Okay, it's been two weeks since I last posted to the Sandwich. The sad part is that I did not get around to relating how much fun Jordan's 6th birthday bowling party was, or how we went sledding at the Ellensburg golf course, or that I was out of town for four days again taking my second round of BodyTalk classes. All exciting stuff (to me, at least) but do they rate a post? No. Here's what rates a post.
A rant. About my damn kid. You shouldn't call your damn kid your "damn kid" because they're bound to hear about it and end up either in therapy or down at Child Services filling out forms for placement in a more suitable household. Frankly, at this point, I'm starting to think either of these approaches have merit. Since leaving my full-time job for the wonders of motherhood, I have seriously doubted my intelligence, because it turns out that this motherhood trip is often completely for the birds. At least, it is when your kid comes unhinged at the slightest provocation.
Take tonight, for instance. I'm talking of course about Jordan. I would like this to be an equal-opportunity household but Maya is still holding strong in the sweetness category. Her fits amount to running into her room and crying for two minutes. But then, ah yes, there's Jordan. Tonight it went like this: he was rough-housing with Scott; he threw a toy at Scott's face; Scott yelled and gave him a time out; when he was finished I made the mistake (really, what was I thinking?) of reminding him not to throw items in Daddy's face (or Daddy's balls, either, but that's a different post). Ladies and gents, I might as well have told him I wished he were never born. He ran from the room on rocket feet, slammed every door he could on the way to the farthest end of the house, and proceeded to howl for the next, oh, thirty minutes that I didn't love him.
Like this: Mommy doesn't love meeeeeeeeeee! Doesn't. Love. Meeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!
For half an hour. I did all the dishes and Maya fretted back and forth, reminding me that Jordan was saying I didn't love him, as if I could have missed the message. Scott went online and looked up sports. Because really, what can you do? It's not like we haven't been down this road. We've been down this f-ing road so many times my tires are bald. The mommy-doesn't-love-me line is new, but not the spontaneous, first-class meltdowns. Those aren't new at all. We've tried reasoning, calmly talking it out, giving him space, getting in his face, screaming back, reverse psychology, reward, punishment, allergy testing and prayer. To no avail. The kid is just an occasional basket case.
All of this is very draining. We had plans for the evening but by the time the child was finally settled down and had gone to bed Scott and I were like two limp washcloths. I feel completely battered. I know Jordan does too (duh) but I seem to be at a total loss to help him or me.
I don't want him to be diagnosed with anything, or medicated, or charted. I just want him to be better. Sometimes it seems like he is better, and then he loses a game of Trouble or can't remember how to spell a word and off we go again.
I'm very tired. Of this. If Child Services calls, I'll be taking a nap.