Grandma and I are at the Day Spa today getting our every other month mani-pedi on. The massage chair is comfy, the water is warm, the pampering devine. She is next to me but requires only minimal interaction or prompting to answer questions or state her needs. It is one of those activities that is relatively responsibility free.
The place is busy. It's Saturday afternoon. There is a very pregnant woman getting a Pedi alongside her friend and a mother of two girls, probably 3 and 7 years old, getting her nails done while the girls quietly chat up the manicurists, negotiate with Mom for something and appropriately bee-bop around the room. I barely notice them actually, save the moment the 7 year old came up to my chair and mistakenly took my bottled water thinking it was hers. She said something like "oh, I thought it was mine!' and retraced her steps to her water not too far away; they're very well behaved children.
I stared at the pregnant woman sitting as she climbed into her chair and as she settled herself in, her manicure beginning; the manicurist pulled me from some deep dark place I had gone and asked me if I was okay. I nodded "Yes" and smiled that smile one smiles when trying to convince the other person and themself that they are, in fact, okay.
The article I'm reading, "Winning Children Over," isn't keeping me from that deep dark place. It is taking me to that place where dissapointment, regret and shame live. They are right next door to tears, and they are always ready to ring the doorbell and ask if tears can come out to play. Out on the playground and all together they are a tough group to control. It is not a place of self-acceptance, nor is it full of energy for problem solving, thought or action. It is a sad, lonely place I visit all too often lately.
It's no secret that my pregnancy with Twig was not easy. It started with incredible self-doubt and fear, bleeding bright blood in the first month, significant weight loss in the first trimester, terrible colds turned infection with heavy duty medications required to be able to breathe, awful swelling of my feet (gained 2 shoe sizes), calcium deficiency and the requisite 20 lbs gained in one month from eating Ben and Jerry's Toffee Heath Bar Crunch to the tune of 3 pints a day. Thank god I didn't aquire gestational diabetes or other awful maladies.
In retrospect my water broke the Friday before he was born. I ignored it. Or maybe I didn't really have a clue what was going on with my body. About 30 minutes after the first gush of water from in between my legs, it happened again. Alright! I ignored it.
The following Tuesday, the day I predicted he'd arrive (two days before my actual due date), at about 2 in the afternoon, the contractions began. I ignored them. Jason was at work and since he was probably busy, and the contractions weren't much more than a nuisance, I went about whatever it was I was busy doing - laundry, organizing, whatever...
At dinner I casually mentioned that they had started earlier that afternoon but I wasn't concerned, they were very light and completely manageable. Through the evening they continued to get worse and at about 9 (maybe 11pm) we called our Doula. I labored at home for several hours with no real progression of labor. After a nap, we woke in the morning, went out to eat at Rick and Ann's in Oakland/Berkeley (where I cried over my corned beef hash that wasn't too good), took a walk, and still nothing.
Later Wednesday afternoon found us at the hospital. Dilated to 5c. Admitted. And then my labor stopped. And then I was given an epidural, and then pitocin, and then my child's heartbeat was noted as decelerating every time I had a contraction. I needed to have an internal fetal monitor. I had extreme pain in my left kidney for no known reason. I needed oxygen. My cervix swelled once it reached 8 or 9c dilated. Then, on Thursday afternoon, Dr. 'Gayest Heterosexual OB/GYN on the face of the earth' came in to check me out. He looked at me and said, Wonelle, it's time to get this baby out. Where I had been consulting my team of Hubbie and Doula all along, there was only me and Doc at that point. I was inverted (hips above heart) told to breathe the oxygen in deep, and coached along, bear down when I get to one and hold for a count of 10. I don't remember anyone but the doctor being there as he put a suction cup on the baby's head - it popped off as he pulled and I think he cursed (his face was red from the exertion or frustration, maybe the combination of the two) - he put it on again, pulled some more and then yelled "Meconium! WHO KNEW?" Thursday September 30th - more than 48 hours later. If you consider that my water broke the Friday before he was born, I had a 6 day labor.
They suctioned him something feirce as he came out of me and Wood quickly cut the cord. The nurses whisked him away to do their thing. More suctioning, a low APGAR score, more suctioning, rubbing, a normal APGAR score, cleaning and wrapping and then I saw him. The first thing that went through my mind was "He hates me." What a self-fulfilling prophecy that thought has become.
He was exhausted after birth - until the day we took him home. He screamed inconsolably for what I recall as hours of us being highly stressed and completely dumbfounded. He stopped after he nursed and when I bounced him - so I nursed him or bounced him for three long years. It was the only way I could get him to sleep. At roughly a year old, he wouldn't nap unless it was pitch dark or I was driving 70 miles per hour. I remember calling Wood one afternoon absolutely infuriated that I had invested about 40 minutes of bouncing the boy, holding him in the sling, and him waking up about 20 minutes later. The return on investment was so lopsided.
He started crawling at roughly 7 months old, walking and talking at 9 months old and despite his genuinely happy demeanor he was a terror - by terror I mean climbing on things, pulling curtains off their rods, emptying everything from everywhere in a matter of minutes. I could not leave him alone in any room in the house. He'd remove everything from everywhere - all of the books off the shelves, clothes out of the drawers, nick-knacks off the dresser tops AND he'd be knee deep in the dangerous stuff within 90 seconds of my being out of his line of vision. He has always been a master at any and all child locks.
