lavenderose

I thought that I might dream today...

Monday, December 19, 2005

Mental Milkshake*

* Written weeks ago.

My newest anxiety-ridden fear? That Issac has inherited a mental disorder. Seriously--let the case be heard.
Imagine this scene:

Issac and I come home from a late night with his Aunt Jenn and his Grammy. After work, we all met for dinner at a restuarant and then a little family-time at Jenn's house, where they stuffed him full of cookies and candy and chocolate milk. I knew that it would be a late night for Issac and I was right--we didn't walk in the door to our house until nearly 9:30 pm. I knew I was in for a difficult night before undertaking such a task, but I was naively hoping that Issac might fall asleep in the carseat on the way home and everything would be groovy.

By the time we walk through the door, it is obvious that Issac is exhausted. I plan on skipping his bath. Still, he has to poop before we can brush his teeth (unfortunately, these things simply HAVE to be done). By 9:50 pm he has pooped, his face and hands have been scrubbed, and his teeth have been brushed. We proceed to the bedroom where I begin to freak out a little when he refuses to put on his pajamas. I mean, we are on a timeline here. He needs to be in bed by 10:05 pm at the VERY latest. Of course, he's going to want the longest story in the fairy-tale book, so we really have to hurry.

But hurry is a word that does not have a meaning in three-year-old land. My eyelids are heavy, and I still have to go back out to the living room and finish the billing sheet which is due tomorrow, and which, if not turned in promptly at 8:00 am, will induce C------, the bulldog-like accountant, to take a huge bite out of my ass. So I construct a timeline, a schedule-- a very reasonable one. I have alloted a full fifteen minutes to the simple tasks of pajamas and stories and tucking-in. But Issac senses my weakness. The times when I most need his cooperation are inevitably the times that he chooses to test my boundaries. The times when I know that I must summon all of my strength and patience for the ensuing battle are most often the times when my convictions leave me and I am left impatiently ranting and raving and throwing miniature fits of my own.

Issac is jumping all over me like a monkey as I sit on the edge of the bed and try to entice him into his pajamas. I don't feel like playing and I tell him so. He laughs and defiantly wraps his legs around my arm. I order him to stop and he just hangs there, swaying back and forth, upside down, grinning. I stand up and straighten my arm and he falls off onto the floor. He didn't hurt anything but his feelings, yet still he breaks into tears and tells me that I'm mean. I tell him that I mean business, and he better put his pajamas on. He laughs as though we are playing a game. I see the power struggle rising, but in my desperation I am foolish and unwise. I threaten him with an ultimatum--"If you don't want to cooperate and put your pajamas on, then you will just have to dress for bed by yourself. Goodnight." Of course even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I know that they are stupid and will only backfire. But I can't stop them--I'm Stonewall Mom. Issac jumps on me again and wraps his legs around mine--I stand up again as though he is not there and move to leave the room. He falls on the floor again (perhaps I shook my leg a little in the air so that he would detach). He scrambles to the other side of the room and turns his back to me, pouting. I make a point of turning off the hall light as I leave. Maybe I slammed a door.

"Okay mommy!" he cries. "I want you to help me!" I'm suckered back in. I dress him--he is cooperative, if lifeless and limp. When he starts jumping on the bed with a bug-catching net in hand, I ask him to put away the net. He laughs like an imp and starts saying "Boingy boingy boingy!" as he jumps. I begin counting to three. Of course, he can't possibly listen to me now. I think that at this point, we both feel a little helpless. He can't listen to me because to do so would be to give in, to submit to my iron thumb. And I can't give in because I refuse to be ruled by a three-year-old tyrant. We face each other across the bed-- a moment of decisions. He considers carefully, and then hurls the net at the wall. Of course, I scream at him "No! Issac??! Why are you acting like this??" and take the net away to hide it until tomorrow--I give him the lecture about taking care of his things. But of course, it sounds less like a mother-son lecture and more like a drill sargeant's righteous rant. (This is what happens when ones patience is gone).

What happens next is what happens when you are so tired that your brains are fried. Either that, or what happens when you have bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder. Issac wailed about his net for about 10 minutes. I hoped that he would fall asleep, but he was determined. Any efforts to comfort him were met with his shrugs as he wiggled out of my reach. Finally I brought the net back in but he would not stop the wail-a-thon. He threw the net at me, nailing me in the eye, and kept shrieking. Then, like a victim, he looked at me pathetically and whimpered that he was sorry for throwing it and could he please have his net--so I fetched it for him. Then he screamed and threw it again.

