual finger by not doing the few things you know you have to do. Like getting ready for bed without detours and without forcing me to tell you.” Fuck!

Hey, progress! It stayed unsaid this time.

“Okay dad.”

I move back to his bedroom. He’s trying to settle in. But his sheets and blanket are twisted into an uncomfortable knot. Just like I’d left it when I stormed out, annoyed by his lack of cooperation.

I take the corners and shake out blanket and sheets. Then I square them, tuck in and turn down. He slides in with a sigh of relief.

I lean down, give him a kiss and butt slap all at once. He snorts with pleasure.

“Buona notte. Sleep well. A domani.”

“Sogni d’oro. I love you, dad.”

“I love you too.”

I turn out the big light, turn on the night-light. I’m about to step out.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I really don’t like it when you swear like that.”

“Neither do I. Tell you what, I’ll work hard to do better, okay?”

“Me too. I’ll work harder to listen and like, you know, to do what I have to do.”

“Great. Sleep well.”

“You too, dad.”

As I head for the kitchen, there is not the slightest of swear words swirling in my mind.

Restful.

 

 

spring…

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…  BACKWARD, SIDEWAYS, FORWARD

“Dad, it’s like unbelievable. It’s like a pre-release for summer.”

Pre-release is the commercial termed used by Pokemon when they give the world the chance to buy the new card issues before the Official Launch. And kids like Noah get adrenaline rushes because…”imagine dad it’s like out before it really is out and you can buy it.”

So, yeah , the term annoys me.

“It’s called Spring, and we don’t need to buy it to enjoy it.”

“No, but like it’s so hot and, like, look at the sun. It really is like summer but way too early. So it’s a pre-release, get it?”

He’s on the balcony in pyjama taking theatrical breaths of fresh air.

It’s going to be 22 celsius (72F) today, so he’s right. I fight down the urge to bitch about Pokemon and try to focus on the sun inundating our balcony.

“Dad, can I wear my sandals?”

A blast of cold March air blows across us.

“No.”

“But it’s hot.”

“Just hot enough to catch a cold.”

Nice line.

“But dad…”

“No winter jacket, no gloves, no neck warmer and shoes rather than boots. Sounds like enough for one day.”

“Aaawwww…unhh”.”

His two-note disappointment song…  hits me right where the ancestral bitch lives. Reminds me of my own myriad disappointments. My mind flashes to my messy life, unwashed dishes, unpaid bills, unloved defects.

“When you’ll be old enough to take care of yourself without my help, then you can fall sick all you want.”

He growls. Probably how I sound to him. He’s smart enough to walk away. But then he makes a mistake.

“Geez, I can’t believe this.”

Hiroshima and Nagasaki both in my brain at the same time.

Ignore the comment. Let it slide. Be the adult.

“Aaaaawwww-unh. My socks hurt, dad.”

I don’t give a shit is the feeling that bangs against my teeth. I clench them. Say nothing.

“Daaaaadddd, I don’t have any good socks.”

“Did you check in your drawer?”

Silence.

“Noah…?”

“No, I did not check in my drawer.”

“Maybe, you should check in your drawer.”

Repeating the exact phrase avoids the addition of unfortunate expletives.

He rustles, grumbles, mutters. Showing me his anger, punishing me with his bad mood is inviting me to join the perversely reassuring dance of mutual aggression and recrimination.

I have done that often enough in my life. Had it done to me by adults, friends, lovers, haters…often enough.

Resist…despite the explosive anger burning my best intentions.

Shave, I tell myself.

I wet my face, spread the cream… install a new blade.. start scraping my face. Focus or bleed.

“Dad, this sock has a hole.”

Careful, the soft skin around the edges of my lips is particularly fragile. A little more cream.

Noah charges in, holding the offending sock.

“Look.”

If I look, I bleed and if I bleed … .

“Check the dryer.”

Grumble, mumble, mutter. Remarkable how a kid can sound like he’s swearing without saying a bad word.

He pulls out a sock, the wrong kind apparently.

“Aaaawwwww-unh.”

I’ve succeeded in scraping the left side of my face without major damage. Now the right.

The cat sashays into the bathroom and meows loudly.

“Aaaaawww-unh.”

“Meeeooooowwwwww.”

Scrape.

“Meeeoooowwww.”

Scrape.

“Did you feed the cat, Noah?”

It’s his job.

“Aaaaaawwwww-unh.”

I’ve succeeded in finishing. No blood.

I rinse and towel my face. No blood but razor burns over 50% of the surface. Very uncomfortable. And ugly.

“Do I have to? I have to find a sock.”

“I feed you, you feed the cat and the fish.”

I lean into the dryer and instantly pull out an “appropriate” sock. I resist the image that forms in my mind of throwing it at his face. Instead I drape it on his shoulder.

He looks up at me. I arch an eyebrow. He responds with exactly the same arched eyebrow. I do an eyebrow dance. He represses a smile. Eyebrow dances back at me. I tousle his hair.

“Come on, let’s get going. It’s really nice outside.”

I move to my room, try to remember what I need for the day’s work.

I hear dry cat food pouring into the tin dish.

“Yeah, Ouaga, you were hungry, yeah….here you go. You want some water? It’s a really nice day. I’ll leave the balcony door open for you. You like that, huhn? Yeah, you like that.”

 

 

 

frilled lizards…

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…and a kick in the butt

Unfortunately, it connected. 

