– “Accept and acknowledge your child’s emotions”
– “Demonstrate empathy”
– “Practice active listening”
– “Model appropriate behaviour”
– “Self regulate”.
So the parenting books tell me…
It’s the perfect checklist.
A perfect story
of a perfect parent
at the Brady bunch’s house.
Dad!
Kaboom!
Screams and shouts.
The anger is out. In a fury, like Vesuvio erupting.
It’s exploding out of his little body
(his sister broke his block tower)
and I’m in the middle of a long-awaited
two minute retreat of peace and quiet
on the toilet.
He’s at the door.
Looking at me with those piercing eyes of a little man in full flow
screaming his fucking head off
tears streaming
looking so lost
I just wanna hold him
but I’m on the toilet!
Poor little dude
it’s been a long day
long night
… long week of mid-night wake ups
scared of the dark…
We’re all exhausted.
and my pants are around my ankles
I’m only half way done here.
Empathise. Active listen. No problem. I can do this. From the toilet seat.
Lunch is over.
Still panting from running home
about 49 minutes earlier
now we have to leave
for soccer
in 15 minutes and 22 seconds.
Five minute warning given, after the ten minute warning ten minutes before
the kitchen’s a bomb site
dinner prep a distant dream
and there’s that sponsorship form for her school walk – now covered in jam, and home made peanut butter (at least we did that for quality time today).
Oh bugger, what about that three week-old bill found hidden, lurking like a sneaky little Easter bunny, under the pile of my wife’s bags by the door (damn is she collecting these things??).
I get the kitchen clean, pack a snack, five minutes past the end
of the earlier five minute warning.
The rest will have to wait.
Time to go. All good.
NO! The music stops…
“I just started playing” he complains.
The look of disappointment on his sister’s face
speaks the words he is now complaining.
Negotiate. Fail.
And away flies the truck.
Like in that Superman movie I once saw
through the air, with grace, beauty, quiet precision.
SMASH. It finds the wall. At least not his sister’s head, I gratefully consider.
Flashback to negotiations in a country at war; parties finally at the table, stuck at the point of their painful memories, their distrust, their needle-tip pointed anger. Those thick skinned faces, grooves of experience so deeply chiseled on their foreheads, beards long and full – they’ll be killing each other again soon – little did I know then.
Accept his emotion, empathise.
But he doesn’t hear me.
Offer a hug.
Are you kidding me Dad!?
His eyes betray his silent exclamation
“We’ve got to go” I say.
“We’re now late” I whine.
– and the bill; and the sponsorship form; what am I cooking for dinner again –
Model, self regulation.
I so much want to lose my shit
like him
and
EXPLODE!
I force a smile
offer options, it works… thank goodness for positive parenting.
In the car, paused in the driveway, he’s returned to his state of exhaustion
We’re ten minutes late now
I’m about to pop.
I see his pain. I feel it. I know what’s right and how I should behave. But there’s an animal inside. Fighting empathy. Stamping on logic. It just wants to scream.
The blood is seething.
The body boiling.
I’ve metaphorically bitten the entire end of my tongue off by now.
I get out of the car
calmly
walk with cool
as if around a stupa
around the car to where they can’t see.
Deep breathing doesn’t help. So I kick the hard stone garage wall. Like a four year old…
Jumping about like a pogo stick, like a clown at a circus
Think I just broke my toe.
Did the kids see? Neighbours? Posterity?
Embarrassment defined.
Deep breathing.
Won’t get back in the car like this.
Deep breathing. Toe throbbing.
Finally, I limp back.
He’s spent. I’m done. His sister looks exhausted. 15 minutes late. But at least we’re finally
calm.
The solid foundation for emotional intelligence somewhat battered and bruised,
like my ego. My toe.
All the drive
and all the night
I feel guilty.
Embarrassed.
Inadequate.
I pick up a parenting book. More self study.
And I certainly don’t compare with the Brady’s.
I shake my head, I laugh at myself. What a bloody fool.
Tomorrow I’ll do better.
PoemsofaDad 