“I do want to hurt her! I do!” Elias cries as he fights against my arms holding him. One of his arms gets free and he grabs at my hair, my face with his muscled hands, toned from years of using them to walk. One of his fingers slips in my mouth and scrapes the soft tissue behind my lip.
“Ow!” I grab his hand and squeeze it harder that I want to admit. For a second, I want to hurt him. I want to keep squeezing till he cries out in pain. In this second, I could hit my child. I could be the mother I thought I never would. I could yell and curse and throw him against the wall. I’m an animal just like my son. And I’ll fight to defend myself, to protect this space I call mine.
I take a breath and release my grip. “You just hurt me Elias.”
“No! No I didn’t!” he cries. And for a boy who barely registers pain, I’m sure he believes what he says. How could that have hurt? And I know the pain in my lip is nothing compared to the rope that wraps my heart like a boa constricter whenever Elias acts like this.
How did we get here? Rewind a moment or two...
“Olive do you want to make a nest again?” Elias asks his sister as Nick and I watch the Fiesta bowl.
A couple days ago, Olive made a nest out of pillows in the living room; and when Elias chose to join, instead of the normal take-overs and melt-downs I’ve grown to expect whenever my two children’s interests collide, they actually played together peacefully for a good chunk of the day. The nest turned into a school and soon they were both riding Olive’s Hobby Horse to and from school. When she brought her legos to the classroom they both built animals side by side. Once Olive was missing an orange piece for her giraffe and Elias noticed he had it in the middle of his fixture, so he broke it in half and handed her the piece. I sat next to him wondering if Christmas magic still lingered in our house. If perhaps Elves really did live on our shelfs that only the kids could see.
“Yeah!” Olive says and grabs the throw pillows from the couch. She leaves the room to gather more pillows as Elias waits for her to return. She throws a few more pillows towards him and then leaves the room again. This time she comes back with some of her pictures, marker scribbles on off-white paper, and throws them into the nest.
“Paper, we don’t need paper in the nest!” Elias says.
“Yeah I want them!”
“No!”
“Yeah!”
Elias walks up to Nick and I, his lower lip quivering, “Mom. Mom. Mom!”
“Olive is putting her pictures in the nest and I don’t want them there.”
“Well Bud, she’s just decorating the nest.”
“But” Elias starts crying now, “We didn’t have paper last time!”
“Elias take a breath,” Nick tries and our little boy raises his hand and hits his Dad.
And this is how we got here. With me holding him on the couch telling him, “ I always love you Elias but I hate it when you act like this.” And I wonder if hate is too strong a word but I’ve said it and I mean it and its better than you fucking asshole. Or little shit.
And I do hate the way we can never really relax because you never know what small detail will loom large in that brain of his and cause him to explode. I hate worrying that one of these days he will really hurt Olive.
I hate feeling like I want to hurt him too.
The judgement that comes in that second, when I become the mother I never want to be could fill my house with its heavy stones. Weigh me down forever.
If I let it.
But instead I choose to write about. Release it into this world of letters and words because maybe, just maybe, I’m only human after all.
“Ow!” I grab his hand and squeeze it harder that I want to admit. For a second, I want to hurt him. I want to keep squeezing till he cries out in pain. In this second, I could hit my child. I could be the mother I thought I never would. I could yell and curse and throw him against the wall. I’m an animal just like my son. And I’ll fight to defend myself, to protect this space I call mine.
I take a breath and release my grip. “You just hurt me Elias.”
“No! No I didn’t!” he cries. And for a boy who barely registers pain, I’m sure he believes what he says. How could that have hurt? And I know the pain in my lip is nothing compared to the rope that wraps my heart like a boa constricter whenever Elias acts like this.
How did we get here? Rewind a moment or two...
“Olive do you want to make a nest again?” Elias asks his sister as Nick and I watch the Fiesta bowl.
A couple days ago, Olive made a nest out of pillows in the living room; and when Elias chose to join, instead of the normal take-overs and melt-downs I’ve grown to expect whenever my two children’s interests collide, they actually played together peacefully for a good chunk of the day. The nest turned into a school and soon they were both riding Olive’s Hobby Horse to and from school. When she brought her legos to the classroom they both built animals side by side. Once Olive was missing an orange piece for her giraffe and Elias noticed he had it in the middle of his fixture, so he broke it in half and handed her the piece. I sat next to him wondering if Christmas magic still lingered in our house. If perhaps Elves really did live on our shelfs that only the kids could see.
“Yeah!” Olive says and grabs the throw pillows from the couch. She leaves the room to gather more pillows as Elias waits for her to return. She throws a few more pillows towards him and then leaves the room again. This time she comes back with some of her pictures, marker scribbles on off-white paper, and throws them into the nest.
“Paper, we don’t need paper in the nest!” Elias says.
“Yeah I want them!”
“No!”
“Yeah!”
Elias walks up to Nick and I, his lower lip quivering, “Mom. Mom. Mom!”
“Olive is putting her pictures in the nest and I don’t want them there.”
“Well Bud, she’s just decorating the nest.”
“But” Elias starts crying now, “We didn’t have paper last time!”
“Elias take a breath,” Nick tries and our little boy raises his hand and hits his Dad.
And this is how we got here. With me holding him on the couch telling him, “ I always love you Elias but I hate it when you act like this.” And I wonder if hate is too strong a word but I’ve said it and I mean it and its better than you fucking asshole. Or little shit.
And I do hate the way we can never really relax because you never know what small detail will loom large in that brain of his and cause him to explode. I hate worrying that one of these days he will really hurt Olive.
I hate feeling like I want to hurt him too.
The judgement that comes in that second, when I become the mother I never want to be could fill my house with its heavy stones. Weigh me down forever.
If I let it.
But instead I choose to write about. Release it into this world of letters and words because maybe, just maybe, I’m only human after all.