Noah and I are always together….so the smallest look or action or comment sets off a domino of shared and increasingly buried reactions.

Sometimes it leads to the sweetest of moments…a bubble that bursts in my heart flooding me with a feeling of impossibly enormous love. Breathtaking.

Sometimes not…

This morning, like all mornings, twenty minutes before leaving for the school bus I set out his clothes. His job is to get dressed, brush his teeth and then boots, coat, toque, scarf, gloves to face the winter.

I hate shaving, so I avoid it until the last possible day, beyond which shaving becomes a major contract which will leave my face as scarred as a clearcut Canadian forest.

This morning I grudgingly soap myself up to scrape the face..in the few minutes I have while Noah is getting dressed. Damn! I’ve only got a very old blade left.

He comes charging in.

“I can’t brush my teeth, dad.”

My face is already screaming. I turn… he’s only half dressed.

“Get dressed first.”

“I AM dressed.”

Careful, the chin line bleeds if I don’t negotiate it just right.

“No you’re not!”

He looks down at himself.

“Oh, right, I’m not.” He runs off.

My chin pops a geyser of fresh blood. Shit! For someone as vampired as me, I still have a lot of very vital blood.

I finish the job. I don’t look in the mirror, knowing that my face has attained that irritated, boiled lobster quality.

As I finish dressing in my room, I see Noah brushing his teeth in the hallway outside the bathroom, so he can watch the TV, 30 feet away in the living room.

He sees me. I see him. I say nothing…don’t need to. Have told him so often to brush his teeth over the sink. Why is it important? I don’t know… but it seems to me that everything is unimportant, detail by detail, but if you let one thing slip it’ll be an avalanche of details burying us both.

He keeps his eyes on me as he slinks back into the bathroom.

Oooouhhhhh, I want to scream as loud as my strip mined face. Instead, I retreat more deeply in my room, to find that bloody bill I’ve been avoiding but can finally pay thanks to a small influx of money. Cool, I can guarantee phone service for another month.

When I re-emerge he is back in the hall, brushing his teeth. He’s not watching TV. His eyes are trained on my door, waiting…like Hannibal Lecter watching for Jodie Foster before she even appeared in front of his cage.

It’s a challenge. A diss.

My rational brain has no chance to say “WOAH….WAIT!”

My lizard brain goes native, channeling my burning face, reacting to the innumerable insults that have scorched me throughout my conscious and unconscious life.

My foot lunges out at him…no intention of actually connecting.

Typically, I miss him and he either starts laughing and so do I, or he huffs angrily and gets out of my irritated face. Either way, his dissy little mug gets out of mine.

Unfortunately, this time it connects, barely… but still, right on his little bulbous ass.

He starts crying immediately. No, not crying, bawling. He looks at me with a “How could you?” wild eyed expression.

“Stop crying, Noah, stop crying. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

That’s a lie and I know it.

Snot mixes with tooth paste as I hold him.

A part of my disjointed mind notes dispassionately that now I’m going to have to change my shirt. Another part clucks its tongue in reproof, “See  what happens when you don’t control yourself.” Quickly answered by another of my bitch-neurons, “What a model for your kid. Always telling him to control HIS impulses, yeah that’ll work.”

All this of course in split seconds, as he sobs against my chest.

“Forgive me Noah. I got mad, the whole brushing thing is disrespecting me. But I’m sorry I hit you, really.”

He nod his head… moves off, wiping his nose.

He gets dressed for the winter… boots, coat, toque, scarf, gloves …but also sets out my coat, my boots, gets my briefcase.

A silent apology.

This is worse than telling me off.

Flay me, draw and quarter me! Tear me asunder, now!

“Hurry dad…we’re going to be late.”

zombies, tears…

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…get me outta here

“Dad, if I, you know, zap Nonna with the revitalizer spray like Johnny (in a weird cartoon he likes) will she come out all freaky like a zombie?”

Now how do I respond to that? Is he trying to broach the topic of death? Is he just interested in the intellectual pursuit of bizarre truths?

“No idea.” The only truthful answer.

“Dad?”

I’ve been up an hour and I’ve had two sips of coffee and two hundred questions.

“Did you call Linda to you know go see Harry Potter? Remember, she like said she wanted to go today.”

“Not yet.”

I was too busy spinning in the tail winds of Hurricane Irene last night, hoping to blast my head as far from my body as possible.

“Awww….”

That one pumps me right where there’s a residue of uncontrollable, unreasoned anger.

“Can you call her now?”

Aaaaahhhhhhhh.

My phone announces a new message. The writing is so damn small I can see only that it comes from the mobile phone company.

Despite the death of my Mother, the wheels of creditors churn on, looking for bones to grind.

I look for my glasses, become necessary to read fine print.

“Dad, did you hear me?”

I’m avoiding you Noah. The rage inside is looking for a victim.

“Noah, did you play with my glasses.”

“Yeah, but I gave them back to you.”

I find the empty glass case.

“I’ve told you over and over, they are not toys. Now where are they?”

My voice has raised.

Noah looks at me. I rage a little more.

“I gave them back to you, dad!” He looks indignant. It pumps me further.

“I’ve had it with repeating things over and over. Where are they, Noah?”

He tears up, actually has a sob and then walks away. Before leaving the room he punches the wall.

“I don’t know!”

Congratulations, daddy, you are educating your boy in the subtle male arts of misdirected anger.

Get me outta here someone before I repeat the same mistakes over and over and over as if I got hit by the zombie-making ray.