Restaurants were tough but I always brought things to keep him occupied. Of course I always needed to be directly involved with him because if I wasn't, he could be throwing silverware across the room before I knew it. He talked incessantly, interrupted everyone, and charmed the pants of all of the servers we came across.
The only time the kid was slightly contained was when he was in front of the television. And yes, I gladly used The Backyardigans, Dora the Explorer, Sesame Street, Teletubbies, and a whole host of other cartoons to get to the most banal activities like taking a shit in private. It was my only respite some days, and given the degree of my postpartum depression, I needed a fair amount of cartoon time.
As he got older, I became more and more frustrated with the lack of napping and would get ANGRY when he wouldn't give in to my need for him to sleep. He wanted to continue playing. I needed a break. I didn't get it. I would sometimes slam doors, yell at him, and stomp around in the same fashion I was used to from my mom as a kid. And hate myself for it afterward. It would take such a long time for me to come down from my ledge.
Every now and again, I'd ask him to do something and he'd rage at me. Get out of the car after school at the end of the day; put the shoes in the basket as we walk in the front door; change clothes. He'd pick up something - usually the most dangerous toy (when thrown) and chuck it at me. He once threw a book that nearly got me in the eye. There are countless other examples of his rage, and my inability to do much about it. There were times I'd look at him and think that maybe mental illness skips a generation - because this kid is crazy - up an down like a freaking roller coaster.
We hired an LCSW at one point when things were out of control and we seemed to be struggling with everything related to the boy. She was a fine therapist, I'm sure, but she was exceedingly expensive at something like $225/hr, she always ran over the scheduled time, and was focused on "gathering information" when I said I needed TOOLS. I fired her not long after she said that one of the boy's behaviors wasn't normal. For all of those reasons.
For a long time, Twig was able to contain his willfulness, rage, and cyclone tendencies to home. As he ventured into other social arenas, however, it became clear that I wasn't the only person that found him challenging. His preschool teachers of school number one and school number two, with an average of 15 years experience, would get flustered by his unwillingness to follow instructions and rules, his ability to constantly argue very particular points, his lack of understanding of personal space/boundaries, and his boundless energy. I always felt guilty that I looked forward to Mondays. But I did. I do.
In Kindergarten, he was quickly labeled by Ms. Mary Grace (a public school teacher with a serious Catholic school bent) as an immature overacheiver. Bright but not working to his potential. Skilled at working the room but always blaming other people for his mishaps. Once when she told him to write his name on the white board where she kept track of "bad" behavior, he simply erased everyone's name. After all, she wasn't really paying attention and he knew it.
Then we moved and I was sure that things in school would get better. And they did. His teacher pushed him to work to his potential. She worked with him on his focus and energy, working to be a part of the community. To adjust to a new state, a new school, new rules, new learning. I, on the other hand, took the full brunt of his frustrations and challenges. His stress level was high and things began to get really ugly again.
One morning before school he didn't want to do something. Brush his teeth, wipe his bum, get dressed, eat breakfast, who knows? His rage began and was directed at me. Throwing things, slamming doors, hitting me, you name it. I tried everything. Walking away - he'd follow me. Sequester myself in my room - he'd literally break down the door. Walk into the other room - he'd throw things at me. Sit on the couch with my face in my hands - he'd punch me, kick me, scream at me, call me names that shouldn't come out of such a young child's mouth. And YES, I know he gets his cussing like a sailor from me. I don't give a fuck what he says. But that's not the part that sticks with me. On this day, after being hit, kicked, punched, had things thrown at me, expletives directed at me, for more than an hour,and doing the right thing over and over and over again, I kicked him. And he stopped. Finally.
The summer was difficult - every transition to a new summer camp created similar difficulties. But as soon as I was sure I was going to completely fall apart, he'd re-calibrate, get his shit together, and become manageable again.
Then grandma moved in with us. She's got Alzheimer's. She moved into his room. He moved into ours. We all hated the new arrangement. We resisted her being with us. Wood and I were angry. Then we moved. On Twig's birthday. And he became angry. And it began again - the anger and rage directed at me. Then at Wood. But it was more than the anger. It was the outright disdain, hatred, desire to hurt someone that scared me most. Like when he'd cock his arm, with his chin low, his eyes pulled together like that of the absolute meanest villain you've ever seen, his fist tight, and then swing it - at my face. Where he'd once kept it at home, he during the same timespan attacked and punched his best friend on the playground over a soccer ball. He threw a ball at a much younger kid's face during a game of dodgeball (that he was losing) in aftercare. He antagonized kids in class by humming, knocking things over, and calling them fat, ugly, and other mean things.
At his 7 year well child visit with his amazing boy-doctor, he said "sometimes I have a hard time controlling my body" and when I responded "yes, we do have challenges - he's not two anymore - I can't just pick him up and carry him out of the restaurant anymore". The doctor immediately got it and referred us to a developmental pediatrician for an assessment.
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