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.