I Grow Weary

Ugh. I don't even want to write this today, but a little writing perspective might be helpful.

Anthony has been doing pretty well--better than we expected, I guess. We experienced a mental shift once he actually moved in (last Friday). Now that he's here, there's no conceivable turning back so we have to deal with the situation before us. We've made a commitment. And, once again, kids are not troublesome puppies--there's no taking them to the pound when they chew your favorite shoe.

But this morning, I'm over it. He's tired of being corrected, which means that everytime we make a suggestion or say anything, he immediately responds with one of those high pitched, ultra-defensive "BUT I didn't blah, blah, blah!!!"

Example: He has a bad habit of moving electronics--TVs, radios, DVD players, etc. It bugs me. Every un- and re-plug and move means one more chance of breakage. Also, this compulsive moving is a visible reminder of his spasticity, as I'll call it. Last night I brought the little TV/VCR up to the kitchen so I could watch "Almost Famous" (fabulous movie--should be a classic) for the 17th time while I made Anthony's quilt. This morning, Kevin told Anthony to take it back downstairs. Knowing this, I went downstairs to tell Anthony to put it in one place--of his choosing--and leave it be. As soon as I started telling him this, he countered with a high-pitched, ultra-defensive "But Dad told me to bring it down here!!! I was going to put it on the shelf but Dad said it was too narrow!!! Blah! Blah! Blah!!!"

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

Those of you who have known me for a long time (I'm lookin' at you, ma) know that I have a tendency to, shall we say, erupt. Mostly, this is a historical tendency, but it occasionally wells up and blows, even in this modern era.

It didn't this morning, but I would be lying if I said that I didn't want to grab hold of this kid and start wailing on his little butt. Especially after I let him and Stevie sleep in my bed last night (Kevin crashed downstairs) because they were afraid of the storm and he ended up peeing in it--despite me waking him up in the middle of the night to go and, when I heard nothing from the bathroom, asking him if he already wet the bed and hearing "no" as his lying reply. This after he swung immediately from happy to sulky earlier in the evening because he agreed to pick a bedtime book for the next night and let Stevie pick the book for that night and then changed his mind and was told sorry--that wouldn't fly. Which meant that Stevie was crying because he didn't get to hear his story (through no fault of his own) because we weren't going to go as far as take Stevie elsewhere to hear a story, leaving Anthony behind. Which quickly descended into "Why don't you just give me up, if you don't like me . . . if I'm always the bad one . . ." etc.

We got him through that, reassuring him that he was here to stay. And then both boys came to my bed and heard a story and cuddled up against the storm. And then, this morning, all things reverted to lies and arguing.

I have such a headache this morning. Must be all the second thoughts rumbling around in there. Or maybe it's the constant change of season in our household.