His violent anger continued for fourty-five mintues. The psychotic part is that every five minutes he would beg for me to hold him or comfort him, yet if I came near him to do so, he would start hitting me and telling me to go away, screaming like I was the devil himself.

Sometimes I really worry about this kid. The unfortunate thing is that his father acted this way, too. I guess when you're three years old, you act this way because you're three years old. When you're twenty-three years old, you act this way because you're sick.

I guess time will tell if Issac has inherited his father's genetic mental illness. Until then, I'll go with the "he's just acting this way because he's three years old" theory.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Issac Hates Overalls


When Issac and I arrived home tonight (after dark, as usual), I tripped over a brightly wrapped package leaning on the door.

Issac exclaimed, without really thinking, "Oh boy! A present for me! For my birthday!" With that, he tromped inside and sat down on the floor to play with his toy train.

I, however, scratched my head and turned the box over. A tag in girl's handwriting read To Issac on his third birthday. Love, His Daddy (Michael). Tucked behind the ribbon was a hand-written letter from Michael's girlfriend, April, whom I have never met nor knew existed.

The gift follows a surprise visit from his Dad last week--the first in nearly half a year. I read the letter and then ripped the tag off of the gift and threw it away.

The letter, verbatim:

Dear Melissa,

My name is April. I'm Michael's girlfriend. I am writing to you because you have the power to give Michael the greatest Christmas present ever. He has told me that you are very stubborn, but also very kind. Therefore, I hope you can be stubborn in your kindness. Mike loves Issac and he would love to be able to spend a day with him. I know that this may not be acceptable to you right now, so all I am really asking is that you let him talk to his (and your) son. I am sure that it will bring your son as much joy as it will Michael. I am only asking for this in light of the holiday season. Please put your differences aside just for a couple of weeks and at least let them talk to each other. Michael has a cell phone that is currently only being used by him. The number is XXX-XXX-XXXX. If you call it, he is the only person you will reach. So you wouldn't have to worry about any awkward moments if somebody you didn't know answered the phone. I would (as would Michael) be so grateful if you would call him sometime to allow him to talk to Issac or just answer the phone next time he calls. I implore you to do this one kind thing, if not for Michael, then in light of the holiday season. Thank you so much for your time. Sincerely, April.

The gesture is sweet, but pathetic. I felt like throwing the gift away. To me, it is a token of every broken promise and every lie I've ever been told. It is a memory of a mistake that cannot make up his mind whether he should abandon his family or intrude into the peace we have struggled to create without him. A sign of the turmoil and abuse that shadowed Issac's creation and that threatens to return each time his father decides to contact us, which, this year, totals about five separate times.

I felt like crying, but nothing would come out. I read the letter again. I'm sure that a visit will bring your son as much joy as it will Michael. Just this past year, Issac has become old enough to show his disappointment in his father, and it is very painful for me to watch. The last time Michael called, Issac cried and said he didn't want to talk to him. After Micheal's in-person visit last week, I could tell that Issac was struggling to figure out his emotions. He became very quite and pensive, then explsoively angry. It is easy to see that he is feeling rejected. My heart breaks each time this happens. I feel like I have somehow robbed him of a father--but it's not me who has done this. Something has to give.

You have the power to give Michael the greatest Christmas present ever. It seems that they must think that I still actually care what Michael thinks or how he feels. But I don't. My "stubborn kindness" persisted far longer than was prudent, as I took Michael to court to legally establish paternity and a lenient visitation schedule (my cost, $1,500) even after I knew Michael was psychotic, because I am such a goddamn sucker and I couldn't imagine the pain of a parent living without his child. Even as I drove Issac back and forth 80 miles to his weekend visitations with his Dad when I was nursing and when Michael was living without car, employment, or even electricity, because I'm such an idiotic softie, and I empathized with the pain of missing one's child. Even as I paid Michael to babysit his own child because I was desperate for Issac to know a father. In short, I acted a little loopy out of my own empathy for the creep. I'm so over it.

But really, enough is enough. I don't feel even one smidge of sorrow or pity for Michael. That relationship was f***ing abusive and was the single biggest slice of hell that I have ever been through. Evidence that has been amassing in documented court cases against Michael shows that nothing has changed. It is dangerous for Issac to be near him, period. He has a history of domestic violence and of being suicidal and out of control. They want to ask me to do "one nice thing, in light of this holiday season"?
They want to ask me to have mercy in the name of the christmas spirit? My mercy is that I pray for forgiveness each day. My nice thing is that each morning and night I genuinely ask God to help me release my resentment toward him.

I eventually did open the package. In it was a pair of overalls. Issac hates overalls.

I finally started to cry.